by Alice Duncan
I got the feeling he was annoyed about something—probably the fact that he couldn’t do gentlemanly things any longer—so I didn’t fight for the privilege of carrying out the bath chair. I said, “Thanks, Sam,” and left it at that.
“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I turned to look at Billy, who had uttered the comment. “Beg pardon? What do you mean?”
“It’s all right to let people do things for you from time to time, Daisy. I can absolutely assure you that Sam has no ulterior motive. He only wanted to help.”
His words confounded me, and I told him so. “I still don’t understand, Billy. It’s okay with me if Sam wants to carry the bath chair to the motor.”
“You don’t like Sam doing anything for you. Admit it, Daisy. I don’t know why the devil you dislike him so much.”
“I don’t dislike him!” I declared, feeling my face flush, mainly because I’d just been wondering if I still hated Sam or didn’t hate him. “He irks me sometimes because he’s got me involved in some scary situations, don’t forget.”
“Hey, don’t you forget that it was your blasted job that got you involved in those situations. If you worked as an elevator operator, you never would have become embroiled with bank robbers or bootleggers or anarchists.”
Feeling miffed and unsettled—Billy had only told the truth—I fell back on my good old stand-by excuse. “My job as a spiritualist—”
“Pays better than a job as an elevator operator. I know. I know.” There was a note of defeat in Billy’s voice that unsettled me.
“Well, it does.”
“I know.”
“Anyhow, most of the time my work is perfectly innocuous. Those examples you mentioned were . . . anomalies.”
Billy rolled his eyes. I hated it when he did that. But then he grinned and said, “Right. Well, roll me out onto the porch, and you can help me to the motor.”
So I gave up our stale old argument and did as he asked. Our nice bungalow had two double doors leading onto a side porch, which was basically a concrete slab and not particularly beautiful, although Ma had some pots of geraniums out there, mainly for the benefit of our neighbors to the south, the Longneckers. The night before I’d parked the Chevrolet right next to the side porch so that Billy would have easy—well, easier, anyhow—access to the motor. I opened the two doors and the screens and pushed Billy’s chair out onto the porch.
Sam had already put the bath chair onto the rack on the back of the Chevrolet, so he trotted up the porch stairs, and together we steered Billy to the passenger’s side of the motorcar. Billy groaned a little as he managed to settle himself onto the seat. Even morphine syrup had its limits, I reckoned. I realized I was chewing my lower lip. Because I didn’t want Billy to worry about my anxiety over him, I stopped chewing as soon as I realized I was doing it.
Then I rolled his wheelchair back into the house, shut the side doors and the screens, took up Spike’s leash and led him to the car, where he jumped onto Billy’s lap. I held my breath—it always worried me that Spike would hurt Billy when he did that—but all seemed well. So I strode to the driver’s side of the motor and was astonished to see Sam there, holding the door open for me. What was going on here? First he carried Billy’s bath chair, and now he was opening the door for me. I didn’t care what Billy thought; to me this was unusual behavior on Sam’s part and, thus, highly suspicious.
Had Sam somehow found out about the poisoned-pen letters? If so, did he aim to do anything about them? If he did, would police involvement in the case expose Monty Mountjoy as a homosexual to his adoring public? If that happened, I had no doubt whatsoever that Monty’s career would be as dead as Fatty Arbuckle’s. Probably deader, actually, since Arbuckle had been found not guilty, and Monty was definitely a man who preferred men. Not that his doing so made him guilty of anything, although the general public didn’t share my opinion. Most of the people I knew could almost comprehend murder, but they were positively horrified by any hint of aberrant sexual behavior. To my mind, that spoke of extremely limited thinking, but I’ve already established myself as an oddity so you probably shouldn’t pay any attention to my opinion.
Anyhow, I squinted up at Sam and said, “Thanks,” and feared he was only buttering me up and intended to pounce later. If he’d somehow discovered—or if he only suspected—Lola and Monty were receiving threatening letters, he’d get no confirmation from me, curse the man.
My voice must have conveyed my uncertainty and confusion, because Sam said, “You’re welcome,” in as wry a voice as I’d ever heard issued from his lips.
He got into the back seat, shut the door, I pressed the self-starter, and we began backing up. Silence reigned in the auto as we made our way to Brookside Park. I felt uncomfortable with it, so I said, “How come you wanted to see this spectacle, Sam? Are you interested in getting a dog?”
“No. I don’t think they allow dogs in my apartment building. Even if they did, I’m gone all the time, so it wouldn’t be fair to the pooch.”
“That makes sense.”
“Besides, you’ve got Spike,” said Billy. “At least when you’re at our house. So you aren’t completely dogless.”
“I meet dogs on the job sometimes, too,” said Sam, sounding wry again. “We broke up a gambling ring not long ago and met a couple of Doberman pinschers that darned near killed one of my deputies before somebody shot it.”
I cringed. “They had to shoot the dog? Poor dog.”
“Poor dog, my a—foot,” said Sam. “He darned near chewed the arm off Paul Winslip’s shoulder before we could get a good aim.”
“Oh.” I still didn’t like it.
“The gambling gents had trained the dog to attack,” Sam explained. “And he’d learned his lessons as well as Spike’s learning his, I guess.”
Ah. It all made sense to me now. “I see. So it was the fault of the humans who owned the dog that he had to be shot. People have a lot to answer for.”
“I guess so.” Sam didn’t sound as if he cared a whole lot.
Naturally, that riled me, since it seems to me that it’s people who cause most of the trouble in the world. The poor dog wasn’t at fault if a gang of criminals had trained it to do a certain job and the dog had done it. Darn people, anyway. I sensed my audience wouldn’t care to listen to my outlook on the matter, or share it if they did listen, so I didn’t pursue it. “What happened to the other dog?” I asked, truly curious.
“What other dog?”
“You said you met a couple of Dobermans. What happened to the other one?”
“One of our guys got him around the neck, and we stuffed him in a closet. The Humane Society folks picked him up—very carefully.”
“Well, I’m glad one of the dogs survived. It wasn’t their fault, you know. The dogs, I mean. Stupid people.”
“They were pretty smart people, actually,” said Sam.
“But they caused the death of an innocent dog.” Very well, I couldn’t help myself.
Billy patted my knee. “It’s all right, Daisy. Spike will never chew anyone’s arm off. He couldn’t reach, for one thing.”
When I glanced over at him, I saw Spike wagging his tail as if he agreed wholeheartedly with whatever his master chose to say about any matter at all.
Sam chuckled. “Oddly enough, Spike looks a lot like those Dobermans. They had that same black fur with the tan dots over their eyes and the same tan around the feet and mouth and on the chest. The dobies were just taller, is all. A whole lot taller. And not nearly so friendly.”
“Hmm,” I said.
Fortunately, since a lecture on the evils of people versus the goodness of dogs was dancing on my tongue begging to be let out, we arrived at the parking area at Brookside Park at that moment. Spike began woofing happily. He loved these lessons. Not only did he get my undivided attention—almost. I had to pay some attention to Mrs. Hanratty—for an hour, but he got to say hi to a bunch of other dogs and people at the same time.
Sam hurried out of his seat first and opened the door for me. What was going on here? Was Sam beginning to “take care of me” even before Billy’s demise? God help me. Still, I doubted it. No. It seemed far more likely that, if he didn’t already know about the letter plot, he thought I was up to something at the Winkworth place, wanted to know what it was and was doing his best to soften my attitude toward him so I’d spill the beans. Darn it. I swear, Sam Rotondo was the bane of my existence!
He then opened the door for Billy, but I forestalled any further gentlemanly behavior on his part by saying, “Why don’t you get the bath chair, Sam? I’ll take Spike and help Billy get out.”
“Sure,” he said, and trotted off to do my bidding. Most unusual behavior. I mistrusted it intensely.
I decided to ask Billy about it. “Why’s Sam being so nice to me all of a sudden?”
Billy glanced up at me as if he thought I’d lost my mind. “Huh? Sam’s only Sam. He’s always nice.”
Not to me, he wasn’t. But I didn’t want to argue. Besides, getting Billy out of the Chevrolet whilst clinging to Spike’s leash—Spike was trying doggedly, as was only proper, to go visit his friends—was hard work. My arms and shoulders were probably stronger than those of most baseball pitchers after having to deal with Billy and his wheelchair for so long. It finally occurred to me to say, “Spike, sit,” and Spike sat. Boy, I loved these obedience lessons, once I remembered to use them! Too bad they didn’t offer one aimed at wives for the training of their husbands.
And then Sam showed up with the bath chair, unfolded it, and Billy sank into it. Those few seconds of standing had him trembling, with sweat bedewing his forehead from the effort thereof, and my heart ached anew at the realization of how much his condition had deteriorated in the past months. I shoved Billy-thoughts out of my head with grim determination and said, “Sam, can you roll Billy up to those two men in the wheelchairs?” I pointed to Billy’s fellow wounded warriors. “The class is about to start, and I have to get Spike over there or risk being scolded by Mrs. Hanratty.”
“Absolutely,” said Sam.
I waited for an added barb, but none came. Mysterious. Very mysterious.
But I could no more think about Sam’s odd behavior than I could about Billy’s problems because obedience training awaited. When we first began taking Spike to these classes, I’d determined to make this one blessed hour of the week free from any thoughts at all except those imparted to us by Mrs. Hanratty.
“Spike, heel,” said I in my firm master’s—or mistress’s, although that sounds so unrefined somehow—voice.
And Spike, wagging his entire hind end out of pure joy, heeled, and we joined the other Pasanita attendees in the circle Mrs. Hanratty required of us. She, naturally, stood in the middle as she taught us stuff. Today we were going to practice having our dogs lie down and stay. I’d been practicing with Spike, but to tell the truth, at first I sometimes found it difficult to tell if he was lying down or not, because his legs were so short to begin with. However, Spike, genius dog that he was, had learned anyway, and I was eager to show off his brilliance to the class.
The class went swell. I was ever so proud of Spike, who lay and stayed better than any other dog there, and I don’t think it was because he was basically lazy, either, which is the theory Mrs. Hinkledorn, the poodle lady, propounded. I was really glad when Mrs. Hanratty agreed with me.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Hanratty honked. It’s difficult to describe her voice in any other way. “Spike is no lazier than most dogs. Mrs. Majesty works with him. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Majesty?”
“Every day,” I said, frowning at Mrs. Hinkledorn. Lazy, my foot. She, by the way, looked kind of like a marshmallow, all soft and fluffy. Like her stupid poodle. But no. I’m almost sure I’m wrong about that, and I shouldn’t malign her poor poodle. It wasn’t the dog’s fault it had a silly haircut and had been named Fluffy.
“There. You see? Practice is the key word,” Mrs. Hanratty said, smiling at me as if she’d taught me to sit up and beg and I’d just done so. “It’s we who are responsible for our dogs’ behavior. You need to work harder with Fluffy, Mrs. Hinkledorn, or Fluffy will end up teaching you what she wants you to do.”
She was right about that. I knew it for a fact. Spike had taught me all sorts of things, although I didn’t want to tell Mrs. Hanratty that. She’d have disapproved.
“Now,” she went on, “let’s form a line and see how we do with our dogs. If you’ve worked with your pet, you should be able to walk away from him without him stirring.”
“Or her,” said Mrs. Hinkledorn. She would.
“Or her,” said Mrs. Hanratty upon an irritated sigh. “Your dog’s attention should be on you and you alone. That’s the whole point of this class: to teach your dog you’re the boss. Everything your dog does reflects on how much authority you have over him. Or her.” She added that part to prevent further interruptions, I’m sure. “You are the leader of your pack. Your dog needs to understand that and take his—or her—clues from you and you alone. Unless, of course, other members of your family are also going to be handling the dog. Then those other members need to be trained by you.”
This was interesting stuff. I’d already learned from experience that Billy could get Spike to sit and stay and come and fetch, because he’d come to all the classes, watched and learned. He’d also sat on the porch with Pa every day and watched me work with Spike. Probably Pa could achieve the same results, because we all spoke the same language: Spike’s.
I glanced over to see if Billy was appreciating the full impact of Mrs. Hanratty’s words about the glories of his dog, only to discover he wasn’t paying any attention at all. In fact, none of the four men, Billy, his two war-injured pals and Sam, were paying attention to the class. Sam had squatted in front of them, and they all seemed engrossed in a very serious conversation. Then Billy said something I couldn’t hear from where I stood, and the man who’d lost an arm and an eye shook his head. Billy said something else, and Sam put his hand on one of his arms. Billy appeared frustrated, and the fellow who’d lost both legs said something. Billy frowned.
Darn it! What was going on over there?
“Mrs. Majesty? Are you still with us?”
Startled, I jerked to attention. Mrs. Hanratty was watching me as if she were disappointed that her favorite student had allowed her mind to stray from the important stuff. I could feel myself blush, which was embarrassing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hanratty. Yes indeedy. I’m here and ready to go.” I straightened and decided to heck with the men.
I was somewhat distracted for the duration of the class that day, though, and I can’t deny it. The one hour of the week during which I generally relaxed and had a good time had been spoiled, and all because of that darned secret male conclave. It had looked to me as though Sam and Billy, and maybe the other two war relics, were cooking up something. If they were, I knew I wasn’t going to like it, and that worried me more than Sam finding out about the poisoned-pen letters.
Spike, however, remained blissfully unaware of any undercurrents of tension on my part. Or maybe he was aware of my anxiety and didn’t allow it to distract him. I do recall that he looked up and frowned at me a couple of times, which he generally didn’t do. I know, I know. Dogs can’t frown. Try telling that to Spike. He could frown, and he did it that day. It was as if he were telling me to pay attention to the matter at hand and let things I couldn’t affect one way or another go chase themselves for the nonce. Do you think I was, perhaps, projecting? Or do you believe, as I do, that dogs are superior forms of animal life? I don’t suppose it matters one way or the other.
Whether Spike caught my mood or not, he performed beautifully. When I told him, “Spike, lie down,” he flattened himself out on the grass like nobody’s business. When I dropped the leash and said, “Stay,” then walked away from him, he stayed right where he was and didn’t move a muscle. I could feel his beady little doggie eyes on me until Mrs. Hanratty gestured for me to stop walki
ng and turn around. Spike was still there, splat on his tummy, in spite of Fluffy and a cocker spaniel named Buddy frolicking around gaily nearby. Not only that, but Hamlet, a great Dane, now stood over Spike and sniffed his butt while his owner tried and tried to drag him away. I’m pretty sure Hamlet weighed more than his owner, who was maybe ten years old. Talk about concentration! I could have taken lessons from Spike.
I have to admit to being a trifle alarmed when I realized how much commotion was going on in the field of action, yet Spike lay there and stared at me, willing to sacrifice not merely play, but even his life—if Hamlet had been an ill-natured great Dane instead of a big baby—rather than move before I gave him the order to move.
Mrs. Hanratty evidently noticed my startled expression, because she said, “It’s perfectly all right, Mrs. Majesty. Hamlet is only a puppy and won’t harm Spike, and the other dogs are no threat. Spike is doing beautifully. You may call him to you now.”
You can bet I did! And quick. I shouted, “Spike, come!” and Spike shot out from under Hamlet’s nose as if he couldn’t do so fast enough. Unfortunately for Hamlet’s owner, Hamlet took it into his head to lope off after Spike, thinking, I presume, that this was some sort of game. Naturally, his owner came with him, because he wasn’t big enough not to. Hamlet dragged the poor boy on his stomach all the way across the grass, haring after Spike as if Spike was game and he was a mighty hunter. As soon as Spike got within scooping distance, I scooped him up. Not that I believed Hamlet would do anything nasty to my dog, since he mainly seemed big, clumsy and friendly, but I didn’t want to take any chances. He was huge. Puppy, my foot.
Mrs. Hanratty walked over to Spike, Hamlet, Hamlet’s owner and me. “You know, Tommy, it might be better if your father were to stay with you during these classes. Old Hamlet here needs a slightly firmer hand.”
“I’m really sorry,” said Tommy. He sounded as if he might cry. “I’m practicing with him all the time. Honest, I am.”
“I’m sure that’s so, dear,” said Mrs. Hanratty, oozing sympathy. “But classes are different. At home, you’re alone with your dog. In class, the dogs can become distracted with so many other canines around. Is your father here?”
