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Authors: Laurien Berenson

Dog Eat Dog (14 page)

BOOK: Dog Eat Dog
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“Not.”
“You might give it a try. I don't know her well myself, but she called here once to get my input on some trophy decisions. In the course of the conversation, she told me about something she'd done. She was very righteous about it, but at the same time kind of defensive.”
“Did it have to do with the trophies?” I asked.
“No, it was something else entirely. I think she was looking for my support. Maybe she told Monica about it, hoping for the same thing and then came to regret it later.”
With a loud whoop, Davey came barreling down the spiral stairway. If I hadn't held out my arms, he'd have gone flying at the bottom. As it was, we both staggered backward into the bedroom. Nothing like a five-year-old up past his bed time and cruising along on a sugar high.
“That was great!” he said. “Want to go up, Mom?”
“No, I think we've taken up enough of Mrs. Rubicov's time. Will you say thank-you for showing you around?”
“Thanks!” Davey cried. “Can I have some more strawberries?”
I wanted to kick him, but Barbara only laughed. “I'm afraid the strawberries will be put away by the time we get back downstairs. Maybe another time.”
As we ascended the wide stairway—Davey walking, not sliding—the door to the library opened and Peg and Cy emerged. They were talking dogs and dog shows. That was certainly Aunt Peg's favorite topic and Cy looked as though he was enjoying himself, too. Apparently we'd been forgiven for starting off the evening by accusing him of murder.
Back in the car, with Davey struggling to keep his eyes open, Aunt Peg admitted that she'd learned nothing further from Cy, if you didn't count the fact that he considered his Dalmatian to be a prime contender for that year's top ten. As Davey began to snore softly in the back seat, I told her what Barbara had had to say about Joanne.
“I've never paid too much attention to Joanne,” she said. “She's basically a pet owner, using the club as a social life. She does a good job with the club's rescue work, but beyond that I've never really given her any thought. She's just part of the background.”
From what little I'd seen of Joanne, I had to agree with Aunt Peg's assessment. And that made me wonder about the conversation she'd supposedly had with Barbara. Somehow I couldn't imagine the two of them exchanging confidences.
I thought of the carefully orchestrated way in which I'd been drawn aside and fed just enough information about Joanne to make me curious. Had Barbara really been trying to point me in the right direction, or had she simple wanted to divert attention away from herself and Cy?
Nineteen
After the week I'd had, I was really looking forward to a calm, relaxing weekend. Davey, Sam, and I could use some quality time together. I pictured us strolling with the puppy in the park; or maybe seeing an afternoon movie. And after Davey went to sleep ... I had that covered, too.
I'm no Cinderella. I have modest dreams. I figure that way they stand a halfway decent chance of coming true. That Saturday, however, my fairy godmother must have been out to lunch. And maybe dinner, too.
Instead of the quietly blissful weekend I'd planned, I ended up with a phone message from Sam saying he'd gone off to show in Massachusetts; six inches of snow from a last-gasp-of-winter snowstorm; and an ex-husband who seemed to have forgotten that I was no longer responsible for doing his laundry.
Times like this, I wish life was better at imitating art. Even a wicked stepmother wouldn't have treated me this badly.
Davey, who by all rights, should have slept late Saturday morning, was up at dawn celebrating the newly fallen snow at the top of his lungs. After he'd let Faith outside and the puppy had taken two quick turns around the back yard, she joined in. For some reason, the two of them seemed to think this celebration should be taking place on my bed. That's how I discovered just how much powdery snow can stick to a Standard Poodle puppy's legs. Enough to wet a queen size quilt clear through, apparently.
While Davey dressed, I stripped the bed, threw everything in the washing machine, and started a batch of French toast. Bob arrived while we were eating breakfast.
“Great,” he said, going directly to the cupboard for a plate. “French toast, my favorite.”
There were two pieces cooking in the pan.
My
two pieces. I slapped a cover over them before he could help himself. “I don't recall issuing an invitation,” I said.
Bob stopped and stared. Then he began to laugh. After a minute, I joined in. It's hard to stand on ceremony when you're wearing flannel pajamas.
We split the pieces in the frying pan between us and I started three more. Sitting at the table, Bob cocked his head toward the basement door. “Do I hear the washing machine?”
“Could be. It's running.”
“You don't suppose ... ?”
“You could run a load? I don't see why not.”
“I only have a few things. I was thinking I could throw them in with yours.”
“Sorry,” I said, grinning. “Mine's done.”
Four and a half years and he still hadn't mastered laundry. He'd just met Jennifer. I wondered who'd been taking up the slack in the meantime.
“Come on, Mel. Don't be like that.”
I took a big bite of French toast and chewed slowly. “Like what?”
“Obstinate. You always did have to have everything your own way.”
“I did not.” That was unfair. Also untrue.
Davey stopped eating and looked at us. The French toast on the stove began to smoke. I hopped up, grabbed a spatula, and turned the pieces over.
I was not going to fight with Bob in front of my son. “I'll make you a deal. I'll do your laundry.”
“And?”
“You shovel the driveway.” Of all the chores that came with owning a house, shoveling snow was the one I liked the least. I could mow, I could plant, I could even paint and plaster if I had to, but I hated shoveling snow.
“You're kidding.” From the look on his face, you'd have thought I'd suggested he climb Mount McKinley and get back to me by noon.
“Why would I be kidding?”
“Why would I want to shovel snow?”
“Nobody wants to shovel snow. That's the whole point.” The new batch of French toast was done. I slipped a hot piece on each plate, then dipped and started three more.
“It's March,” said Bob. “The stuff will be melting in a week or two anyway.”
“In the meantime, I'll have to live with it.”
“I don't have any gloves, or the right kind of boots.”
I shrugged and sat back down to breakfast. Faith pushed her muzzle hopefully into my lap. I scratched behind her ear, but didn't offer to give up any French toast. “That's the deal. Take it or leave it.”
He took it.
After breakfast, Bob went back to the hotel and picked up his laundry. While I was sorting lights and darks, he and Davey went out in the backyard where they managed to build a snowman that was all of two feet high and bore a striking resemblance to E.T.
As they worked, Faith ran around in circles, barking like a lunatic. Every so often she'd stop and tentatively sniff the snowman. Dogs are creatures of habit. If something's going to change in their space, they'd like to be consulted. Faith was not amused by this small intruder in her yard. Even fashioning features out of dog biscuits didn't help, although I thought they added to the snow creature's otherworldly appeal.
By lunch time, I had my driveway shoveled and Bob had a basket filled with fresh laundry. Supplies being a bit low, we opted for peanut butter and jelly all around, then sat down to a family game of Scrabble. With Davey sitting between us, Bob and I were on our best behavior. Neither one said a thing when our son passed off the word “zfig” as a new kind of Newton.
It wasn't exactly the family grouping I had in mind but, all in all, things didn't turn out too badly. We did manage to get to the park; with Bob insisting we take his car until he found out that Faith was coming along, then arguing with equal vehemence that we take mine.
The Volvo stuttered all the way there, but only part of the way back. I saw that as a good sign. Where my car is concerned, I'm an optimist. I can't afford to be anything else.
Back home in the late afternoon, Bob was ready to sit down in front of the TV with a cold beer and a plate of nachos. Wives have to put up with stuff like that. Exes definitely don't. I thought about kicking him out, but decided it might be more productive to let him hang around.
Davey had gotten up early and had a busy day. By four-thirty, he was just tired enough to be really cranky. Any mother with young children knows that stage. They're bored with their games. All their toys are stupid. There's nothing good to do in the
whole
world.
Davey wanted to cling. He also wanted to whine. I handed him another cold beer for Daddy and sent him into the living room in the sincere hope that he'd continue to do both.
Sneaky? Self-serving? Maybe. But Bob had told me that he wanted to experience fatherhood. The way I saw it, all I was doing was helping him experience it to the fullest.
Left to my own devices in the kitchen, I unfolded Faith's portable grooming table and got out her supplies. Accustomed to the routine, she lay quietly while I line brushed the hair on her body, then slickered through her legs. I took out her topknot and reset all the bands, then unwrapped and rewrapped her ears. Faith doesn't much like having her nails clipped, but by now she's resigned to it. The same goes for plucking the hair inside her ears.
With a Standard Poodle, this is a long process. Doing a good job takes more than an hour. I did a great job. Probably the most thorough brushing I've ever done. Aunt Peg would have been proud. And when I was finished, the puppy looked great. Faith took the piece of cheese I gave her as a reward, then ran into the living room to see what Davey was up to.
When everything was put away, I followed. Father and son were seated together on the couch. Bob had one eye on a boxing match and the other on the Go Fish cards in his hand. Davey still looked sulky.
“I said go fish!” he shouted, slapping the pile of cards on the cushion between them. “That means you're supposed to
go fish!”
No need to intervene there.
Quietly I withdrew, and spent the next half hour browsing through take-out menus before settling on ribs. Usually that's one of Davey's favorite meals. They come with curly fries and nobody says a word when you eat with your fingers. At five, that's enough to bump a meal straight to the top of the list.
Compared to some kids I've seen, Davey's usually pretty easy. But that night, nothing pleased him. The ribs didn't taste right. The fries were too salty. Even Faith's begging at the table—which he usually encourages shamelessly—got on his nerves.
After dinner, I sent him upstairs for an early bath. Bob got the job of reading him to sleep and didn't reappear for an hour.
Ah, the joys of fatherhood.
By that time, I had my feet up and was reading Nancy Pickard's latest. Bob came and stood in the doorway. “That dog ... um, Faith, is on the bed with him. Is that okay?”
“Sure. That's where she sleeps.”
“She won't wake him up?”
“She hasn't yet.”
“Good.” Relief evident, Bob came in and sat down on the couch.
“Nice day,” I commented, setting my book aside.
“Long
day.”
I kept my smile to myself. “That's what it's like when they're Davey's age. They go and go and you can barely keep up, then suddenly boom, they're tired and it all shuts down.”
“Do you know he made me play eighteen games of Go Fish?”
“Better than hide-and-seek. That's another favorite. At least you were sitting down.”
“Great,” Bob muttered. “When do they begin to amuse themselves?”
“When they get older, I guess.”
“Jeez, eighteen games. And I only won one.”
“Be glad you weren't playing for money.”
Bob looked up. “He does that?”
“No. Just kidding.”
“I should hope so.”
His tone irritated me. If he'd wanted to have input into the way his son was raised, then he should have been around to provide it.
“I guess fatherhood isn't that easy, is it?”
“I never said it was.” Bob frowned. “But it doesn't change the fact that Davey's my son.”
“Of course he's your son. He loves spending time with you. And I'm delighted to have him spend time with you, whenever you want to come and see him. But we can't share him, Bob. Texas is just too far away. And who knows anything about this girl, Jennifer—”
“I do,” Bob said. There was an edge to his tone. “I know plenty about her. She's going to make a great mother.”
“How can you say that? How can you know? She's barely past childhood herself.”
“She may be young, but she's a good person. She comes from a good family. You have no right to judge her, especially when. . .”
Bob stopped suddenly and looked away. An alarm went off deep in my subconscious. Bob and I were old hands at fighting. But we'd always done it face to face. It wasn't like him to turn away.
“When what?” I demanded.
“It's not like your own family is perfect, Mel.”
A cool shiver raised the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. “What are you talking about?”
“I've been to see Frank.”
That was news to me. I waited in silence for what would come next.
“You didn't know that, did you?”
“My brother and I don't talk every day,” I said quietly.
“From what I can tell, you hardly talk at all. But he talked to me. Actually we had an interesting chat about old times. I didn't know your father was an alcoholic.”
When I'd been married to Bob, I hadn't known it either. My parents had made a conscious effort to shelter me from anything unpleasant, anything that might hurt. And their efforts had worked, up to a point. How could they have known that finding out everything later, after their deaths, when it was too late for me to do anything but mourn all over again, would only hurt more?
“I remember when your parents died,” he said.
Of course, he'd remember. I was pregnant with Davey, and we'd gone to the funeral together.
“Your father was driving when their car went off the road. Maybe he'd been drinking then.”
Bob was guessing. I knew the truth. But the scab over that particular wound was still too fresh. I wasn't about to discuss it with him.
I glared at him. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with it. What makes you think you have any right to question my suitability as a parent? Or Jennifer's either, for that matter?” Bob stood, waving an arm angrily to encompass the room. “From what I can see around here, you're not necessarily doing such a great job yourself.”
“I'm a terrific mother—”
“You drive a car that sounds like a death trap, feed my son french fries for dinner, and let a dog the size of Rhode Island sleep on his bed. He keeps mentioning some guy named Sam, and now I find out about your father. Talk about instability. This is one hell of a way for my kid to be growing up.”
BOOK: Dog Eat Dog
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