by J. D. Robb
His feet on the stairs sounded like doom to me; I could imagine what they sounded like to Benny. I wanted to trip Sam, block him at the door, do something to protect Benny—but the instinct to confront him was just as strong. Sam and I went into our son’s room side by side.
He was sitting on his bed, working a puzzle. He didn’t look up, even when Sam sat next to him. “Ben.”
No answer. Intense scrutiny of puzzle.
“Is there something you have to tell me?”
Head shake.
“Benny.”
Silence.
“Is there something you have to show me?”
Long pause, then Benny got out of bed, found his book bag on the floor, rummaged through it for about an hour, withdrew a sealed envelope. Handed it to Sam wordlessly and got back in bed.
Sam looked at the envelope for a while before opening it. Not to prolong the suspense, just to put things off a few seconds longer. I sympathized.
Leaning in, I tried to read over his shoulder, but the type was too small. The letter wasn’t very long, one or two paragraphs, signed in ink. Sam sighed when he folded it and put it back in the envelope. “Okay. Tell me about this.”
Wordless and sullen, Benny clacked wooden puzzle pieces together hard.
“We’ve never talked about fighting before, not much, you and me. Were you angry at this boy, this—Doug? It’s okay to get mad at people, you know that. It’s what you do about—”
“He’s a poop head. He’s a dummy. He’s—” Benny looked up from the puzzle, right into Sam’s eyes. “He’s an asshole.”
“Hey, now—”
“He is.”
“Why?”
Benny wouldn’t answer.
“What did he do? Did he hit you first? That’s—”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“I hit him.”
“Okay. Why? Did he say something?”
“He said—he said—” Tears welled and spilled over. “He s-said . . .”
“What did he say?” Very gently, Sam folded Benny in his arms. I sidled close, leaning my flank against both of them.
“He said Mommy . . .”
“What?”
“Is a . . .”
“What?’
“Vegetable.”
I made a choking sound, the closest to a sob I could come. They didn’t hear me; Benny was crying and Sam was crooning consolation. They were a tangle of arms and pressed-together faces, and all I could do was shove my snout into the places I could find skin.
“All right, listen. That kid was wrong.” He lifted Benny’s chin so he could look at him. “And you were right—he’s an asshole.”
“I know.” Benny wiped his slimy face on the sheet. “I told you.”
“But we don’t use that word, right? Well, except us, you and me. On rare occasions. We can say it to each other, but nobody else. How about that?”
“Okay.” A smile broke through. How cool to have a secret dirty word with Dad. I wasn’t sure I approved.
“And we don’t hit people when they say stupid things. Because they’re allowed to, it’s not against the law. People can be as stupid as they want, and we just ignore them. We can say, ‘You’re wrong,’ or maybe, ‘You’re an idiot,’ but that’s it. We don’t hit ’em, we just ignore ’em. Right?”
“Okay.” But then Benny’s face crumpled again. “Is she?” he asked in a small voice, head down, playing with a button on Sam’s shirt. “Is Mommy a . . .”
“No, Ben, no. She’s not.”
“But she just lies there.”
“She’s asleep.”
“But what if she never gets up?”
“She will.”
“But what if she doesn’t? What if she stays like that forever? I wish she would come home! Why can’t she wake up? Why!”
“I think she will.” He took Benny’s shoulders before the tears could start again. “I really think she will, but it might take some more time.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. But we’re her family, you and me—”
“And Aunt Delia.”
“And Aunt Delia, and all we can do is keep thinking about her, and praying for her, and going to see her, and telling her we love her. Because she can’t help it—you know she’d come back if she could, right? You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“She’s trying, but it’s very hard. She wants to be with us as much as we want her to be. We just have to keep waiting. And hoping, and not losing faith. And meanwhile, we’ve got each other.”
“I know.”
“You know.” Sam hugged him for a long time. “We’ll be okay,” he whispered over and over, until Benny’s body finally began to sag from sleepiness. “You and me, pal. We’ll be okay.”
So I knew what I had to do. And not tomorrow: tonight. No more stalling. I felt as if I’d woken up from an em barrassingly long nap. Why had I waited so long? Laziness, denial, cowardice—some retriever I’d been. But no more. Tonight I would begin the journey back. To myself. If I didn’t make it—and all the obstacles between me and Hope Springs had never looked so daunting—at least I’d have taken the chance. At least I’d have tried to put my family back together.
I stayed with Benny after he fell asleep, stretched out alongside him, my head on his shoulder. The sound of his heart and the rhythm of his breathing came right inside me, merged with my heart and breath. It was difficult to leave him, the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I didn’t want to wake him, so I didn’t kiss him good-bye. I put my warm nose in the hollow of his throat and breathed him in.
Downstairs, it was dead quiet. I found Sam by smell—on the sofa in the den, grasping something, looking down at it in his lap. I didn’t want to, but it was time to say good-bye to him, too.
When I jumped up next to him, he barely noticed, and his “Down” was so halfhearted, we both ignored it.
My picture. That was what he was holding.
Oh, Sam. Don’t be sad.
And then I saw something I’d never seen before. Sam crying.
It was worse than anything. I licked his cheek, and when he turned his face away I howled. Softly; more of a whine, a really tragic sound. It got his attention. He did something he never had before: He put both arms around me and buried his face in my neck.
And I raised up on my back legs and embraced him back. It was . . . divine. We’d never been so close, not since I changed. I’d have stayed there all night, but too soon Sam pulled himself together and pushed me away.
Incomplete again, bereft, I watched him dig a ratty Kleenex from his pocket and scrub his face. His crooked smile was the saddest thing I ever saw. He rarely talked to me, but now he said, “Funny dog. You’re a funny old dog. What’s up with you?” So many times I’d tried to answer that. Now I just shook my head. When he petted me, I closed my eyes and reveled in it, although my heart was cracking. Bye, Sam. Don’t worry anymore. I’m going to fix it. I love you so much.
The phone rang.
“Hello? Oh, hi, Monica.”
I almost left then. What would have happened if I had? I’ve often wondered.
“We got back about an hour ago, hour and a half. Fine. I mean, you know, it was the same. No, no change.”
Blah blah. I didn’t want to hear this.
“Listen—Benny didn’t say anything to you about a fight, did he? At school? When he was over there this afternoon, he didn’t . . . I didn’t think so. I wouldn’t have known myself if . . . No, he’s okay; he’s fine. Some kid named Doug. Apparently he said something—”
Don’t tell her! Don’t you dare tell her!
“Kid stuff, nothing really . . . Yeah. I know. Right, I’m sure he’s bottling up a lot of anger and frustration . . . Right. Right.”
Right, right. Shut up, Monica, nobody wants to hear your amateur child psychology.
Finally she got to the point. “A picnic?” Sam said, brightening a bit. “Sounds good, we’re free al
l weekend. Which is better for you? Sunday, then, fewer people than on Labor Day, yeah. Good. Sonoma, too? Great, she’ll love it.”
Thanks for thinking of me.
“Okay, you bring that. I can do—Right, drinks, snacks . . .”
More blah blah about the portable grill, whose cooler was bigger, did they want lemonade or pop or both. I made myself not imagine it, not romping around with Benny and the twins in some beautiful woodsy, meadowy place, some sylvan spot alive with squirrels and chipmunks, maybe a lake or a stream. Have a great time. Without me. In a negative way, self-pity is very motivating. So long. I slunk toward the door.
“Patuxent Hills Park? No, we’ve never been there. Sounds good.”
Patuxent Hills Park? Patuxent Hills Park? I sold a house near there, in Brookville, south a little ways on Route 97. The park is only a mile from Hope Springs! As the crow flies—as the dog walks, it’s probably two. Two miles! Through woods and rural lanes and sleepy, high-end housing developments. With sidewalks!
Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God. I collapsed at Sam’s feet—my knees were too weak to hold me up. Gratitude turned my bones to jelly. I rolled over and showed him my belly.
All I had to do was wait till Sunday. Reunion day.
DOGS MUST BE LEASHED AT ALL TIMES
Why couldn’t things ever be easy? No alcoholic beverages, no dumping, no loud music, we close at sundown—I could live with those, but LEASHED AT ALL TIMES was going to be a problem.
So was mud, although not for me. The sun was peeping out between clouds now, but it had rained every day since Thursday and the park was saturated, even the picnic tables under the wooden pavilions. They could’ve postponed until tomorrow—I was afraid they would—but the kids were so wound up, they’d have exploded if the grownups had canceled. Sam said a little rain never hurt anybody, and here we were.
The first order of business, after claiming one of the many empty tables and setting up all the picnic stuff, was a walk. This was my chance—except the person on the other end of the leash was Sam, not Benny or one of the twins. Or best, Monica, whom I’d have had zero guilt about bolting from, preferably with violence. Sam was another story. He was strong, for one thing, but also—this is hard to explain—as pack leader he was someone I had a hard time disobeying. Believe it or not. I’d always thought of us as equals, or if one of us was a tiny bit ascendant, it was me. Not true as man and dog. Sam was alpha.
The river was narrow here, really more of a stream, and swollen from all the rain. This little park fit in an inlet the river made on its way northwest, bisecting two counties. A main trail to the left and a rougher, secondary one to the right followed the water’s twists and turns. We took the main one because it was wider and not as mushy, but even so, sometimes we had to detour into the woods around puddles or stretches of mud. I wanted to run ahead with the children, but I was stuck with Sam and Monica. Plod, plod, stop and look at this, plod some more, shout at the kids to quit doing something or other, plod, plod, stop and look at that. Absolutely no fun at all. Once we ran into two guys coming the other way, and I had to sit down to avoid the rude attentions of their irritating male Shih Tzu. Sometimes, frankly, I didn’t mind that sort of thing, but today was not one of those times.
A moment came when I thought I had a chance.
“Look!” Monica said, stopping, pointing up. “See it? A redheaded woodpecker.”
“Where?”
“Right there. Three, four—five branches up, left side, that maple tree.”
Sam knew birds; they’d become his hobby when we bought the cabin. “I think that’s a red-bellied woodpecker.”
“But it’s got a red head.”
“It’s got a red crown. A redheaded woodpecker’s head is completely red.”
“But where’s its red belly?”
“It’s hard to see; you have to be closer.” His hand went slack during this fascinating conversation, his attention focused completely on the bird. I let the leash go loose to soften him up even more, then gathered my feet under me and leapt.
And almost pulled Sam’s arm out of the socket.
“Hey!”
I’d almost strangled myself, too, but I had the wit to go into a bedlam of barking, pretending I’d seen something incredibly exciting, a rabbit, a deer, an elephant. When Sam told me to cool it, calm down, I obeyed instantly. “Good girl,” he had to admit.
“She is,” Monica agreed, surprised.
“I really think she’s starting to get it.”
Escape-wise, lunchtime was a bust because Sam looped the leash around one leg of the picnic table. Nothing to do but lie down and be good, and munch on tidbits Benny and the twins let fall from time to time.
Sam asked Monica if Benny could stay late at her house on Thursday, and I learned something I didn’t know. “We’re moving up the closing on the cabin,” Sam said. “Guy decided to pay cash, so there’s no reason to wait.”
“Oh,” Monica said. “Well.” And then, when the kids were talking, she said, “I’m sorry,” just loud enough for Sam (and me) to hear.
“No, it’s good. Really. The money’s coming just in the nick.”
Well, didn’t that just tie it. Another reason, as if there weren’t enough already, to act fast. What else could possibly go wrong in the human world?
After lunch, Sam did his disappearing saltshaker trick. I always knew it had to end up in his lap somehow, but I could never figure out how. A new perspective changes everything.
“Have you been doing any magic shows lately?” Monica asked, cutting big pieces of layer cake for everybody. Homemade, naturally. What a perfect family we must have looked like to everybody else in the park. Mom, Dad, three kids, the faithful dog.
“No, no.” I recognized Sam’s fake-careless voice. “That’s all . . . I don’t do that anymore. No time.”
“Ah,” Monica said softly. “Too bad. But I guess with the new job and all . . .”
“Right.”
“Do you still . . .” Hate it, she was going to say. But she changed it to “Is it getting any better?” even though Benny wasn’t listening—too busy comparing his loose tooth to Ethan’s.
“It’s a job. I’m in no position to complain.”
“You don’t complain.”
“It’s just . . . well, you know.”
“It is what it is.”
So profound.
But a little later, I wondered if maybe Benny had been paying attention, at least to his father’s tone of voice— upbeat but tight, a world of discontent just beneath the surface. Because Benny pulled on Sam’s sleeve, interrupting something Monica was saying, and told him about troodon dinosaurs. “The male sits on the eggs and guards the nest, Dad. I read about it. He’s the mom. She goes out and does stuff and he stays and makes the nest safe and keeps the babies warm.”
All Sam said was, “How about that,” but he put his arm around Benny’s waist and pressed him close.
Oh, Benny. Light of my life.
Monica decreed the grass was now dry enough to play games on, so that was what the boys did, with Sam. I got to stay where I was and watch Monica clean up.
Desperation was creeping in. How in the world was I going to pull this off? To be this close and still fail—I couldn’t think about it. Maybe if I . . .
“What, Sonoma? Do you have to go? Do you have to do business?”
Bingo. It was partly the high whine, partly the soulful-eyes thing. They never let me down.
“I’m taking Sonoma for a walk,” Monica called over to Sam, who waved and went back to swinging the kids around in a game of statue.
She picked the secondary trail this time, the one that wound east, under a cement bridge and around a bend—out of sight. Perfect, perfect. Nobody was here; the path was too narrow and boggy for hikers today, and too close to the clattering river. That sound and the smell of wet earth filled my head, intoxicating. Sunlight made blue crystals on the damp tree leaves. Everything was beautiful, but l
ost on me. I’d remember it later—or not.
Monica went at an excruciatingly slow pace when she wasn’t stopped dead, admiring nature. She’d brought along an expensive-l ooking camera. She halted on the bank to snap a picture of dappled light on water. Was this my chance? I would only get one. If I failed, she’d be on guard from then on. I preferred nonviolence, but only as a first resort. I would fight if I had to.
I braced. Don’t make me have to hurt you.
She had the leash looped around her wrist, though. Better to wait till it was loose in her hand. Then I could just snap it and run.
“Come on, Sonoma. Don’t you have to pee? I do,” she said, laughing, and I hoped she would, right then and there. Talk about a distraction. But no, too much of a lady. We slogged on.
A thick pine tree had snapped at the base and half fallen in the river, years ago from the look of it. “How pretty,” Monica said, turning the camera on again. It did look picturesque, the sparse, rain-dark branches stretched out over churning water. She took a few shots. Then, “Oh, look, Sonoma, a spiderweb. See it?”
I saw it, in the crotch of a dead branch at the end of the tree, just before it dipped into the river. It would’ve been invisible if it hadn’t been shiny with drying raindrops. Yes, very pretty. Why don’t you go out there and take a picture of it?
And that’s exactly what she did.
What a moron. Are you crazy? I thought, before I recollected myself. Be that stupid; go farther out there with a camera in one hand, a dog leash in the other, the racing brown river beneath you. Please, after you.
But she was so athletic and surefooted, she never even tottered. And she wasn’t stupid enough to go to the end, only halfway, with me about four feet away, the length of the leash, just one long leap to shore. The expensive camera had a telephoto lens. I heard it whir into action, watched Monica sight her spiderweb picture, one-handed, through the LCD. I started to shake. From anticipation, I thought, but then I realized—I was the one who was scared. The chopping sound of the river, the potent smell of water, and the humid air were the last good memories I had of my human self. What came next was all a nightmare. I hated rivers.