by J. D. Robb
“Me?” Such pretty modesty. The kids weren’t even disappointed at not being chosen. They loved Mrs. Carr. And they sensed this trick, the Great Sambini’s last, required an assistant in the know.
It certainly did. Sam had never asked outright, but once or twice, years ago, he’d hinted that he would love it if I’d assist him in his act. Of course I’d said no. Without a second thought. How absurd. Ridiculous and unthinkable, like asking him to hold a real estate closing for me. Still, just for fun, sometimes he enlisted me to help with tricks that needed two people, tricks he couldn’t do onstage—no assistant—but that he just liked and wanted to try out. Like Magic Handcuffs.
So I knew how to do it. You let people from the audience tie the knots, as many or as complicated as they want—just not too tight. “Don’t cut off my blood!” you say (if you’re the assistant), because it’s vital that one wrist rope have a little slack in it. Just a little. So the magician can slip his cord under it and then over the top of your hand. Ta-da, you’re free.
The rest is acting. Overacting, as you both writhe and wrestle and struggle and contort, accomplishing the magic part on the ground and out of view—underneath yourselves, ideally. So it’s like Twister, only more intimate. The one or two times Sam talked me into trying it with him, we enjoyed it very much. Very much.
No way was he going to play Magic Handcuffs with Monica Carr.
Maybe if she’d had on more clothes, not a sleeveless sundress and strappy sandals. Maybe if she hadn’t looked so cute, or smelled so sweet. Maybe if she’d been a little less perfect. Maybe if she was in this country on a visa about to run out. Then I might’ve behaved myself.
Eager volunteers got one of Monica’s wrists tied before I made my move. I was still trying to be good. But my best intentions were undermined by the persistent vision of Sam and Monica locked in an indecent embrace. And then when it hit me—my God!—they must have practiced this trick before, I lost all restraint.
Rowrrr!
Not all restraint; I didn’t bite anybody. But I was in the grip of the most primitive anger I’d ever felt, and Monica wasn’t the only target. Sam infuriated me, too. I wanted to, but I didn’t bite them, only because of the proximity of so many children. One stray fang—it didn’t bear thinking about. I jumped between Sam and Monica and did everything else, though—I growled, threatened, herded, head-butted. Monica I body-slammed to the ground on her behind.
Sam couldn’t believe his eyes. “Sonoma!” he kept shouting, lunging time after time for my collar. “What the hell? No! Sonoma, no!” He still had one end of his rope in his hand. I let him get close, closer—then I sprang, snatched the rope in my teeth, and whirled away.
Now what? Another damn fenced yard, the bane of my life. I ran around and around the perimeter pursued by two adults and eight children. When it looked like they had me cornered, I dashed into Benny’s playhouse. Hide the rope, hide the rope. Where? In his toy chest?
Too late, no time. I hadn’t escaped. I was trapped. At least the trick was ruined—the Great Sambini could hardly start over after all this mayhem. I’d broken the spell. Mission accomplished.
“Great party, Sam.”
“It was. Goes without saying, I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Oh, sure you could’ve. Wow, the magic show was fantastic.”
“Until it went to hell.” Sam and Monica made the same disgusted face as they glanced through the kitchen door at me. Benny and the twins were upstairs playing with Benny’s new rainbow-making machine; Sam and Monica were finishing the cleanup. I was trying for a low profile in the safest place I could think of: under the dining room table.
“What do you think set her off?” Sam took a handful of washed glasses from Monica and set them on the top cabinet shelf—too high for her to reach.
“I can’t imagine.”
Did he hear the same note in her voice I did? Was it my imagination, or did Monica just send me a look? No, ridiculous; she didn’t know anything. She couldn’t. Except that I didn’t like her—that had to be pretty clear by now.
“I had no idea you were so good,” she told Sam. “I should have. I mean, you do it professionally—”
“Did.”
“But I just never realized. You’d never say, and from what I’ve always gathered from Laurie . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing, I just—assumed it was more of a hobby, is all. But, Sam, you’re good. Really good.”
Oh, shut up. She wasn’t flattering him, though; she meant it. And Sam beamed with pleasure. So unfair—I wanted to say it to him. I wanted to make him smile and blush and look tickled.
Why hadn’t I ever told Sam he was good?
They finished in the kitchen and moved past me—I watched their legs—into the hall. “Ustin and Jethan!” Monica called; a family joke. “Time to go home!”
Sam started thanking her again. She cut him off to ask, “How are you doing, Sam? I haven’t had a chance with all the birthday business to really talk to you, not in days.”
Days, big deal.
“We’re all right,” Sam said. “We’re fine. Day at a time.”
“But you. How are you doing?”
He hadn’t combed out his Great Sambini hair yet. Back-lit in the open door, he looked like a punk angel. “Starting the new job will be good,” he said, with no enthusiasm. “Get my mind off things.”
“Is anything new with Laurie?” Monica asked gently. Speaking of things.
“Not really. We’ll go see her tomorrow night. I usually take Benny on Sundays, but . . .”
Since it was his birthday, he got a reprieve. I put my paws over my eyes, wishing I could disappear. Cease to exist. Think how much better off everybody would be.
When I looked up, Monica had her hand on Sam’s arm, rubbing it in a comforting way while her melty eyes shone with sympathy. Instantly I was on my feet, snarling, slinking forward, low to the ground like a wolf.
Who knows what might’ve happened if Benny and the twins hadn’t come bouncing down the steps just then, quar reling and overstimulated, minutes away from a meltdown. Everybody’s attention shifted to them, including mine. Good thing, because at that moment Monica’s pert little butt had never looked more, how shall I say, toothsome.
I was allowed to go, too, when everyone went outside to the car—Monica had driven over instead of walking. Piling the twins and the birthday paraphernalia in took a while. When it was done, she cupped the back of Benny’s head and kissed his forehead. “Happy birthday, mister.”
He reached his arms around her waist—she squatted down in front of him. “Tell Monica—” Sam began, but Benny didn’t need reminding. “Thank you,” he said, and she said, “You are so welcome,” and pulled him into a close hug. I took two steps toward them, stiff-l egged, hair standing on end. My mouth watered.
Monica patted Benny’s shoulders and started to sit back on her heels, but he hung on. He hung on. I saw his tight-shut eyes, his wrinkled lips. The need and the blank satisfaction on his face.
I could’ve eaten a whole family—I could’ve mauled a playground full of children. God! I wanted something between my teeth to grind and shake until it was dead. But I couldn’t lift a paw to interrupt a few seconds of happiness for Benny, even if it came in the arms of my mortal enemy.
I walked around to the side of the house and threw up.
After that, things went downhill.
The day after the party, Benny started first grade and Sam started his new job. Sam dropped Benny off at school on his way to work, and in the afternoons Monica kept Benny at her house until Sam picked him up. I never met Benny’s teacher. I never saw his classroom. Sam dropped the first week’s lunch menu on the floor and I made out “teriyaki beef bites” and “café burger with baked beans” before he picked it up. In the evenings, I might hear a precious tidbit about a new friend of Benny’s, a confusing assignment, a funny thing that happened that day. But he told Sam all the good stuff as soon as he sa
w him; by the time they came home, all I got was leftovers.
As for Sam’s job, he never mentioned it.
A day lasted a year. I know why dogs sleep so much—there’s nothing else to do. The highlight for me was when Mr. Horton, the next-door neighbor, came over at noon to let me out in the backyard for ten minutes. Sam had told him to be sure to change my water and leave me a raw-hide chewy, but more often than not Mr. Horton, who was ninety, forgot.
The only way I had ever found out anything important, meaning grown-up, was by listening to Sam’s side of telephone conversations, especially with my sister, Delia. Now that he worked every day in an office, those occasions had petered out. One night, though, Ronnie Lewis called and I got to hear the bad news: He had another buyer for the cabin.
He thought the offer was too low and wanted Sam to counter. I held my breath while they argued, Sam saying no, let’s take it, Ron trying to talk him out of it. Are you crazy? I wanted so badly to say to my husband. I never heard actual figures, but I didn’t need to. Even in this lousy market, only a putz would take the first offer. But that wasn’t even the point. Sam, hold out! Don’t sell! When would it end? How many dreams was he going to have to give up for my sake?
But the following Sunday afternoon: a miracle. It happened so fast—one minute I was sulking under the piano, preparing myself for the weekly Hope Springs abandonment; the next Sam was snapping my leash on and saying, “C’mon, girl, wanna go for a ride? Wanna go in the car?” They were taking me with them!
Such a beautiful day. The last day of August but clear and blue for a change, not muggy, even a taste of fall in the air. It filled me with new hope, the kind I hadn’t felt in so long, it made me euphoric. Sam kept telling me to settle, settle, but it was impossible not to dash from one backseat window to the other, taking in deep gulps of air and watching the world fly past.
And yet, the closer we got, the calmer I grew. Or if not calmer, more thoughtful. I still had no plan, no real idea of what I would do once I saw myself—rejoined myself. It didn’t seem necessary; some strange faith told me it would just happen. Whatever needed to happen would happen. Whatever force or mutation or reality glitch that had changed me into Sonoma would, just as suddenly and inexplicably, turn me back into Laurie. Because, if nothing else, the universe was still an orderly place—so I had always believed—and it liked balance. Weird anomalies eventually got fixed. Yin and yang. Today was the day I got to do my part to set things right.
Poor Benny. He slumped in his seat, as excited about visiting Mom as he’d be about visiting the pediatrician. Less so. Sam had made him bring along one of his books from school, to show me how well he could read. It’ll be okay, I told Benny, nuzzling the salty-sweet back of his neck. Except for dog feet (mine, anyway), nothing smelled better than Benny’s hair. I licked his ear, which got a laugh out of him. Don’t worry, baby. Mommy’s coming home. He rubbed my muzzle and kissed me on the nose.
So this was Hope Springs from the outside. Pretty. A long, winding drive through woods to a sprawling complex of old, new, and middle-aged buildings. HOPE SPRINGS NURSING AND REHABILITATION CENTER one sign read; another, HOPE SPRINGS ASSISTED LIVING. A multipurpose place, then; something for everybody. Everybody who was infirm. But it was pretty, I had to admit, and clean and quiet, well tended, all you could ask for. It must be costing Sam a fortune.
He parked in a shady spot in one of the enormous parking lots.
“We don’t have to stay long,” Benny mumbled, fiddling with his seat belt. “I’m hungry.”
“You just ate.”
“My stomach hurts. I don’t feel good. I have a condition.”
“Ben.”
“I have a disease, Daddy. I’m not well.”
Sam scowled. Then sighed. Then ruffled Benny’s hair. “Okay, pal, we won’t stay long.”
Well, wait, now.
“You can tell Mom all about your birthday party—how’s that? They’ll probably have her outside today. If you like, you can play around by the lily pond—”
“Okay!”
“After you talk to her and tell her you love her and everything.”
“Okay.” He slumped again. Not for much longer, sweetheart, I told him as he opened his door and slammed it. Sam got out and slammed his door. I waited by mine, tail up, shuddering with anticipation.
“Be good,” Sam said through the four-i nch crack in my window. “We’ll be back. Be a good girl.”
What? What was this? Incredulous, I watched Sam and Benny walk up a wide, yew-bordered path to a low brick building with glass doors. And disappear inside.
No. No. I howled it, but nobody heard. I raged until my throat hurt, but nobody cared. What had I been thinking? The universe was not an orderly place. Ghastly miscarriages of justice were allowed to persist, and no wise hand balanced horrible, unnatural inequities. I was lost.
I never thought things could get worse.
“Hi, yes, I’d like to make an appointment to have my dog spayed.”
Behind Sam’s chair, I choked on a piece of empty cottage cheese carton from the garbage.
“Tuesday? Is that as soon as you can do it? Right, the holiday weekend . . . Okay, next Tuesday, then. Eight a.m., that’s fine.”
I ran around the chair, put my paws on his knees. No! I shook my head so hard, I hit myself in the eye with an ear. He kept talking—I started barking. No! No!
He laughed. “Yeah, that’s Sonoma,” he said into the phone. “I know. It’s like she heard us.”
The days that followed were peculiar. I would lie at the top of the stairs at night, guarding the house, and think, Well, another day gone and I didn’t run away. I could have: the basement window was still unlocked. Home alone every day, there was nothing to stop me from making a break for it. But I didn’t go. The human world was falling apart around me. Running away and reconnecting—somehow—with the real me was my only chance, but I stayed.
Why? The chances of actually making it were tiny—that was one thing. The time Sam let me go with them to Hope Springs had opened my eyes to what would really be involved, the distance, the danger, cars going sixty-fi ve miles an hour. It might take weeks, not days. I was scared.
Also, it’s hard to describe how seductive being a dog is. How tempting it was to give up. Forget who I used to be and sink into this new self, a self whose boundaries seemed to be nothing but love. To give love and get love—that was what my needs were narrowing down to. I could feel it intensifying every day. Friendship, sweetness, play, companionship—with the exception of evil Monica, that was all I cared about. Going, going, almost gone were any feelings about justice, fairness, tit for tat—and never mind anger, disappointment, umbrage, pride, ego, disapproval. Jealousy—I still had that. I wanted all the love my loved ones had. And that was a failing, but one I knew I’d never overcome. It came too naturally.
And it’s just so damn nice to be a dog. I can’t overstate the pleasures of sinking into a light doze about five times an hour. Drifting off . . . waking up . . . drifting off . . . dreaming . . . waking up . . . You fall into a pattern of sleeping and waking that, over time, averages out to almost constant half-asleepness (or half-awakeness) and it’s very . . . nice.
Another example, just a small thing, but—the game of sock. Tug-of-war, I should say, but Sam and Benny called it “sock,” as in “Want to play sock? Sonoma! Get the sock!” I tried to remind myself that tennis was the best game—Tennis, Laurie! You’re good at it, remember? Tennis is the best!—but it was hard. And face it: I got so much more joy out of sock than I ever got out of tennis.
Anyway, I didn’t leave. The days drifted by in a pleasant haze, long periods of comfortable idleness punctuated by bursts of extreme excitement—They’re home!—and profound contentment. I worried, and sometimes I had bad dreams, but time passed and it became increasingly clearer that the dog side of me was winning.
On Thursday, the principal at Benny’s school left a message on the machine that he’d been in a fight. She
was sending a note home with him. She wanted to talk to Sam about it as soon as possible.
Benny in a fight? Impossible. What kind of fight? Was he hurt? No, or she’d have said, or there would’ve been something in her voice besides calm professionalism. I paced instead of napping the rest of the afternoon.
Mr. Horton came over twice to let me out, the second time in late afternoon, five or six, something like that. An amazing number of people talk out loud to dogs—you can’t believe the things they’ll say—but Mr. Horton wasn’t one of them. Where’s Sam? Where’s Benny? Why are they so late? I asked him with my best supplicant face, but all I got was the usual, “Come on, dog,” and, “Get busy.”
It was getting dark when the car pulled up. Of course the engine didn’t sound any different, and of course the doors slamming were just doors slamming—but I knew before I heard Sam and Benny’s slow, draggy footsteps that something was wrong. My sixth sense. And as soon as I smelled them, I knew what it was. Me. The scent of Hope Springs was all over them.
Sam let Benny have a glass of milk in the kitchen. I thought they’d talk, but they didn’t. How was I? Worse—I must be. Or exactly the same; that would be just as bad. So this mutual dejection that hung in the air like smoke from a grease fire was only because they’d seen me. That was all. No change. Just another soul-eroding visit to Laurie.
Benny dawdled over his milk, but didn’t argue when Sam told him to go up and get ready for bed, it was late. I usually went with Benny at those times, because of the intimacy. My little boy was never more my little boy than when he was getting into his wonderful-smelling pjs or peeing in the toilet (and on the floor) or standing at the sink on tiptoe to brush his teeth. But now I stayed with Sam, followed him when he went into the den. I wanted to see his reaction to the principal’s message.
He played it twice. His face was turned away, but everything else about him answered my question. This was the first he’d heard.