Lawyer for the Dog (24 page)

He laughs. “Maybe too quick?”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Be honest.”

“It was fine. Better than fine. You left your hat here, by the way.”

“How's Sherman?”

“No more stomach problems. He seems to be settling right in.”

“I told you you'd like having a dog around. Carmen's still available when you're ready.”

“Carmen?”

“The beagle who needs a good home.”

“Well, I've got my hands full right now with Sherman.”

“Maryann and Rusty must be going nuts without him,” he says.

“They both visited with him Thursday—separately, of course. But we didn't hear from them all day yesterday.”

“Would you like to go to dinner tonight?” he asks.

“I've got my mother.”

“I could bring something over. Maybe something from the seafood place.”

“That's really sweet, but I think I'd better let my mother have a quiet night.” Right away, I worry that he's going to take this the wrong way, so I try again. “I'd love to go to dinner. I just wish things weren't so complicated right now.”

“What's so complicated?”

“My mother, I guess.”

“Lots of people have mothers,” he says.

“She's not doing well at all, and the woman who stays with her during the day will be leaving soon, so I need to find a nursing home. Maybe once she's settled somewhere, I'll have more free time.”

“You're not the only one whose life is complicated. I have my son. He lives with his mother in San Francisco.”

“How old is he?”

“Twelve.”

“That must be hard for you, to have him so far away.”

“He's the one who suffers the most.”

“Do you think dogs suffer like we do?”

“They suffer, but not in the same ways. Sherman, for example, isn't plagued by self-doubt. He misses Maryann and Rusty, and their disappearance is a mystery to him, but he isn't worried that he did something wrong. He'll allow himself to be comforted. He'll accept your love without worrying about whether he deserves it.”

After the call, I tell myself I should try being more like Sherman.

 

Off the Deep End

“Michelle Marvel just called,” Gina says when I get to the office on Monday morning. “Mr. Hart is in the hospital. She said it's all Mrs. Hart's fault.”

“Oh, for God's sake.”

“He had a heart attack on Friday, when he went to get Mrs. Hart out of jail!”

“Slow down, you're not making any sense.”

“That's why we couldn't reach either one of them. She was arrested on Thursday night, and he had the heart attack on Friday when he went to get her out.”

“Arrested for what?”

“Burglary.”

“That can't be right.”

“I know, it doesn't sound right, but Michelle was sure about it. She wanted me to let you know that Mr. Hart would like to see you as soon as possible. He's at Roper, cardiac intensive care, second floor.”

“He's not
dying
, is he?”

“She didn't know the details, just that he's in intensive care.”

“What about his wife?”

“He posted bond for her, got her out of jail, was driving her home when he had the heart thing.”

“You really think it's an emergency? I was planning to work on the brief in support of the motion for bifurcation.”

“I've already done the research, I can draft it,” Gina says. “Come on, the old guy's had a heart attack. He's asking for you.”

I think about the old man at Golden Memories, Mr. Charles Bird in his striped pajamas. “You're right, I'll go.”

*   *   *

“No visitors allowed yet,” says the nurse at the nurses' station, “except close family.”

“I'm his lawyer.” Not exactly true, but close enough. “He asked to see me.”

“Try to keep it under fifteen minutes. Room 205, end of the hall.”

Rusty Hart's eyes are closed when I enter the room. He's a big man, but all the machines with their wires and tubes and blinking lights have reduced him to a smaller version of himself. One arm rests on his belly, the other is trapped by an IV taped to the inside of his elbow. The movement of his heartbeat across the monitor seems erratic, distressed.

I decide not to wake him, but the aide who comes with the dinner tray doesn't hesitate. “Sir, let's try to sit you up. Maybe your daughter would like to help you eat?” Mr. Hart's eyes open, searching the room. He yanks the tubing out of his nose. The orderly reinserts it. “No, sir, you don't need to take that out to eat. It's your oxygen.” Mr. Hart growls. The orderly vanishes.

I lift the plastic cover off the tray: watery bouillon, plastic cup of apple juice, orange jello. “Here, let me help you.”

“Anna?”

“No, Mr. Hart, it's Sally Baynard. You wanted me—”

“Right.”

“Would you like some soup?” I pick up the spoon. He pushes it away.

“Feel terrible.”

“I know you do. Maybe we should talk later, when you feel better.”

“No. Need you to take care of some things…” He's very pale, all that ruddiness gone.

“I assume you have a will, Mr. Hart. If you need to update it, I'm sure Michelle Marvel can—”

“Not the will. Shit, if I … croak … I guess she … Maryann … should have it all anyway. What the hell. Sherman…”

“Sherman's at my house. He's fine for now.”

“My buddy.”

“They won't let me stay long. What can I do for you?”

“Call Anna.”

“I'll ask Michelle to do that, okay?”

“She doesn't know about Anna.” I'm stunned he didn't tell his own lawyer about his daughter. “Please.”

“What do you want me to tell her?”

“Whatever you think is … best.”

“I shouldn't be the one deciding what's best for your family.”

“You couldn't screw it up more than it is already. You still have the number?”

“I think so.”

“Look in my wallet…” He points to the little closet across from the bed. “Number's in there, under the picture.” And there it is, on a piece of paper tucked behind a small photo. Anna must have been six or seven, missing some front teeth, her reluctant smile coaxed by the school photographer. “Tell her that her mother's gone off the deep end,” he says. “
Arrested
, for God's sake.” The wavy green line on the monitor behind him spikes sharply up.

“Mr. Hart, this is upsetting you.”

“Damn right it's upsetting.”

“We can talk later.”

“Can you believe it? Burglary!”

“But that can't be right—”

“They broke into a house … Cut though a screened porch with box cutters … to rescue some dog they said was … abused.”

“Who's ‘they'?”

“Maryann and some other women. Some group she belongs to. Bunch of crazies. Lucky she didn't get shot.”

“You put up her bail?”

“What the hell else was I … supposed to do? She's paid that creep Swinton a small fortune, but she won't call him when she gets arrested! She'd still be in jail if my old buddy the magistrate hadn't called me…”

“You're a good husband.”

“No, just a fixer.”

I stand up. “I'll call your daughter. You get some rest.”

“Off the deep end, I tell you.”

His eyes are closed again, his voice almost inaudible: “You tell my best buddy I miss him. I miss him like hell.”

Back at the nurses' station I ask for his nurse. “She's with another patient,” says the woman behind the desk, who's busy typing into a computer. “Can I help you?”

“He didn't want his dinner. Someone should check on him.”

“Not unusual,” she says. “Loss of appetite after a major coronary event. But I'll check on him as soon as I—excuse me, I have a call.”

I mouth a “thank you” and leave, wondering if it would have made any difference if I'd said,
He's a sick, lonely old man. His wife's divorcing him, and his daughter probably won't care that he's all alone here. His best buddy is a dog, and you won't allow dogs in the hospital. So please, he needs some extra attention from you, okay?

When I get back to the office Sherman is sleeping under Gina's desk. “How's Mr. Hart?” she asks.

“Terrible.”

“His wife called right after you left. I told her Sherman's doing fine with us. I don't think that's what she wanted to hear.”

*   *   *

The call to Anna doesn't go well.

“It's about your father.”

“I made it clear I didn't want to get involved.”

“He's had a heart attack.”

Long pause, as if she's marshaling her defenses. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“He's not doing well at all.”

“I'm sure my mother has the situation under control,” she says, in that cool, practiced voice.

“They're in the middle of a divorce, remember?”

“So, I get it, you want
me
to drop everything, fly down there, and—”

“Your father is alone in the hospital in very serious condition, and he asked me to let you know.” What I'd like to say is,
I don't care how tough your adolescence was, or how much you blame your parents. Your father needs you now.

“I'll give him a call. What hospital?”

“Roper. Room 205.”

“I hope you understand my situation. I work full-time. I have a five-year-old. I have no relationship with my parents.”

“Apparently your dad thinks he has one with you.”

“He has a hard time with reality.”

“He seems pretty grounded to me.”

“He's not your father.”

“My father died of a heart attack when I was twelve.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?”

“I'm not trying to make you feel anything at all. But he asked me to tell you that your mother's in trouble, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like she's been arrested for burglary.”

“Very funny.”

“I'm just passing this information along, as your father requested. He asked me to tell you she's gone off the deep end. His words, not mine.”

“Well, should I thank you for calling?” Her sarcasm could cut through steel. I'm about to hang up when she softens. “Look, I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry, too.” And I am. For all of them, for all of
us.

*   *   *

I rest my head on my desk, something I haven't done since my sleep-deprived college days. It's pleasant, drifting like this, away from everything difficult, but then Gina interrupts.

“Mrs. Hart's here. I told her you were busy. She's visiting with Sherman.”

I snap myself back into the case of
Hart v. Hart
. “It's okay. I'll talk to her.”

“We had to do it,” Mrs. Hart says before I've even asked a question. She's holding Sherman. He burrows his head in the crook of her arm, as if he's rediscovered a secret, special place. I can't help feeling a little jealous.

“Burglary is a felony, Mrs. Hart.”

“We didn't actually break into the house, just the screened porch. We had to cut through the screen to get to the dog. A cocker spaniel, poor thing. She was tied up on such a short rope, almost choking to death, half-starved.”

“Why didn't you call the police?”

“Sometimes they don't act fast enough, and they'd have taken her to the county shelter. Have you ever been to the shelter?”

“No.”

“They do the best they can, but they're always having to cope with budget shortfalls. There are so many animals there! So we—the ARC—we operate independently.”

“What's the ARC?”

“Animal Rescue Committee,” she says.

“I never heard of it.”

“It's just a small local group. I'm the president.”

“Were you going to keep the dog?”

“Melanie—she and I are the Sullivan's Island team—would have taken her home, nursed the poor thing back to health, then we'd put out the word on our underground network. Eventually we'd have found a good home for her.”

“Have you spoken to your lawyer about this?” I love the thought of Henry Swinton, who only does rich people's divorces, having to dirty his hands in criminal court.

“He's referring me to someone else in his firm, but I've told him I can't afford to pay another legal fee. This is all a big misunderstanding. I'm not a burglar. We didn't intend to do any harm.”

“How did you cut the screen?”

“With wire cutters,” she says. “We assessed the situation beforehand. Is it burglary if I didn't even go inside the house?”

“Mrs. Hart, I can't advise you on this. All I can tell you is that you'd better take it seriously.”

“It's the only thing I've ever done—on my own—that I'm really proud of. I'm not going to apologize for it, but I hope you won't hold it against me in the case with Sherman, because I couldn't bear to lose him. By the way, he doesn't look well. Has he lost weight?”

“He's fine. Dr. Borden saw him recently, so you shouldn't worry.”

“Good, because I couldn't bear to think…”

“Mrs. Hart, how many dogs have you rescued?”

“This would have been the tenth.”

“Did your husband know anything about this?”

“I joined the group after we separated. He wouldn't have approved.”

“But he posted bail for you, right?”

She frowns. “I should have called Henry Swinton.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I told you, it was all just a big misunderstanding. I thought if I just talked to the magistrate, I could … He's a friend of ours. I was sure he'd just let me go, but then the magistrate called Rusty without even asking me. I'd never have—Rusty has such a temper. Once he had me in the car he started yelling. I'm sure that's what brought on the heart attack.”