Underdog

by Laurien Berenson

  As she talked, we’d been walking back to the kitchen. I could see Davey through the window over the sink. He was running around the backyard with a jacket on over his pajamas. Faith was chasing him. I set the wine down on the counter, found a corkscrew, and poured us each a glass.

  “Davey’s father thought we were too young too. And actually, we probably were. But I got pregnant and neither one of us liked the idea of abortion, so there we were.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “More resigned, I think. He spent the nine months I was pregnant in denial. Like if he didn’t think about it, or talk about it, it wouldn’t really happen.” I sampled my wine, decided it tasted good and followed the first sip with another.

  Jenny’s gaze strayed out the window. “How long did it take him to get used to being a father?”

  “I don’t think he ever did. As far as he was concerned, Davey was just this unexpected interloper who kept waking us up all night long. He moved out when Davey was ten months old.”

  That was the polite version. In reality, he’d skipped in the middle of the day, taking the car and the stereo system with him. He’d left behind a three-line note in which he’d spoken about his unmet needs. I’d read it twice—incredulous the first time, furious the second—then burned it.

  “It must be hard being a single parent.”

  A comment like that called for more wine. I topped off both our glasses. “Harder on Davey than me, unfortunately. I’m coping. He’s just beginning to figure out that most of the other kids have two parents and he only has one.”

  The screen door banged as it swung open against the wall of the house. Davey and Faith came barreling inside. He looked at the two of us standing there. “Isn’t dinner ready yet?”

  “Soon.” I reached out and tousled my son’s hair. Grimacing, he squirmed out from beneath my hand. “Everything’s about done. I just have to finish the salad. Why don’t you set the table?”

  “Can’t we eat in the kitchen?”

  “Davey, we have company.”

  “I’m not company,” Jenny said with a grin. “I’m a friend.”

  So we ate in the kitchen. When I pulled the small butcher block table away from the wall, there was just enough room for the three of us to sit around it. Jenny poured on the dressing and tossed the salad, while I got the bread and lasagna out of the oven and onto plates.

  Faith, who knew a good opportunity when she saw one, managed to wedge herself underneath the table, ready for handouts. With Davey in attendance, she didn’t have long to wait.

  “I saw that,” I said as Davey took a piece of tomato-covered noodle from his plate and slipped it beneath the table.

  “But Faith’s hungry. And she likes lasagna.”

  “She likes anything she thinks she’s not supposed to have. And she wouldn’t be so hungry if she’d eat her own food.”

  “She doesn’t like her food. It tastes gross.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I ate some.” Davey stuck out his tongue and grimaced. Nothing like having the weight of empirical evidence to support the hypothesis.

  On the other side of the table, Jenny looked as though she was enjoying herself. “What do you feed?” she asked.

  I named the brand of high-quality kibble that Aunt Peg had recommended. “I mix that with some cottage cheese and a little bit of canned food. Aunt Peg says her Poodles love the stuff. But Faith is fussy. She barely picks at her food.”

  “Does she get a lot of table scraps?”

  “Not that many.” I shot my son a glare.

  “Let’s see. Come here, girl.” Jenny enticed the puppy out from under the table and ran an experienced pair of hands down her sides. “She is thin. You don’t want a puppy to be fat, but she should be carrying more weight than this.”

  “Aunt Peg’s told me the same thing. She says that conditioning’s one of the most important aspects of getting a dog ready for the show ring.”

  “She’s right. Especially in a breed like Poodles. Once they’re a year old and you shave off that hindquarter there’s no hiding a thing. If a dog has no muscle or is underweight, it’s just about the first thing the judge sees. Lots of Poodles are finicky about what they eat, and that makes it tough. I had a terrible time keeping Ziggy in weight when I was showing him.”

  I was glad to see she could mention the Mini’s name without becoming visibly upset. Maybe our company was cheering her up. Or maybe it was the numbing effect of the wine.

  “What did you feed him?”

  “In the beginning I tried just about everything which is terrible for a dog. They thrive on routine. But then I met Crystal Mars. Do you know who she is?”

  I shook my head.

  “She owns a small boarding kennel in Stratford. It’s about half an hour from here. She’s an interesting woman, a big believer in holistic care and homeopathic medicine. Everything at her place is pure and natural. You know the type?”

  I did.

  “Apparently she’d been doing the same thing I was, switching from one brand to another, looking for the perfect dog food. Running the boarding kennel she had plenty of dogs who were upset about being away from home, and that meant plenty of bad eaters. After a while she simply started making her own food, mixing everything together in big bowls and baking the kibble in the oven.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “It’s a rice and chicken base, with lots of garlic and corn meal, and God knows what all. The dogs love it. Ziggy, too. It’s expensive, but it’s worth it.”

  “You mean she sells it?”

  Jenny nodded. “I was just up there last week and business is booming. Lots of her customers were pleased with the way their dogs came home and asked what she was feeding. Pretty soon she was selling as much kibble as she could make. She calls it Crystal’s All Natural Dog Munchies. You might want to give it a try.”

  The name was a little overly cute, but then again so were lots of things people did to dogs, like putting Dachshunds in raincoats and tying bows on Poodle’s ears. If Faith would eat it, I could manage to deal with the label.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll look into it.”

  “When’s dessert?” asked Davey.

  His plate was suspiciously clean. I wondered how many mouthfuls of lasagna Faith had enjoyed while my attention had been elsewhere. At least that might put a little weight on her.

  “Dessert’s when everybody’s finished,” I informed him. “Grown-ups like to eat more slowly. Why don’t you go and play for a little while and I’ll call you when we’re ready?”

  “Okay.” He hopped off his chair and left the room. Faith went with him. She’s only been around a month, but clearly the puppy knows which side her bread is buttered on. Davey turned on the TV in the living room and found Roseanne in syndication. He liked to root for D.J. and was trying to develop a big belly laugh like Roseanne’s. There are worse goals.

  “I hope you didn’t send him away on my account,” said Jenny. In contrast to Davey’s plate, hers was still nearly full. She pushed the lasagna around with her fork, but didn’t pick any up. “I think he’s great.”

  “He is great. But like every five-year-old, he has no patience. He knows full well there’s cake for dessert, and we’ll be lucky to get a moment’s peace from now until he gets his.”

  “I can sympathize.” Jenny laughed. “I have a sweet tooth, too.”

  I looked, but the lasagna on her plate still didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Maybe that was her way of telling me she was finished. “Right,” I said. “On to the cake.”

  I’m not a good enough cook to get offended when people don’t eat something I’ve made. But the chocolate mousse cake I had for dessert came from the St. Moritz bakery in Greenwich, which means it was probably about the best in the world. But when I’d piled the dinner dishes in the sink, brewed some coffee, given Davey his dessert in the living room, then served our cake, Jenny started pushing that around her plate, too.

  Well, that
made me wonder. It’s probably possible that there are people in the world who don’t like lasagna or who don’t like chocolate. But both? I doubt it. Jenny didn’t look thin enough to be anorexic, and though I’d invited her over to cheer her up over Ziggy’s death, she didn’t seem terribly depressed.

  I’ve never been one for finesse when bluntness will work just as well. It’s a family trait.

  “Not hungry?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” Jenny looked up. She finally had a piece of cake in her mouth and was chewing slowly. She seemed to be enjoying it.

  “You’ve hardly eaten a thing. I know I’m not the greatest cook. . .”

  “No, the food’s wonderful. You must have really worked hard. I’m sorry I haven’t done it more justice. It’s just that I haven’t been feeling all that well lately. I guess I caught some sort of bug, but it’s been hanging on for a while and I can’t seem to shake it.”

  “Like the flu?”

  “Something like that. It comes and goes, headaches, nausea, cramps.”

  I’d heard all those symptoms before. Lately everyone on Fairfield County seemed to be coming down with them. “You should have a Lyme test. Even if you haven’t seen a tick or a rash. You’d be amazed how many of the people I work with have come down with Lyme Disease this year. Especially working with dogs like you do, there’s probably a pretty good chance you’ve been exposed.”

  “I know. I’ve been thinking the same thing. I’m going to get it checked out. Just as soon as I have some spare time.”

  “Spare time? What’s that?”

  We laughed together, and I was pleased to see her finish the rest of her cake. Later, she even let me wrap up an extra large piece to take home. I knew that Rick was waiting for her, so we made it an early evening. Davey fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV around eight-thirty and she and I took him up and tucked him in. Jenny left a few minutes later.

  The book she’d brought was still sitting on the table in the front hall. “Thanks again,” I said, picking it up.

  “No problem.” Jenny lingered on the step. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “Sure, you too. I’ll see you at class on Thursday, right?”

  “Not this week, I’ll be away. But don’t worry, Angie will be filling in for me and I’m sure she’ll do fine. Thanks for dinner. It was great.”

  “Anytime,” I said, and meant it. Next time I’d know better than to ask her for a Friday night though; and to make sure there weren’t any ruffled feathers, I’d invite Rick along, and maybe even Angie, too.

  Davey and I spent most of the next week going to school and raking leaves. The yard isn’t that big and the job wouldn’t have taken so long except that every time I got a decent-sized pile together, Davey and Faith dove in. They were so cute together that I had to go into the house and get the camera. Now I’d have to be sure that Aunt Peg never saw the pictures of her show puppy with leaves intertwined through that all important coat of hair.

  Wednesday afternoon, we finally bagged the last of what was on the ground. While Davey was taking a bath, I brushed through Faith’s coat with a pin brush, then took down her top-knot which is the hair on the top of her head. If a Poodle is going to be shown, that hair is never cut. Eventually it will grow nearly a foot long. To keep it out of the dog’s face, the hair is gathered into a series of small ponytails which are held in place with tiny colored rubber bands. I cut loose the old bands, brushed through the hair, then reset it with new ones. I was just finishing when the phone rang.

  It was Aunt Peg. “This is so awful,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “I was just talking to Rick Maguire.”

  As I waited for her to continue, I slipped Faith a piece of cheese as a reward for being good, then hopped her down off the portable grooming table I’d set up in the kitchen.

  “What?” I asked again when a moment passed and she still hadn’t said a word.

  “I just can’t believe it.” Peg’s voice was oddly flat. “Rick was so upset I could barely understand what he was saying. Melanie, Jenny Maguire is dead.”

  Four

  She couldn’t be dead, I thought. I just saw her. She was much too young, much too vibrant, to be dead.

  “Melanie, are you there?”

  “I’m here.” All at once I felt drained. I leaned back against the counter and let it support my weight.

  Years earlier, when I’d heard the news about my parents’ deaths, how their car had run off a lonely stretch of road and plunged over an embankment, I’d wanted to scream out loud as if noise alone could negate the awful truth. But this time grief had a different effect on me. I could barely summon the energy to make a sound.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. Rick was hardly coherent. He said Jenny collapsed last night right after dinner. He and Angie thought she’d fainted. They lifted her up on the couch, then Rick realized she wasn’t breathing. They called for an ambulance but by the time they got her to the hospital, it was too late.”

  I exhaled slowly, feeling pain as the air left my body. There was a constriction in my chest I couldn’t seem to breathe around. “She told me last week that she hadn’t been feeling well. I thought maybe she had Lyme Disease.”

  Aunt Peg snorted softly. “People sometimes die from Lyme Disease, but not suddenly like that. It had to have been something else. What did she say was the matter with her?”

  I thought back, trying to remember. “Something like the flu, except it wouldn’t go away. She wasn’t eating much, that’s how it came up, and she said she’d been having cramps.”

  “They’ll do an autopsy. They’ll have to. People can’t just up and die for no reason. That girl was a child.”

  Not quite, but I knew what she meant. “Rick must be devastated. The two of them seemed so close.”

  “They were always together,” said Aunt Peg. “Even at the shows where things get hectic and the handlers with big strings have to be everywhere at once, you almost never saw one of them without the other.”

  “I wonder what he’ll do now.”

  “Carry on, I’d imagine. What choice does he have?”

  Davey called from the bathtub, and I went to dry him off and bundle him into his pajamas. He was warm and clean and filled with excitement about the field trip his class was taking the next day to the fire station. I hugged him close and let him chatter on.

  He didn’t notice how quiet I was, so I didn’t have to explain. And that was good. I couldn’t break the news to Davey just then. I couldn’t even understand it myself.

  The next morning when I had a break, I stopped by the office and called Rick and Jenny’s kennel. A kennel girl picked up, and I was able to find out that a wake would be held on Friday evening in Ridgefield. I called Aunt Peg and gave her the news and we made arrangements to go together.

  That’s when it began to sink in that Jenny was really gone. I wished I’d had the chance to get to know her better. Even so, her death left me feeling all hollow inside. She’d been so young. She should have had so many things still ahead of her. How could she have already run out of time?

  On my way to my next class, I stopped by Davey’s kindergarten classroom. There was a glass panel in the door and I was able to look in without disturbing anyone. Davey was at the block station, constructing a skyscraper and laughing with two of his friends.

  I went back to work feeling a little better.

  My only sibling is a brother named Frank, who lives in Cos Cob. He’s four years younger than me and there are times when the age difference seems enormous. Most little girls grow out of the idea that their brother is one of the most annoying people they’ve ever met, but I never have. Frank can be irresponsible, opportunistic, and thoroughly charming; often all at the same time.

  One thing I will say for Frank though, is that he loves his nephew dearly. Over the years, he has stepped in to provide Davey with a stable male influence in his life, and for that I will always be gratefu
l. He also spoils Davey shamelessly. I’m less appreciative of that, but I figure it comes with the territory. Frank has always been a bit of a hedonist.

  One Saturday a month, he comes and collects Davey for what the two of them have come to call “boys’ day out.” Their adventures have included everything from roller blading in Binney Park to a trip to the Maritime Center in Norwalk. So far he’s always brought Davey back in one piece and since they both seem to enjoy having secrets that I’m not privy to, I try not to ask too many questions.

  Frank had called early in the week, hinting around about tickets to a Yale football game for that Saturday. Needless to say, I was not invited. After talking to Aunt Peg, I checked with Frank. His love life must not be much more exciting than mine because he said he’d be happy to have Davey sleep over on Friday night. All that remained after that was to call the funeral home and get directions.

  Most of the towns in lower Fairfield County serve as bedroom communities for New York City commuters and they look it. There’s an urban sophistication to the downtown areas which owes much to the rapid growth of the eighties and the advent of the ubiquitous chain store. A dozen miles north, the town of Ridgefield has resisted such changes. With its quaint shops and clapboard buildings, it still maintains much of the character and flavor of a small New England village.

  The Falconi Brothers Funeral Home was a white brick, two-story edifice on the outskirts of town. It was early evening when we arrived but the sun had already set. Aunt Peg was driving, which meant that I spent much of the trip holding my breath. Her station wagon is new this year, but already it’s showing signs of strain. Going sixty miles an hour on curving back country roads will do that to a car.

  We were met at the door to the funeral home by a somber-looking man in a black suit, one of the Falconi brothers, no doubt. He directed us to the proper room whose door was the only one leading off from the wide center hall that was open.

  The room was large and already crowded, but the first thing I saw when I entered was the casket. It was closed, for which I was grateful. I’ve never had any desire to look at dead people and I’ve never figured out why anyone would. I wanted to remember Jenny as she’d been, not lying pale and still in a satin-lined box.