Best Friends

by Samantha Glen

  Michael had no answer. Norm Cram looked suddenly wary, then shook his head as if dismissing the suspicion. “They’ll be other buyers. This can’t happen again.” He turned and hobbled back into his house.

  Faith was far from her usual happy self as John drove them into Kanab the following evening. If it had been anyone but Dolores Harris she would have begged off the dinner engagement.

  “Try and cheer up a bit, luv,” John encouraged as they approached the Four Seasons motel, where Dolores and her daughter Arlene were staying.

  Faith managed a tired smile. She knew she was hopeless at hiding her feelings. A facade was as impossible for her as staying in bed all morning. But for Dolores she would try. John was putting a much better face on the latest disaster du jour than she, although Faith noticed that anxiety had etched permanent lines of worry across his forehead lately.

  “Come in. Come in. I thought we’d have a glass of wine before dinner,” Dolores Harris ushered them into her standard-issue motel accommodations.

  “Ah, pinot noir, my favorite,” John noted with appreciation.

  “I figured we’d have beer with Chinese, but I brought some good California red with me,” Dolores chuckled.

  Faith thought she was doing a fair job of filling her friend in on the latest happenings at the sanctuary until Dolores bluntly asked if something was bothering her. “Oh, not really,” Faith said brightly. “Just a funny thing with Norm Cram, that’s all. What time did you say you wanted to eat?”

  “We have a few minutes,” Dolores said.

  Faith glanced at John. She couldn’t read his expression, and Dolores was waiting expectantly.

  “You’ll never guess what happened yesterday,” she started and told her friend about the Crams selling their property.

  Dolores was very quiet when Faith finished her story. “This must be very upsetting,” she sympathized. Carefully she adjusted the collar of her rayon blouse and looked at her daughter. “What time is it, dear? I think we’d better get going. I’m sure Faith wants an early night.”

  Dolores Harris never came to Kanab without stopping by the sanctuary. Faith knew that she and her daughter were only in town overnight this trip, but Dolores had said she would see her the next morning. When Faith didn’t hear from her friend by late afternoon, she got concerned. “D’you think I upset her yesterday?”

  “I can’t see how, Faith,” Michael comforted her.

  Seven of them ate an early dinner at The Village and then John said he had some work to finish. Michael drove with him to the Hamlet; both men needed to talk.

  The phone was ringing when John opened the door to his office. He quickly grabbed the receiver before the caller could hang up. Instantly Dolores Harris was talking in his ear, apologizing for not being in touch earlier. John listened for ten minutes, unmoving. Michael watched impatiently. “What?” he mouthed. John shook his head for him to wait.

  The treasurer finally put down the phone.

  “What is it?” Michael asked worriedly. “What?”

  John opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. This time words came out. “Dolores bought Norm Cram’s place. She’s been with lawyers all day. That’s why she didn’t call or come by.”

  Michael stared at him. “Would you mind repeating that?”

  “You heard right. Dolores Harris just bought this place.”

  “What about Homer?”

  “Homer’s up the Amazon somewhere. She couldn’t reach him. So she called Cram this morning and had him meet her in town.”

  A thousand thoughts jumbled in Michael’s head. The Harrises were wonderful, decent people, salt of the earth, and Faith adored Dolores—but who could possibly guess she would do something like this?

  John read Michael’s mind. “You never know, do you? Dolores said she’s sure Homer’s going to be miffed that she didn’t negotiate with Cram for a better price, but she felt it was the right thing to do. She assured me the papers have been signed and we’re not to think another thing about it.”

  Michael didn’t answer.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  Michael nodded. “I was thinking Dolores Harris captured the dragon’s lair.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Michael smiled. “Nothing. Let’s call Faith.”

  Homer Harris did have something to say, but only Dolores heard most of it. She told Faith that her husband’s being upset didn’t faze her for a moment. “It was mostly because I didn’t negotiate,” she said with a knowing smile. “Homer always likes to negotiate.” Her expression was that of a woman who knew her strength. “Now we can both feel part of everything—although he won’t admit it yet.”

  Escrow took four months to close because Mr. Harris was at least going to make Mr. Cram bring the septic and water systems up to par—at Mr. Cram’s cost.

  October saw Anne and Cyrus Mejia move into the back two rooms of the Crams’ stone house, with the rest of the floor space being renovated for Best Friends’ first proper welcome center.

  Anne immediately planted shade for the koi. She and Cyrus painted, put up shelves, hauled in a desk, displayed Jana and Raphael’s photographs, and stacked T-shirts imprinted with Cyrus’s impressions of the canyon. “Now we’ve got somewhere to greet people,” she announced proudly.

  To Best Friends’ astonishment, Homer returned their first rental check for Norm Cram’s property with a note. “Consider this a donation.”

  On their next visit, it was the Harrises’ turn to get a surprise when everyone gathered to personally escort them to Dogtown. Best Friends had christened the path that ran by the clinic Dolores Lane, and the area behind the Great Temple of Food, Homer Hill. “It’s the only way we have of saying ‘thank you’ right now,” John said.

  Dolores started crying. Homer stood straight as a military man and put on his sternest face. “This is very nice. Now, you do know that I’ll be keeping an eye on your progress. So no slacking off.”

  As Faith was wont to say, “Who would have thought it?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Volunteer Extraordinaire

  Michael often wondered if the animals weren’t in control of Best Friends. He wasn’t entirely joking when he talked about a psychic pet network that communicated through time and space over which, when the moment was right, the word was passed to orchestrate events. Tomato just meowed and implied that that was for the animals to know and for persons to wonder.

  The summer of 1993 brought another visitor to the canyon. Michael had no way of knowing the role Tom Kirshbaum would play in their lives. First, he saw the sanctuary as never before through the eyes of the one-time conductor of the Flagstaff Symphony.

  Then he watched the man attack the bone-wearying task of scooping the poop in Dogtown, never seeming to tire. He watched the exhilaration with which Tom Kirshbaum petted and played with every mongrel, large and small. Where others saw only dogs, this gentle man discerned personalities, interactions, a society of animals. It took no time at all for Tom to become one of the dogs’ favorite visitors, and for him and Tyson Horn to become fast friends.

  Michael was touched by Tom Kirshbaum’s humility and joyful understanding of how much he was needed. Whenever he could, the man would drive 210 miles on a two-lane highway to spend a few days at Best Friends. And nobody ever again thought of the cacophony of noise that could erupt from the throats of hundreds of mutts in unison in quite the same way after he described his experience.

  Tom liked to camp out in Dogtown when he came to Best Friends. After dinner one evening, he recounted lying in his tent, squashed between Bubbles, his basset, and Amra and Rhonda—who insisted on sleeping with them—and listening to the excited 2:00 A.M. barking of dogs disturbed by the thump of a jackrabbit down the lane.

  “It starts with a few muted yips and yaps,” he began to an enthralled audience as he wove the music of the night. “Then, from a hundred surrounding enclosures, the vocalization picks up: a harmonic progression of low
growls punctuated by staccato bursts from deep-chested bodies.

  “Soon the accompanying melody joins in: a siren-like rise and fall too subtle to be called ‘baying.’ Now the concert explodes in wave after wave of textured sound, like some colossal oratorio.”

  “I think maybe I’ll take out my earplugs tonight,” Faith murmured into the awed silence.

  The director of the sanctuary had come upon Tom Kirshbaum one summer morning, arms to the sky, dancing in the sand around a puzzled Dogfather. “There was nobody about,” he said to a blue-aproned Faith wielding a can opener. “It felt so free.”

  His wife, Anah, Tom Kirshbaum explained, had met this blond Englishwoman tabling in front of Wal-Mart and gave her what she thought was a ten-dollar bill for a copy of their magazine. “Oh no, I think you’ve made a mistake,” the Englishwoman said, handing back the $100. “Anah was most impressed,” Tom recounted.

  “That must have been Diana,” Faith exclaimed.

  The conductor had checked out of a boring tennis camp in nearby St. George. He remembered his wife’s experience with Diana Asher and, seeing that he was so close, thought he would come see what Best Friends was all about. The worst that could happen was that he would have a story to take back to Bubbles the basset.

  “It’s funny,” he confessed on his third visit. “I was never particularly crazy about animals. Never paid dogs much mind until Anah suddenly got obsessed with basset hounds.”

  As he told the story, Anah began stopping every time she saw a basset on the sidewalk. Anah would get a winsome look on her face at every wizened, drooling hound and call Tom to come to the baseball field “to see the most adorable little creature.”

  “As you know,” Tom Kirshbaum rolled his eyes. “Eighty-pound bassets are hardly little things. But I knew what was coming. We knew a couple who had two bassets they dearly loved and were breeding for just one litter. A few weeks later we were sitting in their front yard watching the rambling antics of seven fat puppies on three-inch legs. One little sausage left her mama, trotted straight to me, scrambled in my lap, and fell asleep. That was Bubbles.”

  What was so significant about being chosen by a dog? Nothing, really. Happened all the time, Tom Kirshbaum realized. Except that after Bubbles entered their lives, the interests and values he and Anah had held so important somehow faded into the past. Life was so much richer with Bubbles as part of the family. They also found that the basset had spondylosis, a spinal condition that if not treated, could severely hamper her movements. It made their time with her even more precious.

  “You see, if we’d not gotten Bubbles, Anah would never have stopped and chatted with Diana. I wouldn’t have bothered to read your magazine. And the last thing I’d be doing is standing on a sand dune, scooping dog poop—and enjoying it.”

  Tom Kirshbaum was suddenly serious. “You know I’m not remotely the same person I was before that pudgy little girl with the surplus skin, paws like boxing gloves, and those ridiculous ears went to sleep in my lap. Now I keep coming back here. What’s that all about?”

  Michael smiled at Best Friends’ quintessential volunteer. “Beats me, Tom. But I can promise you we’ll find out soon enough.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Chateau Marmont

  The year 1993 had one more pleasant surprise for Best Friends. Silva Lorraine’s sense of a life-changing connection when she met Maria Petersen had been prescient. Since their first encounter on Thanksgiving eve almost two years earlier, the women had formed a bond of friendship that normally took decades to build into trust. And Maria proved a good friend indeed.

  When, as seemed the habit of Best Friends vehicles lately, the transmission of Francis and Silva’s minivan expired, leaving them stranded, Maria insisted they use one of her cars while theirs got fixed.

  Maria had quickly discerned that her new friends did not sit for interminable hours in front of supermarkets for the sole purpose of raising money. She watched how they responded to people who asked advice for problems with their pets, were looking to adopt, or sought to place an animal. She was not surprised that, as the months passed, a small band of volunteers formed around the team.

  Francis was able to create adoption bulletins describing animals in the area that needed loving homes. Their volunteers distributed the lists in their local stores, yoga studios, and health clubs. For Francis and Silva it was the start of a Best Friends outreach program, their way of giving back to the city that was helping them survive.

  Maria, for her part, knew that in a city like L.A. it never hurt to have celebrity support. She saw to it that the couple—“You are a couple, you know”—were invited onto her director husband’s sets to meet their Hollywood circle. Laura Dern became a supporter. The singer J.D. Souther sent Best Friends $1,500 for subscriptions to the magazine for his buddies Jack Nicholson, Isabella Rossellini, Don Henley of the Eagles, and others in his orbit.

  And celebrity support definitely helped Best Friends stage their first-ever benefit.

  They saw the dogs first, a dozen of the sleekest purebreds ever to strut at the end of $100 leashes. The five-foot-ten redhead who controlled them was equally striking. Silva couldn’t help but notice the sassy beauty did a rather theatrical double-take as she passed their table.

  Five minutes later the dog walker was back. She stopped and picked up a photo, all the while staring at Francis. “You must know you’re a dead ringer for Steven Spielberg in that hat.”

  Francis grinned and adjusted the brim to a more jaunty angle. “Who’s Steven Spielberg?”

  The redhead grimaced. “Very funny.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Caroline Marcus, dog walker to the stars in case you didn’t guess. What you got going here?”

  Silva gave Caroline their brochure and adoption lists. The redhead stuffed them into her fanny pack, pulled her pooches to attention, and strolled off.

  Two days later it was the same parade. “Liked your stuff,” the lady called as she sashayed past. An hour later she stopped back. “I have an idea for you. Any chance we could meet at Mezzaluna’s around seven?”

  Her idea was a benefit. “You know the Chateau Marmont, of course?” she asked, then continued before they could answer. “Well, Philip, the manager, is a friend of mine. I’m sure he’ll let us use the hotel for this kind of a benefit. You do know Chateau Marmont?” Caroline demanded at their blank stares. She shook her head. “I’m gonna have to educate you some. But what do you think?”

  “We’ve never done a benefit,” Francis said.

  Caroline Marcus’s creamy smile was positively beatific. “Neither have I.”

  She sipped her cappuccino and studied them over the rim of her cup. “I looked at your brochure. Your canyon is awesome. I figure you must really need the money to haul your asses to L.A. and smell gas fumes all day.” She paused and smiled. “And I happen to like animals, in case you haven’t guessed.”

  The dog walker to the stars stood up and casually scanned the room. “Nobody I know here tonight. Ah, well, gotta go, kids. Leave everything to me, okay? Love that hat, Francis.” With a perfect air kiss good-bye, Caroline Marcus sauntered away into the Los Angeles evening.

  Francis and Silva weren’t sure what they had agreed to. They finished their coffee and signaled for the check. The waitress simpered and glanced toward the door leading to the kitchen. A stylish woman, all smiles, was immediately at their table. “My chef would like to cook you something special.”

  Francis didn’t understand why she would want to do this, but he had noted the menu prices. “Thank you, we have to go.”

  “Oh.” The manager was obviously disappointed, but recovered quickly. “I couldn’t possibly allow you to pay. It’s on us. But please come back. You must try our food next time.”

  Francis started to protest, but the woman would have none of it. “I love your films,” she said, as she escorted them out.

  The Chateau Marmont was a legend in the 1930s, host to some of the most famous and infamous Hollywood
movers and shakers. Overlooking the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood, it was still a very trendy, hip kind of place, imbued with the faded romance of another era. On any given night, an eclectic assortment of names checked in at the Chateau Marmont. They liked the anonymity that came with the reservation.

  Caroline Marcus’s friends ranged over the Los Angeles society spectrum. Corinne Lorraine, the beautiful French owner of the upscale Cafe Luna on Melrose, and hopeless animal lover, insisted on catering the event. The vintner Domaine Chandon graciously donated champagne. A decent number of Caroline’s actor and director clients promised to put in an appearance.

  By late October, the Malibu fires that had kept CNN viewers spellbound for days had cast gloom and ash all over the city, and the fires were still smoldering. Indeed, some of the expected guests had been literally burned out of their homes. Ticket sales for the benefit were not great. Francis had every reason to expect a disaster, and did.

  Maria Petersen watched the unfolding of events with interest. “Don’t worry,” she assured the nervous Silva and Francis, “Wolfgang and I will bring lots of friends. You will be a success.”

  Silva and Francis walked into a clamor of glamor that first Saturday night in November. A trio mimicking the Blues Brothers, complete with shades, added smooth bass, guitar, and drums to the buzz of conversations of pretty people.

  Silva thought everything was going fine, but Caroline was disappointed. “I was hoping for a better turnout,” she said.

  Francis noticed his palms were sweaty. “Don’t move,” Silva said and fetched them both a glass of champagne.

  Suddenly, Francis would later say, “It all flamed over.” What nobody had anticipated was the attraction the benefit would hold for the hotel’s guests. The party began indoors but spilled out into a courtyard. The outside area was an open-door invitation and everyone came to play.