Brute Strength

by Susan Conant

  When he drove off, it was noon. As if to remind me of why I wasn’t going with him, light rain was falling. My father, a dedicated fisherman, used to try to indoctrinate me by taking me out in a canoe at dawn and keeping me captive there all day with nothing to eat except a couple of squished chocolate bars and a flattened tuna sandwich. He always refused to pack anything to drink. His rationale was that since we were in God’s Country, the beautiful state of Maine, all I had to do was dip a metal cup over the side of the canoe and partake of water that practically sprang from heaven itself. I could equally well have tilted my head up and held my mouth open. It always rained. If it wasn’t raining when we left, rain soon started, and as if to prove that he lacked the sense to come in out of the rain, Buck always responded with enthusiastic booming about how lucky we were to have weather that made the fish bite, as it did not. Rather, it made the flies bite. My father devoted himself to issuing advice about how I could improve my casting. To boot, we never caught anything.

  I love Cambridge. It has no black flies. My father lives far away.

  After Steve drove off, I went into the warm, dry indoors and made a delicious ham sandwich and good coffee. Remembering those miserable fishing trips, I told the dogs, ‘I am free! Never again! Never ever!’ Then I worked on my column until quarter of five, when I fed the dogs, gave them a few minutes in the yard to relieve themselves, took a shower, and got dressed to go out for dinner with Rita. Luxury! Restaurant meals two nights in a row! Steve and I had just had divine Arabic-influenced Mediterranean food at Oleana. I’d have been more than happy to go back there, but Rita had persuaded me to give another chance to a lesser Cambridge establishment for which she had an inexplicable fondness, a bistro with condescending waiters, mediocre cooking, and high prices. Cambridge being the unorthodox place that it is, you can wear anything anywhere, but since I work at home, I spend most my time in kennel clothes and enjoy the occasional opportunity to dress up. So, a few minutes before six, outfitted in a pale-rose linen suit that Rita had picked out, I was in front of the computer in my office, where I was checking my email and spending time with Tracker, when I thought I heard a car pull into the driveway. Rita’s office was in easy walking distance, so she never drove there, even when she had on stiletto heels. Besides, I’d seen her car earlier, and I didn’t expect her for another half hour. My best guess was that someone desperate for a parking place had ignored my threatening sign about not blocking the driveway.

  After grabbing a raincoat, I ran to the back door, peered out, and saw Quinn Youngman, of all people, getting out of his car, pardon me, his Lexus, which he’d parked in back of Rita’s BMW, pardon me, her car. He looked ghastly, as if he’d just learned of the death of someone he loved. His face was pale, and his eyes were red and swollen.

  ‘Holly,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I have to talk to Rita. Is she home?’

  I was less than cordial. ‘No.’ Then I took pity on him. Maybe someone actually had died. ‘She’ll be here in half an hour or so.’

  As Rita had pointed out during their fight, Quinn typically affected serious-looking hiking boots for a stroll to Harvard Square. He wore them now. In other respects, he did not, however, look like himself. He had on a light-blue sweater and khakis, but the sweater was rumpled, and his hair was messy and tufted, as if he’d been running his hands through it. Standing there in the rain, he looked stricken and pitiful. Could he have been diagnosed with a terminal illness?

  ‘Come in,’ I said.

  When we reached the kitchen, he surprised me by asking whether he could sit down.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Has something terrible happened?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well, no. Not terrible. Not terrible at all.’

  In preparation for going out, I’d crated Sammy in another room, but Rowdy and Kimi were loose. Having met Quinn many times before, they offered him none of the greetings that they typically bestowed on promising strangers, which is to say, all newcomers whom they assessed as likely to offer treats, tummy rubs, sweet talk, or admiring glances; nor did they perform the routines they’d perfected for welcoming beloved personages. Their favorite visitor was Kevin Dennehy, who not only fell all over them but slipped them sips of beer when he thought that I wasn’t looking. Now, neither dog trained gorgeous brown eyes on Quinn, and neither dog issued peals of woo-woo-woo. Kimi didn’t fall to the floor at Quinn’s feet. Rowdy didn’t bother to fetch his fleece dinosaur and drop it in Quinn’s lap. In brief, instead of turning on the charm and radiating that irresistible you’re-so-special message, Rowdy and Kimi evidently agreed that Quinn was no fun at all and acted accordingly. Rowdy went so far as to yawn (‘This guy is boring, boring, boring!’) before lying down. Kimi, however, monitored Quinn or perhaps studied him almost as if she were a curious social scientist engaged in observing the behavior of a subject in a psychological experiment.

  I sat at the kitchen table across from Quinn and waited.

  ‘I’ve been a total jerk,’ he said. ‘Could I bother you for a tissue?’

  I supplied a whole box.

  He blew his nose. ‘I have a new therapist, and for the first time in my life, I’m doing deep work.’ He repeated the phrase, ‘Deep work. I’ve just come from a therapy hour, and I have to see Rita. I have been such a jerk.’

  That’s therapy? Realizing what a jerk you’ve been? Maybe sometimes it is.

  ‘Rita should be home soon,’ I said.

  ‘I owe you an apology.’ He paused. ‘For making a scene.’

  ‘Scenes don’t bother me,’ I said. ‘And Willie’s not my dog. But if you want to apologize to Rita, that’s—’

  ‘He didn’t even break the skin,’ Quinn confessed. ‘What am I saying? He didn’t—’

  ‘He didn’t bite you. He didn’t actually bite you at all.’

  ‘He didn’t even nip me. Christ! I am such an asshole.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, Willie probably does think about using his teeth,’ I said.

  ‘I stepped on his foot,’ Quinn admitted.

  ‘On purpose?’

  ‘By accident.’

  I took a deep breath and said, ‘But you didn’t take Avery Jones to dinner by accident.’

  ‘I should’ve been seeing her in my office.’ He started to cry.

  ‘She’s a patient of yours?’

  ‘No! No. She should be. But she isn’t.’

  ‘She was referred to you?’

  ‘No! We took a cooking class together. It was a one-shot deal, Saturday afternoon, at the Cambridge Center for Adult Education. Yeast breads.’

  And you rose to the occasion? I didn’t say it. When I feel tense, I have a deplorable tendency to think in puns.

  ‘We got paired up,’ Quinn continued. ‘Partners. The instructor put us together. And then after the class, we ended up going to Legal. It’s right down the street.’

  The Cambridge Center for Adult Education is in the Blacksmith House, as in Longfellow’s poem. The spreading chestnut tree is no more, but the Blacksmith House is on Brattle Street, near the corner of Story Street, maybe a ten-minute walk from Legal Sea Foods, not far away, but not exactly right down the street, either.

  ‘I know where the Blacksmith House is,’ I said.

  ‘She was looking for a therapist.’

  ‘Avery asked you to recommend someone?’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s what she was looking for in me. She’s a troubled young woman. Father died recently, and she’s dealing with a certain amount of guilt about that.’

  ‘Guilt?’

  ‘The parents fought all the time, and there’s bound to be a sense of relief that the fights are over, so Avery’s feeling guilty.’

  ‘She looks depressed.’

  ‘She is depressed. That’s what I meant when I said that I should’ve been seeing her in my office.’

  I heard the outer back door open.

  ‘That’s Rita,’ I said. It occurred to me to offer Quinn a few quick bits of advice about valuing Rita’
s high tolerance for difficult creatures and remembering her many virtues as a therapist and a friend, but it’s probably just as well that Rita rapped on my kitchen door before I’d uttered a word. As I let her in, I said, ‘Quinn is here. He needs to talk to you.’

  ‘I saw his car. You and I are having dinner.’

  ‘Rita, come in. Quinn really needs to talk to you.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Quinn was standing up. ‘Rita,’ he said.

  ‘Holly and I have plans,’ she told him. ‘We’re having dinner.’

  ‘Rita,’ I said, ‘for the moment, let’s say that we are post-feminist or third-wave feminist or—’

  ‘We’re not.’

  ‘We’re human beings! The two of you need to talk more than you and I need to have dinner. If you want me to take Willie out, I’ll be glad to.’

  ‘Thanks. He should be OK. I was here between patients a couple of hours ago. But thanks.’

  Rita and Quinn exchanged what I’m tempted to call a meaningful glance, but I had no idea what it meant. As he followed her, his face looked simultaneously old and young, lined and unguarded. Rita’s whole body was rigid, her face expressionless. Hearing their footsteps sounding on the stairs to Rita’s apartment, Kimi shook herself all over, and I, too, felt the impulse to shake myself off, as if the tension between Quinn and Rita were a sort of invisible powder that had deposited itself on me, where it didn’t belong and where I didn’t want it.

  ‘All dressed up with nowhere to go,’ I told Kimi. ‘Except that for all I know, Rita will—’

  The phone interrupted me. The caller was Gabrielle, who had a habit of beginning conversations as if she were continuing them. ‘Well, here I am all on my own. Your father took off with the boys.’

  ‘He did? Gabrielle, it’s always good to hear your voice. Buck is . . .?’

  ‘He had an unexpected chance to go fishing, and off he’s gone. Someone cancelled at the last minute, and Buck got a call this morning, and—’

  The worst thing about my premonitions is that I don’t believe in foreknowledge. Actually, in this case, the worst thing about my premonition was its accuracy. With a feeling of disbelief bordering on horrified nausea, I said, ‘Grant’s Camps.’

  As if she herself had revealed Buck’s destination, Gabrielle said, ‘It’s a whole group of them, and one person dropped out at the last minute, and your father jumped at the chance, so here I am, a fishing widow!’

  Perhaps it was Quinn Youngman’s example that inspired me, or maybe it was the scorn for spinelessness evident in Kimi’s gaze. Or maybe I had no choice. For whatever reason, I told Gabrielle the truth.

  She responded with apparent understanding. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘of course Steve didn’t mention the trip. He wouldn’t have wanted your father to feel left out, would he?’

  Although it was true that I always felt happy to hear Gabrielle’s voice, I ended the call quickly and immediately dialed Steve’s cell number. We’d been warned that the cell phone service was a little iffy, but I managed to reach him. With no preamble, I blurted out the news and said, ‘Steve, there’s a lot of water there! Where he fishes, you don’t. And it’s not as if he’d decided to follow you. He’s been there before, it’s a Maine institution, and he’s crazy about it, and he unexpectedly got this chance to go, and I am so sorry.’

  Silence followed.

  I said, ‘Rita would tell you that you are entitled to express your feelings.’ I waited and then realized that by saying nothing, Steve was expressing his feelings. ‘I take it that you haven’t run into him yet,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure what time he left, so I don’t know when he’ll get there, but at least you’re forewarned. Steve, could you at least say something? Swear? Holler?’ It occurred to me that Steve wasn’t the one given to hollering. ‘If you haven’t heard him yet, he probably hasn’t arrived.’

  At last, Steve broke his silence. Rita’d have been pleased to hear how forcefully and colorfully he expressed his feelings. Having done so, he apologized and said that we don’t get to choose our parents.

  ‘We don’t get to choose where they go, either,’ I pointed out. ‘Or where they don’t go. But damn it! Your fishing trip! Steve, you work so hard! You deserve a vacation!’ I should’ve known better. A fishing trip is not a vacation; it is a pilgrimage.

  Sounding freakishly – and unintentionally – like my father, he growled, ‘This isn’t a vacation. It’s a fishing trip.’

  ‘I understand the distinction. I really do.’

  I couldn’t tell whether he’d heard me or not. We began to lose the connection and then lost it altogether. Symbolic, huh?

  When the phone rang a minute later, I thought that Steve must be calling back on a landline, but the caller was Rita. Willie was asking to go out. Was my offer still open? It was.

  ‘I’ve cancelled our reservation,’ Rita said. ‘We’ll reschedule. But that leaves you with no dinner. Do you—’

  ‘I have tons of food. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be up for Willie in five minutes. Unless he’s frantic?’

  He wasn’t. Consequently, I took the time to change out of my good clothes and into jeans, a T-shirt, and a raincoat before going up to Rita’s apartment. When she opened the door, I could see that she and Quinn had both been crying. He stood behind her with a hand resting on her shoulder. Interestingly, he was in his stocking feet. His controversial hiking boots lay on the floor near the door. Willie was on his best behavior, either because he was responding to the emotional atmosphere, which was almost visible and palpable, or because he saw me as his welcome means to the outdoors.

  ‘Just a quick trip out,’ Rita said. ‘Thank you.’

  For all of Willie’s high spirits, he was capable of great seriousness. As he and I trotted down the stairs, he wore an expression of the utmost gravity, and he moved in a purposeful, determined manner. Although I’m supposed to know a bit about dogs, I couldn’t interpret his mood. As someone who truly does know a bit about dogs, I’ll venture a guess, however, that in the heart and mind of the dog, the perception of a beloved person’s strong emotions may not differ all that radically from the sense of an urgent bodily need and the simultaneous wish to control that need before reaching the proper place to satisfy it. In other words, if I understand anything about dogs, what I grasp is their oneness with themselves, a canine unity that we human beings are doomed to lack.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Walking Willie around the block did nothing to enhance my power to fathom the mysteries of his species, nor did Willie enlighten me about himself as an individual except to prove that he had, in fact, needed to go out. Accustomed to Rita’s high-heeled pace, he moved his short legs much more slowly than my own dogs moved their long ones, but he kept his leash loose, didn’t keep stopping to sniff or mark everything, and showed no sign of objecting to the rain. Also, he was such a handsome fellow that he was a pleasure to watch. We took Concord Avenue to Walden Street, followed Vassal Lane to Huron, and turned onto our block of Appleton Street. As we were heading down Appleton toward home, Vanessa hailed me.

  ‘That’s a funny-looking malamute you’ve got there,’ she called.

  ‘Very.’ Although I kept moving, she caught up with me, and I came to a halt.

  ‘Steve got off OK?’

  ‘Yes. He’s there. At Grant’s Camps. I talked to him.’ My father’s unexpected presence there was none of her business, I decided.

  ‘Any chance that you’re free for dinner? I’m on my own. Hatch is at the hospital, and Avery’s out, and Tom’s with Elizabeth. I’ve got a chicken in the oven.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve already eaten.’ In case she issued an invitation to have dessert or watch a movie, I said, ‘I’m in a mood for dog walking. I’m going to trade in this funny-looking malamute for the real thing and get some exercise.’

  I’d lied about having eaten, but as soon as I said that I felt like walking dogs, I realized that it was true. Perhaps because of the chicken in the oven, Vanessa did not i
nvite herself along.

  Eager to get my own dogs and get going, I hurriedly returned Willie to the still-tearful Rita, ate a quick sandwich, and forced my water-hating Rowdy to endure a brief trip out to the muddy yard. As if expressing his sentiments about the rain, he limited himself to lifting his leg on the high ladder, which lay on the ground next to foundation. My usual rule about where my dogs are allowed to relieve themselves is that man-made objects are verboten. I make an exception in the case of fire hydrants, which by tradition belong to dogs. Tonight, I decided to forget the rule. The ladder was preferable to the picnic table, and in any case, the rain would wash everything off. As I put on my rain gear and snapped on Sammy’s and Kimi’s leashes, I moved as quickly as possible, mainly because I didn’t want to deal with phone calls. Or people! Even Steve. If he called, I’d feel obliged to answer, and I had no desire to listen to him complain about Buck and less desire to hear a report of how Buck had responded to the discovery that Steve was at Grant’s Camps. I deliberately left my cell phone at home.

  It must have been about quarter of eight when Sammy, Kimi, and I set off. The sky was still somewhat light, and the rain was a mere drizzle. A tremendous advantage of having big dogs is that if you have a powerful, furry brute at your side, there are no bad neighborhoods; you can safely choose any route you please. If the big dogs happen to be malamutes, however, the same takes-your-breath-away appearance that deters would-be assailants also attracts friendly admirers, so unless I’m in a mood to linger and to answer questions, I avoid crowds. If the dogs chose our destinations, we’d never go anywhere except Harvard Square, where students homesick for their own dogs fall all over mine; where the dogs have to be prevented from gobbling up heaven-knows-what dropped in the streets and on the sidewalks; and where in spite of million-dollar educations, the ill-informed brightest and best persist in telling me, ‘Beautiful huskies!’ So, I headed down Concord Avenue toward the square, but when we reached Garden Street and then the Cambridge Common, we turned left and ended up wandering through Harvard Law School and along Oxford Street and Kirkland Street as far as Divinity Avenue, where, because of the e.e. cummings poem, ‘she being Brand’, I always enjoy turning the corner. After that, we went back to the Cambridge Common, cut across, and took Appian Way past the Ed. School to Brattle, where we turned right. By then, it was dark, and the drizzle had become hard rain. My hands were cold, my jeans were wet between the tops of my boots and the bottom of my raincoat, and in spite of their water-repellent guard coats, the dogs were drenched. Consequently, we picked up our pace, sped along Brattle, turned onto Sparks Street, ran to Huron, and almost sprinted along Huron to Appleton.