The Hand That Feeds You: A Novel

by A. J. Rich

  McKenzie produced the veterinary records for both dogs, as well as the affidavit from the vet. He also submitted the results of the temperament test for both dogs.

  “I would like to call a witness, a volunteer at the shelter where the dogs have been quarantined for the past two months.”

  Billie stood and introduced herself to the judge and established the frequency with which she attended the quarantined dogs. I was impressed and pleased with the way she carried herself in this setting, on this occasion. She was confident and succinct, authoritative and convincing. She conveyed a great deal of knowledgeable observation without belaboring anything. I exchanged a look with Steven, who seemed to share my impression of her testimony.

  Steven spoke next. He confirmed that neither dog had ever displayed any aggression with him either. “I was with my sister when she adopted Cloud as a puppy.”

  “How much time did you spend with the pit-bull mix?” the judge asked.

  “I see my sister every couple of weeks and I always enjoyed playing with George. He never played rough.”

  The judge asked McKenzie if he had anything else to introduce on behalf of the dogs before adjournment for a decision. McKenzie said that he would like to remind the court that on April 4, 2013, the New York Supreme Court cited the case of Roupp v. Conrad in its Memorandum: “ ‘The condemnation of an individual dog in the context of a dangerous dog proceeding solely by virtue of its breed is without any legal basis.’ ”

  • • •

  The judge had told McKenzie he would have a decision by three o’clock that afternoon, so Billie suggested we get some lunch at a nearby place she knew. When we got there, I caught Steven’s eye—the building was a Hare Krishna temple. The only nod to Indian architecture was three stucco arches over the standard-issue red brick. Billie led us into the basement, where a cafeteria served vegetarian food from steam tables. I noticed that Steven chose only the potatoes and carrots, two vegetables he could recognize.

  I’ve never been good at waiting. I couldn’t keep from asking McKenzie if he thought the judge would rule in our favor. Immediately I apologized for putting him on the spot. Billie had taken the seat next to McKenzie and facing my brother. I had found that a fix-up had a better chance of bypassing awkwardness and pressure if one of the parties did not know it was a fix-up.

  Billie offered, “I think the judge might choose this case to send a larger message to the community: zero tolerance for pit bulls.”

  “Or maybe,” McKenzie said, “he’ll surprise us. Once he reads the police report.”

  Over the sound of chanting coming from speakers in a corner of the dining room, I heard Steven register a guarded optimism. I noticed that even when Steven was speaking, Billie’s eyes were on McKenzie. If I noticed, then Steven had noticed.

  I was so anxious about the judge’s decision I had to visualize the most calming thing I could think of in order to remain seated through this lunch. I imagined myself floating on my stomach in the warm Caribbean, my eyes open in shallow water so that I saw the gentle waves in the white sand on the bottom.

  When I came out of my reverie and rejoined the conversation, Billie was challenging Steven on a point of law. It occurred to me that she felt herself to be his peer. Steven said simply, “Let’s not precede the outcome with an outcome.”

  McKenzie stepped in as a kind of referee, giving the point to Steven. Billie was quick to turn self-deprecating and excused herself for making assumptions about legal matters.

  On the way back to court, Billie stepped in beside McKenzie, so I dropped back to walk with my brother, feeling usurped. Steven whispered to me, “That girl is not your friend.”

  “She’s been nearly as devoted to my dogs as I have.”

  Steven reminded me that her devotion had crossed a line when she scheduled George for a temperament test without consulting me. And I reminded him that Billie’s action, albeit presumptuous, meant that George now had a chance.

  As we stepped off the elevator on the courthouse’s fourth floor, McKenzie motioned for me to join him off to the side. “Let’s do this,” he said, and put his hand on the small of my back and guided me into the courtroom.

  • • •

  I might once have been heading into a courtroom for another reason, and it shamed me to think of it now. After serving Candice and Doug at the coffee shop where I briefly waitressed, I found the strength to go to the police. Rather, Kathy’s insistence on accompanying me gave me the strength. We had only known each other a month by then, but I knew her to be a force for good. I had been unable to report the attack when it might have done some good—after Doug left me at Port Authority with the evidence still inside me. Or that is what I told myself then. I put my need for distance from the horror over any sort of civic responsibility. The thought that I might have been able to prevent their continued predation was not a priority. I needed to protect myself.

  By the time Kathy and I went to the police, my actions were more symbolic than justice-seeking. I had no physical proof left, I had entered the apartment voluntarily, I did not even have the address of the apartment, and a month had passed since the attack. A kind officer took my statement, then drove us up and down the blocks near the Navy Yard to see if anything looked familiar. But it had been night when I arrived, and I had been hidden in the van the next morning. I had apologized to the officer for wasting his time, and he had assured me that I had done no such thing. He said I was right to come in and make the report. I knew that if I had made my report in a timely fashion, I might have found myself in a courtroom testifying against that perverted couple, maybe even sending them to jail.

  • • •

  We were in the front row when the judge entered briskly. He read from the document he held. “Accordingly, pursuant to Agriculture and Markets Law 123 (2) the court is mandated, and under the circumstances and as is necessary for the protection of the public, it is hereby ordered that the Great Pyrenees be remanded to an animal sanctuary that specializes in the handling of dangerous dogs, which would be the best option to keep both the public and the animal from harm.”

  McKenzie put his hand on my arm, as though to hold me still while the judge pronounced sentence on George: death by, in the oxymoronic legalese he employed, “humane euthanasia.” He gave George only twenty-four hours to live, then declared the court adjourned.

  “It doesn’t end here,” McKenzie whispered to me. “We can appeal.”

  “For both of them?”

  “We can ask for a stay for George first. I can argue that he go to a sanctuary, too.”

  “But the good ones have no space,” Billie said. “They don’t even take names for the waiting lists anymore.”

  “Then what’s going to happen to Cloud if there is no room?” I asked.

  “We have time to worry about Cloud later. I need to file a stay of execution for George right now,” McKenzie said. “Steven, can you get everyone home, and I’ll call you as soon as I hear something?”

  Steven told me that we should know something later that afternoon, and the three of us—Billie leading the way out of court—headed for the subway.

  “Pitties can’t catch a break,” Billie said.

  “I took George off death row at the shelter and now he is right back where I found him,” I said.

  “You gave him love he would not have known,” Steven said.

  It was no consolation to hear that, though Steven had meant well. At the subway entrance, Steven headed toward his car to go back to Manhattan, Billie said good-bye to us both without saying where she was headed, and I took the G train to Williamsburg to wait.

  • • •

  I had once read a story with a scene between a man and woman in a long and turbulent relationship; the woman turns to her companion and says, “It could be so easy.” That comment moved me, its resignation and still the simple wish. What is ever easy?

  The news from McKenzie later that afternoon was not what I wanted to hear: the judge had rej
ected the appeal for a stay of execution for George. He would be killed by lethal injection the next day. McKenzie’s voice was strained. He said he was about to file an appeal for Cloud to be allowed to go home, if muzzled and insured as prescribed by law. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  I could not believe there was nothing more to be done.

  “Would you like me to go with you to see him at the shelter?” McKenzie asked. “I can meet you there in the morning.”

  “That’s nice of you to offer.” I was already planning a visit within the hour. We agreed to meet in the filthy lobby of the shelter at 11:00 a.m.

  I phoned Billie and told her I wanted to bring George a good dinner, and could she slip me in to give it to him? She told me she wouldn’t officially be on duty, but that she would show up anyway, and, yes, we’d give him his special dinner.

  I went to a market and bought two pounds of rare roast beef. Then I bought a pound of honey-glazed ham. And a bag of wavy Lay’s potato chips. What the hell, old boy.

  • • •

  On the subway to the shelter, I distracted myself with music. I scrolled through my playlists until I found Jack White’s “Love Interruption.” It haunted me at the best of times, and now I sought it to match my state of mind. Love is always interrupted, is it not? “I want love / to . . . stick a knife inside me / . . .”

  I got off at 116th Street and headed up to 119th Street and then toward the river. Gusts of wind buffeted me. Volunteers walked dogs dressed in thin jackets that had ADOPT ME printed in large block letters on them. Like the viral video of the woman dancing alone at a bus stop, an old Hispanic woman was swaying to a tune in her head, waiting for the crosstown bus. From a second-story apartment window, a hand reached through the bars to empty a Dustbuster onto the sidewalk, which was already littered with the usual mystery of chicken bones. A trio of Dominican women flirted with a couple of men who’d caught their eye; I noticed this because it was the women who had the power and knew it.

  Billie was waiting for me outside the shelter annex. She gave me a warm hug and took me in the side entrance, bypassing the lobby. I avoided eye contact with kennel workers and acted as though I belonged here. Billie slipped us into the locked ward where my dogs were housed. She reminded me of a practiced hostess, keeping others’ spirits up, choreographing gently, showing one where to sit, not giving in, in this terrible place, to the feelings one expected. I was grateful to her for taking over in this casual and kind way. It calmed me and had the same effect on the dogs.

  Billie and I sat on the filthy ward floor, so close together that our shoulders touched. We took turns rolling up slices of meat and slipping them through the bars for both dogs. We tried to help them savor it by holding one end of the treat, forcing them to taste before swallowing. When we had emptied the bag of roast beef and ham and chips, we fed them the Scottish shortbread that Billie had brought.

  Despite the heavy dinner, the dogs looked surprised that there wasn’t more.

  • • •

  The next morning, McKenzie met me at the entrance to the shelter. He said, “I tried to reach you. They took him early.”

  I would be lying to myself if I didn’t acknowledge how relieved I was that my last memory of him would be joyous, him downing the greatest dinner of his life. But that didn’t keep me from simultaneously stumbling backward, McKenzie’s arms steadying me. He kept his arms around me and we just stood there in the cold, not talking. He knew better than to try to console me.

  I was on my way to Steven’s for a halfhearted nod to Thanksgiving. He had offered to pick up the basics from Citarella and said I only needed to show up with the pie. I was about a block from his apartment when Billie called on my cell.

  “I know how you’re feeling and I wanted you to know that you’re not alone with that.”

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” I asked, thinking that if she had no plans, I might invite her along to Steven’s.

  “I volunteer at a soup kitchen—St. Cecilia RC parish in Greenpoint.”

  I felt one-upped and tried to shake off the feeling. It was nice what she was doing; it didn’t have to mean I was selfish to celebrate with my brother.

  “If you finish by eight, you’re welcome to stop by my brother’s for some pumpkin pie.”

  “That’s a nice invitation, but McKenzie asked me to have a drink with him when I finished.”

  I saw the aura that migraine victims experience before the pain kicks in. I felt helpless and blinded by fizzing light.

  “Are you there?”

  I realized I had said nothing in response to this news. “I’m here.”

  “Did I upset you? Wait—you’re not interested in McKenzie, are you?”

  “It’s too soon for me to think about something like that,” I managed.

  “Of course. But you can see why I am. Humane and handsome.”

  “I’m getting on the subway,” I lied.

  Billie sent her best to my brother.

  • • •

  Steven had bought enough food for a dozen guests.

  “I hope you have room in your freezer,” I said.

  The TV was on, a documentary we’d already seen twice, about Danny Way, the guy who jumped the Great Wall of China on a skateboard. Waiting for Lightning was part of Steven’s collection of DVDs on extreme-sports heroes. We often watched together: Laird Hamilton and Travis Pastrana were in it, too. We found it inspiring to see the person who was the best in the world at what he did, and who had achieved this against heavy odds.

  Steven had already set the table, even lighting candles. The effect would have been complete if he hadn’t been wearing flannel pajama pants and a THRASHER T-shirt.

  “I could watch him every day,” I said.

  “You want some wine?”

  “I want a drink drink. You have any vodka?”

  He took a bottle of Stoli out of the freezer. “You’ve earned it,” he said, handing it to me.

  I poured myself a double. Steven did the same. We raised our glasses.

  “To George,” he said.

  We took our places at the table, surrounded by food pretty enough to be photographed. I put some of everything on my plate, knowing I wouldn’t be able to eat.

  “I heard from Billie on my way over just now. I invited her to join us but she’s meeting up with McKenzie later,” I said, fishing for a reaction. Sometimes we ask for the very thing that will undo us.

  “He’s seeing her again?” Steven asked, then saw in my face the weight of the word again. “Listen, it’s going to last about three minutes. In fact, the three minutes are probably up.”

  “Shit, he slept with her already?”

  “She has one setting: high.”

  “Did he say that, or is that your observation?”

  “You’ve seen her.”

  What had I seen? A beautiful and energetic woman whose confidence carried her past roadblocks. What man would turn her down?

  “But I didn’t see it coming,” Steven said.

  “Why not?”

  “You never met McKenzie’s wife, Louise. Don’t think he’s quite over her. She was in law school with us. Her gaze was focused outward, not on herself. I had a thing for her myself. So did every guy in the class.”

  “Was she that compelling?”

  “She was just so comfortable in her skin. She had a kind of confidence. There was nothing coy about her. I never understood why some women think coyness is appealing to a man. It’s just silly. Claire had it, too, that confidence; you can’t meet it halfway.”

  “I know about Louise’s death.”

  “Did he tell you? He never talks about it.”

  “I found it online.”

  Steven’s plate already had room for seconds. Mine was untouched.

  I could have asked more questions about my brother’s former classmate. But what was I trying to find out? Why he had asked out Billie instead of me? Steven would not have the answer.

  Instead of getting up to s
erve himself again, Steven switched his empty plate with my full one. He was kind enough to refrain from remarking on my lack of appetite. I poured myself another Stoli to keep him company for a half hour more.

  • • •

  My third Stoli was poured by the bartender at Isle of Skye. I had thought of calling Amabile, who lived nearby. I was not ready to go home. But I knew he’d be with his huge Dominican family, and it was just as well; familiarity was not what I wanted. I hadn’t been to this bar before; usually I went to Barcade and played the vintage arcade games, such as Tapper. Made me feel like a kid again. Isle of Skye had a different vibe: Scottish, black leather, a pub filled with Scots not celebrating Thanksgiving. Behind the bar was a framed photo of the queen in front of a line of seated Scotsmen in kilts; the man seated to her right wore a kilt that had ridden up to reveal his naked genitals.

  I looked over the crowd—more men than women, more hipster than Highlander, then took out my cell phone and checked the Tinder account I’d opened before I met Bennett. A photo of a shirtless guy in board shorts came up on my screen with a user name of Swampthing. Want to meet him? the pop-up asked. Yes? No? Maybe? I tapped Maybe. Do you want to see how close Swampthing is? I tapped Yes. He was two blocks away. The moment I tapped Yes, he was able to see my profile and picture. His profile said he was an actor who taught mixed martial arts. He said he liked Bollywood films, Russian vodka, and American women. I tapped I’m two for three.

  I had nearly finished my drink when I got a message from Swampthing asking where I was. I tapped in the name of the bar. A couple of minutes later, a rangy, loose-limbed guy walked in, and even from yards away and in the dim light of the bar, I could see that he had blue eyes. With his dark hair falling in those eyes, he was a dazzler.