Brute Strength (14 page)

‘“
C
hanged in appearance by artificial means”.' Gabrielle bit into a bagel loaded with cream cheese and lox. ‘I'll be ineligible for shows!'

My late mother, too, had a habit of assuming that the American Kennel Club's rules applying to dog shows were applicable to all facets of human life. Indeed, my mother often quoted the AKC scripture as Gabrielle had just done. Gabrielle was, however, speaking entirely in jest.

I laughed. ‘There's even something about skin, isn't there?' My mother's daughter, I quoted: ‘“The removal of skin patches to alter markings.” I think that's right. It's one of the examples of change by artificial means.'

‘“Anything to improve a dog's natural appearance”,' Gabrielle said. ‘The poor things! No braces on their teeth, no hair coloring! Well, thank heaven that we're not show dogs. But “to alter markings” is exactly what I want, except that I want them eradicated and not just changed.'

It was ten o'clock on Friday morning. Gabrielle had slept late and was in excellent spirits, presumably because of the change by artificial means that she was going to experience that afternoon. Her appointment was with a dermatologist at Brigham and Women's Hospital, someone she had seen a few months earlier about the laser treatment she'd receive today.

When I'd refilled our coffee cups, she said, ‘And you
do
understand why I'm not telling your father.'

‘Do I ever! He'd insist that you're fine the way you are, which is true from his viewpoint, but not from yours. Then he'd tell everyone on earth about it. And he'd have a fit because you aren't seeing a dermatologist in God's country, the beautiful state of Maine.'

‘I do prefer a Boston doctor,' Gabrielle said. ‘But the worst thing would be what I'm going to look like afterward, all splotchy and sunburned. We can't have Buck charging into the dermatologist's office and . . . well, being himself.'

‘I hadn't though of that. But you're right. Gabrielle, is this going to be painful?'

‘Not very. But as everyone's mother used to say, you have to suffer to be beautiful. Not that I'm going to be—'

‘Please! You're beautiful now!'

‘I have brown spots and broken blood vessels, and among other things, people
will
think that this redness means that I drink! It doesn't. But I simply—'

‘I understand. Really, I do. And I don't want to sound like Buck.' I paused. ‘Won't he notice?' Then I answered my own question. ‘No, of course he won't. And if he ever finds out, he'll say that there was nothing wrong to begin with and that you look the same as ever.'

‘Exactly,' said Gabrielle. ‘And that the dermatologist was a quack and a thief.'

‘But he'll never notice,' I said.

Not that Buck is unobservant. Far from it! But the moment he met Gabrielle – at a dog show,
Ça va sans dire
, as is said in the most romantic of languages – my father fell madly in love with her. I'm tempted to say that given what Buck was like to begin with, his new form of madness should have been imperceptible. It was not. He did out-of-character things, albeit in characteristic ways. For instance, so eager was he to create a favorable impression that he bought himself new clothes. Instead of acquiring them in some normal, ordinary manner such as going to a store and trying on shirts, pants, sweaters, and jackets, however, he called L.L. Bean, described his lovesick situation in great detail, and inveigled a sympathetic customer service representative into choosing the items required to serve his purpose. He was like a male bird in springtime who knew that courting demanded fresh plumage but who trusted L.L. Bean more than he trusted himself to decide exactly which feathers he should sport. Lunatic infatuation is, of course, perilous, blinding its victims all too often to hideous flaws of character in the idealized object of the sufferer's affection; and when
l'amour fou
goes unrequited, misery ensues. But Buck lucked out, and simultaneously, so did I, all thanks to God and L.L. Bean.

‘He'd notice right afterward,' Gabrielle said. ‘I'm going to be a fright. Speaking of the dermatologist, I need to call a cab now. It's Friday, and if I wait until the last minute to call, I won't get one.'

‘Why do you need a cab?'

‘I hate Boston traffic to begin with, and you know what it's like on Fridays, and public transportation will take forever.'

So, I ended up volunteering to drive. As Gabrielle predicted – I knew she was right – the traffic was indeed fierce all the way through Cambridge, on the Riverway, and on the block of Brookline Avenue that led to Francis Street, where the hospital was located. The morning's fair weather had given way to torrential rain that made the trip an ordeal. Although we'd left early, by the time I turned onto Francis Street, Gabrielle had only ten minutes to find her way through the hospital to the dermatologist's office, so instead of making her late by hunting for a spot in the big multilevel garage on the right, I dropped her off at the main entrance to the hospital. We agreed that once I'd parked the car, I'd go to the Au Bon Pain in the lobby, where I'd get some coffee and wait for her. The decision proved to be correct. The first free space I found in the garage was all the way up on the top level, and it took ages to find that one. Meeting at the café was also a good idea. Living as I do near Harvard Square, I'm aware of the risk of ordering cappuccino in the afternoon or evening within the Cambridge city limits. I mean, there you'll be, peacefully sitting in a coffee shop in the afternoon or at a restaurant table after dinner, minding your own business, inoffensively enjoying your foamy milk with a shot of espresso, when some self-styled sophisticate just has to pass along the information that in Italy, no one ever drinks cappuccino with any meal except breakfast. Where, I ask you, is Cambridge? Is it in Italy? No, it is in Massachusetts, USA, a country in which it damned well ought to be all right to drink cappuccino whenever you feel like it without interference from supercilious kibitzers.

So, there I was at a table at the Au Bon Pain in Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston, safely out of Cambridge, stirring sugar into my cappuccino, harming no one, when a male voice said, ‘Holly!'

‘Hatch!' There was no reason for my surprise. I knew that Vanessa's son was a resident physician here, as Fiona, too, had been. ‘Sit down! If you have a minute.'

‘That's about what I have.' Hatch was wearing a white coat with hospital ID. Again, I was struck by his resemblance to Vanessa, who seemed to have passed all of her genes to her son and none to Avery. As Hatch took the seat opposite mine at the little table and rested his cup of take-out coffee on it, he moved with the athleticism and grace that his sister lacked, and even though he looked tired and worried, he lacked the air of melancholia so notable in Avery. ‘Thank you for your note,' he said. ‘Your stepmother and Leah wrote, too. I really appreciate it.'

‘Hatch, I am so sorry about Fiona. We all are. She was lovely. So bright, interesting, beautiful. She had everything.'

‘She did. It still doesn't seem real. I don't know what I'm going to do. All our plans . . . I'm trying to rearrange everything. California. I don't want to go without her. It's all up in the air. But maybe something will open up here. I just don't know.'

‘Why should you?'

He smiled wanly. ‘Because my mother expects it? Is that a reason?'

‘Not necessarily.'

‘I shouldn't complain. She's been great. Hey, I've got to run. I'll see you tomorrow. My mother's turning this dog thing into a family picnic. She said you and Steve would be there.'

‘And Gabrielle.'

‘And your father? And Leah?'

I explained that Buck was in Maine and that Leah had to study. When Hatch had rushed off, I felt acutely aware of Fiona's absence, as if the crowded, noisy café were filled with people in white coats or scrubs whose principal characteristic was that they were not Fiona. Even in this setting, which had been hers, her striking looks and her vivacity would have made her stand out.

‘Do you mind if I sit here?' asked a man in a tweed jacket.

‘Not at all,' I said.

He put his tray on the table and took a seat. ‘You're having cappuccino,' he informed me. ‘You know, in Italy, no one drinks it after ten o'clock in the morning.'

‘This isn't Italy,' I said. ‘Do you live in Cambridge?'

He did. I defiantly finished my cappuccino and left to wait for Gabrielle in the lobby, just outside the café. When she came striding toward me, I almost gasped.

‘Is it that bad?' she asked.

‘You look sunburned,' I said tactfully. Her cheeks were scarlet, with livid patches and purple spots here and there.

‘I have to be very careful tomorrow. Lots of sunscreen. And a hat. Maybe it'll keep raining.'

‘No. It's supposed to clear up. Uh, are you allowed to use make-up?'

‘Not for three or four days. I never use it anyway. That bad, huh?'

When we reached the lobby of the garage, Gabrielle insisted on paying for the parking. She inserted my ticket and money into the machine, reclaimed the ticket, and tucked it in her purse. After we'd taken the elevator up to the top floor and seated ourselves in my car, Gabrielle pulled down the visor on her side and tried to examine her face in its little mirror. Fortunately, the light was too dim to give her a clear view. To distract her, I told her about running into Hatch Jones; and we talked about him and about Fiona while I drove slowly down, floor after floor, and while we waited for the drivers in front of us. Once we finally reached the contraption that would open the gate, Gabrielle held us up as she ferreted around in her purse for the validated ticket. I clearly remember that as I stretched my left hand out the window to insert the ticket, I caught a glimpse of a dark van two vehicles behind us. Cars all look more or less the same to me, as do vans. When it comes to vehicles, I'm the equivalent of someone who can tell a Dalmatian from a poodle but who compliments me on my malamutes by saying, ‘Beautiful huskies.' I practically have to read the writing on a car to know what it is. As to vans, when Rowdy had delivered the coup de grâce to Steve's old rattletrap van by bursting out through one of its windows – in good cause, I might note – my ever-cooperative, endlessly patient husband had tried to solicit my opinion about a new one but had eventually given up. I did express color preferences: white vans reminded me of ambulances, black ones of hearses. So, Steve's new van is pewter. I'm pretty sure that it's a Chevy. All this is to say that the vehicle two behind my Blazer at the exit from the garage was definitely a van. The garage had dim light, so I couldn't be sure of the color: black, dark blue, or green. Was it the same one I'd seen at the armory? I had no idea.

SEVENTEEN

W
hen Betty Burley called at five o'clock that same Friday afternoon, Gabrielle answered. She and Betty had met twice, I thought: once at our wedding and once at a Malamute Rescue event. Even so, Gabrielle greeted Betty as if they'd been friends for decades and had a long chat with her. To the best of my knowledge, Betty never even asked to speak to me. Gabrielle handled everything, which is to say that she listened to Betty's description of the nasty phone calls and conspired with Betty to concoct a cockamamie plan about how to investigate their origin.

I paid little attention during the first part of their conversation, of which I, of course, heard only Gabrielle's side.

‘Horrible!' Gabrielle exclaimed. ‘Two more? And to think that this is the reward that you people get for trying to help homeless animals . . . well, yes, men do turn protective . . . I wouldn't say that she's dismissive . . . yes, maybe uncharacteristically passive . . .'

Me? Passive? But far be it from me to interrupt a call that was supposed to have been mine. My ears perked up only when I started to hear Gabrielle's side of the ludicrous scheme.

‘Betty, there's no reason to blame yourself or your organization. How many rescue groups have the resources to follow up with every applicant? And even if you did, what could you do? Fire your volunteers? There are never enough to begin with, are there? But this situation is not routine. I'd be more than happy to . . . just a few little questions . . . a survey, we'll call it. I'll make it clear that I'm not a telemarketer . . . the likely ones . . . yes, especially if the alternative is calling the police.'

Fate saw to it that I heard none of the details of this pseudo survey that evening. Steve arrived home with Lady, India, and Sammy. Because Steve's last patient had saturated him in bodily fluids best left unspecified, he went upstairs to shower and change his clothes. I fed all five of our dogs, Gabrielle fed and walked Molly, and then we let the five resident dogs out, brought them in, wiped mud off their feet and bellies, watched the evening news, and ate dinner, after which Steve and I ran Gabrielle and Molly through the test items that make up the Canine Good Citizen test. Because tomorrow's test would take place outdoors, we should have practiced outside, but Gabrielle was proud of Molly's lovely, clean show coat and vetoed the idea, so we ran through the CGC test indoors.

Playing the part of the evaluator, Steve did his best to wear a solemn expression, but I could see that he found Gabrielle's bizarrely crimson and heavily spotted complexion a challenge. In any case, Molly, looking adorable, breezed through the business of accepting a friendly (supposed) stranger and allowing Steve to pet and groom her. She walked politely on leash and continued to behave herself when I played the part of a supposed crowd; and when Lady joined me in the role of a strange dog, Molly was fine. Indeed, everything went well except the seventh item, Coming When Called: the handler puts the dog in a sit, walks ten feet away, turns to face the dog, and calls the dog. Unfortunately, the sight of Gabrielle walking away impelled Molly to follow her. We tried three times. Molly succeeded once.