Underdog

by Laurien Berenson

  Behind him, the music subsided. “Hey Bob!” yelled a voice. “You standin’ us another round?”

  “Hell yes!” Bob roared and a lusty cheer went up.

  Now I knew he was drunk. The Bob I’d known hadn’t been much of a drinker, and certainly not one to buy a round for the house. Perversely, that made me feel better. With any luck, this call was nothing more than an alcohol induced trip down memory lane. In the morning he’d wake up and remember that we hated each other, and everything would be fine.

  “Bob,” I said gently. “I think maybe you’ve had enough to drink.”

  “Nah,” he disagreed. “The party’s just getting started. We’re celebrating.”

  “Lucky you.” It was time to wind this call down. Actually way past time, if the look on Sam’s face was anything to go by. “I won’t keep you from it—”

  “Melanie, wait!”

  I was already inching back across the bed toward the night stand. Faith’s tail thumped up and down on the blanket as I passed. “What?”

  “You didn’t even give me a chance to tell you my good news. I struck oil!”

  I’m a teacher. I work with eight year olds, so I’m used to dealing with tall tales. This one, however, seemed a mite taller than most. My guess was that Bob was going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning.

  “You couldn’t have struck oil, Bob. You’re an accountant.”

  “Well sure, but I own a well.”

  He owned a well. My brain received the message, but flatly refused to process it.

  “Not a whole well. Actually a share of one.” Bob was talking faster now, as if he was afraid I might hang up before he’d gotten out everything he wanted to say. The Texas twang was becoming less and less pronounced. “A friend of mine was buying up old mineral leases and drilling wildcat wells. Just speculating, you know? He didn’t have any money, but he needed someone to do the books. So we made a deal.”

  He paused as if he expected me to say something. No chance of that. All the words I could think of were stuck in my throat.

  “I never expected anything to come of it. I just thought I was doing a friend a favor. Then this morning Ray comes flying into town to tell me he’d brought one in. Can you beat that?”

  No, I thought, I certainly couldn’t.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Sam, looking at the expression on my face. He leaned closer, cocking an ear toward the receiver.

  “It seems Bob owns an oil well.”

  “A share in a well,” my ex corrected. I heard him take a swig of beer. It must have sharpened his perception. “Hey,” he demanded, after he’d swallowed. “Who’s that you’re talking to?”

  If there was any easy answer to that question, I certainly didn’t know what it was. Nor did I owe Bob any explanations. “Nobody,” I said firmly.

  That went over well. Sam glared and pulled back.

  Bob dropped the phone. At least that’s what it sounded like. There was a loud thunk and a sudden increase in the decibel level of the music. Now a man was wailing about love gone wrong. “Hang on, darlin’!” Bob yelled.

  Sure. Like I had nothing better to do.

  When he didn’t return in a few seconds, I put the receiver down on the blanket. Unless Bob had used a credit card, I figured the long distance operator would probably disconnect us soon anyway.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” I said to Sam.

  “I hope not.” He pushed back the covers, easing Faith gently aside, and got up.

  I knew he had to go, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to reach out and pull him back. Instead, I drew my legs up under the covers and wrapped my arms around them. On the bed beside me, the phone was silent.

  “It was none of his business, that’s all I was trying to say.”

  “I guess you made your point.” Sam glanced at the receiver. “Where’d he go?”

  I shrugged as if it wasn’t important, which it wasn’t. Bob was my past. I thought of him sometimes as a stage I’d gone through, like Farrah Fawcett hair or disco. If it wasn’t for Davey, I’d have said we had no reason to ever speak to each other again.

  Up until now, Bob had played almost no part in his son’s life. That had been his choice. Mine was that he keep it that way.

  Faith reached out with one large black paw and batted the receiver gently. It rolled over several times and lodged beneath a pillow. Good place for it.

  Though the bedroom was dark, the moon outside was nearly full. Sam crossed the room, passing through a shaft of silvery light. He walked with the easy grace of a man who was comfortable with his body. And no wonder. A bit over six feet tall, he was trim and tightly muscled. Downy golden hairs covered his chest and legs, matching the thick, often unruly thatch on his head.

  At thirty-four, he was in his prime. Three years younger, I found myself cultivating crow’s feet and battling the effects of gravity. Biology’s a bitch.

  I watched as Sam slipped on his jeans and a long sleeved thermal tee. The weathered denim shirt he buttoned over it was the same color as his eyes. My eyes are hazel, a middle of the road shade. So’s my hair. It’s brown and hangs straight to my shoulders. But when Sam turned and looked at me in the moonlight, I felt beautiful.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go,” I said.

  “So do I.”

  He came back and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. Both of us left the rest unsaid. He had dogs at home that needed to be taken care of. And I had Davey.

  It wasn’t that Sam and my son weren’t friends. But Davey had never known his father, and I was wary of his forming too deep an attachment to Sam. Maybe I was wary of doing the same thing myself. Davey had never woken up to find a man sitting at the breakfast table. I wasn’t sure either one of us was ready to start.

  Sam reached over and brushed his lips across mine. I reached out my hands and ran them up over his shoulders. The blanket slipped down, pooling around my knees. The cool air made my nerve endings tingle.

  “Hey Mel!” the receiver squawked suddenly. Faith cocked her ears and nudged it with her nose. “You still there?”

  Sam drew back. Slowly I did the same.

  “Aren’t you going to pick that up?” he asked.

  “I guess.” I sighed and lifted the phone to my ear. Talk about a mood breaker. “Now what?”

  “Sorry about that,” said Bob. The twang was back. “Billie Sue just spilled a few beers. Wasn’t her fault. If Jocko hadn’t goosed her, she’d have been okay. I guess I’ve had my bath for the night.”

  “Bob—”

  “Now listen darlin’. There’s a reason why I called.”

  I figured there might be.

  Then he told me what it was and I felt my whole world tilt, ever so slightly, on its axis. I wanted to rant and rave and tell him no. I wanted to slam down the phone and pretend that the call had never happened. I wanted to run into Davey’s room, gather him in my arms and hold him tight against whatever was to come.

  Instead, I scarcely moved at all. I simply listened until Bob had finished speaking, then hung up the receiver, placing it gently back in the cradle without saying another word. Around me, all was dark. I could feel the warmth of Faith’s body pressed along my leg, and the slight rise and fall of her even breathing. I wondered if I sat very still I could convince myself that it had all been nothing more than a bad dream.

  “What?” Sam demanded.

  Funny, I’d almost forgotten he was there.

  “He’s coming.”

  “Where?”

  “Here,” I said quietly. “Bob’s coming to Connecticut to get to know his son.”

  Two

  The next morning I overslept. If it hadn’t been for Faith, who wandered in at seven-thirty and licked my face until she got a response, Davey and I might never have made it to school.

  I ran downstairs first thing and let the puppy outside. Poodles are extremely smart and once they learn something, like housebreaking, they ha
te to make a mistake even if—especially if—it’s not their fault. Faith is a Standard Poodle, the largest of the three varieties. She stands twenty-four inches at the withers, has a beautiful head and expression, long legs, a high tail-set, and a dense coat of long black hair. I’ve just started taking her to dog shows and according to my Aunt Peg, when Faith matures, she should do very well.

  If anyone should know, it’s Margaret Turnbull. She’s Faith’s breeder, and owner of the Cedar Crest Poodles, one of the top Standard Poodle kennels on the east coast. She and her husband had been involved in breeding and showing for nearly thirty years, until his death the summer before. Now Aunt Peg was carrying on alone.

  She’s an imposing woman, with keen intelligence and a boundless supply of common sense. She’s almost sixty, but that hasn’t slowed her down a bit. At half her age, I sometimes have trouble keeping up, especially when Poodles are involved.

  I opened the back door and Faith bounded down the steps. There were still six inches of snow on the ground from a storm the week before. Freezing temperatures overnight had covered it with a thin film of ice. I watched long enough to make sure that the puppy could handle the footing, then turned on the coffee maker and got out a box of instant oatmeal for Davey’s breakfast.

  “Mom!” Davey called from upstairs. “Where are my clothes?”

  At five, my son has yet to master the art of choosing an outfit. Left to his discretion, he invariably ends up dressed in the same color from head to toe. Last time it was red. He looked like a misplaced Christmas elf. I work at Hunting Ridge Elementary, where Davey goes to school, so I have to watch things like that. It’s hard to inspire confidence in other parents when your own child looks to be sorely in need of adult guidance.

  “Be right there!”

  The coffee was starting to drip; Faith was waiting at the back door to come in. If only I’d had a third or fourth hand, I’d have switched on the TV and tried to find the weather. March in southern Connecticut always leaves you guessing. I opened the door for Faith and threw down a bowl of dry kibble, then grabbed a cup of scalding coffee and ran back upstairs. I could only hope the day’s forecast wasn’t critical.

  Davey and I made it to school by the second bell, but just barely. The last of the big yellow buses was parked at the curb when we pulled into the already full side lot and designated our own unmarked parking space.

  The ride to school had taken less than ten minutes, but in that time Davey had managed to shed both his hat and his mittens. I had his backpack on the front seat next to me or he probably would have unpacked that, too. Organization isn’t a strong suit with him. He gets that from his father.

  It was only a stray thought, but it stopped me where I sat. A chill washed over my head and neck. For a moment I thought it was an omen; then I realized Davey had opened the Volvo’s back door.

  He got out and jammed his hat on his head. “I thought we were late.”

  “We are.”

  Still I didn’t move, except to smile as I gazed at my impatient child. My son. In the space of an instant, his birth had transformed everything I thought I knew about love.

  Davey’s cheeks were pink with cold, his breath coming in small puffs of steam. He’d gotten the green knit cap on crooked, covering one ear but leaving the other bare. Sandy hair stuck out from beneath the rim. He had mink-brown eyes much like his father’s. They were heavy lidded and rimmed with long dark lashes. Someday he’d be a heartbreaker, I had little doubt of that. He already held my heart in his hands.

  For five years, I’d been the focus of Davey’s world and he of mine. I’d always thought I wanted Davey to have the opportunity to get to know his father; but now that it seemed he would, suddenly I was apprehensive about the prospect. When Bob reappeared, everything would change. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

  “Come on,” Davey said insistently. He wasn’t allowed to cross the parking lot alone. “Hurry up!”

  “I’m coming.” I gathered up my things from the seat, got out and locked the car behind me.

  “Race you to the door!”

  “Davey, wait! Take my hand!”

  Fat chance. We hit the school running and went inside to start the day.

  My formal title is Learning Disabilities Resource Room Teacher. What that actually means is I’m in charge of special education. I work with all the elementary school grades at Hunting Ridge, taking aside in small groups any children who are in need of extra help.

  My job is varied, hectic, and often rewarding. On a usual day, I can barely cram everything I need to do into the time allotted. Tuesday was no exception. I had a small mountain of paper work still sitting on my desk when the last bell rang, and a Pupil Placement Team meeting scheduled for after school.

  Davey was going home on the bus with Joey Brickman, a friend from down the street. I’d arranged for him to stay through dinner, as that evening was the monthly meeting of the Belle Haven Kennel Club. I was too new to dogs to be a member, but Aunt Peg had invited me to attend the meeting as her guest.

  Peg Turnbull can be hard to say no to under the best of circumstances. When she thinks she’s doing something for your own good, she’s apt to roll over opposition like a Humvee in low gear. I had only the vaguest notion of what went on at a kennel club, and no idea at all why anyone would want to join one, but it seemed I was going to find out. Aunt Peg was picking me up at six.

  When I got home, Faith was waiting at the door. I threw my gear in the hall, snapped on the puppy’s leash and took her for a long walk around the neighborhood. Flower Estates is a small sub-division in north Stamford: compact houses on tiny plots of land, built in the fifties and meant to appeal to the young parents who were busy producing the generation of children that would come to be known as baby boomers.

  Those families are long gone now. Luckily for us, Flower Estates remains. With its outdated design and air of weathered practicality, the neighborhood is a haven of relatively affordable housing on Connecticut’s gold coast.

  We’d completed our walk and I was in the kitchen mixing Faith’s dinner when the puppy ran from the room, raced through the hall and skidded to a stop by the front door, barking wildly. That’s one benefit of getting a dog: guests never arrived unannounced. Aunt Peg was already letting herself in by the time I got to the hall. Standing five foot eleven and swathed in scarves and gloves and boots, she bore more than a passing resemblance to Nanook of the North.

  “Cut out that racket!” she said to Faith. “It’s me, your grandmother.”

  Dog-talk for breeder. Immediately the puppy stopped barking and wagged her tail. As Aunt Peg doffed gloves and hat and unwound her scarf, Faith danced on her hind legs, offering to help. What a pair.

  “You’re early,” I said. “I’m just feeding Faith.”

  “Six,” Aunt Peg said firmly. “I’m right on time.”

  My watch said ten to, but it wasn’t worth debating.

  Aunt Peg followed me back to the kitchen. “Where’s Davey?”

  “At a friend’s house for the evening. I told Joey’s mom I’d be by around nine. We’ll be back by then, won’t we?”

  “If we’re lucky.” Aunt Peg watched with a critical eye as I added a dollop of cottage cheese and some canned meat to Faith’s kibble, then set the dish on the floor. “Sometimes these meetings go on until all hours. It depends how much arguing everyone wants to do.”

  “About what?”

  “Anything and everything. The members of the Belle Haven Kennel Club are a diverse group, nearly all with different breeds and strong opinions about what’s best for each of them.”

  I considered that. Faith was the first dog I’d ever had. In many ways, I was still feeling my way around Poodles. I knew even less about what went on in the other breeds.

  “Actually,” I told her, “you never did explain exactly what a kennel club is.”

  “It didn’t occur to me. You know what the American Kennel Club is, of course.”

  I did. The A.K.C. w
as the largest registry of purebred dogs in America. From its offices in New York City and North Carolina, it registered puppies, issued pedigrees, and sponsored more than a thousand dog shows every year.

  “Local clubs are a little different, both in their goals and their make-up. They serve a variety of functions, one of which is to give breeders in a particular area a chance to get together, socialize, and compare notes.”

  That seemed obvious enough. “What else?”

  “A well-run club can act as a liaison between dog owners and the community. Club members take their dogs to visit nursing homes and hospitals. They put on programs in schools. They sponsor clinics, do breeder referral to help people who are shopping for puppies, and many now have rescue services, which take in unwanted pets and find them new homes.”

  “It sounds like a lot of work.”

  “It is. And that’s only half the job.”

  Faith finished her food, and looked up. When Aunt Peg patted her leg, the puppy ambled over obligingly. Never one for subtlety, Peg ran her hands over Faith’s body; checking, no doubt, to make sure that I was keeping her grandchild in good condition.

  I picked up the empty stainless steel bowl and carried it to the sink. “What’s the other half?”

  “The kennel clubs put on the dog shows. One per year, for most clubs.” Apparently satisfied, Aunt Peg straightened from her inspection and scratched Faith under the chin. “That’s their most visible function, and certainly most profitable. If a club knows what it’s doing, the show can support club activities for the rest of the year.”

  “Does Belle Haven know what it’s doing?”

  “Overall, I’d say yes. Like most dog clubs, we have a core group of dedicated members who do the lion’s share of the work. Most of us have been in the dog game a long time. Which is not to say that we always get along. I’ll say one thing for Belle Haven’s meetings. They’re seldom dull.”

  I opened the back door and let Faith out into the yard. When I let her back in a moment later, Aunt Peg’s gaze went pointedly to the clock over the sink. “We wouldn’t want them to start without us.”