by Beth Vrabel
James caught my eye. “He said he called a couple times today.”
“Where’s Tooter?” I clapped my hands against my knees and listened for the sound of his collar clinking.
Nothing.
Suddenly we heard a whistle and laughter from the backyard. We almost tripped over each other as we rushed to check it out. And then, as if we had run straight into fly paper, we stopped. Mom was laughing. I pushed pass James to better see.
We found Mom playing fetch with Tooter, only he wasn’t doing much fetching.
“Silly pup,” Mom said. I stepped out onto the back porch as she moved to gather up the balls she had already thrown. “Hey guys!” Mom called to us. “Want to help teach this old dog new tricks? He forgets how to fetch!”
James just stared at Mom, so I went to the other side of the yard. “Monkey in the middle?” I asked.
“Sure!” Soon we were putting Tooter in a frenzy, throwing the tennis ball back and forth. I only missed a couple times, but even then Tooter didn’t make a move to steal the ball. It was funny; he used to grab onto tennis balls and rip them to shreds.
“He likes the anticipation more than the actual doing,” Mom laughed as the ball rolled under Tooter and he still didn’t pick it up. “Getting old, I guess.”
Tooter twirled a couple times and settled on the grass beside the ball. I ran beside Mom, wrapping an arm around her waist as she bent to kiss the top of my head.
“Speaking of oldie moldy,” Mom glanced over at James, who was still watching from the porch. “Wanna play?” She threw the ball his way and his arm shot out to grab it. He tossed it back.
“Nah,” he said. “I’ve got to get dinner ready.”
James’s words slapped Mom, or at least that’s how it looked to me. Her mouth popped open and closed a couple times. “That’s my line, isn’t it?” she half-heartedly whispered.
“He’s been making dinner most nights,” I reminded her.
“Hmm.” She smoothed her hands across her shorts like she was pushing away her thoughts.
“Hey, Mom, can Kerica come over this weekend? Maybe Saturday?”
Mom paused. I just knew she was going to say she was too tired. But instead, she said, “Sure. I don’t see why not. Let’s go help James with dinner.”
The table was set by the time Dad’s car pulled into the garage. Mom even had James laughing as she told a story about trying to eat anything other than fermented fish in Sweden. “Swedish fish? They are nothing like the candy.”
Dad walked in and glanced at the set table. “Taco Tuesday?” he asked. “Sure you can handle this, Squirrel Bait? Or are we in for another flying taco?”
“Har har.” I sat down and held up my fingers in a Girl Scout salute. “I promise not to throw my plate across the room, even if the guacamole does slip out of the shell.”
Even though everyone was smiling during dinner, there was still something heavy in the air. Every second that passed without someone saying something or cracking some sort of joke, the air gained weight. Finally the phone rang, breaking the silence apart as we each jumped to answer it.
Mom laughed and motioned for everyone to sit. “Ignore it. Let’s just enjoy our dinner together.”
James kept standing, even as the rest of us sat. Mom tugged on his fingertips. “It’s okay, baby,” she said, moving her hands to the sides of his face. “We’re all okay.”
James tilted his cheek into her hand and smiled. I let go of the breath I didn’t even know I was holding.
But we weren’t all okay.
The message was from Elizabeth McAllister’s lawyer, Mr. Humphrey.
The next night, Dad sent James and me to our rooms while he met in the living room with Mr. Hamlin’s son, Anthony Hamlin, Attorney at Law.
Mr. Humphrey, the McAllister’s lawyer, had asked for Dr. Ross’s medical records on Tooter. Sarah immediately told her dad and asked him to help. Anthony Hamlin looked like his whittler dad: tall and thin, solemn brown eyes, and slow smile. But really he was as different as he could be. First off was his attire. Old Mr. Hamlin wore flannel button-down shirts that were probably once deep reds and blues but were now more faded than Mom’s vase of dried hydrangeas. Anthony Hamlin wore a crisp slate-gray suit and a starched white shirt. His hair was slicked back in artful swirls while his father’s fluffy brown hair curled up over the edges of a faded baseball cap.
Old Mr. Hamlin seemed to me like one of his pieces of wood, steady and still. The only thing that really moved on him was his hands, and those movements were so swift and minute that if you weren’t paying close attention, you’d miss them. Younger Mr. Hamlin, however, was a running brook of energy. He bounced on his heels as he met us. I heard a click-click-click sound from the living room as he met with Mom and Dad. It was either his heel drumming against the tiled floor or a pen cap being pressed again and again.
“How is this even possible?” Dad asked. “I mean, it’s just a little dog pee. How is there a lawsuit in there?”
Anthony Hamlin laughed. “Anything can be a lawsuit. Someone actually sued NASA because the Mars Rover didn’t inspect a rock closely enough for him.” He paused, waiting for Mom and Dad to join in his chuckle. They didn’t. Anthony Hamlin cleared his throat. “Actually, the McAllisters filed a number of suits.”
Dad groaned and Mom sighed. “On what grounds?” she asked.
I heard the rustle of papers and Anthony Hamlin cleared his throat again. “They want Tooter to be classified as a dangerous dog, they’re seeking enforcement of the dog barking law against you, petitioning for a criminal complaint for assault and battery, and filing a civil complaint for assault, battery, and intentional infliction of emotional distress.”
“What does that even mean?” Mom exploded. “My God! The dog peed on her leg. That’s assault and battery?”
“It’s overwhelming, I know. The truth is, they’re throwing everything against the wall here to see what sticks.”
“What’s going to stick?” Dad said. His voice was muffled. I could picture him sitting with his hands cupped over his mouth so only his eyes peered above his hands.
“Okay, let’s break it down.” Click-click-click from Anthony Hamlin. “To be deemed a dangerous dog, Tooter would have to attack, inflict grievous bodily injury, or kill a person. They’re going to stick with the attack part of that, since clearly Sandi wasn’t actually harmed or killed by the pee. Although they are saying there was a scratch.”
I bunched my hands into fists. I saw Sandi yesterday. The scratch wasn’t even visible! Well, not to me, anyway.
“We’re not going to worry about that one.” Click-click-click. “I represented a client a few years ago whose giant dog broke into a stranger’s home, attacked his puppy, inflicted bite marks all over the stranger’s hands, and invoked thousands of dollars in medical and veterinary bills. That dog didn’t qualify as a dangerous dog, so no way Tooter will.”
“That’s good to know,” Mom said in a voice that made it sound like she was saying the opposite.
Click-click-click. “Moving on, the assault and battery charges. Assault is an act that puts someone in apprehension of imminent physical harm. In other words, it makes someone feel they are going to be hurt, regardless of if that injury happens. They’re going to contend that Tooter was acting vicious and his barking made Sandi perceive she was in danger. Battery is physical touching. It doesn’t have to be a large injury.”
“Is this where we’re in trouble?” Dad asked.
“It’s a bit more of a pickle on paper, that’s for sure. Then there is the Dog Barking Law. It’s usually landed on people who let their dogs bark in the middle of the night, but, like I said, they’re going for it all here.” Click-click-click. “I can tell you, no cop is going to pick up these charges and run with them. They’ll come here, meet Tooter, and wash their hands of it. Criminal isn’t going to stick.”
“So civil?” Mom prompted.
“Civil. I’m sure you know this already, but suing in
state court means they’re going for monetary compensation. They’re suing for assault and battery in civil court. The burden of proof is looser here. And they’re pushing for Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress. They’ve got to contend that this experience made something in Sandi change. Like she’s scared to lie in the grass now or is terrified to be around dogs.”
“She’s exactly the same horrible, hateful person she’s always been!” I shouted from the hall.
Anthony Hamlin snickered.
“What are our chances?” asked Mom, totally ignoring me.
“With me as your lawyer, excellent. This is going to fail in civil court. They’re required to prove damages. What are they going to prove? That they had to wash the girl’s leg? Come on. They’re going to push on emotional damages, but it’s still a slippery case. My gut is that Elizabeth McAllister is just being a nuisance, trying to force you to shell out cash in legal fees that aren’t going to go anywhere.”
Mom growled. For real. It sounded a lot like Tooter.
Click-click-click.
“Seems like as good a time as any to ask about your legal fees,” Dad said.
“Three hundred and twenty-five dollars per hour.” Click-click-click as Dad coughed and Mom sucked in her breath. Click-click-click. “But I’m not charging you.”
Silence. I crept down the hallway. Mom and Dad were staring at Anthony Hamlin.
“You’re not going to represent us?” I again had no control of my voice. This seems to be a problem lately.
Anthony Hamlin chuckled again. “No, I’m going to represent you. I’m just going to do it pro bono. Nothing owed to me. If we lose—which we won’t—you’ll, of course, have to pay the damages. But I’m not charging you.”
“Why not?” Dad gasped. Mom nudged him with her elbow in a don’t-question-it kind of way.
“Humility and lawyering don’t go hand in hand, so I’m going to say it like it is. I’m the best there is. I whooped Humphrey in court more times than I can count. I can’t wait to do it again. When I file these responding papers and McAllister and Humphrey see my name at the top, they’ll probably drop the charges right then and there. But crushing them again is only one small reason I’m not charging. The real reason is my dad.” Anthony Hamlin shifted in his seat, tilting his head in my direction. “This girl over there and her dog melted that old wooden heart of his. He agreed to do something for me if I did this for you.”
I stood there stiff as a board as Mom and Dad breathed out like they were blowing worries from a dandelion. And I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let Anthony Hamlin represent us.
“No.” It came out as a squeak. No one heard me. I tried louder. This time it was a yell. All three of them turned toward me. I heard James’s door pop open in the hall. “No. I’m sorry Mr. Hamlin, but we cannot accept. You don’t owe your dad a favor anymore.”
“What are you talking about, Alice?” Dad sounded stunned.
“I know the favor Mr. Hamlin—the older Mr. Hamlin—had to make. He agreed to let you sell the farmland. He’s going to let you put him in an old folks’ home. I can’t let you do that. He needs that land for Sarah. He needs the woods and the whittling and the sunset and no creamed carrots! We don’t accept.”
To my surprise, Anthony Hamlin’s grin only spread. He came down and knelt in front of me. “He told me you’d say that.” He shook his head. “My old man finally met someone as stubborn as he is. Dad’s not selling the land. He’s putting it in a trust for Sarah, whom I hope will agree to sell it instead of follow through on her farm scheme.”
“It’s not a scheme.” James stepped out of the hall. “It’s going to be an organic farm.”
Anthony Hamlin’s chipper face turned stony for a second and he rose to his feet. “We’ll see,” he said, and then knelt beside me again. “Dad wants to go into the Bartel Retirement Village. There he can make friends and have plenty of folks checking in on him.”
“I check on him.” I shifted a little, realizing that came out a little rude. “I’m his friend.”
“I know you are.” Anthony Hamlin patted my head. I hate when grown-ups do that.
“No, thank you. I do not accept your terms.” I was pretty sure Dad had stopped breathing. Mom was fanning him with her hands. But I just kept thinking of that morning when I had stopped by Mr. Hamlin’s. I had knocked on the door and he had stumbled out with a cane. We did a cane high-five and he opened the door wider to let me in, but I could tell he had just been sleeping—he was still in his pajamas. So I had left. But he was fine. Just fine.
Again Anthony Hamlin just smiled. “It’s not up to you.”
He shook Mom and Dad’s hands and promised we had nothing to worry about.
Chapter Fifteen
Saturday morning, I tried to clean up the house a little before Kerica came over. The biggest thing to tackle was Mom’s big box of newspaper clippings and notebooks, still in our hallway. I found Mom’s journal from when I was a baby tucked in the back of the box.
I flipped through it, reading snippets about colic and sleepless nights, cuddling with James, and my first laugh. Somehow I ended up on the page—the one from when a doctor told them I was blind and that there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Here’s what she wrote:
A thunderstorm of disconnected thoughts raged through my head—Seeing Eye dogs and special schools, the clutter we’d seriously need to address in the house. I thought of the things this precious child would miss. The beauty of a sunrise, going to the movies, finding a familiar face in a crowd, losing herself in the pages of a book. I cursed myself for missing this for four months. How does a mother not realize her baby is blind?
“Don’t worry, Dana,” Ted said as we pulled out of the office parking lot. “We’ll deal with it.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “We’ll teach her all about the three visually impaired mice.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
A few days later, Mom was on the phone with Dr. Ross when I got home from the library. “Yes. Next week is pretty clear, except we have an appointment on Thursday. Tomorrow? Oh. Okay. Fine. See you in the afternoon.”
“Everything okay?” Tooter finished quarantine. Why was Dr. Ross calling?
“Yeah, Dr. Ross just wants to give Tooter a checkup. We’ve been a little lax.” Mom scribbled the appointment time on the calendar stuck to the fridge. “Guess he’s due for vaccines and everything.”
“He’s pretty insistent about it,” James said. He grabbed a bag of corn chips from the pantry and tore into them, even though Mom was chopping vegetables for the dinner we’d have soon.
Mom chopped a little faster. “During the whole inspection period, where Dr. Ross stopped by every day, he thought he saw a few things with Tooter.”
“What things?” I asked. Hearing his name, Tooter scooted on his butt across the kitchen tiles and then sat on my feet with a fart.
Mom sighed and James threw Tooter a chip like a reward. It hit Tooter in the head. He sniffed then chomped down on it. “Apparently typical Tooter stuff,” she gestured toward the dog with her chopping knife, “is odd dog stuff. So he wants him to have a checkup.”
I watched Tooter sniff around for crumbs and shrugged. He was a strange dog. But weren’t we all a little strange?
“What’s going on Thursday?” I asked, remembering Mom saying we had an appointment. The we part was kind of strange. I mean, I know she had a lot of appointments because of her depression, even though she finally seemed to be Seattle Mom all the time now. But we didn’t have appointments.
Both James and Mom turned to statues for a second, Mom with her knife frozen over carrots, James with his lips around a corn chip. “Just an appointment,” Mom said, resuming chopping.
“Hey, I just remembered,” James burst out before I could ask Mom why she was being so vague. “Chuck’s in love. Unfortunately, it’s with my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Mom choked out.
James ignored her. “Check it ou
t.” He handed me his phone. I slipped my magnifier out of my pocket to enlarge the picture of Chuck sitting on Sarah’s shoulder. “Turns out,” James said, “Chuck’s pretty sweet. If you don’t provoke him.”
Jerk. I probably would’ve pummeled him for that if the house phone hadn’t rung again.
Mom answered it, still laughing about Chuck’s romance. “Hi there! . . . Sure. Hang on just a sec.” She held out the phone toward me. “It’s for you.”
“Hey, Kerica!” I said into the phone, figuring it was her since she’s the only one who calls me.
“Um, it’s Eliza.”
I sucked in my breath. “Oh. Hi,” I said.
Eliza’s words tumbled out of the phone. I could tell she was bouncing in place. “Look, I feel really badly about what I said last time we talked. I didn’t think about how it would sound to you. I miss you, Alice, I do. I just meant—”
“Slow down, Eliza. It’s okay.” I turned, feeling James’s and Mom’s eyes on me. I waited to hear Mom get back to chopping and James talking with her about Sarah. “I just was feeling lonely and it felt like you were moving on—”
“But you’re still my friend!” Eliza said.
“I know,” I said, remembering what I had told Kerica about friends being able to fight and still make up. “You’re my friend, too. So, how was that party?”
After dinner, Dad and I went to visit Mr. Hamlin at Bartel Village. Dad said he wanted to thank him for raising such a good lawyer. It turns out that the morning I had visited Mr. Hamlin—when he was still in his pajamas—he hadn’t been sleeping. He had been packing. Already he had a room at the old folks’ home.
His son moved just as fast. “Anthony already got the criminal charges dismissed!” Dad reached behind him to fist bump me in the backseat but I wasn’t paying attention. He ended up tugging my leg instead. “Come on, kid! That’s got to be deserving of a cheer. Just the civil suit left and we’re in the clear.”
“Huzzah.” Of course I was beyond relieved that we only had the civil charges to deal with, but it wasn’t enough to make me feel better about Mr. Hamlin being in the old folks’ home. Thinking about it made my heart sink, like it was being filled with lake water.