The aroma of hot, ground roast coffee hung in the air and I sniffed appreciatively. Betty picked up one of two styrofoam cups sitting on the desk and handed it over. One sip and I was in heaven.
“This didn’t come from the teachers’ lounge.”
“Of course not. That’s stuff’s undrinkable. Hay Day Market. I stopped on my way in.”
The way I looked at it, I was probably being set up. That being the case, I might as well take another sip and enjoy the bribe.
“I’ve got a kid I want you to take a look at.”
“Test, you mean?” The process for identifying children who were eligible to be part of my program could be long and needlessly complex. Among other things, it involved determining the difference between an individual’s potential and achievement, then bringing the results before a meeting of a Pupil Placement Team.
“No, nothing that formal. Besides, using the usual quantitative methods, I don’t think he would qualify.”
I put down my briefcase, pulled out the desk chair and had a seat. “So, what’s the problem?”
“His name is Timmy Doane and he’s new to the school this year. He’s not LD, I’m almost sure of it. But he’s been slow to make friends and he has trouble concentrating on his work. We’re six weeks into the school year and he’s beginning to fall behind. Nothing big yet, but all the same, something I’d just as soon nip in the bud.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Take him into your group for a couple of weeks, see if the extra attention draws him out. He’s a sweet kid, smart too. I’m pretty sure all he needs is a jump start to get him going.”
I thought for a moment. Currently the third grade group was one of my smallest, probably because Betty was doing such a good job. I knew who Timmy Doane was; I’d seen him when I was working in the classroom. He was small and quiet, and integrating him into my group shouldn’t be any problem at all.
“Are you going to do the paperwork?” I asked her.
“Hell, no.” Betty laughed heartily. “I’m just going to look the other way.”
It sounded like a plan to me. Betty levered herself up and left. As I finished off my coffee, the first bell rang.
By the time Davey and I get home in the afternoon, Faith has been cooped up for a good part of the day. That’s hard on a dog, especially a puppy. Luckily she’s a Standard Poodle which means that she’s gifted with enough patience and intelligence to cope.
I barely had the front door open before Davey shot past me and ran down the hall to the kitchen. That’s where we keep Faith’s crate, which is where she stays while we’re gone during the day. I heard Faith whining excitedly as the locks on her crate snapped open. Then the back door opened and slammed shut and they were gone.
Thumbing through the mail, I made my way to the kitchen more slowly. Davey’d left the crate door open and although by now I should know better, I still managed to trip over it and tear a hole in my pantyhose.
“Damn,” I muttered, nudging the door shut with my toe. The crate didn’t exactly fit in the kitchen, which was why I was always knocking into it. Getting it had been Aunt Peg’s idea. In the beginning I’d resisted like crazy. I’d thought of it as a cage, one that any self-respecting dog owner should be loathe to stuff her pet into.
But in the last month, I’ve become a convert. For starters, the crate made housebreaking a breeze. Then it eliminated the problem of unwanted chewing when we weren’t around to oversee what Faith was up to. But what really sold me on it was Faith herself. It didn’t take me long to see that she doesn’t think of the crate as a cage; she sees it as her den, the place she can go to get some privacy when she wants to escape from humans for a while.
Like parenting, this dog-owning business is a continual learning process. I saw the crate as punishment. Faith thinks of it as home.
I got up and tossed the mail on the counter. No notification from the lottery. Not even an envelope from Publisher’s Clearinghouse. Only a few bills and a catalogue from Victoria’s Secret. Just looking at those pictures depresses me. In my next life I plan to join an aerobics class, lose ten pounds, dye my hair blond, and learn how to apply eyeshadow to smoldering effect.
In the meantime I have Davey, and now Faith, to keep me busy.
I looked out into the backyard through the window over the sink. Boy and dog were spinning in ever smaller circles around the swing set. I wondered how long it would be before one of them missed a step and knocked himself silly. In general, these are the types of questions that occupy my day.
I opened the back door and stuck my head out. “Come on in. Get a drink, grab a cookie. We’ve got to get going.”
Without missing a beat, the two of them included me in their circle and came flying up the stairs. “Where are we going?” asked Davey.
“Out for a ride in the car.”
“Can Faith come?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Yippee!”
Oh, to be five again, and to live a life where things were just that simple.
Stratford is a good half-hour drive from Stamford; and north Stratford, where Crystal Mars’s kennel was located, took even longer. Davey, who gets impatient on any trip that’s longer than around the block, entertained us with eighteen verses of “Frère Jacques” which he’d learned that week in school. He gave the words a spin all his own: Frère Jacques became fair-o jock-o. Despite the efforts of the Stamford school system, I don’t think my son will be bilingual any time soon.
Crystal’s North Moon Boarding Kennel was located out in the country at the end of a long, rut-filled, dirt road. Driving in, I wondered about the name. North Moon. Did such a thing exist? And if it did, could one by implication, designate a south moon? Maybe the name had some sort of astrological significance that I was unaware of, which is entirely possible because when it comes to astrology, I’m unaware of a lot of things.
Crystal was obviously taken with the lunar motif because moons were pictured everywhere: on the sign, the gate, and the building itself. Some were full and round and had the unfortunate luck to be decorated with eyes and a mouth. Maybe Crystal had been aiming for the nursery rhyme effect but I thought they looked like an anemic version of those stupid yellow happy faces people had plastered everywhere a few years back.
Davey didn’t want to come inside the kennel with me, and I saw no reason to insist. The Volvo had come perilously close to losing its axle on the road coming in, so it was a good bet nobody else would be arriving at any great speed. I slipped Faith’s collar on and looped the end of her lead around Davey’s wrist. Leaving them to explore, I went off in search of Crystal Mars.
From what I’d heard and seen so far, I half expected her to be an overage hippie with tie-dyed clothing and hair down to her waist. A pot of incense burning in the corner wouldn’t have surprised me either. So when I walked into the reception room of the kennel and found it to look very much like all the others I had visited, I was almost disappointed.
Wind chimes did tinkle above my head as I opened the door. I guessed that was something.
“Be right there,” a voice called from the next room.
“No hurry.”
The room was large enough to hold a desk, two file cabinets and a tattered-looking couch. The faint odor of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Here there were no show pictures on the walls; instead the space was filled with an assortment of warm doggie sayings. Happiness is a Cold Nose. Home is Where the Beagle Lays His Head.
One was not so warm, but was deliciously funny. “I got a Schnauzer for my husband,” it said across the top. Below, “It was a very good trade.”
I was still chuckling over that one when Crystal Mars appeared. She was certainly old enough to have enjoyed the hippie era, but nary a love bead seemed to have survived. Her gray hair was close cropped and finger combed. Her blue jeans were worn; and her turtleneck sweater, sturdy and serviceable.
Her blue eyes followed the direction of my gaze and she grinne
d. “Lots of women get a kick out of that one. I’ve had it printed on a tee shirt in case you’re interested.”
“Maybe,” I considered. That would be one way to explain Bob’s absence. “Actually I came to buy some of your kibble. I hear it’s great for problem eaters.”
“It is. Even more important, it’s good for them. I use only the highest quality products and I buy everything fresh locally. Chicken, rice, corn meal. It’s all natural, no additives, no preservatives, and no filler. Remember that ethoxyquin scare a couple years back?”
I shook my head, but it didn’t matter to Crystal. She just kept going.
“All the big dog food companies went through it. That’s what happens when you manufacture in huge batches that end up sitting on supermarket shelves for months. Ethoxyquin’s a preservative. All of a sudden, somebody decided it was dangerous and nobody wanted any part of it. Dog breeders stampeded in eight different directions at once. Trouble was, it was in almost every manufactured kibble. Except mine, of course.”
“All right, you’ve sold me,” I said when she paused to take a breath. “I’ll try twenty pounds.”
“Small bite or large?”
“Small, um. . . large.”
Crystal smiled. Obviously making customers’ decisions for them was nothing new to her. “What kind of dog?”
“Standard Poodle puppy. Six months old and growing even as we speak. I was thinking small, because she’s a puppy; large because twenty pounds should last awhile.”
“We’ll start you with small.” Crystal disappeared into the next room and came back toting a twenty-pound sack with ease. “Next time you can move up. What’s your puppy’s name?”
“Faith.”
“Faith,” she repeated, writing up a slip. “I like that.”
She would. I decided not to ruin it by telling her the puppy had sisters named Hope and Charity.
“Hey, Mom!” A slender girl of about nine or ten poked her head out of the back room. She had dark, pixie-cut hair and a gap between her two front teeth. “What’s the capital of Ethiopia?”
“Look it up,” said Crystal. “That’s why I got you those encyclopedias.”
“But they’re all the way up at the house and my homework’s here!”
“Life’s tough.” Crystal was grinning, but she held her ground.
“Hi, I’m Sarah.” The girl turned to me. “Do you know the capital of Ethiopia?”
“Khartoum?” I guessed and got a disgusted look.
“That’s the Sudan.”
“The encyclopedias are in your room,” Crystal repeated.
Sarah slammed the door on the way out.
“My daughter,” she said unnecessarily.
“My son’s outside.”
“How old?”
“Five.”
“Nice age. Can I get you anything else?” Crystal glanced meaningfully toward the sayings on the wall.
“Not today.” The temperature was a brisk forty-five. It would be months before I’d think of wearing tee-shirts again.
“I’ve got a special running on rawhide bones, just today. They’re pure and unbleached. Puppies have a natural instinct to chew, you know, and the bones are great for their teeth. . . .”
By the time I got out the door I was juggling twenty pounds of kibble, two rawhide bones, a sampler box of treats, and a brochure about the boarding kennel she’d tucked in my hand, just in case. “You never know when you might want to get away,” she said.
Luckily it was just that phrase that got me moving. If I didn’t get away from Crystal soon, I was going to have to trade her the Volvo to pay for the supplies.
For once Davey was more or less where I’d left him. I threw everything I’d bought in the back of the Volvo and went to see what he and Faith were looking at. Crystal’s kennel didn’t have runs. Instead there were two large pens, one opening out on either side of the building. The one on the left held a sable Collie with a gray muzzle who’d offered up a few halfhearted yips when we came in, then gone back to sleep in the sun. Davey and Faith were standing beside the pen on the right.
“Hey champ,” I said, coming up behind them. “What’s up?”
Davey turned and grinned. “We found a Poodle, just like Faith. Look Mommy, they want to be friends.”
I stepped in closer and was able to see through the chain link behind him. The pen held only one occupant, a black Mini who was touching his nose with Faith’s through the fence and wagging his tail like mad.
There was something about him. . . .
I looked again quickly, expecting my first impression to change. It didn’t. I’d seen the dog in the pen before.
It was Jenny’s Miniature Poodle, Ziggy.
Eight
That wasn’t possible; Ziggy was dead. Jenny had told me so herself. But even knowing that, I had to admit that this Poodle looked exactly like him.
I blinked slowly and took a deep breath. I reminded myself of the difficulty I’d had in positively identifying Beau the summer before, even after I’d found him. I thought about how many times I’d moaned that all black Poodles looked alike.
And they did, up to a point.
But with Aunt Peg’s persistent coaching, I’d finally begun to see the subtle differences in conformation, movement, and expression that distinguished one Poodle from the next. Living with Faith, my education had continued. She and Hope were litter sisters, and similar in many traits. But now, like Aunt Peg, I could tell them apart easily. My eye was becoming that much more discerning.
And damn it, this Poodle looked enough like Ziggy to be his twin.
“Mommy, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing, honey.” I took Davey’s hand and looped Faith’s leash around my own fingers. “I was just looking at the Mini.”
“He wants to come out and play with us.”
“Of course he does. It’s no fun being cooped up like that.”
I started to walk away, pulling Faith and Davey with me. I wanted to see what the Mini would do; maybe bark at us or run away. I was sure that almost any response would push aside the image of Ziggy that had lodged itself so firmly in my mind.
For a moment the little Poodle simply stood, pressed up against the fence and whining. Faith looked back and pulled against her collar. When I kept walking, she followed reluctantly. Then the Mini turned and ran to the other side of the pen. He bent down and picked up a toy and tossed it high in the air. A stuffed rat. It tumbled end over end and when it was in range he leapt up and snatched it on the fly.
I was back at his fence in a flash. “Ziggy?” I bent down and threaded my fingers though the wire. “Come here, boy.”
Of course he came. It was no fun to have nobody to play with. Hadn’t I just told Davey that?
So I discounted the way he pricked his ears when I said his name and wagged his tail up over his back when I scratched the sides of his muzzle. Any Poodle would have responded to that.
But throwing the toy up and catching it, then racing it proudly around the pen? I’d seen Jenny’s Mini do that every week before the start of class. That move was Ziggy, through and through.
“I thought we were going,” said Davey.
“We are, in just a minute. You and Faith stay out here and play with this Poodle some more. I just have to see the lady inside about something.”
“Okay.” My son grinned devilishly. “Did you forget to pay?”
We’d had stern words recently about a pack of bubble gum he’d pocketed in a drugstore. Once outside, he’d produced his booty proudly as if a new and wonderful trick had been accomplished. Look Mom, and I didn’t even have to spend any of your money.
“No, I didn’t forget to pay.” Don’t ever let anyone tell you motherhood isn’t a full-time job. Just this instilling of values business is enough to keep me up nights. “This is about something else, okay?”
The wind chimes tinkled again and once again, Crystal called that she’d be right out. This time I was too impatient to wait. I w
alked through the doorway into the next room which turned out to be a small, well-stocked storage area. Several papers spread out over the top of a packing crate indicated where Sarah had been doing her homework. Crystal looked like she was in the process of taking inventory. She was shifting through several bags of kibble and making notations on a clipboard. She turned around, saw me, and smiled.
“Back already? Don’t tell me—you want the tee shirt, right?”
“No, I want to talk. Do you have a minute? It’s important.”
“Sure.” She set the clipboard down. “Come on, let’s go back out to the office.”
“It’s about the Miniature Poodle in the pen outside. Whose dog is he?”
We lost eye contact so fast it was almost dizzying. Up until that minute, Crystal’s gaze had been confident and direct. Now she looked away and busied herself with clearing space for us on the couch.
“Seat?” she offered.
I sat, only because it wasn’t worth arguing over. Then I got right back to the point. “Whose Mini is that, Crystal?”
Her hands fluttered briefly in her lap. “He’s a boarder dog.”
“Who owns him?”
“I don’t understand why you want to know. What business could it possibly be of yours?”
The question was a valid one. In her place I probably would have asked the same thing. But Crystal’s waffling had only served to solidify my suspicions. I was sure that Ziggy was outside and I wanted to know why.
Jenny had told me that her dog was dead. Now Jenny was dead. And I wasn’t leaving until I got some answers.
“I’m asking because I’ve seen that Poodle before. His name is Ziggy and he belonged to Jenny Maguire.”
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