by Maggie Estep
I thanked Abe and hung up. I wrote his name and number on a piece of paper then walked into the living room to give it to Clayton.
“This is the lawyer’s name and number. If the cops try talking to you again, just call Abe.”
Clayton barely lifted his head.
“I thought you were going to the park,” he said.
“I am. What, are you trying to get rid of me?”
“I just don’t want to bring you down,” he said so quietly I could barely hear him.
“Don’t be depressing, Clayton, you’ll make it worse,” I snapped, then felt bad and tried to think of something soothing to say. Nothing came to mind.
“Okay then,” I said, “I’m going.”
“Okay.”
I took my red coat off the hook, put Candy’s leash on, and went out the door. My neck was hurting and my shoulders were up to my ears.
Technically, dogs aren’t allowed on the subway unless they’re contained in a crate or bag. But I’d frequently taken Candy on, bagless and crateless, and no one had bothered me about it. She looks harmless enough, though if you’re a squirrel, or another small, fast-moving thing, she’s lethal.
Every imbecile in the city was in Central Park so I took Candy onto a wooded path then let her go even though off-leash hours weren’t in effect yet. Another benefit of having a little dog, I’m less likely to get a ticket for letting her run loose.
We’d been walking for about twenty minutes, through wooded areas in the upper quadrant of the park, trying to pretend the place was ours alone, when I saw a guy down on all four with his head in some bushes. Next to him stood a thick brown dog. It was a strange sight. Man and dog on all fours. He was probably some insane person digging for treasure as his poor dog looked on.
Freak, I thought. As I walked past him, he craned his neck, saw me, and asked if I could help him. I imagined something sinister or disgusting and made a grunting sound, not wanting to just totally ignore the guy on the off chance he had a legitimate reason for being on all fours in the shrubbery, but not wanting to seem like some sunny-dispositioned bleeding heart who’d just humor whatever lunacy he had in mind.
“There’s a dog here that needs help,” the guy said.
That got my attention. I took a step closer and saw a black-and-white pit bull lying in the shrubbery with blood seeping out of his belly.
“Oh, shit,” I said.
“Can you get a cop?” the guy asked.
“Yeah, I’ll be right back.”
I headed out to the roadway, frantically searching for a police officer.
“Have you seen any cops anywhere in the park?” I asked a woman who was jogging by slowly. She looked at me like I was an insect and kept moving. I asked a tourist, who cold-shouldered me too. Finally, I pulled my phone out and dialed 911. They told me to dial 311. 311 said they’d call Animal Control.
“No, no, don’t do that, never mind,” I told the 311 operator, imagining the dog being taken in by the kill shelter and immediately put to death.
I called information, got the number for the ASPCA, and explained the situation. They said they’d send a humane officer.
“How soon?” I asked, anxious over the dog’s fate. But the woman at the other end had already hung up.
Candy trotted at my side as I hurried back to the bleeding dog and the man.
“How is he?” I asked, leaning into the bushes.
“Not good. Look,” he said, indicating a bloody foot-print on the dog’s white haunch, “he was kicked. And apparently dragged—his paw pads are bleeding.”
The dog was staring ahead and looked resigned to death.
I thought I might vomit. I put my hand over my mouth.
“The ASPCA is coming,” I said when I could speak again.
“The ASPCA? What about the cops?”
“Couldn’t find one. Anyway, they’d just call Animal Control and the dog would be put to death since he’s a pit bull and has clearly been abused.”
I saw the guy glance over at his own dog and wince, probably imagining it being put to death. I looked down at Candy. She was uncharacteristically still.
The afternoon had suddenly turned much cooler and the park didn’t seem lovely anymore. The dog’s breathing was labored.
After what felt like hours, but was in fact only about twenty minutes, two humane law enforcement officers appeared. A man and a woman. The man looked sick to his stomach. The woman was matter of fact, poring over the dog’s injuries before going back to the van to get some equipment. The guy and I stood back as they moved the dog and carried him over to their van. The animal just stared ahead, long past caring what any human did to him.
The female officer asked for my name and contact information then walked over to the guy to do the same.
“Thank you,” she said to both of us.
“Yeah,” I replied weakly.
The guy nodded at the officer then we both watched as the ASPCA van pulled away. We looked at each other. He shook his head. “That was awful,” he said softly.
“Yes.” There was an awkward moment. Like we were supposed to do something now, make some sort of pact for future dog rescues, at least introduce ourselves. But we didn’t. He, I imagine, was sick to his stomach same as I was.
“Take care,” he said. He was holding his dog’s lead closely, as if afraid something awful might befall her too. He nodded then turned and walked away.
For a little while, Candy and I stayed rooted to our spot. It was nearly dusk now. The park was still infested with joggers and bike riders and a few straggling tourists. The sky was turning to ink.
A moment later, my phone rang in my pocket. I flipped it open without looking at the caller ID.
“You ready?” came a male voice.
“Ready?”
“For the Pick 6. It’s me. Arthur. Hello?”
“Arthur. Hi. I just saw an abused dog.”
“Oh.” He knew something of my background, how my mother rescues dogs, how we’re the sort of people with empathy for animals directly proportionate to our indifference to human beings. “Can you talk?” he added after an appropriate pause.
“I guess. I feel a little sick. But go ahead. Talk.”
Arthur rattled off a series of theses about the horses running at Aqueduct the next day. He asked if I had come up with any insights.
“I did. But I’d have to look at my notes at home.”
“All right. I can tell your heart isn’t in it right now. Please sleep well and wake up clear headed.”
I told Arthur I’d see him tomorrow, closed my phone, then picked Candy up and squeezed her to my chest. She looked at me evenly, puzzled by the sudden hug, but not opposed to it.
I came home to an empty apartment. No sign of Clayton, no note. Maybe he’d gone out job hunting, though it was late in the day for that unless he was applying for some sort of graveyard shift. I pictured him working in a factory. Earning minimum wage. Coming home exhausted and defeated but still gentle and sweet because Clayton is always gentle and sweet, yet another thing that’s made it difficult to truly get rid of him.
I took raw chicken necks out of the fridge, rinsed them, and fed them to Candy. In fact, raw chicken necks were the only things in the fridge. It was sad. It indicated that Clayton and I were living like dirty teenagers, incapable of taking care of ourselves, letting things slide.
I glanced at the answering machine and noticed the message light blinking.
Clayton was at the police station.
“I’m being held for questioning, Alice,” the message said. His voice was small and scared. “Don’t come. I’ve called the lawyer. I’ll work it out.”
“Oh no. “ I said it aloud, but quietly, as if afraid the gods would hear and take the dread in my voice as affirmation of my paramour’s guilt. Because some days I believe there are divinities everywhere. Religion upsets me, but a sense of awe at what is greater than me does not.
I called my lawyer friend Abe. He was on his wa
y to the station.
“If there’s bail I can get money,” I told him.
“Un huh,” he said. “They’re just questioning him right now. But I’ll let you know.”
“They came here this afternoon to question him. And then returned a few hours later and took him away. What could they have learned?”
“Alice, I have no way of knowing that yet,” Abe said patiently.
“Right. Should I come with you to the police station?”
“No,” said Abe. “How much do you like this guy, Alice?”
“Why?”
“Well, he could be in big trouble. You got that, right?”
“He didn’t do anything,” I said. “I told you, it was an accident.”
“He should have told the truth from day one. It looks bad now, Al. I’ll call you when there’s something to report.”
I hung the phone up. I looked at Candy who was licking a trail of grease on the fridge door. I was a disgusting person with a trail of grease on her fridge.
I lumbered through my evening. I didn’t know if Abe would spring Clayton. I kept toying with the idea of going to the station. Of being the supportive partner in spite of Clayton’s wish that I not do this. I knew he didn’t want me to see him like that. He hadn’t had any shame about my seeing him living in a parking lot earlier in our dalliance, but the parking lot was his choice. The cops are not. His is a strange sense of pride, but it does exist.
I buried myself in work. I took out two years’ worth of notebooks to find the speed figures I had made for some of the horses who hadn’t been running at Aqueduct recently. I went online to watch race replays.
I passed the rest of the evening trying to lose myself in horses as represented by a series of numbers. I’d go for ten minute stretches of complete immersion, then my stomach would knot and I would think of the injured dog from the park or Clayton’s face.
At some point, Abe called to tell me that Clayton was being arrested for manslaughter. There was evidence. A footprint.
My stomach knotted once more. “Shit,” I said.
“Sorry, Alice. Bail will be set tomorrow. He’ll spend the night in jail.”
“Shit,” I repeated.
“Alice?” Abe said.
“Yeah?”
“You know I’m not the advice type, but …”
“But?”
“Nah. None of my business. Good night. Try to get some sleep.”
“Right,” I said.
I popped a sleeping pill and drank some Scotch. Put a disc of Bach toccatas on the stereo. The music helped. I realized I’d listened to very little Bach since Clayton had moved in. He was not a Bach type of guy. He didn’t complain, but I could sense that the music didn’t compute for him and this upset me. So I hardly ever played it.
I managed some sleep around 1 a.m., Candy curled near my feet.
The sky over Aqueduct was the color of dead television. Or maybe it was me. I plodded up the escalator to the second, third, and then fourth floor. Entered the restaurant through the big glass doors. Offered Manny, the maître d’, an anemic smile.
“What’s wrong, Miss Hunter?”
“Bad week, Manny.”
“Sorry to hear it. We’ve got a good omelet on the menu today.”
“Thanks, Manny. I’m meeting Arthur.”
“Right over there.” He motioned to a table where I saw Arthur, hunched over his notebooks.
I slinked into a seat across from him.
“Hey, Alice,” he said without looking up.
“Hi, Arthur.”
He must have sensed something in my tone because he tore himself away from his notebook, glanced up at me, and did a double take.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Do I look wrong?”
“Alice, you look like shit.”
“Dammit,” I said, “I never hit the Pick 6 when I look like shit.”
“What happened?” Arthur squinted at me. “What’s the matter with you?” He gestured at me like I was covered in sores.
I told him that I was waiting for Clayton to be sprung from jail. That I had spent the morning getting the 50K in bail money after the judge had thankfully reduced the bail from the initial 100K. It was the money I’d squirreled away from my last Pick 6 hit, the money that was meant for a cabin in the woods where, from time to time, Candy and I could go hole up doing nothing, just taking in the air.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this,” Arthur said, dead serious. “Your heart isn’t in it.”
“My heart is always in handicapping, Arthur. In fact, that’s the only place it is. Besides, this kind of thing focuses me.”
“Disaster and drama?”
“Exactly. The worse things are going for me in the outside world, the better I can concentrate on horse flesh.”
Big Arthur didn’t look convinced. Our wagering strategy was very serious business.
“Really,” I said, “I’m fine.”
“Yeah,” he replied slowly, “okay. Let’s do it.”
My looking like shit didn’t seem to be affecting me adversely. Arthur and I made it through the first four legs of the Pick 6 and were holding our breath during the eighth race, with the 2–1 favorite we hadn’t used in the lead all the way around the track. With just an eighth of a mile to go, the horse we needed, a 6–1 dead closer, came flying up on the outside and got his nose on the wire first. Once the race was official, we sat looking at each other in complete silence. Arthur was pale. I’m sure I was pale. As we contemplated the finale, the ninth race, in which we had used just three horses, Arthur looked like he was going to vomit.
“Who the fuck is that?” he started screaming ninety seconds into the ninth race, with a horse we needed struggling on the lead as another horse came trundling up on his right.
“Shit,” I said, until I saw the horse’s number. It was a longshot I had insisted we use. He had the most awkward gallop I’d ever seen, like a washing machine on four legs, but he was doing it willingly, his ears forward as he passed the tiring leaders and won by half a length.
“Yes!” Arthur screamed when he finally realized that we had the horse on our ticket.
It wasn’t a life-changing score, but it sure didn’t suck, particularly on a day when I’d had to surrender fifty grand to spring my paramour from jail. Arthur and I would be splitting forty-two thousand and change. He wanted to celebrate.
“Let’s get dinner. Champagne. Lap dances,” he said.
“I’ll have to take a rain check on that, Arthur.”
“Aw, come on, Alice.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, give me a hug then.”
I didn’t move. Not that I was opposed to actually touching Arthur, just that his asking for a hug was so uncharacteristic, I thought he was joking.
“Don’t look at me like that, I’m serious.”
“Oh.” I went over to Arthur’s side of the table and we hugged awkwardly.
“Let’s not do that again,” he cracked after we’d let our arms fall to our sides.
I smiled. Then turned to head to the subway. It would have been glamorous to go pick up a big suitcase of cash but that’s not how we do it. The money would be put in Arthur’s New York Racing Association betting account and he’d give me a check for my share minus the substantial taxes. And it’d be just like a regular job. A lucrative week at a regular job, but still, just a job.
When I got home, Candy went crazy, dancing around in circles, letting out excited yelps and trying to jump up into my arms. I picked her up and let her lick my ear. As I held her, I walked over to the answering machine. Clayton had left a message. He was out on bail but he’d driven his van to the parking lot and was going to spend the night there, in his van. He sounded more depressed than I’d ever heard him.
Part of me wanted to go find him in his parking lot. Another part of me was relieved.
I didn’t know what to do so I put Candy’s leash on and took her out for a walk.
Night
had fallen and the daytime bustle of trucks and commerce had died down. There was pink at the sky’s edges, the rest was swallowed in ink.
I didn’t feel like I’d just made twenty-one thousand dollars.
As Candy and I climbed back up the stairs to the apartment, I could hear the phone ringing. I jammed my key in the door, got it open, and raced to the phone.
“Yeah,” I said, expecting Abe or Clayton.
“Miss Hunter?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Humane Officer Serling from the ASPCA.”
“Oh, hi, yes, is the dog okay?”
“He’s doing all right, yes. Not great. Had some internal injuries. But he made it through surgery and is recovering well. Thank you for your help. But that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh?”
“William Nichols asked me to give you his phone number.”
“Who?”
“The man who was with you with the battered dog? He said he had something important to tell you. Asked for your number. I wasn’t going to give out your number but said I’d pass his along to you.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure what to think, “okay.” I wrote down the number. Humane Officer Serling and I spoke about the dog a little longer. He told me that, after fully recovering, the dog would be evaluated by the adoption experts and, providing he didn’t have any insurmountable issues, be put into the adoption pool. And no. He would not be put to death.
I hung up and stared at the piece of paper where I’d written down the lunatic’s phone number. What did he want?
I dialed.
“Yes?” He sounded terse.
“This is Alice Hunter. From Central Park. The dog.”
“Thanks for calling.”
“What’s up?”
“I think we should get some coffee. We experienced a strange slice of life together. We should discuss.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” he said.
I shrugged. Then realized he couldn’t see me.
“Okay,” I said. “When?”
“I have some free time tonight.”
“Ah.”
“Ah? Is that a yes or a buzz off you jackass?”
“A yes.” I felt a curious tingling in my spine. I thought of Clayton in his parking lot.
William told me he had a car and could come over to Long Island City. I told him about the café around the corner and we agreed to meet there at 9:00.