“Holly, are you with us?” Stephanie was cheerful and censorious.
“Yes! Sorry. The heat gets to me. I was daydreaming.”
Doug stood up. “I’m proposing a toast to Stephanie and Ruffly.” Doug must have shaved within the last hour; for once, his beard didn’t show at all. He wore a blue-and-white pin-striped shirt that flattered his tennis-court tan, and a pair of navy trousers on which I was happy to observe a few white hairs. Bedlingtons don’t blow coat, but all breeds shed at least a few hairs, thus loyally endowing their owners with the masonic rings of dog fancy. Doug raised his glass. “To Stephanie and Ruffly! Happy Birthday! Happy Independence Day!”
Ruffly had been reclining at Stephanie’s feet, eyes open, ears up. At the sound of his name, or perhaps Stephanie’s, he bounced to a sit.
We drank.
Stephanie lifted her glass. “And to Doug...” Her voice trailed off.
All of us waited for her to finish. Our wineglasses up, our mouths half open, our expressions increasingly puzzled, we must have looked awkward and silly. I finally spoke: “To Doug!”
What had Stephanie almost added? A tribute to Morris? Something about buying the house? In either case, it was a good thing she’d swallowed her words. Doug looked more relaxed than he had only a few hours earlier, but any mention of Morris would have thrown him into another panic, I thought.
I wished it weren’t ill-bred to raise the question of what Stephanie was paying for Morris’s house. Better yet I wished that Doug and Stephanie were vulgar enough to answer it before it was asked. Steve and Rita didn’t even know she was buying the house. Matthew, I decided, either knew the purchase price, could find out, or didn’t care. I tried to work it out. The small size and passé-modern style of Morris’s house made it worth less than the colonials, Victorians, and gigantic twentieth-century hodgepodges that surrounded it. For Off Brattle, the house must have been a bargain. Even so, a vacant lot in that location would have sold for enough to ease Doug’s worries about the competition from the mammoth new bookstores. My thoughts wandered. The raised bed had been Doug’s gift; Doug had built it. Having inherited Morris’s estate, Doug had mourned his partner by immediately redecorating the café, instituting the Sunday teas, and expanding the mail-order business.
Doug’s voice broke in. “Stephanie, I positively forbid you to lay a finger on that grill! I absolutely insist on charcoal.”
Doug had brought a small portable Weber grill with him to supplement a giant Weber from Morris’s cellar. He’d also contributed a bag of some kind of special charcoal, and he’d volunteered himself as chef. After delivering the rest of a lengthy scolding, Doug went down the steps to the yard. When Steve and Matthew joined him there, I got up and took Steve’s seat next to Rita.
“Where on earth is Leah?” Rita murmured.
I aimed my whisper at her ear. “French-braiding her hair. Ironing something black. I’ll make some excuse and go in and call her.” I turned so that Stephanie could see my face. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Rita seconded the offer, and Stephanie accepted. Before long, she had Rita and Matthew moving the chairs aside to make room for the glass-topped table that occupied a comer of the deck, and I was dispatched to the dining room to pick up a pile of table linen. Returning to the deck, I passed through the kitchen, where Stephanie was transferring romaine from a salad spinner to a big wooden bowl, next to which sat a package of croutons and a bottle of Caesar dressing. If Morris had been preparing a Caesar salad, he’d have tossed those croutons on the deck for the birds and poured the bottled dressing down the sink, and every surface in the kitchen would’ve ended up thick with the skins of garlic cloves, the crumbs of real French bread, the rinds of squeezed lemons, and the discarded bits of ten or twenty other ingredients that he’d have impulsively decided to add to make the salad his own instead of Caesar’s. I reminded myself that no one had any reason to poison all of us. Still, I was glad we weren’t having mesclun. No one had any reason to blow us up or set the house on fire, either. Just the same, I was grateful to Doug for making sure that we’d barbecue over charcoal and not gas.
That’s when my reverse paranoia started to double back on itself. The house had smoke detectors and a hearing dog who would sound an alert the second one of them went off. Any sensible arsonist would start a fire outside, probably by taking advantage of the gas grill on the wooden deck. And Doug Winer, of course, would collect the insurance money.
I’d finished spreading the white tablecloth over the glass table when Leah finally showed up, a half-hour late, with marigold-red curls blossoming from the Obsession-scented crown of her head. She wore a black blouse, a short black pleated skirt, and black stockings and shoes, too. Having ignored my injunction to arrive on time, she’d also disobeyed the spirit of my command to leave Kimi at home. At the end of Leah’s leash, his gorgeous white tail flapping over his back as if to flag that perfect topline, his big pink tongue protruding from his show-ring smile, was, of course, Rowdy. He bore the delighted expression of a dog who knows that someone is getting away with something and suspects that he just might be the one. I scowled at Leah and Rowdy, and tried to predict the damage. As a food thief, Rowdy was almost Kimi’s equal, but as a pouncer on small dogs, especially male terriers, he had an edge on her. Ruffly, however, would never have made it through the initial screening of hearing-dog candidates if he’d picked fights with other dogs. And Ruffly was neutered, too; Rowdy’s sensitive nose wouldn’t detect a belligerent hint of testosterone. Even so, I intended to make Leah take him home.
Then Stephanie came striding out of the kitchen. “Leah! And this must be the famous Rowdy! Isn’t he beautiful! What a treat!”
As always, Ruffly was prancing off leash at Stephanie’s side. He wagged his tail, folded those ridiculous wings of ears, and made the bold move of looking in Rowdy’s direction. Leah, too busy giving Stephanie a warm smile and a charming apology for being late to pay attention to the uninvited guest she’d brought, held Rowdy’s leather lead loosely in hand. Before I could grab it, Rowdy took a powerful step toward Ruffly, sniffed briefly, then veered to the side, bounded, tore the lead from Leah, dashed across the deck, and, in one swift pass, grabbed the untouched chunk of cheddar and vanished beneath the half-set table.
Stephanie proved herself a real dog person. “He’ll choke! Holly, if he tries to swallow all of that— Don’t you think you should—”
“He’s fine,” I assured her. “If Rowdy had been Jonah, the whale would’ve ended up in his stomach, and he wouldn’t have brought it up again, either.”
No matter what God ordered. Gospel. Seriously. From the First Book of Rowdy, chapter 2, verse 10: And the Lord spake and spake and spake unto the Alaskan malamute, but, as usual, it didn’t listen to a single word She said.
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Stephanie would probably have made excuses for the whale, too. “Rowdy knew it was a party, didn’t you, big dog? But no one offered you anything.” The fiend sat in mock submission at my left side, his ears flattened against his head, his dark eyes at work on Stephanie. “So he made himself at home,” she continued. “What a beautiful dog! Look at that face! You can see how sorry he is.”
To understand a breed, understand its origins: Alaskan malamute, ultimate master of the snow job. Rowdy gently rested his right forepaw in Stephanie’s outstretched hand. I couldn’t actually see him tense the muscles to create the illusion of a human handshake, but I knew he was doing it.
“Sweetheart!” Stephanie gushed. “I am so sorry that we hurt your feelings.”
By now, Leah had transformed the stiff gathering into a party. On the lawn just below the deck, where Doug had started the charcoal, Leah muttered something to the men, and Doug’s and Matthew’s laughter and Steve’s rumbling chuckle emerged from one of those gray clouds of barbecue smoke that reek of male bonding. Delegated to ferry food from kitchen to grill, Leah dashed up the stairs and across the deck. Rita, who’d been clearing away wineglasses, reap
peared, followed by Leah, who carried a platter of raw steak.
“The rice must be almost done,” Stephanie said. “Rita, Leah has forgotten the salmon. It’s in a bowl in the refrigerator. Could you take it out? And Holly, maybe you could toss the salad.”
While I was adding croutons and Stephanie was draining the rice, the phone rang. Rowdy, on a down-stay at my feet, ignored the soft burr, but Ruffly tore to the telephone, then dashed to Stephanie, who deposited the colander in the sink and made for the phone, clapping her hands. “Good boy, Ruffly! What a good dog!” Rita always removed the aid from her left ear before she used the phone, but Stephanie just answered. As she did, she reached into the jar on the counter, extracted a tiny dog biscuit, and tossed it to Ruffly, who sat expectantly on his haunches. He caught it neatly. Catching sight of Rowdy, whose drool was forming a slimy pool at my feet, Stephanie tucked the phone under her chin, reached back into the jar, sent a treat whizzing directly into Rowdy’s mouth, and gave Ruffly unearned seconds. “My carpets do not need cleaning, and this is the Fourth of July,” she told the caller, “but thank you.” She hung up. “The phone is not Ruffly’s favorite sound. After he does his work, all that happens is that he loses my attention, so we have to make sure there’s a little something extra in it for him. Otherwise, he gets lazy.”
Too moral to train with food? Consider that when a dog’s performance really counts—hearing for someone, Pulling a wheelchair, detecting arson by sniffing out hydrocarbons—the basis of training is virtually always food lures and food rewards. No food allowed in the obedience ring? In Open and Utility, no leash, either. Does that mean you shouldn’t train with one? Of course not. So love your dog and get results. Train with food. Dog isn’t interested? Nonsense. Any healthy, happy, hungry dog will work for food. Yours won’t? Bake a slice of liver in sherry and garlic powder, cut it into little bits, and shazam! Billy Batson turns into Captain Marvel.
With Rowdy and Kimi, I don’t have to fuss. I swear that either one would actually work for garbage. For steak, salmon, rice, peas, French bread, and salad—even with packaged croutons and bottled dressing—Rowdy would have instantly mastered the trick of flying through the air and landing smack in the middle of a glass-topped dinner table. Consequently, before I took my place, I hitched him to a deck post that was a little closer to the gas grill than I liked, but near my seat, where I could keep an eye on him. At the table, I again found myself stuck next to Matthew, who was on my left, but to his left was Leah, who’d talk so much that his silence wouldn’t matter; and on my right were Doug and then Rita, so I didn’t mind.
As I was spreading my napkin on my lap, I must have thrown a worried glance toward Rowdy and the grill. Doug leaned toward me. “There’s nothing wrong with the valve. The entire grill is perfectly safe. I’ve half started to wonder if Stephanie didn’t imagine the whole thing to begin with.”
Like everyone else, I’d taken Stephanie’s word that she’d found the valve open. Nothing else suggested that the gas had ever been left on.
“But then,” I asked, “why not use the grill today?” Doug’s expression was wonderfully disgusted. “Phew! Gas! Sickening associations. Morris and I had terrible arguments about it.” Doug politely turned his attention to Rita. “What lovely things Stephanie has!” He ran an appraising eye over the table. His voice dropped. “This is Spode.” The tone was reverent. “Not my favorite pattern,” he murmured. “But Spode nonetheless.”
Rita gave him a wry smile. “Indeed,” she replied, “Spode nonetheless.”
When their quiet laughter ended, Doug gallantly offered another toast to Stephanie. Serving dishes circulated. The talk became general. Stephanie asked Matthew and Leah how the Avon Hill play was progressing. Matthew complained that Ivan was messing it up by trying to add a new scene.
“But isn’t that the idea?” Stephanie demanded. “Creative student participation and that sort of thing?”
“Yes,” Leah answered, “except that it’s so gory. It’s all about hand washing and daggers.”
Matthew explained the obvious: "Macbeth.”
“Ivan absorbs everything,” Leah commented proudly.
“Defending him again,” Matthew said. “He bought you off.”
“With what?” I asked. I was serious.
Leah avoided my eye. Matthew answered. “Flowers.”
“Ivan gave you flowers?” Stephanie beamed at Leah and then gave Matthew a knowing smile that he must have hated. “Leah, Ivan must have a mad crush on you. And how enterprising of him! To go out and buy flowers.” Matthew and Leah exchanged looks. Before Leah could stop him, Matthew said, “Yes, except that—”
Leah cut in. “Matthew!”
I couldn’t stop myself. “Leah, let Matthew finish. Except what, Matthew?”
“Except that Ivan didn’t, uh, buy them.”
Doug spoke with deliberate drama: “Ah! The case of the purloined roses.”
“Delphiniums,” Matthew said.
“Ivan stole Miss Savery’s flowers?” I said. “He raided her garden? He didn’t."
“He did,” Matthew said.
For the next few minutes, everyone caught everyone else up on Ivan, Ivan’s pranks, Alice Savery, and Alice Savery’s delphiniums.
“The classic dilemma of highly gifted children,” Rita commented. “Peer relations. This, uh, shall we say mildly antisocial behavior, from an adult viewpoint, is probably an adaptive effort in the direction of normalizing himself in the eyes of his peers.”
While Stephanie was adding something, I leaned in back of Matthew, tapped Leah’s shoulder, and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Leah shrugged. “It was no big thing.” She turned her attention to Rita and Stephanie. “It’s true. Getting in trouble is probably the most normal thing Ivan can think of to do, which is one of the reasons:—”
Matthew groaned and finished her sentence: “—that Ivan needs a big dog. Leah—”
“Well, he does!” Leah’s face flushed. “Ivan’s problem is that he wants to be just like everyone else, just another normal, ordinary kid. A boy and his dog. What could possibly be more normal?”
I almost heard the answer: a girl and hers. In the all-seeing eyes of the American Kennel Club, Alaskan malamute SnowKist Qimissung, C.D., had one owner, Holly Winter, and Leah knew my opinion of co-ownership too well to ask directly to have her name added. In pleading for Ivan, Leah was also speaking for herself. I began to wonder how powerfully Leah’s indirect pitch had shaped the picture she’d given me of Ivan. She knew how fussy I was in screening adopters of rescued malamutes. In Leah’s accounts, Ivan’s pranks were tricks without victims. I’d observed the salt-on-the-grass episode myself, and Leah hadn’t intended to tell me about the stolen flowers. I remembered Ivan’s easy mastery of the gas stove that had resisted Bernadette’s efforts. Now I glanced first at the grill, then at Leah. “What else don’t I know about Ivan?” Leah was defiant. “So Ivan picked some flowers! In case you don’t know, I like flowers. It was very nice of him. Besides, the blossoms were starting to fall off, any-way.
One of the summer gardening tasks Marissa used to assign me was cutting off delphinium stalks to encourage the plants to bloom again in the fall, but I didn’t say so. Leah’s infuriating habit of always being right needed no encouragement; it would produce a second bloom all on its own.
“I think it was lovely of Ivan,” Stephanie pronounced genially. “Matthew, would you pass the rice to Holly, please? It seems to have bypassed her.”
Like an overtrained dog—all obedience, no enthusiasm—Matthew immediately handed me the serving dish, and, ignoring Rita’s and Steve’s tactless smirks, I made a show of helping myself to the rice, a food I hate. While I washed it down with swigs of Chardonnay, conversation among Stephanie’s other guests grew animated. Matthew offered Leah a choice of the videos he’d rented for them to watch after dinner. Symbolically enough, it seemed to me, the one he plumped for was Close Encounters. I had a sudden flash to one of my dog
-training friends who always comes to class with a hand towel looped through the belt °f her jeans so she can keep mopping up the gallons of saliva that would otherwise mar the appearance of her beautiful Newfoundland, Thor. The image didn’t quite fit. For one thing, I liked Thor. For another, Thor was neutered.
In happy coincidence with my reflections on her son, Stephanie was telling Steve what a shame it was that Ruffly couldn’t father any puppies. Ruffly, she proclaimed, was the ideal hearing dog; it was too bad there’d never be more just like him. I wanted to speak up and explain that if Ruffly were intact, his hormonal reek would provoke other males to pick fights with him, and instead of working his sounds, he’d work the perfumes of bitches in season, but I trusted Steve to make the same points— preferably not in those exact words.
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