Underdog

by Laurien Berenson

  “So Rick did let her show the dog,” I said, coming up to stand beside Sam and Aunt Peg.

  “Looks that way,” said Aunt Peg. “Now let’s see if it pays off.”

  “Let me see! Let me see!” Davey elbowed his way to the front. I stood him by the rail and kept a hand on his shoulder to discourage any thoughts he might have of disappearing.

  “Rick Maguire?” Sam asked under his breath. Clearly he was experienced in the way of ringside chit-chat. Rule Number One: never talk about a dog in the ring in a voice loud enough to be overheard because without fail someone attached to the dog is standing within earshot.

  I nodded. “The ascob Cocker is his. Or to be more precise, he was Jenny’s dog to show. That’s Jenny’s sister, Angie, in with him now.”

  Angie was nervous. Even from ringside, I could see that. But while nerves fluster me, they seemed to energize her. The first time around the ring, with all the dogs gaiting together, she was a mess. But from there, her performance improved steadily. As for Charlie, the Cocker knew he had a job to do and he did it.

  None of us were surprised when the pair made the cut. And by the time the final placements were made, Charlie was putting on such a show that winning seemed almost inevitable. The applause, when the judge pointed to the buff Cocker for first, was long and sustained.

  Angie accepted the rosette and the trophy that went with it. She left the ring and walked straight over to where Rick and Mrs. Byrd were waiting. The older woman was smiling with satisfaction. Rick enveloped Angie in a hug. Charlie leapt up and down, clamoring for attention.

  They all looked so happy. Dog, handler, and owner celebrating the success their efforts had achieved. Except that one vital member of the team was missing. Gone, never to return. Why was I the only one who was thinking about her?

  Twelve

  The day had gone so well up to that point that I decided to prolong it by inviting everyone back to my house for pizza. Sam accepted immediately. That made me feel terrific, until I remembered the dirty breakfast dishes in the sink and the toys scattered around the living room floor.

  Aunt Peg accepted too, but I’d known she would. All day long, she’d been watching me watch Rick and Angie. She wouldn’t ask any questions at the show—Aunt Peg was much too savvy for that—but I knew she was dying to find out what was going on.

  We formed a caravan heading home. Aunt Peg led the way because she can’t stand to drive behind anyone else. The sight of a traffic-filled highway brings out all her competitive instincts and woe to the driver on the road with her who doesn’t ignore the speed limit in the passing lane. I’d ridden with her often enough to be glad Davey and I were safe in the Volvo, following along behind.

  Once we crossed the Whitestone Bridge, Aunt Peg took off and I knew we wouldn’t see her again until we got home. But there in my rearview mirror was Sam’s Bronco, its steady presence a curious comfort. A woman alone can find pleasure in the most mundane things.

  Davey had had plenty of stimulation at the show. By the time the pizza arrived, he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. He gulped down a slice and a half, extracted a promise that I would save the leftovers for him, then trundled off to bed with Faith and Peaches trailing in his wake.

  By common consensus the conversation had remained light while he was with us. But no sooner had his pajama-clad feet padded up the stairs than Aunt Peg got down to business. “I want to hear everything,” she said. “What in the world is going on?”

  “For starters, Ziggy’s alive.”

  “He’s not!”

  “He is.”

  “Who’s Ziggy?”

  This last was from Sam. He helped himself to his third slice of pizza while Aunt Peg and I filled him in on the background, including the fact that nobody seemed to think that Jenny’s death was an accident anymore.

  “But Ziggy can’t be alive,” Aunt Peg argued when that was done. “Jenny said he was dead.”

  “Jenny was lying.”

  “Or mistaken,” said Sam.

  “This was no mistake. Ziggy was never hit by a car at all. Jenny took him up to a boarding kennel in Stratford. She paid two weeks in advance and told the owner she’d be back for him.”

  “You mean two weeks later she was suddenly going to produce the dog alive?” Aunt Peg frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It gets worse. Crystal Mars—the woman who owns the kennel—told me that Rick hated Ziggy. Jenny hadn’t exactly said as much, but Crystal assumed that’s why the Mini was there. But today when I asked Rick about Ziggy, he said the dog was his pet, that he was the one who bought him in the first place as a wedding present for Jenny.”

  “What a sweet idea,” said Aunt Peg.

  Sam ignored the sentiment and went straight for logic. “If Rick feels that way, why is Ziggy still with Crystal Mars?”

  “Because apparently, like everyone else, he thinks the Mini is dead.” I lifted the box top and took my time, deliberating between the two sides of the pizza: pepperoni and onion or mushroom and sausage.

  “That’s crazy!” cried Aunt Peg.

  “Tell me about it.” Sausage and mushroom won out. I slid a thick slice onto my plate. “And here’s something else.”

  “There’s more?” Aunt Peg laid down her fork.

  “See? I told you you should have answered those phone messages.”

  “You should have tried me,” said Sam. “I would have called back.”

  It’s hard to smile with pizza in your mouth, but I managed it. Did I mention he has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. . .?

  “Oh pish,” said Aunt Peg, looking back and forth between us. “You two can save that for later. I want to hear the rest of the story.”

  It was like trying to sneak a kiss under the watchful eye of the prom chaperone. This was no way to conduct a relationship. I chewed and swallowed slowly. “Where was I?”

  “Promising me more, I believe.”

  “Right. Remember how Angie told me at the wake that Jenny had been unhappy? She implied that maybe her sister had committed suicide?”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” said Sam.

  “At the time, I didn’t believe it. But now Angie says she’s found a suicide note.”

  “A note?” Aunt Peg shifted in her seat. “What did it say?”

  “I don’t know all the details, but it was something about how Jenny felt she had nothing to live for and losing Ziggy was the last straw.”

  “Except she hadn’t lost him!” Aunt Peg cried. “Didn’t you just tell us that?”

  “Don’t yell at me. I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “Try this on for size,” said Sam. “Maybe Jenny was desperately unhappy. The fact that you weren’t aware of it doesn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t so. Her sister seems to believe that.”

  “Rick doesn’t,” I pointed out.

  “Rick might have been the problem. And if so, he’s hardly likely to admit it. Suppose Jenny was planning to commit suicide. Everything you’ve told me suggests that she adored that Miniature Poodle.”

  Aunt Peg and I both nodded.

  “So she’d have wanted to make sure that he was very well provided for. For one reason or another, she doesn’t seem to have trusted Rick to provide that care, so she took him up to Stratford and left him with Crystal Mars.”

  Before he was finished, I was already shaking my head. “You should have seen the way Rick looked when he talked about losing Ziggy. He was all broken up.”

  “Then why didn’t you give him the good news and a set of directions to Stratford?”

  I had to admit, Sam had me there. “Because there are still too many unanswered questions for me to be entirely convinced about anything.”

  “I think you’re wrong, Sam.” Aunt Peg picked up a piece of crust and nibbled around the edges. “Because Jenny really did care about that dog. And if she didn’t tell Crystal what she was doing, how could she know for sure that Ziggy would continue to be cared for? What if when t
he bills stopped being paid, Crystal had just turned the dog out? There are a lot of kennel owners who’d do exactly that.”

  “Then you think that when Jenny dropped Ziggy off, she had every intention of going back for him. And if that’s the case, she couldn’t have killed herself.”

  “Then why did she write a suicide note?” asked Sam.

  I propped my elbows on the table and covered my face with my hands. “It’s all impossible, every bit of it. This whole thing is giving me a headache.”

  “Have another beer, dear.” Aunt Peg patted my arm comfortingly. “That will help.”

  “Three straight shots of tequila couldn’t help this,” I said, but I got up, went to the refrigerator and served another beer all the way around.

  Aunt Peg looked longingly at the last remaining slice of pizza, then pushed her plate away. “Why do you suppose Jenny felt she had nothing to live for?”

  Since Aunt Peg hadn’t taken it, I split the piece and put half on Sam’s plate and half on my own. “You know Rick said something today that made me wonder. He was talking about how after Ziggy died, he had looked into finding another puppy for Jenny. He said other couples had babies to keep them together. He and Jenny had dogs.”

  “So there was trouble in that marriage,” Aunt Peg mused. “Maybe he was thinking about leaving her.”

  “Maybe she was thinking about leaving him,” said Sam.

  “Then why didn’t she just go? Why kill herself instead?”

  “Because she felt she had nothing to live for,” said Sam, quoting the note.

  We’d talked ourselves around in a circle. And if things had become any clearer along the way, I certainly hadn’t noticed it.

  We finished off the last of the pizza and I dumped the dishes in the sink on top of those from breakfast. I offered to make tea, but Aunt Peg shook her head.

  “No, thank you. Dinner was lovely, but Peaches and I should be getting home.” She pecked each of us on the cheek, whistled for her Poodle and let herself out the front door.

  “Well. . .” I said, knitting my fingers together. Alone at last. Now what? “I should go up and check on Davey.”

  “Go ahead,” said Sam. “Do you want me to start coffee?”

  I shook my head and made my getaway. Or was it runaway? And why did I suddenly feel so skittish? Like if I stayed one more moment in that kitchen we were both going to spontaneously combust. The trouble was, half of me wanted that like crazy. The other half was scared to death.

  Davey, of course, was fine. He’d kicked off his covers but his breathing was deep and even. Faith, who’d draped her body along the length of his, supplied all the warmth he needed. She looked up as I entered the room and thumped her tail quietly, then laid down her head and went back to sleep. So much for finding any excuses upstairs.

  Back downstairs, I passed through the living room. I half expected to find Sam there, arranging for some soft lighting or slipping a CD in the player. The room was empty and I followed the sound of running water to the kitchen.

  Sam was standing at the sink washing dishes.

  Relief had me laughing. And once I started, I couldn’t stop.

  Sam glanced back over his shoulder. “What are you laughing at?”

  “Myself, I think.”

  “Oh?”

  “This isn’t where I expected to find you.”

  Sam rinsed off the last plate, then stacked it in the drain board and dried off his hands on a towel. “I thought you might take some time upstairs.”

  “Maybe slip into something more comfortable?”

  He crossed the room and wound his arms around me. “A man can always hope.”

  “Sam, I. . .”

  He silenced the thought with a kiss. That was just as well, because I had no idea what I intended to say. Sam, I want you? Sam, I don’t want you? Well that was a lie. But when he drew back, at least I knew what I needed to say.

  “Sam, I’m not ready.”

  “For what?”

  His fingers were tracing lazy circles over my back. Points of heat spiraled outward from his touch. If I didn’t get the words out soon, it was going to be much, much too late.

  “For this . . . for something serious . . . something irrevocable.”

  “Nothing’s irrevocable.” His voice was low and husky. It made me want to believe everything he had to say.

  I braced both hands against his shoulders and pushed gently away. “I can’t. I just need more time.”

  “Okay.” He released his hands and I stepped back. I was almost sorry he’d let go so easily. “Let’s see,” he said, considering. “Something that isn’t serious. How about if we sit on the couch and neck like teenagers?”

  “When I was a teenager, we did our necking in cars.”

  His brows waggled comically. “I’m game if you are.”

  I giggled at the expression on his face. For a moment, it almost was like being a teenager again. I felt giddy, light-headed, and more than a little tempted. “How about if we sit on the couch and talk?”

  He took my hand and we went into the living room. The lights were off and we didn’t turn them on. Luckily neither one of us tripped over any toys. Sam sat down first, then pulled my hand so that I ended up close beside him. Very close. I felt his lips on the side of my throat. My pulse began to race.

  “I thought we were going to talk.”

  “Go ahead,” Sam murmured. “I’m listening.”

  Okay, so I gave up. But just for a few minutes. Just long enough to discover that kissing Sam could reawaken every nerve ending in my entire body. Long enough to wonder if I was fighting the inevitable. And if so, wouldn’t it make more sense to simply give in. . . .

  That’s when Sam stood up.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said.

  “But—”

  He leaned down for one last hard kiss. “If I don’t leave now, I won’t leave at all.”

  That was my cue to tell him to stay. That was my chance to satisfy the part of my soul that yearned for him like a flower tilting toward the sun. But instead, I let him go. Instead, I said nothing at all.

  I sat on the couch, listened to the sound of my own breathing and watched out the front window as his taillights disappeared down the road. Why should I think I can figure out what happened between Rick and Jenny?

  Sometimes I don’t even understand myself.

  Thirteen

  Davey was going to be a fireman for Halloween. The year before he’d been a clown and the costume, bought big, still fit. But what was appropriate for preschool and what would impress his peers in kindergarten were, apparently, two different things. My child was aiming for a more grown-up image; and after I’d ruled out Dracula, who could drip blood, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon, who could drip gore, we’d settled on the fireman idea. The costume didn’t drip anything—although I’d volunteered to spray him with water—but it did have a helmet with an ear-splitting siren and Davey seemed to think that was almost as good.

  On Halloween, the children were to bring their costumes to school in a bag and then change at noon for the costume parade and party. The older kids could take care of themselves, but those in the younger grades all seemed to need help at once. Every available adult was pressed into service.

  I started in Davey’s room, helping with snaps and zippers and applying make-up, most of which consisted of dripping blood and gore. Three Cinderella wands had to be found and sorted out, and I rescued a bent tiara from beneath a pile of blocks.

  Then I made the mistake of telling my son he looked cute in his costume and snapping a picture. He fussed, his friends laughed, and I decided it was time to move on. When I was his age, cute was a good thing. When did five-year-olds become so sophisticated?

  I’d promised Betty Winslow some back-up, so I headed to her room next. The kindergarten classroom had been a study in controlled chaos; the third graders were aiming for total pandemonium. The decibel level alone was enough to rattle the windows. Batman and Superm
an were leaping from desk to desk. A dinosaur with a long, spiked tail had knocked three plants from the windowsill; and a laser gun fight had broken out near the sinks.

  None of which seemed to particularly perturb Betty, who was sitting in a corner with a tear-streaked fairy princess on her lap. She had a needle and thread in one hand and several pins in her mouth, and she was busy repairing a rip in the back of the costume. A swashbuckling pirate with eye patch and tin foil sword, who looked suspiciously like he might have been responsible, was hovering anxiously in the background.

  “Feel free to jump in anywhere you want,” said Betty, mumbling around the pins. “But watch out for that Samurai over there. He kicks.”

  “Got it.”

  I made my way cautiously into the room, thinking it was a good thing I wasn’t going to be around after the party when all the little darlings would be buzzed on a sugar high. Amazingly, despite the state of general upheaval, everyone seemed to be in pretty good shape.

  I had an extra look to make sure “my” kids were all okay, and had to scan the room twice before I found Timmy Doane. Then I was working by process of elimination. There were three ghosts, all appropriately draped in white sheets with holes cut out for the eyes. Two were chasing each other around the room, one of them stopping every so often to lift little girls’ skirts. The third ghost was sitting off by himself, staring out the window and waiting patiently for the parade to start.

  Timmy, it had to be.

  As a mother, my heart went out to him. It wasn’t just that he was shy. In the work we’d done together so far, I’d also found him slow to offer input, and easily swayed from those few opinions I’d managed to draw out. His self-esteem was at such a low ebb that he couldn’t imagine how anything he had to say could possibly be of value.

  I walked over at sat down beside him. “Hi, Timmy.”

  He turned and looked. “Ms. Travis.” He sounded pleased and I wondered if he was smiling. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I’m a good guesser. I like your costume.”