Gaits of Heaven

by Susan Conant

  Seated in armchairs outside the central area by the fireplace were George McBane and Barbara Leibowitz, with Dolfo at her side. With them was an attractive red-haired woman in a navy business suit. Leaving Caprice with her father, I joined George and Barbara. George looked far better than he had the last time I’d seen him: his color had returned and, with it, his handsome looks. This time, too, he greeted me in his normal, friendly way. Then he introduced the red-haired woman. “Holly, this is Oona Sundquist,” he said.

  “George’s lawyer,” Barbara explained.

  Oona and I shook hands. “Holly Winter,” I said.

  “The police are here,” George said.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “There,” Barbara said.

  I turned to see Kevin Dennehy, who was just entering the room. He wore a light summer suit and looked perfectly at ease. Catching my eye, he nodded and gave me a mysterious little smile before stationing himself against a wall. At a big show, you can expect to find a representative of the American Kennel Club, and I had no difficulty in identifying Kevin as our AKC rep.

  Then a small crowd poured in: Wyeth, Johanna, the clone-worthy Cambridge woman who’d arrived with them, Ted Green on his crutches, and four people I didn’t know. The door to the family room opened, and in stepped Rita, who was followed by Peter York, Quinn Youngman, and Missy Zinn. I looked around in search of Frank Farmer, our show chair, so to speak, or perhaps the judge for the breed about to be shown in this ring, but he was nowhere in sight.

  With an air of authority, Rita stepped in front of the fireplace, introduced herself, and said, “I’ve just had a call from Frank Farmer. I’m sorry to say that Frank called me from the emergency room. He’s there with a broken leg, and he won’t be able to join us.”

  For a second, Rita’s eyes met mine. What I saw in her gaze was accusation. No, worse than accusation. Blame! Irrational, mindless blame! Directed toward me! The cause of Frank’s broken leg, I immediately realized, must be an incident with one of his utterly gorgeous, top-winning, and wild-acting basenjis. At a guess, the dogs had been bouncing around in a frenzy, and instead of ordering them out from underfoot, Frank had tripped and taken a hard fall. I am certainly not responsible for the misdeeds of all naughty dogs in the entire universe. But Rita tends to assume that I am. Hence the gaze of blame.

  “We’ve talked this over,” Rita continued, with a gesture that included Peter, Quinn, and Missy, “and we’ve decided that since everyone is here, we’ll go ahead with the meeting, and we’ll reserve the possibility of getting together a second time once Frank has recovered.”

  A central tenet of canine cosmology: doG works in a mysterious way. Delve into any seeming coincidence, and what you’ll find is woofy purpose. Rita absolutely, positively had not wanted to lead this family meeting. She’d never have done it if Frank had not, purely by dog-driven coincidence, broken his leg. With renewed faith in the comforting orderliness of the universe, I took a seat near Barbara and George in one of Ted’s upholstered armchairs, leaned back, relaxed, and smiled at Rita. I knew she’d do a good job. After all, she was meant to.

  CHAPTER 45

  “To begin,” said Rita. “The purpose of this meeting is to bring together the Brainard-Green family and the family’s support system so that everyone is working together. This is a family that has experienced considerable conflict and considerable stress, including the recent loss of a family member. We need to pool our resources to relieve some of that stress.”

  Caprice interrupted. “My mother didn’t just wander off somewhere! She wasn’t lost. She was murdered.”

  Before she’d finished, Ted said, “Traumatic stress.”

  Without uttering a word, Rita nodded at Caprice and then at Ted in some clever psychotherapist way that conveyed nothing about the content of what either had said, but nonetheless seemed to make both feel acknowledged. What’s more, she didn’t let the interruptions interrupt her. “In other words,” she continued, “we’re going to work toward a cohesive, integrated approach.” Vee Foote was almost bouncing on the couch in her eagerness to say something, but Rita was too quick for her. “Here’s our general framework. We’re going to start by clarifying who’s who and who does what in this system.”

  Here, I just have to take a second to express my admiration for Rita. In the words of the AKC’s Guidelines for Conformation Dog Show Judges, “As the judge, you have full authority over all persons in the ring.” I was happy to see that Rita not only intended to exert her authority, but to do so in the thoughtful and considerate manner that the AKC advocates in that same publication.

  Probably because Dr. Needleman was shamefully unfamiliar with AKC guidelines, rules, and regulations, she failed to share my appreciation for Rita’s skill. “Roles,” she said with high-toned condescension. “I, for one, am not concerned with all these superficialities of social psychology. I treat introjects”—she paused dramatically—“and not objects!”

  Although I didn’t understand the distinction, I got her point: I breed top-winning show dogs, not mutts.

  Addressing everyone, Rita said, as if performing a routine introduction, “Dr. Nixie Needleman. Dr. Needleman was Eumie Brainard-Green’s individual therapist.” Dr. Needleman, who clearly considered herself to be a high-ranking member of the Professional Handlers’ Association, had tried to use her presumed clout to undermine the judge’s authority. Rita, however, had dealt with the challenge by incorporating it into the ordinary process of checking the presence of all dogs in all classes to be judged. “So,” Rita went on, “once we’ve finished clarifying who’s who here, so everyone knows everyone else, we’ll break up into subgroups, and we’ll come up with some recommendations and guidelines to share with everyone about preventing recurrences of some of the recent difficulties and about helping each member of the family and the family as a whole to thrive.”

  I practically expected Rita to start handing out armbands. If I’d been chosen as one of her stewards, I’d have been tempted to do just that. At a show, the armbands display only the numbers that appear in the show catalog, but at this special event, names would’ve been acceptable. Dr. Needleman’s armband would have identified her as the late Eumie’s handler. Peter York would’ve been prominently labeled as Wyeth’s, Missy Zinn as Caprice’s, and so forth. Still, with a relatively small entry like this one, perhaps armbands weren’t strictly necessary after all. In particular, anything remotely like those “Hi, I’m So-and-so” name tags would’ve mocked the seriousness of the gathering. By the way, as a little aside, I might mention that the Cantabrigian woman was indeed the hospital social worker and was wonderfully named India Cohen. India! What’s more, this India had exactly the same air of calm yet alert self-confidence, intelligence, and protectiveness that characterized Steve’s German shepherd bitch. I use bitch strictly in its technical and hence entirely inoffensive sense; there was nothing even remotely bitchy about India Cohen or, for that matter, Steve’s female dog.

  “Family members,” Rita said. As she named them, she gestured toward each person in a welcoming way that didn’t even hint at finger pointing. “Ted Green. Ted’s first wife, Johanna Green. Their son, Wyeth. Monty Brainard, Eumie Brainard-Green’s first husband. Their daughter, Caprice Brainard.”

  “And Dolfo,” Ted interjected. “Dolfo is a full member of this family.”

  With a friendly little wave of her hand toward the tall, brown-haired man seated on the couch opposite Nixie Needleman and Vee Foote, Rita said, “John Tortorello. Dr. Tortorello is Ted’s psychiatrist.” The AKC enjoins its judges not to make what it calls theatrical movements. Rita’s little hand motion was admirably subtle. “Dr. Peter York, Wyeth’s therapist. Dr. Missy Zinn, Caprice’s therapist. Dr. Quinn Youngman, Ted’s psychopharmacologist. And Eumie’s. Dr. Vee Foote, their couples therapist.” She then introduced Eumie’s Reiki healer, her herbalist, Ted and Eumie’s acupuncturist, Ted’s massage therapist, and Ted’s primary-care physician, Dr. Salzman, who had been Eumie’
s as well. “Neighbors. Dr. George McBane and Dr. Barbara Leibowitz, who live next door. And Holly Winter, with whom Caprice is now staying.”

  Ted, I could see, was itching to add that I was the family dog trainer. In fact, he stood up and, using his crutches, moved toward Dolfo, who had been lying peacefully at Barbara’s side. As Ted approached, Dolfo leaped to his feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dr. Foote shake a tablet or capsule into her hand and swiftly toss it into her mouth. “Ted,” Barbara whispered, “not right now, I think.”

  “And,” Rita said, “Lieutenant Kevin Dennehy, who is our representative of the larger society.” She looked fleetingly embarrassed about the pretentious phrase. “Lieutenant Dennehy is with the Cambridge police. There have been legal ramifications to events in this family. And Oona Sundquist, who is an attorney.”

  “George,” Barbara whispered to me, “is the only person here who felt the need for legal representation. What does that tell you?”

  “Barbara,” George said none too quietly, “I love you. There is not a more repentant person in the world than I am.”

  “Murderer,” said Barbara, who continued to address me rather than her husband.

  “I think that’s everyone,” Rita said.

  Johanna rose to her feet. “I have to say that I’m not part of this psychobabble. I’m here because my child was threatened. I was told that my presence here was a condition for my son’s release from an institution that was trying to strip him of his identity. But I am here against my will, and I deeply resent the accusation that I am a bad mother.”

  No one had said that she was. Ted rapidly made up for the omission. “What else would you call yourself when Wyeth is out of control, acting out all over the place, and your response is to go out and buy him a new car? And a new computer? And God only knows what else by now? Meshugass!”

  “Someone has to do something to compensate for what a cold, selfish son of a bitch he has for a father,” Johanna said.

  “This meeting,” Rita said, “is about the family as whole. We are going to—”

  “Rita,” said Caprice, “let’s cut the crap. We’re here because Wyeth is dangerous, okay? He tries to kill people. With my mother, he succeeded. With Ted and me, he failed.”

  Barbara stood up. “I understand that the intention is to avoid focusing on one person,” she said with dignity. “To address the system. But Caprice has a point. After all, no one else has made a suicide attempt, and it’s plainly true that Ted and Caprice were injured as a direct result of Wyeth’s actions, as was Dolfo.”

  “Leave the goddamned dog out of it,” Wyeth said.

  “Barbara,” said George, “is fair and sympathetic almost to a fault. If she’s suggesting that we deal straightforwardly and directly with a troubled young man, we need to listen to her.”

  “And so we will,” said Rita. “But at the—”

  “This so-called meeting is degenerating into a melee,” said Dr. Needleman. “I find it highly unprofessional.”

  “Shut up!” Caprice told her. “Who are you to talk about other people being unprofessional? First of all, you look professional all right! You look like a, uh, a harlot! A, uh, demimondaine! And what did you ever do to help my mother? Did you ever try to get her off all those prescription drugs? You did not! You prescribed and prescribed and prescribed, and if she hadn’t been pumped full of…” Here, Caprice broke off and began to sob. Monty wrapped an arm over her shoulders. I could see that he was speaking to her.

  “What did I tell you?” Johanna said. “Psychocrap!”

  “Johanna,” Monty said, “you’re awfully eager to lay the blame for Eumie’s death on anyone except yourself, aren’t you? Well, I know better. Your rage and your bitterness—”

  “Who really understands bitterness, Monty?” Johanna demanded. “You’re the one—”

  “Lay off,” said Wyeth. “Monty, let my mother alone.”

  “Alone? What else is she?” Ted added. “Ever? Johanna is forever alone and always was, with no room in her narcissistic little shell for—”

  “Enough,” said Rita. “We’re not here to—”

  “We’re here to get Wyeth locked up,” said Caprice. “Safely behind bars. That’s why Kevin’s here. He’s a homicide detective. He doesn’t care about Wyeth’s piddling little petty crimes.”

  “You sick, fat bitch!” Johanna charged. “You’ve got matricide written all over you.”

  As unobtrusively as possible, I stood up. To my mind, Caprice’s weight was off-limits, and if she showed any sign of wanting to leave, I was prepared to accompany her.

  “Look,” said Monty, “let’s get something out in the open. Eumie, who was my wife, went into therapy with Ted. Therapy. That’s a joke. And from the first session on, he had her pay in cash at the beginning, and we all understand that there’s only one reason for that, don’t we? So, Ted, what did Eumie threaten to do to you that made you kill her? Was she going to turn you over to the IRS for unreported income?”

  “Monty, you don’t know a damned thing about therapy,” Ted said. “Some patients don’t pay. They bounce checks. And Eumie and I filed joint returns. She’d hardly have sicced the IRS on herself. And I loved Eumie! Look at me! Oy vey! I’m lost without her!” His cry and his claim struck me as pitifully genuine. For all of their pretensions, for all of their self-absorption, for all of their inadequacy as parents, not to mention as dog owners, they’d been remarkably compatible.

  “Let me summarize,” began Rita in what I saw as a valiant attempt to impose order. “We’re seeing a pattern of alliances and, uh, conflicts within the family.”

  “Which, I have to say,” interjected Monty, “were all made a million times worse by every person here who ever wrote a prescription for anyone involved in this mess. Caprice is right, as usual. You, Dr. Needleman, and you, Dr. Foote, and the rest of you, you started out with unhappy people, people who came to you looking for help, and what the hell did you turn them into? Addicts! And you did it knowing that they didn’t just dose themselves. Oh, no! They shared! If you want to know who’s to blame for the mess Wyeth’s in, look to yourselves. This poor slob of a kid, an empty human being, got his hands on your—”

  To my surprise, Wyeth spoke up. “Yeah, addicts. Starting with you.”

  “Daddy is not—” began Caprice.

  Wyeth spoke a single syllable that made everyone in the room freeze in place: “Porn.”

  “Wyeth, you—” Caprice began.

  “Internet porn. Your dumb mother knew everybody’s secrets. She told me. Right, Monty?”

  Monty’s tan vanished. Then his face turned crimson. After that, he lowered his head and held it in his hands. Caprice wrapped her arms around him. “It’s okay,” she said. “If it’s true, it’s really okay.”

  “We could all use a short break,” Rita said. “Monty and Caprice, stay here with me, please. The rest of you, take five.”

  CHAPTER 46

  I took advantage of the intermission to check on the dogs, which is to say that I used the dogs as an excuse to escape. Although Sammy and Lady were both quiet and content, I added spring water to the buckets in their crates and spent a few moments stroking each dog. Physical contact with a beloved animal lowers blood pressure: yours and the dog’s, too. As I began to relax, it occurred to me that if I, one of the most peripheral people at the meeting, had a racing pulse, damp palms, and a tight stomach, then the central members of the group must be in danger of stress-induced heart attacks. Monty Brainard! Wyeth’s revelation had been like a bullet fired at close range. For all that I sympathized with Monty, I couldn’t help realizing that in wounding him, Wyeth had revealed a powerful motive for Eumie’s murder. Eumie had collected secrets. She’d certainly known that Caprice idealized and even idolized her father, who must have reveled in his daughter’s esteem. Had Eumie resented it? After all, she was the parent with whom Caprice lived. If she had threatened to tell Caprice about Monty’s addiction, wouldn’t he have done anything to maintain
his baby girl’s admiration? Then there was what I now saw as Johanna’s outright viciousness, especially her cruelty to Caprice. It was now easy to see that Johanna had modeled cruelty for her son, Wyeth. Either of them, mother or son, could have killed Eumie, and either could now be lashing out to protect the other.

  I reluctantly stepped out of the van. As I was locking it, I realized that I stood on the exact spot where Caprice had been when Wyeth had run his car into her. I retained a clear memory of the expression on his face. That recollection jarred with everything about Eumie’s murder, which had been indirect and, as I’d never before quite realized, sneaky. In contrast, Wyeth’s dangerous acts had been altogether forthright. For example, he hadn’t placed his computer and peripherals on a windowsill where they’d fall into the backyard; he’d actively thrown them out the window. He’d run his car right into Caprice, and he’d done it while I’d been there to see him. As to his violence toward himself, his suicide gesture, he hadn’t tried to make the overdose look like an accident, and he hadn’t set someone else up to take the blame for it. In fact, I suddenly realized, the sneaky person in the family was Caprice. Her binge eating was a secret activity, as was her use of medication. She’d found out Anita’s last name by researching all of us on the Web, and when I’d confronted her, she herself had used the word sneaky. What’s more, her own mother, Eumie, had enlisted her as a fellow sneak, a Web-savvy assistant in ferreting out information about people.

  With these depressing and worrisome thoughts in mind, I made my way back to the house. In the front hall, Dr. Foote and Dr. Needleman were speaking with Dr. Tortorello. In passing, I heard Vee Foote say, “Well, I assume we’ll be paid for all this time! I’m not here for my own pleasure!” Vee Foote, ever the helping professional! When I entered the living room, Rita was again in front of the fireplace. Caprice and Monty, I saw, were deep in muted conversation, each with a hand on the other’s arm. I wanted to think well of both of them. If, as seemed to be the case, this Monty, the false Monty, was truly addicted to Internet pornography, he was hardly alone; the addiction was common. At a guess, he had nonetheless allowed it to act as a barrier in his relationship with his daughter. He visited occasionally, took her to restaurants, and left, thus protecting his baby girl from knowledge that he assumed would destroy her golden image of him. And what was the consequence for Caprice of having her father keep his distance? I didn’t want to think about it and looked away. In a corner, the capable-looking Cantabrigian social worker from the hospital was conferring with Wyeth and Johanna. Kevin remained against a wall, as if he hoped to be mistaken for a piece of furniture. Ted was now seated with Barbara, George, and George’s lawyer. Like me, Ted had sought the solace of a dog. He had his hands wrapped around Dolfo’s head. As I watched, he lowered his face to the dog’s so that two pairs of eyes met only inches apart.