“The Scottish Deerhound,” the thin man announced, and that dog, tall and gray, shaggy and angular, was led to the judge, who felt along its jaw, ribs, and haunches.
“Be still, Harry,” Isabel whispered to her dog, who hadn’t moved.
“Once around, please,” the judge said and the Deerhound was taken for a jogging lap by a stiff trainer.
Next up was Von Eckstein and his Setter; as they jogged past Isabel nodded in polite admiration. Von Eckstein, stout though he was, seemed to jog as if he were taking leisurely exercise on his own property. His Setter, too, trotted as if it knew exactly where to go and felt no hurry to get there.
“Bring the Clumber, please,” the judge said.
Isabel tried to swallow again. The judge worked his long fingers into Harriet’s coat, along her jaw. Isabel felt sweat at her temples and desperately wanted to reach for her handkerchief. Why was the judge taking so long with Harriet? Had he spent so long on the other dogs?
“Lovely,” Isabel heard him say under his breath. She looked at him but quickly away. The murmur of the crowd seemed to increase.
“Once around,” the judge said.
“Harry,” Isabel said and she led the dog in a lap. They are all watching me jog, she thought; they can all see me jiggling in my suit; she was disgusted. Harriet ran in perfect long strides as if on a Sunday at home, her white coat rich and shiny, her tongue slightly protruding.
Isabel heard the crowd cheer and smiled. Had the judge really said “lovely” under his breath? Had the crowd not cheered louder for Harriet than for the other dogs? She began to think she would win—Harriet would win—she had thought so all along but now it was close, it was soon. She allowed herself to focus on the crowd for a moment—a woman like a beetle, holding some kind of pastry to her mouth, chewing; a thin man, immaculately dressed; a fat man, impossibly fat, moving like a pyramid brick on stone runners. Without turning her head noticeably she looked at the other dogs: stump faces and lean ones, ragged hair and puffed up hair; black noses and pink tongues everywhere. Marvelous doggies, she thought. She closed her eyes for a moment but opened them, it wouldn’t do to stand there with closed eyes. But everyone was looking at her, at her moustache and ill-fitting suit. And there was her father, three rows back, just beyond the woman with the midnight hat, sipping a—her father—she blinked and looked more carefully and it wasn’t him, of course, didn’t even look much like him, really. Daddy, she thought.
“Give me the Clumber, three,” the judge said, trotting past. “Deer Hound, two, and Setter, one.”
Von Eckstein smiled wide as a billboard. Isabel started moving, trotting Harriet in a circle again. Third? She could hear the crowd cheering, she could hear Von Eckstein thanking the judges, congratulating the other dogs. She shook his hand, she shook the Deer Hound owner’s hand. She led Harriet off the floor.
“Mr. South, you gotta go back out,” Hammond said, intercepting her. “Third place—in the entire show. We did well.”
“Pah. Harriet had the other dogs beat,” Isabel said. “I heard the judge say ‘lovely’ as he examined her. I heard him.”
“Mr. South. Please,” Hammond said. He glanced around; other owners were watching them. The stocky man in the blue suit was rushing toward them.
“Please? Please whom? I please myself,” Isabel said. “I don’t know why that judge changed his mind at the last moment, but I will find out. I will.”
“It’s a very good showing,” Hammond said. He stepped closer to her. “And you gotta go back out to get the trophy.”
“You go,” Isabel said, flinging the leash at him. “You go stand out there and participate in the fraud. I will not, sir.”
Hammond took her elbow. “You gotta be a man about losing,” he said.
Isabel’s face lit. “How dare you?” she asked. “How dare you, Mr. Hammond?” Her voice dissolved in the middle of his name and she scraped words from the back of her throat. “I will not be made a fool of—to stand there as if I don’t know that Von Eckstein runs this show. Yes, runs it. Pah.”
She pulled free of Hammond and staggered through the crowd, most of whom looked away.
Hammond pursed his lips and stroked Harriet’s head. “Good Harry,” he said. “Very good Harry.”
Harriet wagged her tail and Hammond led her back on to the floor.
Isabel’s hotel room was dark and she was sitting in an armchair, staring out the window. Her suit hung loosely around her, her hair hung over her forehead. Her pipe was on the table at her side, warm. The lights outside dipped and wavered.
Hammond came in, put Harriet on her bed, and took the chair next to Isabel.
“You stayed late,” she said.
“Yeah, I did. That Setter—that Von Setter might’ve won Best In Show, but I can tell you, Harriet won the crowd. It should’ve been a vote.”
“Third place. Not all that bad, I suppose.”
“Pretty good,” Hammond said. “We should have some champagne.”
“Yes, let’s,” Isabel said.
Hammond rang for champagne and took his seat again.
“You shoulda seen it,” he said. “Everyone coming up to me—to Harriet. ‘What a fine dog,’ ‘What a beautiful dog.’ You shoulda seen her, like a queen holding court. That Setter knew—he knew. Maybe Von Eckburg didn’t—but I think he did—but that Setter knew he’d been out-dogged.”
Isabel laughed. “Von Eckstein,” she said.
“Yeah, ok,” Hammond agreed. “Von Eckstein. His dog knew. Which means his dog is smarter than he is.”
Isabel leaned forward and touched the window, through which the cold night hung clear and sharp.
“Touch the glass,” she said. “It’s amazing how cold it is.”
The champagne came and Hammond popped the cork and poured two glasses.
“Harriet,” he said, raising his glass and drinking off the contents in a few quick swallows.
“Harriet,” Isabel said, sipping.
Hammond poured himself another glass and drank half of it.
“You just can’t do that,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Walk out like that. Do you think we have any chance next year if the judge don’t like you?”
“They can go to hell,” Isabel said but without conviction; outside the cold seemed suddenly soft, the lights warm, and she knew she was wrong.
“No, they can’t,” Hammond said. “They can’t go to hell. They can go home and think all year about what a rude bastard you are.”
Isabel looked at him. Shadows: lines: pinched face.
“I know,” she said.
“You know? You know? Then act like it. Jesus Christ.”
“Shh, Jamie, please. Please.”
Hammond swallowed more champagne and lit a cigarette.
“For God’s sake, be a man. For once in your life don’t just dress like one. Act like one.”
Isabel wanted to straighten, to blaze her eyes at him. She folded into herself.
The smoke from Hammond’s cigarette added a shade of gray to the room. In the quiet the noise of carriages and automobiles rose to them from the street.
“Come on, sit up,” Hammond said. “Come on. Sit up. It’s ok, I made it rummy with all of them. I said you were sick. Of course, some people had heard what you said—but never mind that. Come on, sit up.”
But Isabel was warm, folded, and she stayed there.
After a while Hammond said, “We have an early train, you should be up by six,” drank the last of the champagne, and left the room.
Chapter Fifteen
Book Club
Viv took a cookie from the tray she had just put on the coffee table and bit into it. She had short curly brown hair, bright eyes, a wide mouth, and smooth, rounded cheeks that flushed varying shades of pink and red depending on how hard she was laughing.
“Leave a couple for the guests,” Alice said.
“The row was uneven.” Viv chewed.
Alice looked around the
living room. “I think we’re all set,” she said.
Viv stood next to her. “You think anyone’s coming?”
“I hope so,” Alice said.
Viv’s living room was three steps down from the front hall. A long sofa took up the front wall, under the big window, and turned a corner to take up half of another wall as well. The coffee table was glass. An enormous television squatted in a hulking cabinet that also held a stereo, speakers, a movie player, and rows of videotapes and CDs. A fat recliner in one corner was angled toward the TV. Alice had brought two extra chairs in from the kitchen so that the group could form a circle if people wanted to.
“Should we bring the coffee in or just offer it to people when they arrive?” she asked.
“Oh. Let’s just offer it, don’t you think?” Viv said. “Lots of people don’t want to drink coffee in the evening. Maybe I should’ve made decaf.” She chuckled.
“We should make decaf,” Alice said.
“Sure, Hon,” Viv said. “Let’s just see what people want. If anyone shows up.” She smiled.
Alice sat on the edge of one of the chairs and swept a strand of hair behind her right ear. She looked through the stuff she’d brought with her: a copy of My Tiny Home, the book she’d chosen, a pad, a few pages of notes on How to Run a Book Club she’d printed off the talk show web page, and a handful of sharpened pencils. Other people might forget to bring something to write with.
She checked her watch. It was just seven, of course people would be a little late. She stared at the carpet between her feet. Where was Ed right now, she wondered. The kids had a sitter, he couldn’t even come home early one night to take care of them so that she could try to do something interesting. But interesting always seemed to—what—make Ed unsure. When she told him something new she wanted to try—a hike, a restaurant, a foreign movie, book club—he’d look a little pained, just enough so she’d ask if it was really ok. Then he’d make a big deal about how it was fine, it was a great idea, but in a tone that asked, wasn’t their life full enough? So she’d feel a little guilty doing whatever it was and she’d make him an extra nice dinner or do the things he liked in bed.
She tried to make herself feel something strong about him. She imagined him right at that second laughing with another woman, whoever this Kimoh person was. Alice imagined her short and blonde and skinny, Ed liked that type, and gave her a middle-aged face with wrinkles and defensive eyes. She smiled but then felt sad that Ed would be having an affair with someone who was so clearly just hanging on to her own life. Of course it was all made up, anyway, and that was sad, too: sitting there trying to imagine your husband screwing around so you could see if you felt something about it. But Kimoh had to be bone-skinny because Ed liked that; every time Alice grew so much as a bulge on thigh or hip he’d tell her about it. Maybe Kimoh was young and pretty. That was a depressing thought. Maybe she was young and energetic and beautiful. Ed. Alice imagined him kissing, unbuttoning, reaching. She tried to imagine what she’d feel if it were true: disgust that he’d lie to her, that was it, no jealousy, really. Go for it, Eddie. She felt pressure on her chest. Please let him be doing that with someone else, she thought, and the sadness of thinking it put tears in her eyes. She concentrated on feeling jealous because at least if she could feel that maybe it meant somewhere underneath she could still feel desire for him. Nothing. When was the last time she’d made love with him because she really wanted to? Oh, God, some drunken Christmas eve? When. Last year, no, year before. Well. Maybe she was just out of sexual feeling for this lifetime. Two kids squeezed a lot of that out of you and kept you too tired to act on whatever was left. She tried to think of another man she was attracted to. She could think of a few but they were famous so it didn’t mean much; she couldn’t think of an actual person. It was no use. The intimate part of her life was Ed and Ed was her sex and had been for years and years, she wasn’t able to separate the two. Other men existed, of course, and even flirted with her sometimes but—Ed’s soft belly, his bulging sides, his scrunched-up face as he watched TV. What if he could just go find someone else to have sex with? What if he had already? That would be truly amazing. Would he think of their kids? Would he wonder if it was worth a divorce, just to do that? But if she really couldn’t feel anything then of course he needed someone else, it was her fault. And he was a good father. And how on earth do you get a divorce, anyway? What was the first thing you do?
“Here, sweetie,” Viv said, putting a mug of coffee in front of her.
“Thanks.” Alice took a sip.
Viv sat and looked around the room. “How many calls did you get?” she asked.
“A couple. You?”
“Three. Or maybe four, I think Bob lost one of the messages.”
“So we could have six or seven people.”
“Yup.”
“Did you read it?” Alice asked. She turned the book over in her hands.
Viv laughed. “Well, some of it. Most of it,” she added when Alice looked at her with raised eyebrows. “It didn’t grab me so much.”
“I thought it was pretty good,” Alice said. “I mean, I don’t think I understood it entirely, but it was pretty good.”
The doorbell rang. Viv walked slowly to the front hall and opened the door. A thin man with a flat nose and gray hair like the frame of a complicated paper mache figure sticking out from under a bright orange watch cap smacked his lips and shouted “Good evening!”
“Welcome,” Viv said. “You must be Mr. Childs.” She glanced over her shoulder at Alice.
“Yes, yes,” the man said, stepping into the front hall and looking around. “And you must be Vivian. The young woman I spoke to on the phone.” He ran his dry tongue over his dry teeth. His lips closed but split open again, the lower drooping substantially onto his chin. He removed his coat but preferred to keep the watch cap on.
“Come in,” Alice said, standing up. “I’m Alice.”
She deposited Mr. Childs in a corner of the sofa with a cup of coffee. The doorbell rang again. A middle-aged woman with black hair lined gray and large hoop earrings entered. She divested herself of a knee-length, multi-colored coat, under which she wore a waistless floor-length dress of deep purple. She was round and looked at Viv with her head ever-so-slightly tipped back above her soft chin and neck as if, from that angle, her powers of perception would be increased.
“Hi, hello. Are you Alice?” she said. “I spoke to Alice on the phone. Oh, you’re Vivian? Very nice to meet you, Vivian. I’m Gretchen. I just think it’s so good of you to set this up. Reading nourishes the soul, absolutely.”
“Yes,” Viv said, leading her to the couch. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Do you have decaf? Thank you,” Gretchen said. She turned to face Mr. Childs and introduced herself. “I applaud you for coming,” she said. “I have done extensive work with book clubs for women. I find the communication necessary for a nourishing discussion to be easier with women, but I applaud men who are willing to try.”
Mr. Childs nodded and sipped his coffee. “Great literature speaks to everyone,” he said. “In my years as a professor I found that the great works—the truly great works—were able to communicate with my students in ways I would never have imagined.”
Alice introduced herself to Gretchen and went into the kitchen. Viv was pouring coffee.
“Decaf?” Alice asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Viv said.
Alice opened her mouth to speak but the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” she said.
Viv turned to her, raising an eyebrow.
“We’re fine,” Alice said.
She went into the front hall and opened the door.
“Hi, Allie,” the woman on the front stoop said shyly. She was stocky with short brown hair and wide eyes. She was holding a plate covered with tinfoil.
“Sue!” Alice said, hugging her and taking the plate so she could get her coat off. “I’m so glad you came.”
“I’m glad you invited me. I
didn’t think Jeff’d watch the kids, but it worked out. I brought some cookies. Now where’s that book?” She searched the pockets of her coat.
“Thanks for the cookies,” Alice said. “I’ll put them out. Just throw your coat in the kitchen.”
Sue wiped her bangs from her forehead. “I really liked the book,” she said quietly. “I mean, I just liked how it sounded—like a little kid, you know?”
“Me too,” Alice said.
“Yeah,” Sue said, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She turned her wide eyes to the living room and blinked.
The doorbell rang again. Alice gave Sue back the plate of cookies and asked her to put them on the coffee table. She opened the door on a young man in a long black overcoat holding a briefcase.
“Hi,” he said. “Is this—I was looking for the book club.”
“Yes, hi, come in,” Alice said. “I’m Alice.”
“Hi, I’m Sam. Nice to meet you.”
He smoothed his reddish blonde hair back from his forehead and put his briefcase in a corner near the door.
“Let me take your coat,” Alice said.
“It’s quarter past,” Mr. Childs called from the living room.
Sam took his copy of the book from his briefcase.
“Coffee?” Alice asked.
“Sure,” Sam answered. “Black, please.”
“Come on, folks,” Gretchen called. “Let’s get started.”
Sam sat in one of the chairs in front of the TV. Alice handed him his coffee.
“Oh, thanks,” he said.
She smiled at him. Her eyes were dark, the skin around them creased with tiny sprays of wrinkles. Her cheeks were smooth.
“I came straight from work,” he said, indicating his suit.
She nodded. After a moment he added, “Is this your house? It’s nice.”
“No,” Alice said. “It’s Viv’s.” She nodded at her friend, who had taken a seat on the couch next to Gretchen and was smiling broadly, staring at Alice.
Sam nodded and leafed through the pages of the paperback on his lap.
Alice took her pad and papers from the coffee table. “Ok,” she said, looking over the top sheet. “Let’s get started. It’s probably—”
THE GHOST DETECTIVE: Boston Page 15
