Lawyer for the Dog

by Lee Robinson

  “Like what?”

  “Like she’s been arrested for burglary.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m just passing this information along, as your father requested. He asked me to tell you she’s gone off the deep end. His words, not mine.”

  “Well, should I thank you for calling?” Her sarcasm could cut through steel. I’m about to hang up when she softens. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” And I am. For all of them, for all of us.

  * * *

  I rest my head on my desk, something I haven’t done since my sleep-deprived college days. It’s pleasant, drifting like this, away from everything difficult, but then Gina interrupts.

  “Mrs. Hart’s here. I told her you were busy. She’s visiting with Sherman.”

  I snap myself back into the case of Hart v. Hart. “It’s okay. I’ll talk to her.”

  “We had to do it,” Mrs. Hart says before I’ve even asked a question. She’s holding Sherman. He burrows his head in the crook of her arm, as if he’s rediscovered a secret, special place. I can’t help feeling a little jealous.

  “Burglary is a felony, Mrs. Hart.”

  “We didn’t actually break into the house, just the screened porch. We had to cut through the screen to get to the dog. A cocker spaniel, poor thing. She was tied up on such a short rope, almost choking to death, half-starved.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police?”

  “Sometimes they don’t act fast enough, and they’d have taken her to the county shelter. Have you ever been to the shelter?”

  “No.”

  “They do the best they can, but they’re always having to cope with budget shortfalls. There are so many animals there! So we—the ARC—we operate independently.”

  “What’s the ARC?”

  “Animal Rescue Committee,” she says.

  “I never heard of it.”

  “It’s just a small local group. I’m the president.”

  “Were you going to keep the dog?”

  “Melanie—she and I are the Sullivan’s Island team—would have taken her home, nursed the poor thing back to health, then we’d put out the word on our underground network. Eventually we’d have found a good home for her.”

  “Have you spoken to your lawyer about this?” I love the thought of Henry Swinton, who only does rich people’s divorces, having to dirty his hands in criminal court.

  “He’s referring me to someone else in his firm, but I’ve told him I can’t afford to pay another legal fee. This is all a big misunderstanding. I’m not a burglar. We didn’t intend to do any harm.”

  “How did you cut the screen?”

  “With wire cutters,” she says. “We assessed the situation beforehand. Is it burglary if I didn’t even go inside the house?”

  “Mrs. Hart, I can’t advise you on this. All I can tell you is that you’d better take it seriously.”

  “It’s the only thing I’ve ever done—on my own—that I’m really proud of. I’m not going to apologize for it, but I hope you won’t hold it against me in the case with Sherman, because I couldn’t bear to lose him. By the way, he doesn’t look well. Has he lost weight?”

  “He’s fine. Dr. Borden saw him recently, so you shouldn’t worry.”

  “Good, because I couldn’t bear to think…”

  “Mrs. Hart, how many dogs have you rescued?”

  “This would have been the tenth.”

  “Did your husband know anything about this?”

  “I joined the group after we separated. He wouldn’t have approved.”

  “But he posted bail for you, right?”

  She frowns. “I should have called Henry Swinton.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I told you, it was all just a big misunderstanding. I thought if I just talked to the magistrate, I could … He’s a friend of ours. I was sure he’d just let me go, but then the magistrate called Rusty without even asking me. I’d never have—Rusty has such a temper. Once he had me in the car he started yelling. I’m sure that’s what brought on the heart attack.”

  “I guess he had a right to be upset.”

  “And I guess he’s going to blame me for the heart attack.”

  “He’s too sick to do much blaming.”

  “You don’t think he’s going to…” I can see the fear in her eyes.

  “He’s very weak, Mrs. Hart.”

  “Perhaps I should speak to him?”

  “I’m sure the lawyers could work something out if you want to talk to him.”

  “They don’t seem to be able to work out anything. The whole case has gotten out of control. I wish … we could just go back to…” She reaches for a tissue.

  Gina knocks on the door. “You have that conference call in three minutes,” she says.

  Mrs. Hart shakes my hand. “Thank you for taking care of Sherman.” There’s not even a hint of bitterness in her voice. “I’d like to stop by again tomorrow to see him, if that’s all right.”

  Once she’s gone Gina says, “There’s no conference call, but Ellen’s holding for you.”

  I fill in Ellen on the latest developments. “If the old man dies,” she says, “then the case is over. No more hassle with Hart v. Hart.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. If he dies, she’ll get the dog. And if you’re lonely, you can get a dog of your own. Now, let’s talk about tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow is your fiftieth birthday.”

  “I’d completely forgotten.”

  “You’re taking the day off.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You are, because I called two months ago and asked Gina to mark it off. Maybe you’ll do something special for yourself, a massage or a facial or something.”

  “I’ve never had a massage or a facial.”

  “It’s not a sin to indulge yourself once in a while, you know. And I’ve already arranged for Mandy to stay with your mother while we take you out to dinner.”

  “We?”

  “Wendy and Valerie, and Helen, if she doesn’t have to babysit the grandchildren. So think about where you want to go.”

  “I love you, Ellen.” I couldn’t ask for a better friend, and I’m grateful, but when I hang up, I still feel terrible. “Fifty,” I whisper to the empty office. Forty-nine hadn’t bothered me, but fifty? What do I have to show for my life? My girlfriends have somehow managed both lawyering and mothering. Wendy Shuler has two sons, grown now, one already out of law school, married with kids. She has three grandchildren. Valerie Onofrio’s about to celebrate her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Ellen has Hank and Mandy. They all have dogs.

  I have my mother—my only child—and I’m about to put her in a nursing home.

  Fifty

  Of course my mother doesn’t remember it’s my birthday, but Delores does. She brings a lemon pound cake, my favorite, and lights five candles at the breakfast table. “Five is plenty,” she laughs. “Don’t want to burn the house down!”

  My mother claps, delighted with this little party. She thinks she’s the guest of honor. I let her blow out the candles and open my present from Delores: a lacy white nightgown, not the kind of thing I ever wear.

  “Thank you, Delores. It’s beautiful,” I say. “I’ll save it for a special occasion.”

  “Don’t be saving it too long. No use in having nice things if you don’t use ’em.” She winks. “Your mama and me, we want you to be happy. Right, Miz Margaret?”

  My mother nods, then turns to me and says, “Ice cream!” I’m delighted she can still make the connection between cake and ice cream. There’s some frozen yogurt in the freezer. It’s nine in the morning, but why not? I add some swirls of chocolate syrup. My mother takes a big spoonful from her bowl and gets chocolate all over her mouth. Sherman’s excited, too. He nudges my calf, letting me know he wants to be held. I lift him into my lap a
nd of course he’s immediately interested in the birthday feast.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I wish you could have some, but it’s against doctor’s orders.”

  “I don’t think he even knows he’s not one of us,” says Delores. “He thinks he’s a member of the family.”

  “Well, Sherman’s sort of like our foster child, aren’t you, sweetie? It’s going to be hard to give you back.”

  “Look at his eyes,” she says. “It’s like he’s listening to everything.”

  “He probably is, but he doesn’t understand what we’re saying.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” says Delores. When she clears the table Sherman lets out a little sigh, lowers his head into my lap.

  “How’s Charlie?” I ask.

  “Weak as a kitten, after the chemo.”

  “He’ll feel better when you’re with him full-time.”

  She nods. “So, how’re you going to spend your birthday?”

  “I’ll check on things at the office—unless you’d like to take the rest of the day off.”

  “No, thanks. I brought us a special movie to watch. Philadelphia. About that fellow with AIDS and his lawyer.”

  “You think Mom can follow it?”

  “Maybe not, but she likes Denzel Washington.”

  “She does?”

  “She told me she wants to marry him. Got pretty good taste in men, don’t you think?”

  * * *

  “You’re hopeless!” says Gina when I show up at the office.

  “I’m so far behind.”

  “But I cleared your calendar for today and tomorrow.”

  “Why tomorrow?”

  “Because I had a hunch you’d come in today, and the only way I’d be able to convince you to leave is if you knew you had tomorrow to catch up. So get out of here. You only turn fifty once.”

  “Thank God.”

  “What are you talking about? You look great, though I’ve been meaning to tell you—don’t get mad—I think you could use some color in your hair.”

  “I don’t mind a little gray.”

  “Just don’t let it get out of control. Speaking of which,” she says, handing me an envelope. It’s a gift certificate to a downtown salon. “They do great work. Maybe they could even fit you in this afternoon … And here’s something I picked up at the bookstore. Thought it might come in handy in the dog case: Inside the Canine Mind.”

  “Thanks, Gina.”

  “By the way, Maria Lopez—the secretary over at probate court—called this morning, wanted to know if you’d be interested in representing a cat.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Apparently the word’s getting around that you do a good job representing animals. Anyway, some old woman on Edisto Island died and left her cat an estate worth millions. In trust, like Leona Helmsley.”

  “So what do they need me for?”

  “She pretty much cut her son out of the will, and he’s contesting it. And even if she was in her right mind when she signed the will, she left all these complicated instructions about who should take care of the cat. Interesting, huh? And there’s plenty of money to pay you.”

  “Tell Maria I’ll think about it.”

  “She says Judge Clarkson needs an answer pretty soon.”

  “Okay. Tell her I’ll let her know tomorrow. Would you mind watching Sherman for an hour or so?”

  “Sure. He’s my favorite client, aren’t you, Sherman?” Sherman’s ears rise, twitch, and go back to their customary curl. It’s his way of smiling.

  * * *

  A normal woman would do something nice for herself on her birthday, go to a movie or an art gallery, maybe treat herself to lunch at an expensive restaurant, but I go to the hospital to visit an old man.

  I buy a New Yorker in the gift shop, hoping he’s feeling well enough to do some reading, but when I walk into his room the man in the bed isn’t Mr. Hart. I can hardly bring myself to ask about him at the nurses’ station. I can’t help noticing the shadow of his name, RUSSELL HART, still visible where the magic marker has been erased on the board behind the nurses. And then: “He’s been transferred to Cardiology, Room 310.” I share the elevator going up with a nurse pushing a man on a stretcher. The patient lies on his back, eyes closed, mouth open, so motionless I wonder if he’s dead. But wouldn’t they cover him with a sheet? I feel queasy.

  I used to be tough. I’ve sat in the prosecutor’s office reviewing the most gruesome photographs from the medical examiner: heads blasted by shotguns, charred skin, decomposing bodies. I’ve cross-examined the forensic dental expert who used bite marks on the deceased’s neck to identify my client as the perpetrator. I’ve represented the woman whose boyfriend smashed her nose with a hammer. But here, in the hospital elevator, I’m about to faint. It’s not the poor man on the stretcher; it’s being in this place where life is so erasable, where death is always just around the corner.

  When the elevator door opens I find a window, press my cheek against the cool glass, breathe. What am I doing here? I see myself on the witness stand being grilled by Henry Swinton, Mrs. Hart by his side.

  How many times did you visit Mr. Hart in the hospital, Ms. Baynard?

  Twice.

  And how did that come about?

  His lawyer conveyed his request that I come to the hospital.

  He asked to see you on two different occasions?

  He asked to see me the first time. The second time I was just …

  You were just what, Ms. Baynard?

  Visiting of my own accord.

  So that would have been a social visit, right?

  I was worried about him. He was very ill.

  So it would be fair to say, wouldn’t it, Ms. Baynard, that by the time of that second visit you’d formed some emotional bond with Mr. Hart?

  I was concerned about him, that’s all. He was alone.

  Then Swinton delivers the blow: And you must admit, Ms. Baynard, that your emotional bond with Mr. Hart has influenced the report you’ve made to the court today—that he be awarded custody of Sherman?

  But Henry Swinton won’t have to grill me like this. Even if Rusty Hart survives, I know I won’t recommend that he get Sherman. Sure, Mrs. Hart is overprotective, maybe even a control freak, but she’s always been the one who kept track of Sherman’s appointments with Dr. Borden, made sure he had his shots, bought the right kind of dog food. As crazy as it was for her to go out in the middle of the night to rescue an abused dog, she’s shown me that she really cares about animals. And now there’s the issue of Mr. Hart’s health.

  Still, I can’t imagine that day in court when I’ll have to watch his face as I say, Your honor, there’s no doubt that both parties are equally committed to Sherman’s welfare, but a joint custody arrangement is not in his best interest. Sherman needs stability. He needs to know where home is, especially as he grows older.

  It won’t help much that I’ll add, as a kind of consolation prize, I propose, however, that Mr. Hart be given visitation with Sherman one afternoon a week, on a day to be agreed upon between the parties, and every other weekend. Joe Baynard will be the one to sign the order, but Rusty Hart will always blame me for the loss of his best buddy.

  If he survives his heart attack, this might kill him.

  As I approach Room 310, I can hear the argument going on inside:

  If you won’t eat, you’ll never get well.

  That stuff isn’t food. Take it away!

  Open your mouth, Rusty!

  I’m not a baby.

  You’re acting like one.

  You could bring me something decent to eat.

  What would you like?

  I stop outside the half-open door, listening.

  A slice of pizza.

  I’m not bringing pizza to a man who’s just had a nearly fatal heart attack!

  You asked me what I wanted.

  Eating unhealthy food is what got you into this.

  What got me into this was a call from
the magistrate, saying my wife was in jail.

  Don’t start that again.

  What a damn fool thing to do!

  You’re going to give yourself another heart attack if you don’t settle down.

  Are you even grateful that I came to get you?

  I’m dropping the divorce case, aren’t I? You’re going to need someone to take care of you.

  Maryann? (His voice softens now.)

  What?

  Did you miss me?

  I don’t need to go inside.

  As I walk back toward the elevator a woman is coming in my direction, holding a little girl by the hand. Her face seems vaguely familiar, maybe an old client? I lower my head, move faster—I just want to get out of the hospital—but the little girl looks straight at me. “We got lost,” she says. She’s four or five.

  “We’re not lost, honey,” says the woman. “We just have to keep going down this hall…”

  I smile and they pass, their voices trailing behind me.

  “You said we’re going to see my grandpa,” says the girl.

  “We are.”

  “But why does he live in the hospital?”

  “He doesn’t. He had something go wrong with his heart, so he’s here while the doctors help him get better.”

  When I get back to my car I just sit for a minute, stunned, trying to imagine the scene in Room 310.

  I head back to the office, down Lockwood Boulevard with the river on my right. The college sailing class is taking advantage of this bright, windy day, their sailboats darting back and forth like butterflies. I envy them: so free, so light. I wonder if it’s too late for me to learn to sail. But then Gina calls. “Delores wants you to come right home.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s not your mother, that’s all she would say. She sounded really upset. Don’t worry about Sherman, he’s fine. Just go home.”

  * * *

  Delores’s eyes are swollen from crying. “It’s Charlie,” she says through her sobs. “He’s gone.” She’s already in her coat, her purse over her shoulder, ready to leave, but when I open the door she comes to me, almost falls into my arms. It feels good to have her lean on me, to hold her while she cries—this woman who’s been so strong, so unshakeable until now. She manages to tell me that Charlie’s sister found him in his apartment. “It was so quick,” she says. “I should have been there. He died all alone.”