by Susan Wilson
Chance squeezes his big head under Adam’s arm, reminding him to chill out. Maybe Mosley did these before Skye laid down the law about using Cody as a model. Yeah, that’s it. Adam lets the irritation out with a breath. Pats the dog, thankful that Chance is, as always, there to push him away from the edge. Adam makes a concerted effort not to look at the sketches, but now that he’s noticed them, it’s impossible, and he finds himself glancing back at the array of four little portraits of a child-woman. That’s what he doesn’t like about them: They edge an innocent fourteen-year-old girl out of girlhood and into that dark region of female knowingness. Even if Cody were sixteen or seventeen and had come into her feminine powers, these would still be borderline prurient. Adam can’t figure out why they’re upsetting to him; there’s no nudity per se, nothing lascivious. Nonetheless, the four sketches, to him, sexualize a child, and he digs his fingers deeper into Chance’s rump, scratching the dog instead of speaking his mind. And then he wonders if there is something wrong with him, that he should see these pictures in this way.
He’s got to get out of here. He interrupts Mosley’s monologue. “Sounds like things are under control. I’ve e-mailed you the final invitation list and I think that you’d better get the invites out by the end of next week.”
“Can do. I’ll get some help.”
“Like Cody?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s always good for a little barter. Stuff a few hundred envelopes and I’ll give her another lesson in the arts.”
“Keep it to stuffing envelopes.”
Mosley shrugs. “There’s not a lot for her to do around here. She wants more lessons and her mom isn’t willing to pony up. So I got to make work for her. Pain in the ass.”
“Maybe she should find another teacher.”
“No one around here is interested in taking on a student.”
“Just you.”
“Yeah. Just me.” Mosley gets to his feet, drags an ashtray across his cluttered desk, then opens a drawer and pulls out an old-fashioned metal Band-Aid box. “Why do you make it sound like a flaw?”
“Guess those sketches behind you kind of make me nervous.”
Chance, still on his feet, nudges Adam again, pressing his moist nose against the skin of his wrist.
Mosley makes a show of turning around to see what Adam is talking about. “Those? That’s from memory. Using my imagination. It’s art, man. Just art.”
“Better hope her mother doesn’t see how rich an imagination you have.”
“This really isn’t any of your business.” Mosley gives Adam a conspiratorial smile. “Or, hey, you dating her, the mom? She’s definitely a MILF.”
“And that’s none of your business.”
Chance sits down, presses his chin against Adam’s lap, hard, as if to say, Pay attention to me. Adam knows that he should dig his fingers into the dog’s loose neck skin, soak up some of his companion’s calmness. But, he doesn’t. Instead, he gets to his feet. Meeting over. “Keep me posted on the guest list. I’ll do more data mining on the folks who say they’ll attend.”
Mosley pulls a thin joint out of the Band-Aid box, snaps a match into life. “You know, Adam, maybe we’re about done here.”
“You’ve paid me for a year, and we’re a couple months shy of that; but it’s your call.” Adam buttons the middle button of his sport coat. “The contract does stipulate that either party can call it quits. But, as you may recall, no refunds.” What he is thinking is that the AC is limping along and the forfeit of a couple of grand is not a smart thing to do. What he is also thinking is that he’d be plenty happy to call it quits with this guy. It might even be worth not bothering with a negotiated refund.
And then it occurs to him: If he quits, then his Berkshire trips will be a thing of the past, and that thought makes him a bit sad. As if picking up on that brief floating sense of prenostalgia, Chance bumps his blocky head against the back of Adam’s leg, whines softly.
* * *
“Girl, you out your mind?”
This wasn’t the reaction Cody was expecting from Mingo.
“What do I know about buildin’ a fence? I don’t know how to do that.”
“Can you ask your boss how?”
“My boss, he ain’t gonna let me go nowhere. My RC ain’t gonna let me go nowhere. Don’t you get it?”
“Can my mother, like, sign you out?”
“I dunno. Maybe. But that don’t mean I know how to build a fence.”
“How hard can it be?”
“Plenty hard. Gotta dig holes, make it straight. They accuse me of smokin’ crack, but you, girl, you high on somethin’.”
She plays her trump card. “I’ve got Dawg. He’ll be here.”
There is a long-enough pause that she thinks maybe Mingo has hung up on her. “A-ite. I’ll ask my RC if I can leave for the day. I’ll let you know what your mom needs to do to spring me.”
“Thanks, Mingo. You’ll be fine.”
“Doubt it. But okay.”
The dog Adam calls Lucky gets to his feet, shakes from nose to tail, and moseys over to where Cody sits on the grass that borders the lake. She’s dog-sitting for Mr. March and is glad of the couple of bucks he’ll give her for minding the dog. She recognizes the irony: Here she is with the dog and there’s Mr. March, close enough to where Mingo is to finally get the two together. Near misses. If she’d been thinking on her feet, she could have suggested that she go with Mr. March to the AC and watch the dog there. But no. She just grinned up like some kind of idiot and said, “D’uh. Sure.”
The water is still too cold to put her feet in, and the ground under her bare skin is damp and cold. She hugs the dog to her. “You want to see Mingo?”
The dog licks her chin.
Nonetheless and against all odds, Cody has accomplished part one of her plan, to bring Mingo and the dog back together. But for the life of her, she can’t quite figure out part two—how to actually give the dog back to him. Maybe Mingo can figure it out. The fact that she’s managed to involve her mother in this means that she is also at the mercy of her mother. There’s no way she’s going to talk Skye into surrendering the dog to Mingo when Mr. March is here and so clear about that never happening. The adults will team up against the kids. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it will be enough to have a short reunion, enough that Mingo will see that she’s on his side, that she’s his advocate. And then Cody wonders why she cares. It’s not like Mingo is especially nice to her, or even grateful that she saved his life. Her grandmother would say that he’s got a chip on his shoulder. It’s what she used to say about Randy: “He’s a little man with a big chip on his shoulder.” Even at the funeral home, Florence Lenihan had trouble saying one nice thing about Randy, offering a stiff condolence to the aunt who had raised him: “Sorry for your loss.”
The dog points his red nose up the slope toward the hotel. Cody follows the dog’s point with her eyes, but all she can see is the east end of the building, the peak of the roof between green pines. If you could sit on the roof of the hotel, you’d be able to still see the lake. That’s kind of a cool idea. Maybe she can talk Skye into having a rooftop deck built. Make this stupid, gross building into something interesting instead of an outdated box with nothing more architecturally interesting than the double porches stuck onto its face. Really, when you think about it, the place is really nothing more than a glorified motel and not even as interesting as the Bates Motel or that hotel in The Shining. Tyler and Taylor call it the “No-Tell Motel,” followed by the usual suggestive gestures or kissy noises. Cody really wishes that they’d get some new material.
CHAPTER 21
It’s still daylight when Adam pulls into the parking lot of the LakeView after his meeting. Half a dozen cars are nosed up to the cement porch and the drapes in most of the upper-level rooms are pulled back for guests to take in the view. A few visitors are lounging on the plastic Adirondack chairs, and conversations drift down from above. It’s nice to see Skye getting some traffic. Even nicer
to see a couple of dogs in residence, besides his own, of course.
Cody is sitting on the edge of the porch, her skinny legs bared in Daisy Dukes, a midriff-baring crop top completing the ensemble. The early May day is all of sixty degrees, hardly warm enough for this outfit, and Adam has to stifle the paternal urge to order her back in the house to put on some clothes.
Seeing his car pull into the parking space, Cody rises, tugs a little at the frayed edge of her shorts, and comes down the steps, reminding Adam of a filly, all long legs and pretend confidence. Should he mention those sketches to Skye, or just try this time to keep his nose out of her business? Oh, Gina, where are you when I need you? She’d know exactly what was appropriate, would tell him that he’s making too big a deal out of it; or that he should act. Adam was never a shrinking violet when it came to action. He made a career out of good, big, quick, emphatic decisions. But when his life changed, his ability to react faltered. One moment’s wrongful act undermined his confidence completely.
He opens the back door and Chance hops out of the car and immediately greets Lucky, as if they have been separated for days instead of a couple of hours. The pair of them make a run around the building, heading for the cabins. Adam slips off his jacket, tosses it onto the backseat, forgetting that the seat is covered in dog hair. He takes a deep breath, and even his inadequate human nose can detect the luscious scent of frying burgers, Skye making dinner, no doubt. Another reason the dogs have scampered off to the cabins, such chowhounds.
“He was a good boy, Mr. March. We took a walk to the lake.”
Adam slips a five out of his wallet, hands it to Cody.
She thanks him and slides it into her back pocket, scampers off herself.
* * *
I missed you so much, I say to my friend Lucky. He missed me, too, but he’s redolent of the exciting scents abounding in this place. Water and mud and creatures and newborn grass. And girl. He’s been chumming up to that sad girl. Sometimes she’s not sad. Sometimes she’s kind of like my man, a little pissed off. Sometimes more than a little. With Adam, I cure that. With Cody, I don’t have to, but I want to. I wriggle and act like a much younger dog, and the anger or sadness leaven. I don’t know what she does about it when I’m not around. I have to say that when Lucky is with her, which is something we’ve been doing more over the past few visits, she is quite cheerful. Like me, Lucky has that innate sense of when to override a human’s mood, supersede the negative vibes with a positive approach. Or a joke. Like threatening to chew something a little inappropriate, like a slipper or a chair leg. My favorite dodge is to grab a ball or a stick and entice Adam to play. It was one of the very first things we did together and is still my favorite. Except for my work. Since being educated in therapeutics, I love saving Adam from himself best of all. Like today. That Mosley fellow was getting under Adam’s skin, as he most always does. Immediately upon sensing the disturbance, I got up from my place at Adam’s feet and pushed my head underneath his elbow so that he had to stroke my head. Within seconds, the tension was gone and I was given a fabulous back scratch as a reward. All without a word, all without Mosley’s even being aware that a crisis had loomed.
The girl, Cody, gives me a nice pat, too. And I notice that Lucky has done well keeping her company today. She seems content. Although I detect a sense of something quite deep that isn’t entirely perfect. It’s always there, this vibration, what I would consider nervousness if she were one of my kind. They are everywhere, the dogs who cannot relax because of some history that keeps them vigilant. Like them, she’s never still.
* * *
The veggie burgers cook too quickly on the gas grill, becoming hockey pucks the minute I take my eye off them. I start to throw them out, then see Chance come along, tail wagging, panting in the still-warm air, looking like an appetite on legs. “Here, boy. You like soy?” I break the burgers into small bits and offer one to the dog. I’m a little surprised at what a gentleman he is about picking the morsel off my hand. For the size of his satchel mouth, you’d think he’d take my whole hand to get at the bit. “Want another?”
The other dog, Lucky, appears, his tongue hanging over the side of his mouth, looking more silly than fierce. His red nose pokes at me, as if to say, Don’t forget me! Cody shows up, dressed now in flannel pajamas and a nubby knit pullover.
“What did you do to my veggie burgers?”
“Overestimated cooking time. Sorry. Will you dig out a couple more?”
Given that she’s been granted her most recent wish, getting Mingo up here, Cody does what’s asked without comment, almost smiling.
Both wriggly dogs suddenly become still, two noses upraised, two sets of ears cocked forward, two whiplike tails stiffened and pointing east. Then I hear the whistle, and the dogs are gone. I lift another real hamburger off the platter, set it beside mine on the meat-designated side of the little grill. Two cheeseburgers is one too many. Maybe Adam is interested in a bite to eat. After all, I’ve thawed out the hamburgers and really can’t waste the meat. I’ve also got potato salad, store-bought at the Big Y, sure, but decent stuff. Too much for just the two of us, and Cody won’t eat leftovers on a bet.
Cody reappears with a new veggie burger. “I nuked it, so just let it sit for two seconds on the grill to give it a little texture.”
“Do you mind seeing if Adam wants one of these cheeseburgers?” I say it before I can think about it, as casually as I can, as if inviting hotel guests to dinner is normal.
There is a second of utter silence; then Cody trots off.
How beautiful my daughter really is. No sign yet of a feminine sashay. Her dusty blond hair is skinned back into a tight ponytail, revealing a smooth forehead, which must be the envy of those adolescents whose skin is peppered with acne. When Cody smiles, that rarest of flowerings, her whole face glows with youth, and she bares a heartbreaking resemblance to Randy.
* * *
Mr. March is sitting in the Adirondack chair, ankle crossed over a knee. He sees her coming. Before she reaches him, he turns his face away from her. “I saw the sketches of you. In Mosley’s office.”
“What sketches?” she asks, but she knows exactly what he’s talking about.
“The little five-by-sevens hanging over his desk.”
Mosley had sat there watching her as she cleaned brushes. He’d smelled of pot, and something else, something funky. When she opened the can of turpentine, the fumes filled the small space, masking any other scent. She let her hair fall into her face, gave him a three-quarter profile. She knows now about three-quarter profiles, how they make a face seem more interesting than it really is. “I’m not modeling for him, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“No. Not at all.”
Cody doesn’t believe him. Mr. March has butted into her business before, and she thinks that he’s more than capable of doing it again. If he gives her mother any reason to worry that Mosley isn’t keeping to her demands, well, that would really suck. Cody pictures her mother charging down to North Adams and telling Mosley off, then making her quit for real this time. “I’m not. Modeling. He did those from memory.”
“I’m sure he did.” Mr. March stands up, pats his leg. “Come on, boys. Let’s go.”
Cody is left on the porch, watching Mr. March and the two dogs follow the path that she and Lucky have so recently traveled. Just who does he think he is? A father? Her father? Some nerve. She’s had one of those, although, mostly, Randy was hardly a father. Not the kind of dad that her friends had, worrying them to death about going to the mall, what they were wearing, why it was inappropriate. Handing out ten-dollar bills so that they could buy lunch. Making the girls promise not to keep them waiting at the mall entrance when it was time to go home. Caring about them. Randy didn’t even care that she never called him Dad. Or gave him a Father’s Day card except that once, when he barely looked at it, like he didn’t understand what it was or what it said. That he felt himself so far removed from being a father, he didn’t react to
the family she’d drawn on the front of the construction-paper card: mom, dad, child.
Mr. March is a nosy jerk, mentioning those sketches. Cody just hopes that he doesn’t say anything to Skye. Mosley kind of makes her feel special, too, in his own way. Like she’s not some kid, but a serious student of art; the way he puts his hand on her shoulder when he looks at her work, gives it a little rub in approval, or squeezes it when he has to say something critical; maybe like a dad would do.
She’ll lie and tell her mother that Mr. March wasn’t around. It’s close enough to the truth.
* * *
The veggie burgers are done and I stack them on a plate, safe from ruin. Cody hasn’t come back with Adam, hasn’t come back at all. The cheeseburgers will join the hockey-puck veggie burgers if I’m not careful. I don’t know if Adam likes his burgers medium or well done. It doesn’t matter. They’re done enough for me, and it’s looking like I’ll be the only one eating. I set the cooked patties on the platter, go back into the cabin. Shut the door.
CHAPTER 22
“When we get back, I want you to start with room nine first. I’ve got another dog family coming in.”
Cody is pulling two slices of toast out of the toaster. She drops one. “What? I thought Mr. March was staying until Sunday.”
“Change of plans. He’s entitled.” I don’t mention that I was counting on that extra day to pay this Mingo kid. Adam had been contrite, explaining that an unexpected chance to meet with potential adopters for Lucky had come up, someplace halfway between here and home, so it seemed to make more sense to head back to Boston afterward.
“Is he gone already?”
“I have no idea. Probably not; it’s early. He’s got till eleven to check out.”