by Nick Trout
“But what about your daughter? I got the impression she wouldn’t mind whether it’s a nursing home or her own home, she just wants you to get the care you need.”
“Have you seen her home?”
“Yes, I have.”
“You met Lionel?”
I take a sip of my tea, trying not to wince. It’s acrid from stewing too long.
“Exactly,” she says. “He might swear up and down how he’ll make a nice apartment out back, but Lionel’s always quick to chime in about his allergy. He’d love it if I croaked.”
I should argue with her, suggest her son-in-law might find it hard to show his true feelings, but I reckon she’s right. That’s why I have no problem throwing Lionel under the bus.
“The allergy thing is a lie. When I visited, I made sure he came into contact with fur and canine saliva, the most common dog-related allergens. He never sneezed, scratched, or sniffed once.”
Mavis’s lips peel back to reveal her beaming dentures.
“Your dad told me I’d like you. So apart from trying to kill him, why would you visit his house?”
I flash my eyebrows and let a breath of exhaled air fill my cheeks. “Well… I, I don’t know… Look, I managed to fix Crispin’s tail. You want me to fetch him from the—”
“Sit back down. Why’d you visit his house?”
I shrug and wonder how Amy might reply. “Some people say I’m nosy. I prefer curious. I’ve always liked solving any kind of puzzle.”
“I like puzzles,” says Mavis, digging under her cushion to show me her “incredibly challenging” Sudoku. “But there’s more to it than that.”
“Not really,” I say, working on an awkward smile.
The concavity afflicting her spine cinches a little tighter, a finger henpecking in my direction. “Yes really.” Her grin captures every wrinkle of her face like the barometric lines of a low-pressure system. “Just like your father. Easily hooked, all in, and duty bound to do what is right.”
“Please, he was the saint, not me. I just wanted to make sure you considered all your options. This way you know you can keep Crispin and live with your daughter, assuming you want to.”
Mavis narrows her eyes but lets me appreciate a glint of satisfaction.
“Some might say you’re meddling in matters that don’t concern you.”
I nod. “Fair enough, but they obviously mattered to my father. Think of it as carrying on where he left off.”
“It’s more than that,” she says, taking a sip. “You’re trying to finish the job.” Mavis studies me, lowers the mug, and adds, “You’re an odd one, Dr. Mills. Take it from someone who’s pretty good at pretending to be someone she’s not, it feels good to open up every now and then, let the world see what’s on the inside.”
I feel myself relax. Doctor-patient confidentiality works both ways. “Not me, Mrs. Peebles.”
“Just like your father. Well, not quite.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bobby Cobb was a lot smoother round the edges. He talked a lot about you.”
“He did?”
“All the time. Worried about you being alone.”
I let the word “alone” settle and then shiver from its emotional chill. Amazing. My father can still reach out and touch me through his devoted clients.
“But the lengths to which you’ve gone for me, it says a lot. You should let it show.”
“I am who I am, Mrs. Peebles.”
She reaches over to Stash, who shimmies sideways and leans in for a scratch. Even when he’s getting attention he’s intent on making it as easy as possible.
“Tell me,” Mavis says. “When you and this dog are alone, how do you act?”
I think about it. “I don’t act. But it’s different with a dog.”
“Is it?” Her lobster-claw hand makes gentle pincer movements behind Stash’s left ear that have him transfixed. “You keep things simple, let the dog know how you really feel. It’s not complicated. It’s honest. Alone with a dog you’re allowed to shine. Be the person your dog expects you to be. I got to see that side. Bet most folks aren’t so lucky.”
Now I’m getting pep talks from a crazy lady with a stuffed dead dog.
“Let me grab Crispin,” I say, getting to my feet, Stash making no move to follow me. I head out to the truck. Be the person your dog expects you to be. Where did she get that phrase?
Poor Crispin slides out the back of the flatbed, and, hugging him to my chest, I carry him back to the house. He’s incredibly light, literally a husk of his former self, but his importance is a weight that will never change.
“Shall I put him in his usual spot?” I ask, carefully docking his castors with the reciprocal depressions in the carpet.
In her excitement and the struggle to put down her tea and get to her feet, Mavis loses her grip on the mug, the spill pooling toward her Kindle.
“I’ll get that,” I say, heading toward the kitchen, but the black blur is already back, clean white tea towel in his mouth, plopped down in the center of the milky brown puddle. Obviously Stash wasn’t just scouting the kitchen for food, he was getting the lay of the land, a helpful recon mission.
“Good dog,” says Mavis, mopping up the spill, glancing my way, truly impressed.
I say nothing, not because I don’t have something to say, but because I’m afraid of what needs to be said. It’s so obvious. This is what Stash was trained to do, loves to do, needs to do. His raison d’être is to be of service. That’s why he follows me everywhere, why he hates to be left alone. Everything that makes me incredulous, in awe of this creature, is nothing but a trick, but to someone like Mavis Peebles, someone who needs him, it’s the difference between opening a door or staying shut in behind it, the difference between light and dark, between leaving something lying on the floor or picking it up. Independence or a kind of imprisonment. It’s as obvious as it is painful.
But what of Mavis’s fears about adopting a new dog? Easy. I’d love to take Stash for daily walks, and, if ever there came a time, I’d have him back in a heartbeat.
That leaves the daughter, “Patricia, call me Trish,” and her faux-allergic husband. Though Stash is inherently hypoallergenic, I can confirm that in Lionel’s case, my “laying on of hands” met with no adverse reaction. Whether Trish approves, wants her mother to move right in, or stay put, that’s none of my business. Again, if Stash needs a home, I’ll be first in line.
“Mrs. Peebles…”
Twenty minutes later, my phone call made, I drop to one knee and take Stash’s head in my hands. For all his loyalty, devotion, and unwavering service, it’s time for me to give him something in return. We lock eyes, and finally I get to deliver the magic words.
“Stash. Free time.”
Part of me imagined it would be like hitting a switch, turning him off, the doodle slumping to the floor relieved to be off duty. It shows how much I know about dogs. Instead Stash lights up, spins on his back legs, charges off into the kitchen, and sprints back with a tea towel in his mouth, goading me into playing a game of tug-o’-war.
“Call me if you need anything,” I tell Mavis, reining in the crazy doodle with a “Stash, sit” while tying the towel to the handle of the front door. Some time ago Trish had made sure the round knobs were traded for long handles to ensure better leverage. Now, with “Stash, door” (it wasn’t hard to figure out), life is even easier.
“You’re sure about this?” asks Mavis.
I’m trying to keep in the moment, to make the logical, practical choice, but with a newfound spirit of honesty, I say, “No, I’m not. I’m going to miss him. But somehow I know Stash is sure, and that’s what counts.”
Mavis escorts me to the front door, and I can’t help but feel stung by the way Stash has already chosen to be at her side, not mine. Without saying a word, she gestures with a hand, encouraging me to leave, as though she’s well versed in the art of difficult goodbyes—best to make them quick, clean, and final. What is it abo
ut people who’ve done some serious living? Instinctively, Mavis knows not to reach out, not to touch me, not to say more.
Shuffling down the icy incline to the truck—the man who came with two dogs, leaving with none—I resolve not to look back. Maybe the arctic air helps the blanket of cold objectivity settle in around me. It’s not meant to make me feel normal; it’s meant to make me feel less. I need to think of it this way: Stash gets to utilize his many talents and Mavis gets a new beginning. I pat the Polaroid memento I’ve been carrying around in my breast pocket.
Cautious of the slope and the possibility of black ice, I slip-slide my way to the truck, hop inside, and turn on the engine. Foot on the brake, gear in neutral, I’m about to roll back when the rustle of a lace curtain in an upstairs window catches my eye and I see a figure staring down at me—it’s Stash.
He’s only there for a few seconds—scruffy, intense, and unfailingly determined to make things better—but it is more than enough to feel good about my decision. I witnessed how Stash’s training gave him purpose, but the cynic in me got to feel his gift. If he can lift me up, then for someone like Mavis, this dog is a life preserver.
20
I’D LIKE TO THINK THE DECISION CAME DOWN TO MY training as a pathologist, but I can’t ignore the phrase be the person your dog expects you to be. My life coach swami, Mavis Peebles, had a point about deconstructing my feelings and venting my inner monologue. Around Stash I was unguarded. I was the real me, and like it or not, this real me continues to gravitate toward a baffling and demoralizing waitress. In my old job, when something was dead or dying, I had to know why. If Amy refuses to come clean about the man who, on paper, is her husband, and there’s still something to salvage in our floundering (hopefully not dead or dying) relationship, then I must uncover the truth by another route, by asking Marco Tellucci himself.
Figuring out the where and when was easy. A guy called Liam, working the front desk, took my call.
“Hi, Liam, I’m supposed to be meeting my friend for dinner tonight at the inn, and I can’t remember whether Mr. Tellucci booked for seven thirty or eight.”
“Just a moment.” A pause. “That’s eight o’clock, sir.”
So, still around and with limited dining options in Eden Falls.
“Thanks. And it’s just the two of us, right?”
“That’s what it says, sir.”
The “who” is a little more tricky because in this context it’s about who Tellucci has invited to join him. Yesterday, at the K of C, Amy shot me down for trying to set up a date for tonight. If she’s the one dining with her husband, I’d have to lure him away from their table to face him, mano a mano. Or, I could storm in there, play the part of the rejected lover, and demand an explanation in front of the other diners. Or, I think as I stand under the hot shower with just over an hour to go before eight, perhaps it would be easier (and safer) to simply call his room.
I imagine myself as the high school geek (not much of a leap), the one with the crush on the popular cheerleader, the one who let her copy his homework because she said hello to him in class, the one who plucked up the courage to ask her to the senior prom, watching her laugh, gag, and recoil because she already had a date with the handsome quarterback. If only this meeting were a twenty-year reunion, and Marco Tellucci turned out to be an alcoholic, abusive womanizer, recently terminated from his place of employment and the victim of a senseless random acid attack to the face.
I step out of the tub, towel off, and watch my reflection appear in the steamy bathroom vanity mirror above the sink. Since there’s a good chance Amy will be there I want to look my best, which means shaving for the second time today. I’m hoping for contrast with Tellucci, who probably prefers to show off a five o’clock shadow that grows out by eleven most mornings. Rummaging through my father’s medicine cabinet door, I discover a bottle of Old Spice aftershave and an ancient tub of Brylcreem for men. I splash a few drops into my palms and slap my bare cheeks. Hardly the pheromone I was hoping for, and dipping my fingers into the sticky white gel, I’m not convinced “just a little dab’ll do ya!” In order to overpower that pesky cowlick, my hair congeals into a greasy, slick helmet. What an idiot. I turn on the shower and start over.
Ten minutes later and I’ve moved from personal grooming to fashion. If this turns into an altercation I might do well to wear something substantial like chain mail or a Kevlar vest. But what if there’s a dress code or I have to hang out in the restaurant waiting to pounce? Still out of my comfort zone but having learned my lesson, I iron a plain white cotton shirt. Though my father’s old blue blazer feels a little too nautical to me, complete with tiny anchors embossed on the gold-colored buttons on the cuffs, it fits well enough. That leaves me with one more decision—wear a tie or sport an open neck. Part of me wishes I had a silk ascot or a thick gold medallion and a bounty of bushy chest hair, hoping to see Amy’s reaction. But this is Vermont, and I’m only there for a reckoning. I tuck the tie (my one and only) inside my breast pocket, just in case.
First order of business is gasoline for the Silverado, and as I roll up to the pumps, a figure in a black ski mask suddenly appears at my window. I’m halfway into the passenger seat thinking I’m about to get carjacked when I remember the gas station is full service.
“Forty dollars of regular,” I shout, squeezing two twenties through a crack in the glass just in case, and the would-be assailant disappears, leaving me with an unwelcome reminder of Healthy Paws—an ad, a glossy conspicuous banner strung over the pump. Only this one has been defiled. Oh, there’s the familiar logo, the smiling faces on the pet and human models, but the last seven digits of the telephone number have been covered over with a strip of duct tape and replaced by different numbers handwritten in black Sharpie.
I check out the other pumps on the lot, each vandalized in the same manner. I could blame another round of bad luck for Guy Dorkin, a printing error with the advertising company. But something tells me this correction comes courtesy of Gilligan the collie, Drew’s silent way of saying thanks. I’m not sure how he explained it away to his boss, but dialing the phone number for “the best veterinary practice around” puts you straight through to Bedside Manor.
On the drive to The Inn at Falls View, I finalize my strategy. Catching Tellucci alone will be preferable—more civilized, less dramatic. There could be an opportunity to accost him on a bathroom visit. He might receive an anonymous tip that a man in a blue blazer appears to be keying his Humvee. Either way, a confrontation away from Amy will avoid—no, minimize—her outrage (or at least I won’t have to witness it), and I won’t be subjected to a humiliating bout of comparison-shopping with her husband. Let’s face it, I can’t compete with the Italian when it comes to looks and money, leaving me with what—character? According to the Internet (which never lies), the top three winning traits men should exude around women are confidence, wit, and sensitivity. This explains everything. Intelligence, arguably my greatest strength, appears to be optional. Though the Italian may be smart and successful, I’m hoping his opulence comes courtesy of a trust fund, lifelong mooching, or some illicit activity that I can report to our hotshot detective, Chief Devito.
Ironically I park next to the white Humvee (pleased to see that salt and slush have soiled its showroom dazzle), jog up the steps of the main entrance and through the lobby, and head for the bar and restaurant.
“Hey, Doc, finally,” says George, dressed in what appears to be a uniform of black pants, black shirt, and narrow black tie. “Here for dinner?”
“Yes, I’m meeting some… people I know.”
“Excellent. And look at this.”
He pulls out his smartphone and begins swiping his index finger across the greasy surface.
“See: before… after.”
He’s flicking between two photographs showing close-ups of Henry the cat’s nasal deformity. It’s been two days since I dropped off the medication. I wouldn’t expect visible signs of improvement for at least a we
ek, which is why they look identical to me.
“That’s great,” I say, remembering a scientific article describing how nearly forty percent of pet owners thought their dog’s lameness got better despite being given sugar pills. If George is happy, I’m happy. Placebo effect or not, like Lewis says, “The owner’s always right.”
“Can’t thank you enough,” says George. “You want to wait at the bar? Grab that drink?”
It’s at this point I realize my plan is riddled with holes. What am I going to do, spy on them? And what am I going to say? “Excuse me, but you seem to be married to the woman of my dreams.”
“Why not,” I reply, and George gestures for me to follow.
It turns out the bar is perfect—empty, dark, and offering a view into a romantically lit dining room dominated by an elaborate plaster ceiling from which hangs a monster of a chandelier. There’s a round table for eight directly below and it’s empty. Given the context of why I’m here, it’s hardly surprising that I’m reminded of the movie The War of the Roses. If love is blind, marriage is like having a stroke.
I position myself on a corner stool where I can hide behind a floor-to-ceiling wooden support beam. Overhead, the sound of a string quartet on the speaker system stifles the murmur of diners in discreet conversation. It’s a slow Sunday night in winter, but even so, George has strategically placed his patrons to fool new guests into thinking the place is far from dead. I half envy a bearded man, picking at his food, head buried in a book, and I notice the couple I saw the other day in the hotel lobby. I wondered whether they were on their way to some sort of winter sporting activity. Thanks to sunglasses and inadequate sunblock, their raccoon impersonations suggest the answer was yes.
“What can I get you?” asks George, coming around the bar.
