Brute Strength

by Susan Conant

  Steve walked in. ‘Sent you what?’

  I handed him the sheet of plain white paper with the single word ‘bitch’ spelled out in glued-on letters that had been cut from a newspaper.

  ‘Where’d this come from?’ he asked.

  ‘Mixed in with the mail. The envelope has a stamp, but there’s no postmark and no return address.’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’

  Because this was my house before Steve and I got married, the bulk of our mail is mine, so Steve usually just scans for his own name, puts glaringly obvious junk with the recycling, and leaves everything else for me.

  ‘There’s no reason you would have.’

  ‘Let me see the envelope.’

  As Steve examined it, I took a second look and once again found nothing remarkable. It was the kind of cheap business-size white envelope sold by the million at office-supply stores, supermarkets, drugstores, and discount department stores. The flap was the kind that you have to moisten, not the pull-and-seal type that’s becoming increasingly popular. My name and address were neatly and evenly printed on the front in blue ink. The printing was in the style that everyone is supposed to learn in first grade. The stamp showed the Liberty Bell.

  ‘That’s a Forever stamp,’ I said. ‘It’s good even if the postage goes up.’

  ‘Looks like a teacher’s printing.’

  ‘Why would a teacher have something against me? But you’re right. There’s nothing sloppy about any of it. The stamp is in the exact corner, and the printing is perfect. The lines are straight. The letters are evenly spaced. That’s true about the glued-on letters, too. So, a neat person thinks I’m a bitch. You know what? I think I should forget about it. Let’s feed the dogs and get going.’

  And that’s what we did. Because we both took showers and because Gabrielle called as we were about to leave, it was seven before we were settled in a cozy booth at Legal, where we ordered drinks, heard about the specials, studied the menu, and began to catch up with each other.

  ‘I’m tempted to order lobster,’ I said, ‘so you won’t think I’m a cheap date, but I think I’m going to have fried oysters and fried clams. Or maybe fish and chips. And you’re having cherrystones and . . .?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m having clam chowder and that scallop special. You know, I’ve been thinking about that letter.’

  ‘It’s hardly a letter.’

  ‘Hate mail.’

  ‘It isn’t even that. Steve, it’s not worth thinking about. If it were, I’d show it to Kevin. But if I do, he’ll either tell me that it’s not threatening—’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘Or he’ll overreact and deliver his usual cop lecture about the need to be on red alert about everything. He’s hardly going to turn it into an official police matter. You’ve heard Kevin on the subject of people who watch crime-scene shows on TV and then expect the Cambridge police to do DNA tests for every trivial little—’

  ‘He probably didn’t lick the envelope, anyway. But that reminds me. I was thinking—’

  The server appeared and took our orders. When he’d left, I said, ‘You were thinking?’

  ‘If you were going to send . . . or especially if, let’s say, Leah wanted to send an anonymous message, not that either of you would, but if you did, how would you go about it?’

  ‘Email? Except that I’d have to figure out how to stay anonymous. But yes, a lot of people our age or younger would use a computer, at least to address the envelope and print the word “bitch”. Those glued-on letters from the newspaper are old, aren’t they? You and I get most of our news online and from NPR, but a lot of people Leah’s age practically don’t know that newspapers exist. So, we’re dealing with someone who’s technologically illiterate, maybe, or who thinks of paper first, let’s say. And that fits with the envelope – the kind you lick, which is becoming sort of old-fashioned. So, someone who’s not at the forefront of technology.’

  ‘That call you had—’

  ‘The call! I meant to tell you. I saw Katrina today at the show. Damn it! I hope . . . if this were just me, OK. I can deal with nasty phone calls, and so can Betty Burley, better than I can. If someone thinks I’m a bitch, well, so are Kimi and Lady and India, and I believe in the First Amendment, but it just infuriates me to have this . . . this son of a bitch jeopardize our ability to help these poor dogs. Katrina is OK, but her husband John is turning protective and saying that maybe they should stop doing rescue.’

  ‘I can’t say that I like—’

  ‘Of course not, Steve. But Katrina and John are young, and their relationship is different from ours. I just hope . . . damn it all! Let this idiot target me and leave the other volunteers alone! Or target Betty and me. Betty is even tougher than I am.’

  Steve smiled. ‘The human Kimi.’

  The server appeared with Steve’s clam chowder and my fried oysters, and we began eating.

  ‘You want one?’ I offered.

  ‘No, thanks.’ Steve managed to keep the smile off his mouth, but his eyes crinkled up. ‘Redeeming yourself by offering to share?’

  ‘No redemption is necessary. Yes, as you have astutely observed, I do tend to read a menu and then order whatever has the most grease, but as fried food goes, Legal’s isn’t greasy, and I love fried oysters and fried clams, and if I ordered both, so what? It’s what I happen to be hungry for.’

  He shrugged. ‘How sure are you that Betty is any tougher than you are?’

  ‘Very. But by the time I’m her age, who knows? In the meantime, I have to keep my strength up.’ I ate one of the oysters and said, ‘Speaking of age and . . . Steve, I’m worried about Gabrielle.’

  ‘Gabrielle is ageless.’ He smiled. Everyone loves Gabrielle. Steve is no exception. ‘When’s she getting here?’

  ‘Thursday. She’s going to dog training with us that night and then to the match on Saturday, but she’s staying for a week after that, and she’s being sort of mysterious about why.’

  ‘Gabrielle?’

  ‘I know. She’s usually . . . well, what she says is that she’s seeing a doctor about quote a little female problem unquote, which could mean . . . well, I don’t know. That’s what’s scary. And what really worries me is, why is she coming to Boston? There are perfectly good doctors in Maine. So, if she needs to see someone here, does that mean that she needs some famous specialist?’

  ‘Getting away from your father,’ Steve said. ‘Look, if she has a lump or unexplained bleeding and your father knows about it, he’ll drive her crazy. What’s she telling him?’

  ‘Don’t ask me! But she did say that she’ll tell me all about it when she gets here, and you’re probably right. She knows what Buck is like in panic mode.’

  When our main courses arrived, I happened to glance around the restaurant and saw a sight that made me want to holler and swear. Happily, I had the self-control to wait until the server had left before I said, ‘What is this? National Damn It All Day? Steve, I can’t believe it! Look over . . . no, don’t look. Damn it! Quinn Youngman, the skunk, is sitting at a table to your right, near the window, with Avery Jones. Avery! I mean, Quinn is practically old enough to be her grandfather. What is she thinking, going out with him?’

  ‘Quinn likes younger women,’ Steve said.

  ‘Rita, that was pushing it. But Avery? Avery isn’t even an adult, really. She’s as adolescent as she can be, and she’s a very depressed adolescent. Steve, she needs a psychiatrist, but not as a date. Quinn must know that.’

  ‘Good thing Rita didn’t come with us after all.’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  ‘She’s well rid of him,’ Steve said.

  ‘Agreed. Especially after this. Steve, we have to find Rita another man. She is so lonely! And you know how wonderful she is. It’s just a damn shame. Among other things, it’s too bad that she’s not lesbian, but she isn’t, and I’m not even sure that there are all that many available women who deserve her. Where are all the eligible men? Well, in mal
amute rescue! We get a lot more males than females, which reminds me, there is Max Crocker. I still don’t have a rescue dog for him. There’s a female in Maine, and I was hoping that she’d be a good match, but she’s terrible with cats, and Max has a Maine coon. Anyway, Max is a psychologist who lives in Cambridge. He grew up with a Scottie, and he and Rita would be the perfect match. All I have to do is maneuver Rita into taking Willie to the National Pet Week event, and at least I’ll have the chance to introduce her to Max.’ After a pause to chew and swallow, I said, ‘You can have all the fried clams you want. They’re really good. And French fries. Help yourself.’

  Steve accepted the offer and insisted on giving me some of his delectable scallop dish. It’s easy to imagine Steve as he must have been in kindergarten or first grade. I know how cute he was – I’ve seen pictures – and I’m sure that his personality was the same then as it is now. At five and six, he went about his lessons in a thorough, systematic way, and every school report undoubtedly read, ‘Steve plays well with others.’

  ‘You play well with others,’ I said. ‘You share your toys. I love you.’

  For dessert, we had a big plate of profiteroles, cream-puff shells filled with ice cream and topped with chocolate sauce, served with two spoons, and we stopped talking about other people. On our way out, we passed by the table where Quinn Youngman and Avery Jones were sitting. As we approached, I heard Quinn saying something about Bob Dylan and wondered whether Avery had any idea who Dylan was. If so, she probably thought of Dylan as someone her mother had listened to in her distant youth. Catching sight of us, Avery said a polite hello. Quinn just nodded, but his face flushed crimson. When we were out of his hearing, I said, ‘Child molester. You’re right. Rita is well rid of him.’

  THIRTEEN

  Steve and I spent a peaceful Sunday together listening to country music, working on our house, and playing with our dogs. By unspoken agreement, we said nothing about Quinn Youngman, Avery Jones, Rita’s love life, obscene phone calls, or anonymous letters, and we avoided the topic of Fiona’s death. I was tempted to call Gabrielle in the hope of allaying my fears about her need to consult a Boston doctor, but I restrained the impulse: Gabrielle was usually so forthcoming about everything that if she wanted to remain silent, she had a good reason. Furthermore, one secret that she was keeping from my father – dog training – was entirely innocuous. The other might be equally so.

  On Monday morning, after a day of escape from worry, having settled myself at the kitchen table with my notebook computer and cup of coffee in front of me and with Rowdy and Kimi at my feet, I turned to the mystery of the nasty phone calls and the anonymous message. After an uninterrupted day with Steve, I felt comfortably imbued with his calm, systematic rationality. My own approach to the problem would’ve been to try to find out everything all at once and as quickly as possible. So, I compromised by taking a calm, systematic approach to trying to find out everything all at once and as quickly as possible. In other words, I stopped to make a list of names before I hit the web.

  First on the list was Pippy Neff, even though I didn’t seriously suspect her. For one thing, she lived in the central part of the state, west of the communities with a 781 area code. For another thing, her hideous voice would’ve been impossible to disguise; even if she’d tried to sound like a man, that grackle-like squawk of hers would’ve remained identifiable. She could’ve had a man make the calls – she had two sons – but the maniacal laughter had seemed grotesquely heartfelt. Besides, Pippy still imagined that she’d succeed in persuading me to let her use Rowdy; and having assured me that her puppy buyer was going to keep his dog, she’d seemed to believe that Malamute Rescue now viewed her as a model breeder.

  The applicants whose names I listed were Diane and Don Di Bartolomeo, Irving Jensen, and Eldon Flood. The Di Bartolomeos lived in Quincy. Their area code was the same as ours, 617, but I had no idea whether the calls had come from the laughing man’s home number. Because I’d spoken only to Diane, I’d never heard Don’s voice. All he had against me and against Malamute Rescue was that I’d disabused his wife of the notion that the Alaskan malamute was a medium-sized, non-shedding breed, as she’d eventually have discovered for herself, probably before her husband actually got a dog. Big deal! Irving Jensen, the man who didn’t believe in fences or neutering, was by far the most unpleasant person on my list. Among other things, he’d sworn at me. Worse, to my way of thinking, he’d explained his failure to give a vet reference by stating that his previous dogs had been healthy. As if those dogs hadn’t needed exams, immunizations, heartworm testing, and preventive medication! Furthermore, he lived in Lynn, Lynn, city of sin, and his number had the right area code, 781. So, Irving Jensen wasn’t just on the list; his name belonged at the top. Eldon Flood, whose name was last, had subscribed to the common conceit that he had a special gift for training dogs. He’d had a particular rescue dog in mind: Thunder. I’d politely told him that I couldn’t approve his application. Still, he’d probably felt insulted and angry that I’d been unimpressed by his self-proclaimed power over dogs and that I’d refused him the dog he wanted. Also, hadn’t I informed him that the Alaskan malamute was the wrong breed for him? He’d hung up on me. By my standards, I’d been more than civil and respectful. I’d avoided ordering Eldon Flood never to get another dog again as long as he lived; I hadn’t even said, as I’d done more than once when speaking to applicants with magical gifts, ‘And don’t imagine that you’re going to succeed where the rest of us have failed!’ So, I’d been a good, good girl. Still, Eldon Flood might not have thought so. Besides, his phone number had an area code of 781.

  What about the voices? Could my caller have been Irving Jensen? Eldon Flood? I just did not know. Neither Jensen nor Flood had spoken in memorably deep or high tones, neither had sounded notably old or young, and neither had had a marked regional accent. And the caller? I’d answered when Buck, Gabrielle, and Molly had just arrived. Even though my father had lowered the volume of his bellow, the background noise had made it hard to hear perfectly. What’s more, at first, I’d been distracted by everything that was going on in the kitchen, and I’d subsequently been too startled and offended by the content of the call to focus on the speaker’s voice. Still, I’d remember deep bass or falsetto tones, a foreign accent, or some other distinctive characteristic. I’d had no impression of extreme youth or age.

  Moving to the web – we’re wireless – I learned disappointingly little. The website of Pippy Neff’s Tundrabilt Kennels was under construction. Its amateurish pages showed little except photos of dogs of hers I’d seen at shows. Google confirmed what I already knew: she showed a lot and advertised puppies everywhere. Irving Jensen, the Di Bartolomeos, and Eldon Flood were listed at the addresses they’d given on their applications. Jensen was a total nonpresence in cyberspace; Googling his name, address, phone number, and email address, I found nothing. There was nothing about Don Di Bartolomeo, either, but his wife, Diane, was mentioned in a lot of places because she was an avid scrapbooker who gave talks and lessons about scrapbooking all over eastern Massachusetts. Eldon Flood had told me that he had a farm. As it turned out, he and his wife, Lucinda, actually had a farm stand west of Boston that was open year round. The website was less amateurish than Pippy’s, but not by much. In addition to a photo of the stand, the site was mainly devoted to giving directions and to listing items that the Floods sold, including jams, jellies, home-made pies, and dried-flower wreaths, as well as seasonal produce that included vegetables and apples.

  As I was reading about the jams and wreaths and apples, I came to my senses. What had I expected to discover? A news story with the headline ‘Jensen Confesses to Placing Obscene Phone Calls’? Or posts from Don Di Bartolomeo to an online forum with tips and tricks for sick individuals who enjoy snail-mailing anonymous letters? What had I actually found? Trivia! Jellies and pies. My list, I realized, was ridiculous. Among other things, the 781 area code told me almost nothing. Dozens of places had that area c
ode, and without additional information, there was no way to know whether a call came from someone’s home phone, work phone, or cell phone or even from a phone listed to someone else. Furthermore, over the years, I’d turned down hundreds of applicants for rescue dogs, as had the sharp-tongued Betty Burley. For all I knew, my bitch message, as I thought of it, had no connection with the phone calls or with Malamute Rescue. For all I knew? All I knew was almost nothing. Unless – until – one of us got another phone call or letter, I was wasting my time.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘Where do you suppose Quinn met her?’ Rita asked.

  It was six thirty on Wednesday, and I’d just broken the news about seeing Quinn Youngman with Avery Jones at Legal Sea Foods. Steve was due home from work any minute, and our next-door neighbor, Kevin Dennehy, together with his obnoxious girlfriend, Jennifer, as well as Rita, would be joining us for dinner. Rowdy and Kimi were in their crates, but Sammy was loose in the kitchen. When I opened the oven door and put in two chickens to roast, he hovered around but failed to execute a Kimi-style strike.

  ‘Good boy!’ I said. ‘I have no idea where they met. I didn’t ask.’

  Rita took an all-too-casual sip from her glass of white wine. ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Young and depressed.’

  ‘How young?’

  ‘Twenty? About that. She hasn’t finished college. Her father died this past winter. I think that’s why she’s taking this semester off. Or maybe she’s dropping out. Vanessa, her mother, has signed her up for Harvard Summer School. But I don’t know much about Avery. She’s not very communicative. When the whole family was here for dinner on Saturday, people tried to draw her out. Leah tried, and so did Gabrielle, and they’re both good at it, but neither of them had any luck. Avery just looks depressed, too. And what’s she doing going out with a man who’s so much older than she is?’