Unsaid: A Novel (28 page)

“I wish it were. Did you tell David?”

Sally shakes her head. “He’s had so much going on… And I wanted you to see him first.”

“He’s still eating, right? He hasn’t lost any weight.”

“I hand-feed him. He likes his eggs scrambled with a little cheese.”

“I think it’s going to need to be soon, but…”

One great myth of veterinary practice is that the veterinarian somehow knows “the right time.” Part of that belief, I’m sure, is the client’s understandable urge to escape the responsibility for taking the life of a loved one. In all the euthanasias I’ve performed, no “owner” ever asked me whether he or she could depress the plunger on the syringe that will kill the animal with whom they’ve shared their lives. Just once, I would’ve liked someone to move my hand off the syringe, say, “This is for me to do,” and relieve me of the weight of even one additional soul.

The irony is that most owners care enough to hand-feed their creatures at all hours of the night, clean them of their own urine and feces, and carry them when they cannot walk on their own, but these same people will not—or cannot—make the ultimate irrevocable decision for their companions.

The other reason owners abdicate the decision is the mistaken
belief that “the right time” to summon death can be determined by a review of objective medical factors—some combination of white and red blood cells, the amount of protein in the urine, or the results of a liver enzyme test. In my own practice, I tried never to predicate the decision to end a life on the cold reality of a test result.

Instead, I would ask my long-ago learned quality-of-life questions: How is the dog acting? Is he eating and drinking? Does he go to the door to greet you when you come home? Does your cat still like catnip, chase shadows, use the litter pan? These queries are all designed to get the answer to one question—what does your companion animal want you to do? Is the continuation of life too painful? Is defecating and urinating on itself too embarrassing? Does it still like life enough to want to live?

You’ve lived with this animal for years. You’ve laughed and cried with it, talked to it, eaten with it, and, more likely than not, shared your bed with it. What makes you think I’m better equipped than you to judge when your companion wants to end its life? Show me someone who wants their vet to determine the right moment for death and I’ll show you a coward.

I’m glad to see that Sally is no coward. She bends down, holds Skippy’s face in her hands, and looks deep into his dark eyes. They continue to be clear and alert. “Don’t worry, Skip. We’ve still got a deal, right? No plastic crap.”

Although Joshua doesn’t understand Sally’s comment, he knows enough not to ask. “For now,” he says quietly, “we should increase his Lasix and digitalis again. That should keep his lungs clear and help with the cough, at least for a while.”

Sally wills herself to form a smile. “I’ll take what I can get.”

W
hen I find David again later that day, dressed in a pair of old jeans, work boots, and a wool coat, he is carefully maneuvering Collette into her pen. He shakes a bucket of food, and the pig seems content to follow him.

Once Collette is settled, David scratches her rump—a sensation that she enjoys. She expresses her pleasure with a short grunt and by rolling on her back to expose her substantial belly. David seems happy to oblige, getting down on one knee to do it.

With Collette safely away, David strides up to the barn. As soon as he’s within those warm wooden walls, he takes a nearby empty box and begins packing away the most personal of my equestrian items. At this, Arthur lets out an angry snort.

David turns, and now horse and man face each other. “Still have a lot to say, don’t you?” David says, not unkindly. Arthur just stares at him, confused, I believe, by David’s tone.

“Look, I don’t know why it was her time to go. I can only tell you that it had absolutely nothing to do with you. You didn’t make
it happen. That’s all the explanation I have. It’s got to be enough.” David takes a tentative step toward the horse. “I know, I know, practice what I preach. But at least I’m trying now.” David takes one more step. It is one too many. Arthur backs up and then bolts out into the paddock. David calls after him, “I think we should try couples therapy.”

On his way back to the house, David spends a few moments roughhousing with Bernie and Chip. It’s the first time in a long while that David has paid attention to them just as dogs instead of additional cares that must be given food, water, and a safe place to sleep. The dogs love the attention and show their appreciation by knocking David on his ass as he laughs.

I can’t remember when I’ve seen my husband more at ease in his own skin. He’s not between places or in resistance to where the day finds him. He’s made his decision—not only about Jaycee’s case, but I believe about me as well—and is no longer in real danger of sliding ever downward on the cold, slick surface of self-pity.

David returns to the kitchen out of breath from play, the two dogs right behind him. Sally and Skippy are waiting. When she sees him, Sally smiles and her eyes crinkle at the corners.

“What’re you so happy about?” David asks.

Sally pours David a mug of coffee. “I was just thinking about this case. I’m glad you’re doing it.”

“You’d be well served by a little more cynicism,” David says.

“No thank you. I’ve mastered that one already. All you get at the end of a cynical day are the bragging privileges that come with being right. I think I’d rather be happy for you at this point than right.”

“Okay, Miss Della Reese, just keep in mind that this is the hardest case I’ve ever had to bring in my entire career—which, by the
way, is now probably over. I’ve no legal support for the argument I need to make. But let’s not stop there. I also have no associate help. I have no secretarial support. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing and I have one week to do what my entire team and I usually struggle to do in a month.”

“Well, then, what do you have?”

“I have the facts. I think I do have a damn good set of facts.” David picks up my notebook from the table. “And I’ve got some ideas, if I can get someone to listen to them.”

Sally looks around at the dogs and several of the cats who have now joined them in the kitchen. “I wouldn’t say that’s all you’ve got.”

David follows Sally’s gaze. “If only they could tell me what to say.”

Since the die had already been cast with the article in the
Chronicle,
and the US Attorney’s Office wouldn’t budge on reinstating the deal, David and Jaycee decided to go all out in the local media. Jaycee was now telling her story to any reporter who would listen and, not surprisingly, there were many reporters who wanted to hear about the chimpanzee who could “speak” like a four-year-old and the scientist who was on trial for trying to save her. David hoped that the news stories could make Cindy politically radioactive and at least delay her transfer. Then, if the trial got national media coverage and if Jaycee won, Cindy would become an icon.

If.

David didn’t want to be in the office when the fallout from Jaycee’s first round of interviews hit the papers. So, by the start of the first full workday following his argument with Max, David
converted the den into a makeshift office. His laptop computer, Cindy’s file, my notebook, and several books that I recognize from the living room bookshelves are open on the desk before him. These objects compete for desk space with mugs of coffee in various stages of age—none of them hot—an ashtray filled with broken and chewed toothpicks, and several pads of paper.

David, a toothpick in his mouth, types slowly on the computer while Skippy rests in his lap. The increase in Skippy’s meds has calmed his cough for the moment. The other dogs are sprawled asleep on the couch, and the cats sleep on books and papers strewn throughout the den. The animals now won’t leave David. Go figure.

Far from fresh at this point, David rubs his eyes and then searches with growing frustration for a particular document on the paper-strewn desk.

The doorbell rings. David and the dogs ignore it and the muffled conversation coming from the front of the house as he continues his search for the document. He finally finds it, grunts in satisfaction, and starts typing again.

Within moments, Sally appears in his doorway. She looks grim. “It’s for you,” she says.

David doesn’t even look up from his work. “Is it Jaycee?”

“No.”

“Can you deal with it, then?”

“David,” Sally says gently. “It’s Max.”

This instantly gets David’s full attention, and he heads for the front door.

Max’s tall, gray form literally darkens the hallway. I try to read his face—is it anger, disappointment, betrayal, jealousy? I get nothing off him.

“What’s up, Max?” David asks, trying to sound unconcerned, his arms folded across his chest.

“Oh, I think you know. Some documents I needed to give you. You knew this was coming,” Max says.

“You didn’t need to come all this way to give me my expulsion papers. You could’ve just faxed them.”

“Perhaps, but this is so much more fun. I get to see the look on your face, you arrogant little SOB,” Max says, his voice ice-cold. He takes out a sheath of papers from inside his coat pocket and hands them to David.

Although David has tried to talk a good game, I see his hurt and fear. He wasn’t really expecting this; it’s too soon. He thought he’d have the opportunity to explain himself to the executive committee and hoped, in light of his personal circumstances, that they’d show some compassion or understanding, maybe cut his compensation for a year or something, but not this. Didn’t they care about his years of service at all? The sacrifices he’d made? And if he was “out,” how could Max allow himself to be the vehicle for delivering the message? But David knew the answer to that last question—it was always about the money. Always.

David unfolds the papers and begins to read. His brow quickly furrows in confusion. “What’s this?” he asks, still reading.

Max can’t help himself and cracks a smile. “You’ve never seen a new business committee report before?”

“Of course, but what…” David skips to the last page. There it is: his name and, under the section for “description of new matter,” the phrase “pro bono criminal defense litigation of Jane Cassidy.” At the bottom of the page are the signatures of all six members of the new business committee, including the familiar signature of one Max Dryer. David finally looks up at Max. “But this is an approval.”

“Well, at least you can still read.”

“But how…”

“You can be a self-important bastard, you know? But nevertheless, you do have a certain motivating style.”

“You’re telling me that I changed your mind?”

Max shrugs but doesn’t answer. David pulls Max under the light in the hallway and then pretends to examine Max’s face in exacting detail. Max pulls away. “What are you doing, you idiot?”

“Looking for evidence of moral fiber.”

“So you convinced me. Big deal.”

David shakes his head, smiling. “I’ve never convinced you of anything unless you wanted me to. So what really happened?”

Max puts his hand to his heart, feigning indignation. “Don’t you feel the love?”

“I do. Except it feels a little like jailhouse love. Now come clean.”

“Okay, you win. I admit it. You played me like a fish. There, I said it. Happy now? Actually, I’m very proud of you.”

“Just tell me what it is you think I did. I want to know what made you so proud so I can appropriately repent to a higher authority.”

“Don’t be coy. You called Simon.”

“Yeah, so? I wanted his advice.”

“That may be what you wanted, but what you got was Simon calling every member of the executive committee and telling them the harsh economic consequences if the firm did not support you.”

“I didn’t ask him to do anything.”

“Sure you didn’t,” Max says in a tone that makes it clear he believes otherwise. “I understand completely.”

“No, really,” David says, but decides that further protest is futile. “Well, whatever your reasons, thank you.”

“It was getting too boring around the office without you anyway. Besides, you took my best lawyers.”

“Say again?”

Before Max can answer, Chris walks in carrying two litigation bags. David watches her in mute shock. I think that Chris enjoys the moment.

“Anytime you’re ready,” Chris says, holding out one of the litigation bags.

Then Dan staggers in carrying even more books and papers. “I think I’m gonna puke,” Dan mutters.

“He’s carsick,” Chris warns David.

“Bathroom?” Dan whispers.

David points toward the bedroom. Dan throws everything onto a nearby table and runs. The dogs run after him.

“By the way,” Chris asks, “do you have a wireless network?” David shakes his head. “A cable modem then?” David nods. “Good. Go help Martha bring in the laptops and printers from the van.”

“Martha?”

Chris pats him on the cheek. “Are you just gonna stand there doing the monosyllabic thing or are you going to help set up?”

At that moment, Martha walks in carrying two laptop computer bags. “Hey, boss.”

David recovers from his initial shock and kisses Martha on the cheek. Then he points them all toward the den.

While the rest of the team heads to their temporary headquarters, Max hangs back to speak with David. “So, how do things really stand?” Max asks. “Now that our necks are stuck out under the microscope you put us under, it would suck to lose.”

“I would say that our chances are somewhere between not good and really not good.”

“It sounds to me like we may need to redefine success. Who’s our judge?”

“Barbara Epstein,” David says.

“Nice liberal woman. You could’ve done worse.”

Before they reach the den, David turns to Max and smiles warmly. “I really want you to know that I will come to your funeral—even if it rains.”

Max puts an arm around David’s shoulders. “How comforting.”

Max helped.

I don’t feel qualified any longer to speak to his motives and I’m not even sure that motivation is an appropriate touchstone anyway. Motives get lost in the passage of time, subject to the ravages of memory and revisionism. What stays—and therefore what matters—is what you do.