Lawyer for the Dog (26 page)

Authors: Lee Robinson

“What's the matter?”

“It's not your mother, that's all she would say. She sounded really upset. Don't worry about Sherman, he's fine. Just go home.”

*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *

Delores's eyes are swollen from crying. “It's Charlie,” she says through her sobs. “He's gone.” She's already in her coat, her purse over her shoulder, ready to leave, but when I open the door she comes to me, almost falls into my arms. It feels good to have her lean on me, to hold her while she criesâthis woman who's been so strong, so unshakeable until now. She manages to tell me that Charlie's sister found him in his apartment. “It was so quick,” she says. “I should have been there. He died all alone.”

“You couldn't have known, Delores.” I don't say what I'm thinking, that maybe this is a blessing for Charlie, for her. “Would you like me to drive you home?”

“No, I'll be okay. You take care of your mama.”

When she leaves I call Gina, tell her about Charlie, about Mr. Hart's visitors.

“I can't believe Anna brought the kid,” she says. “I always knew you had incredible powers of persuasion.”

“I didn't have anything to do with it.”

“Of course you did.”

“Would you mind bringing Sherman here? Just close the office, take the afternoon off.”

“You okay? You sound like you've been crying yourself.”

“I'm sad for Delores.”

“But it's good news about the Harts.”

“I guess so, but it means saying good-bye to Sherman.”

“Maybe they'll give you visitation rights.”

I postpone the dinner with Ellen and my other girlfriends. Ellen argues with me. “You're going to spend your birthday in that condo with your mother?”

“It'll be a threesome,” I say.

“Oh, I see. The vet's coming over.”

“No, not tonight.”

“Don't tell me it's Joe.”

“Of course not.”

“Quit being so mysterious.”

“It's Sherman.”

“What's so special about that?” she asks.

How can I explain why I want to spend this night with a little dog who knows nothing of birthdays? If I can lure him away from my mother maybe he'll sleep at the end of my bed, and maybe when I wake in the darkness I'll feel his warmth, the twitch of his feet as he travelsâwho knows where?âin his dreams.

A Work in Progress

Every case is a story
, my old law school professor used to say.

When I left the hospital, I thought
Hart v. Hart
had reached its final chapter. Joe Baynard signed the order of dismissal this month. The case is legally over, and the Harts are living together again, but to say they're “reconciled” is a stretch. She calls me to gripe about him; he grabs the phone to tell me his side of the story.

“Maryann's finally gotten it through her head that we can't afford two houses anymore,” he says. “I thought she'd agreed to sell the one downtown, but now she's changed her mind, says she won't live out here at the beach unless I promise I won't ever see the girl again. I'm not promising any such thing.”

I change the subject. “How's Sherman?”

“My buddy's fine.”

“How's it going with your daughter?” I'm almost afraid to ask.

“At least we're talking. Maryann's planning a trip to New York. I'll go with her, provided I don't croak first.”

“That sounds good.”

“I just wish she had a husbandâAnna, I mean. This isn't the way it's supposed to be, a kid growing up without a father in the house.”

In the background I hear Maryann Hart: “Stop harping about that!”

“Like I say, we're talking. You deserve the credit for that.”

“I didn't do anything.”

“It wouldn't have happened without you. Hold on, my wife wants to ask you something.”

“I hope I'm not being presumptuous,” Mrs. Hart says, “but when we go to New York, I want to stay long enough to have a nice visitâa week at least. Rusty's reluctant to leave Sherman at the kennel. Dr. Borden suggested you might be willing to dog-sit. Again, I don't want to seem presumptuous, and I wouldn't ask if Dr. Borden hadn't recommended you.”

“I'd be happy to. I've missed him.”

“We haven't made any definite plans yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Why don't you bring him by the office sometime? Or maybe I could drive out to the beach with my mother. She misses him, too.”

My mother is still with me. When Compassionate Care called to say they had an opening in the Alzheimer's wing, I turned it down. Delores says she wants to keep working. “I'm not going to sit around and mope all day long,” she says. I've hired two other sitters, one for the night shift and the other for weekends. Even with all this help I don't know how long we'll be able to manage. Last week Mom insisted she was “going away on vacation.” I humored her, didn't interfere when she pulled a suitcase from the closet and started packing. It wasn't until she tried to add a bunch of ripe bananas and a jar of mayonnaise to the pile of clothes that I had to stop her.

Sometimes I think,
this isn't my mother.
My real mother is still a presence in my life. She's still following me around the kitchen, so close I feel her breath on my back. “You might add a little salt to that soup,” my real mother says. Or when we're sitting on the balcony watching the ships come and go in the harbor, she's giving me advice about my love life, about how I should be careful not to ruin things this time, because “Darling, this could be your last chance.”

My real mother and I still argue all the time. It grieves her that I'm not sure I believe in life after deathâat least not in her kind of heaven. She fears for my soul, she says. She wants us to be together in heaven someday. “If you don't believe,” she says, “you'll risk eternal damnation.”
Don't worry
, I reply,
if you nag God enough, I'm sure he'll make some allowance.

Every now and then, in these imaginary conversations, one of us says something unexpected. She apologizes for giving Brownie away. “It broke your heart,” she says, “to lose your father, and then to lose that dog, too.” I tell her I'm sorry I never gave her enough credit for being so brave after Dad died, going back to work, persevering. I tell her I know she did the best she could. My real mother can't quite bring herself to apologize for the way she behaved after I left Joe, blaming me for everything. But I don't expect miracles.

Shortly after he signed the order of dismissal in
Hart v. Hart
, the Honorable Joseph H. Baynard moved back home. Last week I saw him coming toward me on Broad Street and I expected him to nod, smile, and keep going, as he's done the last couple of times we've seen each other, but he stopped. “How are things?” he asked.

“Fine,” I answered. “You?”

“Better.”

“I was glad to hear about you and Susan.”

“It's still a work in progress,” he said.

“Isn't it always?”

“You must have thought I'd lost my mind,” he said.

“You were going through a bad time.”

“But you were still mad as hell at me, and I deserved it. How's your mother?” I gave him a brief report. “Tell her I'm thinking about her,” he said before we shook hands. The handshake lasted longer than it should, a second or two beyond mere friendship, and after we parted I realize
I
was the one holding on, not Joe.

*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *

I spent last weekend with Tony Borden at his house not far from the clinic. It was chilly, but one night we snuggled in the hammock on his screened porch, under a blanket, watching the sun go down behind the marshes.

“It's so peaceful out there,” I said. “Hard to believe we're only twenty miles from the city.” I was already feeling guilty about leaving my mother, though she'd seemed fine when I'd left her with the new weekend sitter.

“It's an illusion,” Tony said. “Nature isn't all that peaceful. Right now the snakes are coming out to hunt, the owls are scouring the field for mice, and the vultures have just about finished off that dead deer you saw on the way out.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“The only difference is, the animals are just doing it to survive. So in my opinion, they're nobler than humans. Except for you, of course. I make an exception for you.” He reached down to rub the beagle's forehead. “You sure you won't take her?”

“Maybe after I get Mom settled in with her new sitters. Right now I just don't see how I can handle a dog full-time.”

“You did okay with Sherman.”

“I'll think about it.”

“That seems to be your standard line.”

He's been moody lately. His son is coming for a visit over Christmas. Tony's worried about how it will go. I try to be reassuring, though I have my own worries. Will Jake like me? I've represented hundreds of children over the years, but what do I really know about twelve-year-old boys?

And last weekend Tony said
I love you
.

I wasn't ready for that.

“What are you waiting for?” asks Gina when I tell her about my hesitation.

If my mother could speak she'd undoubtedly say,
Don't mess it up. This might be your last chance.

“He's perfect for you,” says my friend Ellen.

Sherman seems to have an opinion, too. I keep a picture of him on my desk, the photo that was once part of the court file. When I'm overwhelmed with work, like today, his dark eyes look right at me, bright and wise, steady:
I'm glad you took that cat case. Even a cat deserves a good lawyer.

About the Author

Lee Robinson
practiced law for more than twenty years in Charleston, South Carolina, where she served as executive director of a legal services agency and later worked in private practice, concentrating on family law. She was elected the first female president of the Charleston Bar Association and received the Bar Association's award for her work in public-interest law. She lives on a small ranch in the Texas hill country. This is her first novel for adults. You can sign up for email updates
here
.

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