by Susan Conant
With no preliminary greeting, unless you count the barking of the kenneled dogs, Jocelyn said, “They’re going to some veterans’ organization. You can’t just throw them out. It wouldn’t be right. They cost more than you might think. Someone else should get some use out of them.” The rationalization seemed directed more to herself than to me. Her eyes were bloodshot, and even more than on my previous visit, she was bent with the burden of shouldering unwanted height. She wore what looked like a man’s white dress shirt with a dowdy gray skirt, athletic socks, and running shoes. As before, a wide elastic band bound her hair to the nape of her neck.
“Yes,” I said. “I guess you can’t just throw them out.”
As if I were a critical and reluctant representative of the charity to which the items were being donated, Jocelyn added, “They’ve been disinfected. Not that Christina had anything contagious. She had Alzheimer’s. Senile dementia.”
“I was very sorry to hear about her. I gathered she’d been sick for a long time.”
“Yes and no.” The sharp tone surprised me. “Oh well, I’d better tell him you’re here.”
I trailed after Jocelyn to the front door, which she opened with one of the keys on a ring she pulled from a pocket of the dreary gray skirt. She entered ahead of me. As she did, the black shepherd rose from his rug and growled at her. If he’d directed the behavior at me, the intruder, I’d have found it unacceptable. Dogs don’t have to wag their tails, sing woo-woo-woos, throw themselves at the feet of visitors, and roll over for tummy rubs the way Rowdy and Kimi do. But in my view, they damned well do have to mind their manners: If they don’t have something pleasant to say, they should keep their mouths shut. But this fellow was committing a far worse breach of etiquette than making a visitor feel unwelcome; he was publicly expressing aggression toward a member of his own household.
Dutifully minding my own business, namely, dog behavior, I told Jocelyn, “There’s no reason you should have to put up with that. It’s intolerable! He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”
You’d have thought I’d growled at her, too. She cringed. Then she repeated what she’d said on my previous visit: “He’s not my dog.” She paused. “And he has his good points. He’s not a bad dog.”
The subject of our discussion was once again lying on his rug. I was willing to bet that if I tried to take the rug from him, I’d lose an arm. If he’d been my dog, that rug would’ve immediately gone into one of the fancy trash barrels. I’d also have removed anything else he deemed his possession and not mine. “Has he ever bitten you?” I asked forcefully.
She hesitated.
“He’s put his teeth on you,” I guessed, “but he hasn’t broken the skin.”
Jocelyn nodded. As she was about to speak, Mr. Motherway appeared at the top of the stairs. Viewed from below, he looked even taller than he was. In advanced age, he was a handsome man. “About the dog,” I murmured to Jocelyn. “I can help.”
She looked skeptical.
“Jocelyn,” said Mr. Motherway, when he’d descended the stairs, “we’ll be in my office.” Opening a door off the hall, he gestured to me to enter first. I did. The room had a brick fireplace, walls painted in an odd shade of pale green, yet more American primitive paintings, and the most beautiful desk I had ever seen. Mr. Motherway was a big, tall man. The desk could have accommodated someone twice his size. It was made of cherry, I think, and had shiny brass hardware. Upholstered chairs faced the fireplace. Except for Mr. Motherway’s framed college diploma—Princeton, 1930—the museum effect of the entire room was so pronounced that I half expected to see velvet ropes fastened across the chairs to prevent tourists from making themselves at home. And the whole house obviously had what the dogs and I would kill for: central air-conditioning. Mr. Motherway followed me into the room. The dog trailed at his heels. He was a long shepherd with the exaggerated rear angulation that produces a gait known as a “flying trot.” That distinctive angulation, together with the resulting gait, is the hallmark of the German shepherd dog bred for the American show ring.
“What’s the dog’s name?” I asked.
“Wagner.” He made the W sound like a V. The a was ah. Smiling gently, he said, “My dear wife was fond of music.”
“I’m very sorry.” I meant to refer to her death. What else? Why offer condolences on the deceased’s love of music? Or on an inoffensive dog name? Although Mr. Motherway couldn’t have misunderstood me, I felt awkward. In less elevated social circumstances not involving a recent death, I’d probably have tried to turn my faux pas into an unfunny joke. Now, it seemed best to ignore it. “Are you sure I’m not intruding?” I asked.
“Certainly not.” He directed me to one of the chairs by the fireplace and took a seat in the other. He didn’t sit until I did. Neither did Wagner. He waited for Mr. Motherway, and then sank to the floor at his master’s feet. Strange human manners: Remain standing until the lady is seated, but let her assume that your daughter-in-law is the maid. The growling, too: odd hospitality. “I believe in keeping busy,” Mr. Motherway went on. “Resumption of normal activity and all that sort of thing. And this book of yours must, after all, have a deadline.”
The word hung in the air: deadline. Then it reverberated in my ears: dead, dead, deadline. But Mr. Motherway’s family line wasn’t dead. Kennel help or not, Peter was his son, and there was also the grandson mentioned in the death notice, Christopher, presumably Peter and Jocelyn’s son.
Still, the word unnerved me. I pulled a steno pad and a pen from my purse. “There is a deadline, but it’s flexible.”
Mr. Motherway rambled a bit about Morris and Essex. Like everyone else who’d ever described it, he kept saying that it was fabulous. I was getting tired of the word. I wanted details, not adjectives. But the man’s wife had been dead for less than a week; this was no time to lean on him. If he wanted to ramble, I’d listen patiently. Eventually, I said, “You mentioned that you’d found some snapshots?” I wished that he’d come up with a menu instead.
He rose and went to the magnificent desk, where he rummaged and eventually found a couple of tattered, curling black-and-white photographs printed on old-fashioned paper with scalloped edges. They were just what he’d said, snapshots, and amateur ones at that; Elizabeth, my photographer coauthor, would have no use for them. In one, two men and a shepherd posed by a car with running boards. Both men were dressed in suits. The shorter, older-looking man had a substantial paunch. On his head was one of those felt hats that men wore back in the days when ladies wore white gloves. The other man, bareheaded and towheaded, was easily recognizable as the young B. Robert Motherway. The men and the dog wore serious expressions. They didn’t seem to be having fun.
“Kaiser,” Mr. Motherway said. “My stepfather’s favorite dog. Judge never looked at him.” His eyes looked distant. “That was 1929. My stepfather died before the year was out. He lost everything in the Crash. My mother couldn’t live without him. She never adapted to this country. She was German. He met her there. She was a war widow. He was there doing some research. He was an art historian, too, in a way—had a modest collection, even had a little gallery. He brought us to this country. Adopted me.”
I remembered the admonition not to ask Mr. Motherway about his sister, the one who’d died in Germany, the one he never talked about. “It sounds as if he was good to you,” I said. “And he had a major impact on what you’ve done with your life.” I meant, of course, art and dogs.
For no obvious reason, he looked startled. “With my wife?” he said sharply.
“With your life,” I said distinctly. “He had a big impact on your life.”
Mr. Motherway relaxed. As he was showing me another snapshot, a picture of himself with another shepherd posed near a big pot of flowers, the door opened and in walked, I swear, a clone of the B. Robert Motherway shown in the old photos from Morris and Essex. The newcomer was, I guessed, in his late twenties.
“Miss Winter,” Mr. Motherway said, “may I presen
t my grandson? Christopher, this is Holly Winter. Miss Winter is writing a book about the Morris and Essex shows.”
“How do you do?” I said. The black shepherd, Wagner, didn’t growl at Christopher. On the contrary, the dog’s eyes brightened, and he thumped his tail on the floor.
Christopher nodded at me. I couldn’t help staring. The resemblance between grandfather and grandson was almost comical. Allowing for shrinkage—Christopher was an inch or two taller than Mr. Motherway—the pair were virtually the same man two generations apart. They had the striking sameness of appearance you see in closely linebred dogs. The grandfather’s hair was white, the grandson’s pale blond. They had the same build, the same upright posture, and identical facial features. Each was as German-looking as the other. Age had not greatly faded those arresting blue eyes.
Approaching his grandfather, Christopher asked for a word. Mr. Motherway stood and excused himself. With no command or signal, Wagner quietly accompanied the grandfather and grandson. They held their private conference just outside the door, which, I might mention, was not equipped with a magical latch from The Rich Person’s Store, but had an authentic Early American one that failed to catch and thus left the door slightly ajar. Christopher spoke more softly than Mr. Motherway did. Several times, his grandfather told him to stop mumbling. I caught phrases and tones of voice. Christopher was lodging a complaint about his father, Peter. The discussion concerned someone named Gerhard, who I somehow gathered was a foreign student. Perhaps Christopher objected to the way Peter was treating Gerhard? I couldn’t be sure. I had the sense that Mr. Motherway promised to correct whatever situation was troubling his grandson.
Mr. Motherway returned with Wagner but without Christopher. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “Something’s come up.”
I thanked him for seeing me and agreed to a third meeting. I made it sound as if it had been my idea. It could have been, I suppose. I still hadn’t seen a photo of Forstmeister Marquandt, and Mr. Motherway still hadn’t told me much about Geraldine R. Dodge and her son, M. Hartley Dodge, Jr., the one who’d died young in a car accident in France.
Mr. Motherway saw me to the door. After he’d closed it, I fished in my purse for my car keys and furtively located one of the business cards I’d made with the new computer and printer my father had given me. As I approached my car, Jocelyn staggered out of the barn carrying another neatly sealed cardboard box. With the irrational sense of committing myself to serve as a secret agent in a dangerous conspiracy, I took deliberately casual steps toward her. Making a show of fiddling with my keys, I slipped her my card. “I don’t want to see you get bitten by that dog,” I said softly. “Call me. I can help.”
Her pasty skin turned scarlet, but she seized my card and surreptitiously slipped it into a pocket of the dowdy gray skirt. She said nothing, not even good-bye.
As I drove home, I honestly did see the same car more than once, or I was pretty sure I did. I can’t tell one make of car from another unless I’m close enough to read the lettering on the front or rear, or unless the car is something so distinctive that anyone would know what it was. This car was behind mine. I couldn’t read anything written on it. It was definitely not a 1950s Cadillac with tail fins, an old Porsche, or a VW bug. It wasn’t a station wagon or a four-by-four. But I know my colors; I went to kindergarten. The car was tan. I had the feeling it might not be American. But my primary feeling about the car had nothing to do with its size, color, model, or country of origin. Rather, I had the strong sense of being followed.
Chapter Six
ON SATURDAY MORNING, heavy rain pelted Cambridge. Deferring to Rowdy’s hatred of water at any temperature above thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, I left him at home and took Kimi for a three-mile run. After I’d returned, showered, and dressed, a glorious dog-training opportunity presented itself in the form of passing fire engines. With admirable presence of mind, instead of just seizing a clicker and treats to reinforce the dogs’ howling, I grabbed my tape recorder and dashed out the front door to Concord Avenue. The neighbors are used to me. If I ran outside naked and started shrieking about alien spaceships, the people up and down the block would shrug their shoulders and agree that I was practicing another new and probably harmless method of training dogs. Anyway, no one had me locked up, and although the taped sirens proved less provocative than the live performance, the dogs were already revved up from the real thing, and we made gratifying progress—and all this at a more civilized hour than two A.M., I might note.
Then I checked my e-mail. I should perhaps explain that my office looks nothing like Mr. Motherway’s. For one thing, if I’d ever owned an antique desk, upholstered chairs, and Early American paintings, they’d long ago have been destroyed by dogs and replaced with the makeshift desk and other cheap graduate-student furnishings I now have. I really do wonder just how Geraldine R. Dodge managed to protect her art collection. And what about Isabella Stewart Gardner? She was a dog lover, too, and she owned Rembrandts! They hung on the wall, of course. Even so, it galls me to think that Mrs. Dodge’s and Mrs. Gardner’s dogs may have been more civilized than mine. Anyway, the only expensive objects in my office are my computer and printer, so mine is a perfect example of the famous paperless office possessed by everyone enamored of technology, which is to say that it is a papery mess of first drafts, second drafts, final versions, photocopies, notebooks, legal pads, and Post-its, all containing information that I’m going to discard or put on the computer someday other than this one.
Instead of oil paintings of people, my walls display pictures of dogs and all sorts of other dog stuff, like a framed copy of Senator Vest’s famous Eulogy (“faithfull and true even to death”), certificates from the American Kennel Club attesting to titles my dogs have earned, and a bulletin board heavy with snapshots sent by people who read my column. The office also holds zillions of dog books and magazines, urns containing the cremated remains of departed canine loved ones, ribbons and trophies from dog shows and obedience trials, and, anomalously, the ugliest cat I have ever seen. In an effort at what Rita calls “positive reframing,” I named the cat after a famous Alaskan malamute, the late Ch. Kaila’s Paw Print, called Tracker, who was as beautiful as my feline Tracker is homely. Tracker is, however, far better-looking than she’d be if Rowdy and Kimi got hold of her. For a start, she’s alive. And yes, I am doing my damndest to train the dogs to accept Tracker. In the meantime, she and I share my office.
My newfound addiction to cyberspace has been a boon to Tracker. When I’d first adopted her, about three months earlier, she’d hissed and fled at the sight of me. These days, she still hisses when I move her off the mouse pad, but after that, she tolerates my presence and even hangs around in a more or less normal way, not that she does anything really normal and wonderful like baric, for example, or sing woo-woo-woo while wagging her tail in delight, but it has been a month since she’s scratched or bitten me and a month since I’ve sworn at her, so we are beginning to make friends.
After politely asking Tracker to get off the mouse pad, I signed on—unlimited access, another gift from my father—and discovered a couple of replies to my inquiries about Mrs. Dodge and the Morris and Essex shows. The previous responses had been sparse, probably because most people who’d been active in the dog fancy in the late thirties were either dead or not on-line, which in the popular view these days means the same thing. The first reply was from Sheila, whose last name I should have remembered but didn’t She was on Dogwriters-L, the list for professional dog writers, of course. It read:
Hi, Holly!
Have you seen the Dog Fancy article on G. R. Dodge from a couple of years ago? Didn’t know you knew Motherway.
Sheila and the Woofs
And the second:
Holly,
Have you checked the New York Times for coverage of Morris & Essex? There were long write-ups you shouldn’t miss. Too bad shows don’t get that coverage these days, huh?
I’d love to be a fly on the wal
l when you talk to Motherway. Or has the new cat got your tongue?
Harriet
Am/Can Ch. Firefly’s Stand By Me, CD, JH, CGC
Harriet is not an American and Canadian champion, Companion Dog, Junior Hunter, and Canine Good Citizen, but she does belong to the Dog Writers Association of America and to numerous golden retriever clubs, including Yankee Golden Retriever Rescue. I know her through breed rescue. I help to find homes for homeless malamutes. Harriet lives in Connecticut. We see each other at shows and obedience events, and we exchange e-mail. E-mail saves on phone bills, but has its limitations. For instance, when someone says she’d love to be a fly on the wall and asks whether the cat’s got your tongue, you can’t instantly find out what she means. I sent an e-mail reply to ask just that.
I remained fretful for the rest of the weekend. Steve and I went out to dinner on Saturday night. For once I had trouble deciding what to order. On Sunday we took our four dogs to the Berkshires for a hike made memorable by ticks and black-flies. When we got home, my Internet provider informed me that I had no new mail. Nonsense! I always have e-mail!
I spent Monday morning rechecking my e-mail, surfing the Web, and otherwise pursuing my research. For example, while visiting a Web site devoted to generating anagrams, I discovered that the letters in Geraldine could be rearranged to spell, among other things, Danger lie, Angel dire, and Alien dreg. The yield from Geraldine R. Dodge included the sadly appropriate Aging elder odder. Holly Winter produced Wholly inert. Taking the anagram as a hint, I signed off. My snail mail brought an overdue notice from the electric company, a threat from the phone company, two kennel-supply catalogs from which I couldn’t afford to order anything, and a plain white envelope with my name and address in block capitals, a postmark blurred to illegibility, and nothing in the upper-left-hand corner.
