Brute Strength (13 page)

One of my stepmother's gifts was an emotional radiance that cast an improving glow over everyone she encountered. From the moment she and Molly arrived, I began to feel an increased acceptance of Isaac's sudden death, and despite my lingering sadness, I felt simply delighted to have Gabrielle in our house and, as ever, grateful to her for having married Buck. As we carried her bags to the guest room, I was also aware of another feeling of gratitude concerning my father, namely, a profound sense of relief that he hadn't finagled a way to accompany his wife to Cambridge. It's a tribute to Gabrielle's favorable influence on me that I managed to ask her nothing about the worrisome medical appointment that was one reason for her visit. Gabrielle was skilled at choosing occasions; I trusted her to tell me about her medical trouble when she was ready.

Still, I couldn't help scrutinizing her. As we chatted about her trip from Maine and about what to expect at dog training, and later as we sat in the kitchen eating roast chicken and salad, I was alert for signs of illness. She'd had no apparent difficulty in lugging a heavy suitcase from her Volvo wagon up to her room on the second floor: no shortness of breath, no muscular weakness. After a Maine winter, she was pale, but not abnormally so. As she used a knife and fork to cut a piece of chicken and then raised the piece to her mouth, there was no sign of a tremor. Her eyes were their usual sparkling blue, her expression as animated as ever. After the long drive, she didn't look even slightly tired. On the contrary, she looked altogether terrific. She was as pretty as ever, with spectacular bone structure and lovely features framed by ash blonde hair. A dash of pink blush on her cheeks would've compensated for the effects of winter, and a coating of foundation make-up would've covered the sun damage visible on her face, but she disliked make-up and almost never wore it.

As we were clearing the table, the phone rang. Seeing the familiar ‘Unknown Name, Unknown Number' on caller ID, I answered eagerly and was ready to record the call, but whoever it was immediately hung up. ‘Sorry about this,' I said to Gabrielle, ‘but I've had . . . I had a nuisance call, and I'm trying to find out—'

‘Just don't tell your father,' she said. ‘You know how he fusses.'

‘Do I ever! Yes, we mustn't tell him. Leave the dishes!' As I'd done before, I dialed the code to find the caller's number and once again got nothing except the area code, which was again 781. ‘Damn it!'

‘It's probably one of those telemarketers,' Gabrielle said. ‘Or one of those robot things, whatever you call them.'

‘The first call wasn't,' I said. ‘And a couple other rescue people . . . I'll tell you about it later. I want to run this chicken and salad over to my neighbor Elizabeth McNamara. Her husband just died. I'll be back in no time.'

A few minutes later, I was standing at Elizabeth's front door. As I expected, Persimmon began to bark even before I rang the bell, but to my surprise, it was Tom Oakley who answered. Instead of inviting me in, he held the door ajar and stuck his head out.

‘Tom,' I said. ‘I've brought food for Elizabeth. And I want to return her key.'

‘Kind of you,' he said. ‘And she'll want her key, of course. But Vanessa has already sent dinner over, and you've probably brought food that Elizabeth can't eat. She has celiac disease.'

Did ungraciousness run in that family? And I didn't like the implication about the key. I wasn't scheming to keep it, for heaven's sake, and even if I'd kept it, I wouldn't have misused it. ‘I've brought a gluten-free meal,' I said, probably with a hint of self-righteousness. ‘Roast chicken and a Caesar salad. Without croutons.'

‘No soy sauce,' he cautioned.

Feeling exasperated, I said, ‘It's a plain roast chicken. And the salad is romaine with a dressing I made myself. With no gluten!'

As I was on the verge of demanding to know when he'd been appointed to the position of Elizabeth McNamara's dietitian, Elizabeth herself appeared behind him in the hallway. ‘Holly! Tom, let Holly in, please. Persimmon, look who's here! Your buddy has come to see you. Holly, I just can't thank you enough. Come in!'

‘I won't stay,' I said as I entered and then reached down to stroke Persimmon. ‘You must be exhausted. I just wanted to return your key and leave you some food. And to say how sorry I am about Isaac.'

‘Thank you,' she said.

‘I'm going to dog training. I'll tell everyone. And when you've made plans . . .'

‘Isaac did that years ago. A little graveside service at Mount Auburn. That's all he wanted. Just the immediate family. It'll be on Saturday. The girls will be here tomorrow.'

‘As always,' I said uselessly, ‘if there's anything you need . . .'

‘I know that,' she said. ‘You and Steve are angels. Thank you.'

I made my departure and hurried home. Because we were running a little late, Gabrielle, Molly, Sammy, and I drove to the armory, which more than makes up for its lack of architectural splendor by offering a rarity in Cambridge, namely, ample free parking, some on nearby streets and, for people attending dog training, plenty in the lot behind the armory. As is inevitable at dog events, most of the cars in the lot had dog crates inside and dog-themed bumper stickers; and as is inevitable in Greater Boston, a fair number of vehicles sported Red Sox stickers, too. With its three crates, a Woo Woo window decal, and a Sox bumper sticker, my Blazer fit right in. Come to think of it, with my Alaskan Malamute National Specialty sweatshirt, my little cooler of perishable dog treats, and, most of all, my carefully bred and lovingly groomed Sammy, I fit in pretty well myself. As for Gabrielle and Molly, I knew from experience that within ten minutes of our arrival, my stepmother and her charming bichon would have made friends with a dozen other pairs of handlers and dogs, as, indeed, proved to be the case.

Because we'd entered through the rear of the armory, we had to make our way down the length of the gymnasium-like hall to reach the entryway to check in. Our progress was slow, mainly because we kept stopping so that I could introduce Gabrielle to everyone, including my friend and plumber Ron, who was teaching the Canine Good Citizenship class that Gabrielle and Molly would be joining. Although it was a drop-in class open to anyone, I explained to Ron that Gabrielle and Molly had been taking private lessons and intended to take the CGC test on Saturday. Then Gabrielle took over, and within a minute, Ron was beaming at her and making her feel so welcome that I practically had to drag her to the front desk, where Vanessa and Ulla were checking in.

‘Such a shame about Isaac,' Vanessa said, and several members of the club echoed her sentiment.

‘So sudden,' someone murmured.

‘How is Elizabeth doing?' someone else asked.

Before I could answer, Vanessa said, ‘She's exhausted. She was up all night. I sent some dinner over for her, and my father's there with her. She's right next door to us. I'll pop in when I get home. Her daughters are flying in. They'll be here tomorrow.' Spotting Gabrielle, she said, ‘Well, hello! For a second, I didn't recognize you . . . out of context, so to speak. Is Buck here, too?'

‘No,' I said rather too forcefully. ‘Gabrielle and Molly are having a visit with us. Among other things, they're taking the CGC test on Saturday. Are you going to the match?'

Exhibiting the real dog person's compulsion to tell other people what to do with their dogs, someone said, ‘You should enter Ulla in Prenovice.' Several people echoed the encouragement.

By then, it was time for classes to start, so Gabrielle and I hurriedly checked in and returned to the big hall, where she and Molly joined Ron's class, and Sammy and I went to the class called Novice for Show – or in Sammy's case, maybe Novice for Show-offs. Because he'd been shown in breed – conformation – his best exercise was the stand for examination. From puppyhood, he'd been taught to stack himself in a show pose, and no one had had to teach him to display animation and to accept the touch of strangers. His attitude, however, carried over to what are called the ‘group exercises', the long sit and the long down, which he interpreted as additional opportunities to elicit admiration by flicking his plumy white tail and casting come-hither looks at the other dogs and see-how-cute-I-am glances at the other handlers, all of which would have been fine if his excess of high spirits hadn't spilled over into squirming and even crawling forward when he was supposed to be holding still. Like a lot of other obedience dogs, Sammy was great in the backyard, but the presence of an audience put a gleam in his eye and a wiggle-waggle in his hind end. Worse, alone with him the yard, I had the self-control to refrain from reinforcing his antics, but everyone at the club thought that he was hilarious and let him know it. Tonight, in an effort to reinforce calm behavior while shielding him from the grins and smirks he loved, I remained next to him during the long down – three minutes, thus not all that long – and kept tossing tidbits of cheese just under his chest, and all went well until Vanessa called from the next ring, ‘Hey, not fair! He's so cute when he's being bad!'

Damn it! But if dog training teaches you nothing else, even if it fails to help you learn to train dogs, it ought to teach you to be a good sport. Consequently, I accepted the teasing with apparent good grace, and in any case, our instructor called, ‘Exercise finished.' When I'd kept Sammy in a down for an extra few seconds, I released him, and then we hooked up with Gabrielle, who, as predicted, had somehow managed to train her dog while making friends with what seemed like the entire class. Several people remarked on what a delight my stepmother was, and I, of course, agreed. Ron was filled with praise for Molly, and Gabrielle felt altogether happy about this secret-from-my-father life that she and her dog were leading.

Before we left, Ron called me aside to say that he was sorry about Isaac and also to say that he'd volunteered to take over Isaac's duties at the club's National Pet Week event. ‘It was really Isaac who was hot for that AKC award,' Ron admitted. ‘If you ask me, the Responsible Ownership Day is enough. But we can't cancel this thing now.'

‘Of course not,' I said. ‘But I have to wonder how many people we're going to get for an indoor event on a Saturday afternoon in May.'

‘Pray for rain,' Ron said. ‘And Vanessa's done a lot of publicity. That should help.'

As Gabrielle and the dogs and I made our way past the advanced classes, which were just beginning, Vanessa caught up with us. ‘If you're free tomorrow afternoon, let's set up a play date,' she said. ‘I don't know how your little one is with other dogs, Gabrielle, but we could give it a try.'

I'm not a big fan of having malamutes participate in playgroups. Sammy and Molly did well together, as did Sammy and Ulla, but I felt uneasy about the combination of Ulla and Molly. And not because of Molly!

Fortunately, Gabrielle said, ‘Thank you! But I'm afraid that I'll have to bow out. I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon. Another time?'

‘Any time at all,' Vanessa said warmly. Leaning toward me, she asked in an undertone, ‘Have you had any more of those calls? Or Katrina? Any of you?'

‘I had an anonymous . . . well, not exactly a letter. A one-word message. Someone thinks I'm a bitch.'

‘It's not the worst thing,' Vanessa said. ‘Still, it's the sort of thing that one can say about oneself but not what one wants to be called by others.'

‘Exactly.'

‘No good deed goes unpunished. So, are you and Sammy free tomorrow?'

I made my excuses, but a little awkwardly, mainly because I was worried about Gabrielle's appointment. With whom? For what? When Vanessa had moved away, while we were crossing the dark parking lot, I decided that I'd had enough of waiting until Gabrielle was ready to confide in me. If our positions had been reversed, she'd have had the whole story out of me long ago. Lacking her subtlety, I said, once we were in the Blazer, ‘What's this appointment? The medical stuff?'

‘I'm so embarrassed,' she said hoarsely.

Living as I do surrounded by Cambridge shrinks, including Rita, I naturally assumed that she was referring to psychotherapy. Finally, my damned father was driving her crazy!

‘Gabrielle, whatever it is, it's OK.'

I heard her take a deep breath. ‘Dermatology,' she almost whispered.

‘What?'

‘I have an appointment with a dermatologist.'

Skin cancer! The sun damage? Melanoma! So serious that she was seeing a Boston dermatologist.

Before I could speak, she said, ‘I'm so . . . Holly, I have never been vain.'

‘Of course not. Is it that serious? Something that will—'

‘No! Not at all. That's what embarrassing. It's purely cosmetic. Lasers! I have brown spots and broken blood vessels, and I just hate them! Did you think . . .?'

‘Yes. Yes, I did.' I sighed audibly. ‘Gabrielle, it's fine. If you want lasers, fine! That's wonderful! I was so worried! I thought you had some potentially fatal illness or something. I am so relieved.' With that, I shifted into drive, released the brake, and eased the car forward. Because the lot was dark and people were still leading dogs to cars, I crept carefully toward the exit to Concord Avenue, where I had to wait for the two cars in front of me to make the turn into the street. Behind us was a big van that I didn't recognize. In fact, that's why I noticed it. It was black or maybe deep blue or possibly green, and I'd never noticed it in the lot before. I did not, however, wonder whose it was. I assumed that I'd never see it again.

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