"What about the deer?" Dominique asked, and the woman ran the fingers of one hand gently over the lobe of her ear, skirting the tiny silver dolphin that dangled nearby. Her nails were long, and today they were painted a deep cardinal red. "I want to be sure we get to the deer at the press conference. Let us not forget that Spencer's lawsuit is merely our means to the animals."
Randy reached for a manila folder of her own. "We'll have all sorts of surprises."
"Such as?" Dominique said. It was obvious to Paige that this was the part that really interested the director.
"Well, for starters, hunting actually may cause wildlife overpopulation, because those buck-only laws leave six to ten does per male. If hunters were honestly concerned about keeping the herd the right size for the environment, they'd be shooting does instead of bucks. But that just doesn't seem very macho--or sporting--does it? Human predators are also less likely than natural predators to kill the weakest deer--hunters want that really big rack--which over time diminishes the strength of the species. And, of course, hunting inflicts enormous stress on deer, and that limits the animals' ability to eat and digest properly, so they don't have the fat they need to get through a tough northern winter."
"And the numbers? The media love a good statistic," Dominique said.
"I do, too. Spencer taught me that. First of all, it's clear that hunters kill a lot more deer than the records claim. For every animal that's slaughtered, easily another one or two are only wounded and die agonizing deaths in the woods from infection, starvation or blood loss. We can also present the numbers of cows and horses and dogs and people--yes, people--killed by hunting: 191 last year. One fellow in Maine took a stray bullet in the head while watching a football game on a Sunday afternoon in his living room. Ironically, he was a hunter, too, but he stayed home that day because he's a real Patriots fan."
"Will we have pictures?" Dominique asked.
"Of deer or people?"
"Deer. I really don't care about a couple hundred dead hunters."
"Yes, we'll have pictures of deer. We'll have them after they've been shot and disemboweled, and some that were left to die in the woods and were found by people who happened to live nearby. We'll even have a few of motherless fawns that starved to death in the snow."
"Good. Well, not good. But helpful."
"You bet. And I came across one more study that's really surprising. A report by the Erie Insurance Company showed that insurance claims for car accidents involving deer are five times more common during hunting season in Pennsylvania than in the rest of the year."
"Meaning?"
"Well, hunters claim that by thinning the herd, they're doing drivers a favor: fewer deer, fewer car accidents. But this study says they're actually chasing panicked animals onto highways and streets, thereby causing more accidents." She smiled with satisfaction at the link she had found, and Dominique nodded appreciatively.
"Do we need to address the understory?" This was Keenan, and Paige instantly felt a small chill descend on the table. The understory was going to be the weak link when FERAL defended deer, because it would make the animals appear to be predators themselves. In areas where there wasn't any hunting, especially places like Westchester and Fairfield County, the ever-increasing size of the herd was transforming the very ecosystems in which the animals lived as they devoured the plants that grew beneath the forest canopy and on which a sizable ark of smaller creatures depended. It was not uncommon for biologists to find foot-high cedars that were actually twelve and thirteen years old. Among the ramifications were fewer places for birds to nest or stop over in their migrations, as well as great ensuing swings in the numbers of insects.
Dominique, however, simply waved off Keenan's concern. "No, we don't. This is about hunting."
"There are scientists who contend that the only way to keep some ecosystems from falling into complete chaos is hunting--"
"And there are scientists who turn flamethrowers on pigs so they can look at burns on live tissue. If you really believe we need to be prepared for a discussion of ecosystems, we'll just trot out the birth control studies."
She watched both Keenan and Randy nod patiently. They both knew that birth control only worked in places like Fire Island, worlds so small that individual deer could be tracked annually and darted with contraception. Still, this was about racket, not reality, and Dominique probably was right. And so Paige sat forward in her chair, a palpably physical need driving her to be back in the center of the conversation. "Now," she began, "even though the point of the press conference is to announce the lawsuit--"
"And call attention to the moral horrors of hunting," Dominique said.
"Yes, of course. But from the perspective of the lawsuit, I want to be sure that we do not reveal too much about our case or our plans. I don't want any of Spencer's doctors or his physical therapist talking, I don't want a psychiatrist there if one happens to evaluate him in the next week or two, and I don't want any ballistics experts present. The only people on the dais with me should be Dominique and Spencer. Are you okay with that, Keenan? I just don't want three people from FERAL up there, because technically FERAL isn't even a party to this suit."
"Oh, I've spent enough time in front of cameras in my life. And I know I speak too slowly for the younger folks in broadcast. Give me a judge and a jury anytime," Keenan said. Then: "When is the last time you heard from Adirondack?"
"Thursday of last week. They want to start talking, but I'm not interested in negotiating since we're not interested in settling. At least not yet."
"At least not until we know more about the gun, right?" Randy asked.
"And John Seton only got the gun back from the New Hampshire authorities on--" she glanced at a note on her pad--"the eleventh of August. And by the time we got it back from him and down to the lab, it was the fourteenth."
"The state's attorney made our public defender friend sweat for ten days before deciding not to press charges? Isn't that something? That alone must have taught him a lesson," Keenan said.
"And with people taking their summer vacations and Labor Day and the laboratory's own backlog of work," she continued, "they haven't gotten to our gun. Nevertheless, they should have something for us any day now. And that's one of the very last gaps we need to fill in before we file the suit: the concrete specifics of our theory of liability. But the fact is, even if the people in Maryland can't find anything wrong with the extractor, there is still the issue that when you unload the magazine, a bullet remains in the chamber. It would be more difficult to win with that in front of a jury, but we could certainly threaten to make enough noise that Adirondack might say uncle. Now, I haven't spoken to Spencer today, but you have, Dominique. I presume he still wants us to drag this out as long as possible before settling."
Dominique took a deep breath and then said--her voice a human purr--"Spencer is ailing. I don't honestly know for sure when he'll be back. But I believe I can speak for him when I tell you that, yes, he wants to drag this out for as long as the media is interested." She looked at Keenan. "You agree?"
"I do. And I also believe that he'll stay mad at his brother-in-law for as long as needs be, and his shoulder will continue to torment him until this is behind him. And he'll bear it all, because he is, like each of us, a true believer. I think ol' Spencer would be more than willing to--pardon the pun--take a bullet on behalf of the deer of the great northern forest."
AT LUNCH THAT DAY in the teachers' lounge, Catherine finally asked Eric Miller exactly how old he was. It was a spontaneous question, triggered, she guessed, because she had just spoken to Spencer on the phone and heard that he'd thrown up in the cab and had to return home. She felt her husband's setback acutely, experiencing not merely the disappointment he was enduring at their apartment across town but also the harrowing sense that her own life's opportunities were continuing to dwindle. To herself (and only to herself) she could admit the truth: She, too, was trapped by her husband's disability. Yes, she was back at s
chool, and in the days immediately after the shooting she had seriously doubted such a thing would be possible. But there was a far bigger issue in her mind: She certainly had not admitted to Spencer that had he not been crippled by a bullet and nearly died, she would have told him she was dissatisfied with their marriage--with him, to be honest.
"Twenty-nine," Eric said, after taking a sip from his bottled iced tea.
She nodded.
"Why?" he asked her, and even his eyes seemed to be laughing. He was sitting below the window, and the sun was pouring in on the back of his head and his hair seemed to shine like a freshly buffed pumpkin pine floor. Sometimes she thought his hair was only blond. Today she decided it had splashes of a red--not unlike her own hair--especially in his sideburns and the long, unruly swath of bang he had to keep pushing back off his forehead. This afternoon he looked more like a surfer than an English teacher. He had spent much of the summer on Nantucket, and his skin was the sort of deep tan she herself hadn't had since she was a child and her mother was still oblivious to sunblock.
"I was just wondering," she answered. "I didn't think you'd hit thirty."
He smiled. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Sometimes it's nice to see a man who still has a little puppylike awkwardness. That hubris that's really just optimism. Innocence. On the other hand, sometimes it's also nice to see a man who's a little more calm. Not wizened--but chastened, perhaps."
"You didn't answer my question. Is it good or bad that I haven't reached thirty?"
"It isn't either. It was just that I didn't know."
"Are you suggesting I'm puppylike?"
"Hah!"
"And if I were to ask you your age?"
"I'd tell you."
"Okay: How old are you?"
"Thirty-eight."
"No. Really?"
"Don't try to flatter me. I know how old I look. And we both know that I have a daughter who turned thirteen last month."
"You don't look thirty-eight. Honest to God, if I met you in, say, a bar, and didn't know Charlotte was your daughter, I would peg you for my age."
"I doubt that."
"I'm being completely sincere."
"Any man who even tries to peg a woman's age in a bar is completely incapable of sincerity."
"Hey, you were the one who just admitted you were wondering about my age!"
"Because you're a good teacher and I know you're younger than I am. I was curious."
"People get curious in bars, Catherine."
They were alone at the moment, and suddenly she wanted them to be beyond this conversation about age before another teacher strolled in. As one certainly would. She wished she hadn't asked him his age now in the first place, because it made her feel disloyal to Spencer. Sometimes she thought the only subject she should talk about was her husband: his disability, his pain, his attempts to regain a semblance of control over his life.
But it was hard. Often she wanted to talk about anything but his injury, especially if she was around people who knew about the way FERAL was going to make the lawsuit a cause celebre. She never wanted to think about that, much less discuss it. It made her feel at once like a bad mother and a bad sister.
And so with an almost guilty quiver to her voice--guilty both because she hadn't been speaking of Spencer sooner and because she was speaking of him now largely out of obligation--she brought up her husband. The transition was awkward, clunky. She guessed it was obvious to Eric that she was changing the subject because she didn't want to flirt with him at the moment.
"Spencer tried going back to work today," she said. "He didn't make it." And then she started describing for this tan younger man with a teacher's playful smile the assortment of tools that Spencer had lined up on his bureau last night, and the hope that an item as small as a dressing stick or a button hook would give him these days.
"God," Eric said simply when she was done. "What can I do?"
"Nothing."
"Surely there's something. Can I bring you guys dinner tomorrow night?"
"We don't need dinner."
"But you have to eat."
"And you can cook? You?"
"Come on: Couldn't you cook when you were twenty-nine?"
"I had been married for six years when I was twenty-nine."
"Wow. You really did get married young."
"Yes. I did," she admitted, and then--concerned that her voice had lacked the angry defensiveness she had once felt whenever someone even hinted that she and Spencer may have married too young--she said quickly, "I was very fortunate. Some people have to wait half a lifetime to find a soul mate."
He nodded. "And some people never do."
"Indeed."
They both were quiet for a moment, and then Eric continued, "So: dinner. How about I bring it by tomorrow night around seven?"
"People have been bringing us meals for the last couple of weeks. Neighbors in the building, our friends, people from FERAL. Since we got back from New Hampshire, I don't think I've made dinner more than four or five times. Seriously: You don't have to do this."
"Ah, but I get to. There's a difference. Okay? Is anyone bringing you dinner tomorrow night?"
"Not that I know of."
"Good. Then I will. I won't stay, but I'll drop off a small feast--no animals, of course. Is dairy all right?"
"Not if you want Spencer to eat."
"Very well, no cream sauces."
"And no soup."
"No soup?"
She shook her head. "It wouldn't be pretty. Spencer has a very long way to go with his left hand."
CATHERINE WAS ACTUALLY PLANNING to play tennis this afternoon for the first time since the accident. She and her friend Angie Merullo were going to meet in the park and play an hour of singles. But once Catherine had heard that Spencer hadn't made it to work she had called Angie and canceled and gone straight home after school. Charlotte would be a couple of hours behind her, because she had an information meeting about the autumn musical.
She got to the apartment soon after four and found Spencer sitting up in bed with Emma the cat on his legs. The cat glanced up at her when she entered the bedroom, then gazed back at Spencer. Whenever anyone in their house was ill, it was Emma who would seem most desirous of providing solace and comfort and warmth. She liked to sleep on the sick.
Spencer was wearing tennis shorts and what she presumed was the beige short-sleeved sport shirt he'd put on first thing in the morning, but then she remembered he'd thrown up in the cab and must have changed as soon as he'd returned home. The New York Times was a wad of crinkled papers on the floor by the bed. Before the accident, Spencer read the newspaper with meticulous care, and even on those days when she would read the paper after him she always found it looking as if it were fresh from the newsstand. No more. It was simply too difficult for him to fold the paper with only one hand.
"Hi, sweetheart," she murmured, and she sat gently on the bed beside him.
He turned to her and sighed, but otherwise he didn't say a word. His hair, she realized suddenly, had started going gray at the temples. There they were: white threads from a sewing box. Had this happened only this morning, or had it been changing throughout the summer and somehow she hadn't noticed? He looked exhausted, and she wondered if he'd been doing his exercises. Nick wasn't scheduled to be here today, but perhaps Spencer had called him and the therapist had had a free hour. Perhaps Spencer had done his reps on his own.
"You were doing your range-of-motions, weren't you?" she said.
"No."
"Nick wasn't here?"
"It's not his day."
"I know. I just thought . . ."
"I'm too tired. And right now my shoulder hurts too much."
She stroked his leg, because even now she was afraid to touch his back or his neck. She feared she would jostle him and cause him yet more pain.
"I saw you bought some of that cheddar-flavored soy cheese," he said quietly. "Thank you. Around one thirty, I tried
to grill some in a sandwich."
"Good for you!"
He shook his head and said--his voice the sort of fatalistic monotone she wasn't sure she'd ever heard from him--"Oh, it wasn't good." With his eyes he motioned down toward his right hand, still slung against his chest in its sling. The skin there was mottled with a series of deep red welts and watery blisters, and she saw that a line of the tawny fur along all four of his fingers was shriveled and black.
"Oh, God, Spencer," she said, "let me get some lotion for that! Have you called the doctor?"
"It's not that bad. In fact, I don't feel a thing . . . obviously."
"What happened?"
"I was leaning over the stove and I didn't realize that my hand was resting along the edge of the frying pan. I only looked down when I smelled something burning. The hair had already curled up, and the skin may actually have been smoldering. I don't know. It looked pretty nasty. I put cold water on it. At least I think it was cold. Who knows?"
Before You Know Kindness (2004) Page 26
