Gaits of Heaven

by Susan Conant

  To my horror, Anita turned back to face Lady’s crate and fiddled with the latch. Lady, I should explain, was in the kind of solid plastic crate you see at airports. It’s common for dogs to show marked preferences for one kind of crate or another. Lady liked the security of an opaque crate. Sammy tolerated plastic crates, but he greatly preferred the kind of open metal crate he was in now. His crate latch was a simple horizontal bar that slid back and forth, but Lady’s crate had a more complicated vertical latch that I hoped would defeat Anita. It did not. She had, after all, been married to a veterinarian. She opened the crate, reached in, grabbed Lady by the collar, and dragged her out. Lady’s eyes were huge with fear, and she was trembling all over.

  “Hey, Lady,” I said gently. “It’s okay.” To Anita, I said, in the same soft tone, “Now, maybe you could explain what you’re doing here.”

  “Everything!” Anita cried. “There’s so much to be done! And I have the strength and talent for all of it!” She bestowed a big smile on me. “Where’s Steve? Need to see Steve. Gorgeous Steve!”

  Sammy, who’d been standing in his crate, chose that moment to bang the door with one of his big snowshoe paws.

  “What a beautiful one this is!” Anita exclaimed. “Stunning!”

  Maintaining her grip on Lady’s collar, she rose to her feet and opened Sammy’s crate. He came bounding out. While Anita’s attention was diverted, I closed the van door to prevent the dogs from escaping. The van was now crowded. The five crates occupied a fair amount of space; there’d been just enough room for Anita, Lady, and me. The addition of Sammy squished us together. The confinement made me a little claustrophobic; in every way, I needed room to maneuver, and here I was, squeezed against the back of the passenger seat with no way to get between Anita and the dogs. I could’ve moved to the front of the van, and I could even have slid open the door and stepped out, but what about Lady and Sammy? I couldn’t abandon them to a madwoman, especially to a madwoman who, when sane, hated dogs as fiercely as Anita did. Everything about her was strange and driven and frighteningly unpredictable. What if she kicked Lady? What if she somehow provoked Sammy and then accused him of attacking her? What if she…?

  Damn! What if Rowdy were here instead of Sammy! For all his exuberance and playfulness, Rowdy was a mature, well-trained dog. As Phyllis had said of her beloved Monty, he was defined. Furthermore, Rowdy was a certified therapy dog. If it somehow became expedient for me to give a hand signal, Rowdy would understand and obey it. On visits to nursing homes, he’d become accustomed to erratic behavior. He’d take Anita’s frenzied manner in stride. If she snatched at his ears, shoved against him, or even fell on him, Rowdy would remain calm while accurately assessing the situation and doing his cool best to protect Lady and me. But Sammy? Sweet, rambunctious, baby-brained Sammy? I didn’t know.

  In fact, Sammy surprised me: gently shoving his way between Anita and Lady, he used his massive body to create a protective barrier between the menace and her probable victim. Did Sammy know that Anita would then let go of Lady’s collar? Kimi would have predicted the result; if malamute chess ever catches on, she’ll be a grand master. Sammy, I thought, lacked her capacity to foresee the result of each move. Still, Lady was now free. Better yet, she was on my side of Sammy and out of Anita’s immediate range.

  Totally misinterpreting Sammy’s shove, Anita cried, “You see? He knows I’m beautiful. All creatures respond to astounding physical perfection.”

  The more fools they, I thought. Then I reconsidered. What about my own reaction to the beauty of dogs and especially to the physical perfection of my own? But at the moment, Sammy’s stunning appearance was the least of his virtues. As Anita fixed him with an unblinking stare, I unobtrusively reached into my pocket, extracted a leash, and snapped it onto Lady’s collar. One dog under my control! One dog safe from escape and thus safe from traffic. If I could get a leash on Sammy, I could slide open the door, and the dogs and I could bolt. Lady was now pressed hard against me, her entire body vibrating with fear. I had to get her out. I’d been carrying only one leash. A half dozen others hung from pegs at the rear of the van, beyond the crates, beyond Anita, hopelessly far away.

  Sammy had distracted Anita. In the hope of doing the same and with the dim hope of making Anita decide to leave, I said, “Anita, is there some reason you’re at Ted Green’s house? What made you come here?”

  Kimi might have predicted Anita’s reaction. I’m not Kimi; I didn’t. Far from being harmlessly distracted, Anita abruptly shifted from euphoria to rage. She was talking so fast that I missed most of what she said. One word that I did catch was kickbacks. Her attitude to Sammy changed with her mood. “Get off!” she yelled. “Get off!” She bent down. I couldn’t imagine why she’d want to grab his feet.

  The last time I’d spoken, Anita had reacted so wildly that I was afraid to speak aloud. Instead of calling Sammy, I silently patted my thigh. He took one step toward me. If he’d only move next to me, I could transfer the leash from Lady’s collar to his, hold Lady by her collar, and get the three of us out of this increasingly hellish van. If need be, I’d hold Sammy by his collar alone, but I was far from sure that I’d have the strength to maintain my grip if he took a dive out of the van, as he’d be likely to do. As I was trying to work out a plan either to get both dogs back in their crates, or to coax Lady to exit first so I could block the door and force Sammy to leave slowly, Anita stood up. In her hand were perhaps four sheets of paper. I’d been wrong. She hadn’t been after Sammy’s feet; her object had been the papers on which he’d been standing.

  In her glee at having retrieved the papers, she shook them rapidly back and forth. “No one cheats Anita Fairley!” she crowed.

  Sammy was fascinated; he was tantalized; he was impelled to respond. Bouncing with happy excitement, he bit into the papers Anita was waving right in front of his face.

  “Goddamned dog!” she shrieked.

  Lady was huddled next to me, but Sammy was still close to Anita, who moved her right foot backward and eyed Sammy in a way that terrified me. I’d once seen Anita kick Lady, and I could see exactly what was coming now.

  No one cheats Anita Fairley, huh? Well, no one but no one under any circumstances kicks Holly Winter’s dog!

  Taking a lesson from Rowdy and now from his son, I barged forward and wedged myself between Anita and Sammy. With Lady’s leash still in one hand, I filled my other hand with liver treats from my pocket. “Sammy, trade! Trade, buddy! Oh what a good boy! Good dog!” Giving Anita no time to think and no time to act, I hurled treats into Sammy’s crate. He went after them, and I latched the door.

  “Step to the back of this van, Anita, or I tear up these papers,” I said.

  She obeyed. I’d had a little practice in getting creatures to do that, of course. Losing no time, I crated Lady and stationed myself in front of the two occupied crates. Now that the dogs were safe, I’d have been happy to hand over the papers that Anita had determined to keep safe, but she’d taken yet another abrupt shift and was now raging at Ted Green. “Big phony! Cheat! CHIRP, CHIRP, CHIRP!”

  For a second, I thought that she’d switched to birds. Then I made the connection.

  “You’ve been there,” I said. “To CHIRP. The Center for—”

  Before I could even remember the name of the place, Anita, still clutching her precious papers, flew past me, slid open the door, and ran off.

  I removed the keys that she’d left in the door and locked us in.

  “Good riddance to her!” I told the dogs. “Both of you handled yourselves with admirable grace. Lady, you were frightened, but you didn’t panic. Sammy, you are your father’s son in every way.” I gave each dog a frozen Kong. “Now, I have to check on things, but you are going to be fine. I’ll be back as soon as humanly possible. Then we’ll go home. Anita isn’t going to bother us anymore.”

  CHAPTER 48

  I never lie to dogs. I believed, which is to say hoped, that Anita had gone flying off far away. She had no
t. While I was still on the sidewalk on my way back to the house, I heard banging and looked up to see her on Ted’s porch. I’d had more than enough of her and intended to avoid the front door by using the gate to the yard and then the entrance to the family room. That was before I saw what she was doing. Her action was so bizarre that it froze me in place: having removed one of her spike-heeled shoes, she was vigorously whacking at the door frame with a three-inch heel. Approaching, I saw that she was pounding on the mezuzah mounted by the door. A mezuzah is a sacred object. I couldn’t stand by and watch her commit desecration.

  “Stop that!” I yelled as I ran up the steps.

  As I reached the porch, Anita succeeded in removing the mezuzah. At the same time, the door opened, and there stood Kevin Dennehy, who’d undoubtedly been attracted by the hammering. Without hesitation and without apparent effort, the willowy Anita rammed him aside—and that’s saying something. It was like watching a gazelle slam a full-grown male gorilla out of its path.

  “Kevin,” I said, “that’s Anita Fairley, Steve’s ex-wife. There’s something radically wrong with her.”

  He rolled his eyes. “So you’ve said once or twice.”

  “No, not…I’m serious. She’s having some kind of episode.”

  Anita spared me the need to elaborate. Having charged into the living room, she began to berate Ted Green. “You’re going to lose your license, you son of a bitch! Kickbacks! You got kickbacks for sending me and a lot of other people to that goddamned CHIRP, and that’s unethical!”

  This from Anita, who was a disbarred lawyer? I had to suppress nervous laughter. Kevin and I had followed Anita, but we were lingering near the door, whereas she had positioned herself close to Ted, Rita, Johanna, Monty, and the hospital social worker, all of whom were seated on the couches near the fireplace. In armchairs in a corner of the room were the participants in the meeting who hadn’t been assigned to any of the subgroups: the Reiki woman, the acupuncturist, the massage therapist, the herbalist, and George McBane’s lawyer, Oona Sundquist. Anita had startled everyone into silence. Tall and thin, dressed entirely in white, her long blond hair disheveled, she’d have stood out if she’d done nothing more than stroll quietly into the room. Like everyone else, I was staring at her. Weirdly enough, she’d respected the custom of the house by removing both shoes, not just the one she’d used as a hammer. In her right hand was the mezuzah. In her left, she still held the sheaf of papers that Sammy had snatched.

  “Anita,” said Ted Green, “you need to get control of yourself. You’re not feeling well.”

  “I have never felt better in my life!” she shrieked. “No thanks to you! I’m going to sue you! You misdiagnosed me, and you mistreated me, and you duped me into making apologies for things I didn’t do! You and your goddamned trauma! I have never been traumatized in my life! I have been depressed! And I want my money back!”

  While my attention had been focused on Anita, Kevin had slipped out of the room and returned with all the physicians who’d been meeting in the kitchen. Although I only glanced at them, I noticed that Vee Foote looked asleep on her feet. Her eyes were heavy, and her head was almost lolling.

  “That wonderful doctor,” said Anita, pointing to Dr. Foote, “understands my depth and my strength and my creativity!”

  Dr. Foote summoned the energy to mumble something.

  “What did she say?” I whispered to Kevin.

  “She said, ‘Oh, shit’,” he informed me.

  “What have you done to my client?” Ted demanded. “What did you give her?”

  “Pills!” replied Anita. “Beautiful pills! Who thought they’d work so fast?” Stretching out the syllables, she almost sang, “Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. See-lec-tive! See? See Dick run! Dick!”

  As Anita was elaborating in an obscene fashion that there is no need to report in detail, I finally realized that we were witnessing a psychiatric emergency and that someone, damn it, should do something about it. Rita must have had the same thought. She stood up. At the same time, the door to the family room opened, and in came Caprice, Wyeth, Missy Zinn, and Peter York, followed by Barbara, George, and Dolfo.

  In a moment of sanity, Anita said, “Christ, what an ugly dog!”

  “Dolfo,” said Ted. “My beautiful boychick! Come to Daddy!”

  “Cut the Yiddish,” Anita ordered him. “You phony!” She frantically waved the papers. “You’re as Jewish as I am.”

  Ted shook his head sadly. “You? Anita, I don’t think so. Now, Dolfo? We talked about having a bark mitzvah, Eumie and I did, but…Anita, listen to me. You’re having a reaction to your medication.” He shrugged elaborately. “These wonder drugs? They do this now and then.”

  “I know everything about you!” Anita hollered. “Arkansas!” She brandished the papers. “My PI got the dirt on you! And you’re a big fat liar! You’re from Arkansas, you dick! Dickhead! Gentile Arkansas dickhead!”

  Since Barbara and George had been in my dog group rather than in the doctors’ group, I’d almost forgotten that they were both psychiatrists. Fortunately, Rita remembered, as did they. Rita, who was ordinarily too much of a lady ever to point at anyone, now pointed directly at them. They nodded. Barbara handed Dolfo’s leash to Ted and moved slowly and calmly toward Anita. George followed her. The other psychiatrists, I might note, were standing uselessly around or, in Dr. Foote’s case, snoozing around. She had dropped into a chair and fallen asleep. If Dolfo had hung around or gone to sleep, or if Ted Green had maintained control of his dog, Barbara and George might have succeeded in leading Anita away or persuading her to go to a hospital, which was where, as I now realized, she belonged.

  But that’s not what happened. As Ted was explaining that his was the only Jewish family in their little town in Arkansas and that his mother’s maiden name was Epstein, for God’s sake, and as Anita was saying that O’Flaherty was a funny was to pronounce Epstein, Dolfo acted exactly as Sammy had done: when Anita shook the papers in her hand, Dolfo was so tantalized that he shot up, grabbed them, tore his leash from Ted’s hand, and dashed out of his reach. Caprice, I recalled, had once remarked that mail was Dolfo’s favorite food. And mail was made of paper.

  Ted made the mistake of hauling himself up on his crutches and trying to chase Dolfo. Run after a dog, and guess what? He’ll run away. My supply of dog treats was low, but my pocket held enough bits and crumbs to provide bargaining power. Dolfo had taken refuge behind the armchair occupied by the Reiki healer, who cooperatively moved when I approached.

  “Dolfo, trade,” I said casually. “Give.” The trick is to avoid asking the dog a question. Don’t invite resistance by making a rough demand, either. Your voice has to sound as if you’re stating a happy fact that both of you take for granted. I kneeled on the floor and slipped my hand behind the chair. “Here you go! Trade.” I scattered the bits and crumbs. The second Dolfo went for the goodies, I picked up the papers he’d dropped. “Good boy,” I said.

  As I’ve just said, don’t invite resistance. If Ted Green had done nothing, I might have handed him the papers. As it was, he lunged toward me and, balancing precariously on his crutches, grabbed for them. It’s vital not to reinforce undesired behavior. I considered Ted’s behavior highly undesirable. I moved the papers behind my back and, in what was probably doglike fashion, scurried out of the living room, into the front hall, and up the stairs. When I reached the landing at the top, I sat down and read the papers that Anita had prized so highly and that Ted had been so determined to capture. They were exactly what Anita had said: a private investigator’s written report about Ted Green. As he’d said, he’d grown up in a small town in Arkansas. According to the report, he’d spent his high school years as a social misfit and an academic achiever. His father died when he was sixteen. In part because he’d somehow come across the work of a Brandeis University psychologist named Abraham Maslow, he’d then gone to Brandeis, where, for the first time, he’d found himself among others who read avidly and who discussed id
eas. At Brandeis, he told his friends that he’d been born in New York City and that his parents had left for political reasons. His mother died during spring break of his senior year.

  Activity in the hall below drew my attention. Barbara and George were escorting Anita out the door. George was in the lead. I’ll say tactfully that Anita was following him. She was still talking a million words a minute, mainly to and about George, who was, as I’ve mentioned, known in the psychiatric community as Gorgeous George. Barbara was, of course, a dog person and was thus familiar with the use of lures. The usual lure is a tasty tidbit rather than a handsome husband, but Anita wouldn’t have been all that interested in liver treats. Barbara was using what worked. Good dog trainers are flexible pragmatists. So, I suppose, are good psychotherapists.

  Before descending the stairs, I took a moment to revisit the bedroom where I’d found Eumie Brainard-Green’s body. The same multicolored duvet and matching pillows were still on the bed. They must have been laundered. I was surprised that Ted had kept them at all. Perhaps they reminded him of Eumie. I, at least, found them evocative. “Eumie, thank you,” I said softly. “Thank you for your gift. I am listening to the imagery. It is helping. You were selfish, greedy, vain, pretentious, and incredibly kind. You cared about my trouble. If you were still alive, I would thank you by helping you to train your dog. I have faith that you could have learned. I know that you deserved the chance. Good-bye.”

  With that, I folded the PI’s report, stowed it in my pocket, ran down the stairs, paused briefly in the hall to say a few words to Kevin Dennehy, and walked boldly into the living room, where Rita was struggling to reconvene the meeting, presumably so that she could bring it to an end. I did not take my dog trainer’s seat on the periphery, but marched to the front of the room.