Two Good Dogs Page 15

  * * *

  It’s what I love best in life, along with walks, television, and dinner: a ride in the car. Especially one that takes us away from the city into the countryside. Now, I’m a city dog, born and raised, and enjoy the feel of sidewalk under my feet as much as the next guy, but the countryside has all those potent scents. Whereas my usual route brings me the fresh smells of offal and other dogs, the occasional cat, and lots of lovely food molecules drifting out of pizza joints and delis, the countryside offers me the more organic living creature smells. My kind tend toward the home-protection occupations, with nary a hunter in the bloodline, but the deeper wolfish instinct in us all makes the idea of a hunt very compelling. So when we arrived at our home away from home, I leapt out of the car and grabbed a noseful of scent. Ah!

  My pal emerged from the car more slowly, poking his head out, sniffing the air, debating whether or not he should jump down from the car and take a chance that it was safe. He’s still cautious, confused a lot of the time, uneasy yet in his new circumstances. I understand how he feels; I was that way myself when I went from the cellar where I was born and fought to the streets and then to the comforts of Adam’s little home. It was quite a shock for me to go from captive to independent to codependent. When your world changes so abruptly, you have to be a little guarded.

  I barked, encouraging him, and was rewarded with his finally taking the leap. We ran side by side down the slope of the hill, the fresh scent of lake water and trees calling to our feral natures. That and the creature I knew was called rabbit. Having frequently snuffled up their scent in the snow and mud, I so wanted to see one.

  * * *

  The dogs are bursting with spring energy, and Adam doesn’t have the heart to call them back. He figures that they can’t get into much trouble in the woods, if you discount the chance of encountering a skunk. They’ll be back; it’s too close to dinnertime for Chance to wander too far from the bag of kibble.

  Skye isn’t in the office when Adam arrives. He has his phone out to call her cell when Cody comes in. “Hey, Mr. March.”

  “Hey yourself, Cody. Can you check me in?”

  “Sure.” Cody goes behind the reception desk, clicks the computer’s mouse a few times. Looks at him over the top of her slipping horn-rimmed glasses. “You have both dogs with you?”

  “I do.” He can see them out the picture window, noses firmly down to the ground.

  Cody fiddles a little more with the computer, prints out his check-in form. Slides it to him along with a pen. Adam scrawls his signature, slides it back to her.

  She slides the key to room 9 to him. “Can I say something?”

  “Sure.” Adam pockets the key. “What?”

  “That dog, the one from the crack house?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know his name.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s Dawg. You know, like ‘Hey, dawg.’” Cody’s voice is a pretty good imitation of street talk. She shoves her glasses up. “I found out.”

  “And can I ask how you found out?”

  “No. Well, I asked.”

  “You’re making me nervous, Cody. You shouldn’t be—”

  “It’s fine. He’s an okay kid. He’s just, well, he wants his dog back.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “That’s what I told him. Mingo. That you wouldn’t.”

  “Cody. Does your mother know about this?”

  “Oh, jeez no. Please, Mr. March. Don’t tell her; she’ll freak. I saw him in town. We’ve texted a little. Can I tell him that Dawg is here?”

  Street kid with a crack habit texting this little girl with artistic aspirations. Adam is suddenly very glad that Ariel is mostly all grown up. He doesn’t think he could do it again. It was hard enough as a part-time dad; he can’t imagine what it would be like to live with this attitude day after day. For one uncharacteristic moment, he thinks compassionately on Sterling, his ex-wife. “Think about it, Cody. Look at that dog.” He throws a hand toward the picture window. “Look at those scars. Those are from fighting.”

  “He says he never fought him.”

  “And you believe him?” He knows he’s being a hard-ass, but when it comes to dog fighting, Adam really doesn’t care how harsh he sounds. “Cody, I can’t take the chance.”

  “He won’t. He’s in some kind of program, a group home. Not jail.” She’s got that adolescent scowl thing going on, and he gets an insight into Skye’s world.

  “Hey, all checked in?” Skye appears in the doorway, the two dogs standing behind her.

  “We are. Cody took good care of me.” Adam winks at Cody, a tacit promise to keep their conversation to themselves, and he is rewarded by a slight smile, nothing broad enough to reveal her braces, but a smile nonetheless.

  Adam swings the door to room 9 open and is met by the fresh scent of vanilla. There is something a little different about the room this time, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s finally been painted. The vanilla room freshener is barely masking the odor of latex paint. The room is brighter, and the eggshell white color instead of the formerly beige shade makes it look bigger. The carpeting is gone, replaced with something he assumes is laminate, but it looks quite like actual strip oak buffed to a shine. Two area rugs in swirls of lavender, deep purple, and pink break up the expanse of wood. Adam pushes the new, lighter drapes back, revealing the view. It feels good to be here. Unlike his home, where it is all too easy to encounter a ghost, this comfortable room on the top of a hill is simply a place to lay his head. A place to rest.

  Chance butts him, grumbles. Lucky, aka Dawg, cocks his head. Rest will wait. It’s time to dish out doggy dinners. And, for the record, the dog will remain Lucky.

  * * *

  Dawg here cn u gt here? Cody keeps her phone in her hand, but there is no reply.

  * * *

  It is a strangely mild evening for early spring in these hills. Not a breath of a breeze to chill the back of the neck, and I’ve only recently dared to go scarfless. My down jacket is left hanging on a hook, close enough at hand for when the untrustworthy New England spring flirts with turning back into winter. I finish up in the office, shutting off all the lights except for the lamp in the window, giving the office the look of a warm and welcoming place. At a local craft fair, I’ve had a hand-painted sign made with my cell number on it, surrounded by a wreath of pink and white primroses, and it looks sweetly professional hanging on the hook beside the door. So much nicer than the cardboard stuck to the storm door with a piece of tape. As is my habit, I climb the outside stairs to the second floor, walk along the gallery, making sure that things are in order, then down the other set of stairs to the first floor, where I will do the same thing before retiring to our cabin for the night. I pause to lean over the railing. The moon has risen and appears caught between the tops of the two tallest pine trees. Nearly full, it casts enough light to illuminate the last of the snow still lingering in the frost hollows.

  Coming from below me, there is the sound of a door opening, the scrabble of dog nails on the concrete. A thump, another. Adam’s dogs appear in the moonlight, their tails pointing like darning needles straight out from boxy bodies, weaving a path down the slope. I lean farther over the rail and can see Adam standing there. If I had a water balloon, he’d be a perfect target. He sips from a plastic cup. I head down the outer stairs.

  “Good evening.”

  “And a lovely one it is.” Adam gestures toward the moon with the hand that holds the cup. “Could I interest you in a glass of wine?”

  This is where I’m supposed to say “Oh, gosh, no thank you.” But I don’t. A glass of wine in a plastic cup sounds kind of good. Kind of adult. Preferable to the whiskey he usually offers.

  “Why, yes. Thank you.” I pull another chair next to his.

  “I can only offer a mediocre red.”

  “Anything else would be wasted on me.”

  Adam goes in, comes out quickly with another cup and a bottle. “If y
ou’d prefer, I’ve also got a pretty good scotch. Twelve-year-old.”

  “Tempting as that sounds, a little red wine is probably a better choice for me.”

  Adam hands me the cup, pours himself a little more. We tip our cups in salute. No one says anything for a moment, both of us just enjoying the quiet and the fresh night air. In the distance, a bark. Adam whistles.

  “So you’re just here on a little vacation this time?”

  “Something like that.” He rests the edge of the cup against his lips. “Tomorrow is, would have been, our fifth anniversary.”

  “Anniversaries are hard.”

  “I’m functioning, but some days are just harder.” He shakes his head. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spoil the evening with my pity party.”

  “Oh, Adam, you can hardly be accused of that. It’s hard, I know, really hard to lose someone you love.” I feel a companionable tear rise, a tear that has yet to be shed for Randy. I’m still angry with him, angry that he died the way he did. The uselessness of his life. I have to collect myself. “I might have some cheese and crackers in the office. What do you say?”

  “Sounds good.” Adam whistles again, and the dogs finally reappear on the porch. They are panting, clearly pleased with their exertions. They take turns pushing their way between his knees, almost causing him to spill red wine on himself. “Hey, hey, boys. That’s enough.” He’s grinning, and I see why he keeps these animals; they are sixty pounds of distraction each.

  Adam puts the dogs in his room and follows me down the length of the porch. I unlock the office door but don’t flip on any other light; the lamp on the small round table in the window is enough. I duck into the back office and get the block of cheddar cheese that I nibble on during the day, grab the box of crackers and a cheese knife.

  “The weather should be good for a hike tomorrow. If that’s what you were thinking about doing.” It’s a nice topic, weather. So neutral. No wonder so many people fall back on it as a useful tool. I dated a weatherman one time. It was all he talked about, weather trivia. All I talked about was Cody and her cute little three-year-old antics. Maybe he was nervous, too. I know that I was. I sip the mediocre red. Offer the cheese knife to Adam.

  “I may. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.” He slices off a piece of cheese, sandwiches it in between crackers.

  The house phone begins to ring. I jump up to answer it, as if I’ve been caught malingering. It’s a call from downstate; they’ve seen my Web site proclaiming our dog-friendly status. I book them a room for the weekend, premium rate. When I get back to the little table, Adam has poured me more wine. I almost decline, but then don’t.

  “Don’t you ever close up shop for the night?”

  “Not really. I can’t afford not to be a real voice on the end of the line when there are other places staffed all night.”

  “Then when do you sleep?”

  “I don’t. Sleep is for losers.”

  “I bet that if you added a pet-sitting or pet-spa component, something beyond just letting people with dogs stay here, the LakeView would become a destination instead of a way station.”

  “Is that how you see it? A way station?”

  “Not anymore.” He finishes his wine.

  “I should get back, Cody will be wondering where I am.” That is such a stretch.

  “Yeah, me, too. Those dogs will have picked out what movie we’re watching, and they always choose Turner and Hooch.”

  “That’s like trying to pick out a movie with Cody. She likes the dark and disturbed and I like the romcom.”

  “By the way, the room looks great.”

  “Thanks. It was way overdue. Glad you like it.” I don’t mention that my credit card is pulsing with the exercise of making those rooms, his included, fresh and pet-friendly. And look at that, two nights booked for that dog couple, a little inroad in the debt. I won’t charge Adam what I’m charging them. He’s grandfathered in. I’ve even stopped charging him the “cleaning surcharge” on his dogs.

  “Very homey.”

  “That’s what I was aiming for.” I am unduly pleased with the compliment.

  * * *

  Adam walks along the porch toward his room. The moon is high enough now to have escaped the grasp of the tall pines. The porch lights are extraneous, and he wishes that he could shut them off, but of course he can’t. Safety first. His dogs are ensconced on the bed and greet him only with tail thumps. He has come without treats, without promise of adventure, and he hasn’t been too long, so they don’t put any energy into his welcome back. “Hey, Dawg,” he whispers, and he sees that Cody is right, that is this animal’s name. The dog lifts his head and cocks his ears forward at the word. “Yeah, well as long as you’re with me, you’re Lucky.” He smiles at the unintended pun.

  Adam extracts the fifth of scotch from his bag. Cracks the cap open and then realizes that he doesn’t have another plastic cup. He’s used up his LakeView allotment. At that moment, there’s a tap at his door. The dogs sit up but don’t react. A friend.

  “Thought you might need another one of these.” Skye hands him a short stack of clear plastic cups, neatly secured in their sanitary wrappings. “Good night, then.”

  * * *

  Cody hears the front door open and quickly closes the lid to her laptop. She’s been surfing the Holyoke newspaper, looking for mention of her father’s murder. Buried deep within the local news, a glancing mention of the case, a possible tie-in with another. No proof, no leads. Cody doesn’t know if this means she’s safer, or less safe. She’d love to ask her mother. Hey, Mom, do you think if the shooter hasn’t been identified by this time that maybe he’s gone? In Cody’s imagination, her mother nods, and says, Yes. There’s nothing left to worry about. Everything’s going to be all right. We’re safe. Forever.

  “Cody?”

  “Doing homework!”

  The pressure of worry is knotted in her chest. Cody presses her hand against her sternum, feels the beating of her own heart, the hectic rise of panic. This has happened before. She takes a deep breath, consciously tries to slow her heartbeat down.

  “Cody, dinner.” Skye stands in the bedroom doorway. “Honey, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  Skye sits on the bed, throwing an arm around Cody, squeezing her close. “Tell me.”

  “Don’t.” Cody wrenches herself away from her mother’s touch, afraid that to feel it for one more second will cause her to combust. “Don’t touch me.” She runs to the bathroom, avoiding the hurt on her mother’s face. It has to be this way.

  CHAPTER 18

  Cody doesn’t wonder in the least what is keeping her mother; she’s just glad Skye is out of the cabin and occupied. Cody has a remnant of a joint left by Mosley in his ashtray at the AC. He’d sent her into his office on some errand and she’d seen it, snuffed out and keeping company with a much less consumed blunt. What was she to do but slip the inch of skinny joint into the pocket of her jeans? It was like Mosley had practically offered it to her. What was that word? Tacit. It was on her vocab sheet a couple of weeks ago. He was giving her tacit permission to take it. Why else would he be so casual about leaving his weed out? Like he did his charcoal or his brownies. Everyone at the AC borrowed from one another, materials, favors, money. Cody is pleased with her logic and digs out the box of matches she has squirreled away in the back of her closet, tucked into a sneaker, one of a pair she doesn’t wear anymore. She lights up, opens her window, and leans out. Bliss. A few moments when the world goes away, the panic softens.

  She should be sharing this with Black Molly, but sometimes it’s nice not to share. Molly’s been pushing for a chance to “help” Cody with rooms on weekends, but Cody’s not keen on Skye’s meeting this friend. She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t want to subject Molly to the interrogation Skye is bound to conduct: Where do you live? What’s your dad do? Yada yada. As if anyone would want to admit they live in a trailer with five other kids, and Molly’s never said what it i
s her dad does except hunt and drink beer.

  The truth is that she’s reluctant to give Molly a chance to get inside the guest rooms. Every time Molly asks if Cody’s found anything, Cody tells her that she hasn’t; not admitting that she hasn’t actually looked, just suggesting that she hasn’t found anything. Frankly, it’s a scary idea, poking into other people’s possessions, even though there they are, right there in full view—cosmetic bags and Dopp kits and stuff lying all over the place. Fancy creams and amber vials of pills. Cody has been tempted to spritz on a little high-end perfume, but her mother has a nose like a hound and would bust her in a nanosecond if she got a whiff of a scent neither one of them could ever own.

  Cody pulls out her phone, examines it in case she might have missed Mingo’s text. Maybe she was in the bathroom, or maybe eating dinner, and Mom always makes her put her phone away during dinner. Like she even gets messages from anybody. Ever. Mr. March is going to be around for only a couple of days, so if Mingo wants his dog back, he’s got to get here.

  Cody sucks in another mouthful of smoke, holds it, gently releases it to the night air.

  The front door opens, and Cody quickly snubs out the vestigial joint, crumbles the remains, and drops them out the window, then fans the room air with her sketchbook. Takes a deep breath and decides that her mother won’t detect a thing. Skye doesn’t know about the pot, and she would never believe such a thing about Cody. She’s a “not my kid” kind of mom. Skye is clueless, which even to Cody sounds like an unkind thing to think, so she revises her thought. The good news is that her mother is without suspicion in regards to her daughter’s real life. She has no idea, and that’s the way Cody wants to keep it. Keeping Skye in ignorance about the Secret has meant doing so for every other thing in her life. She has become secretive because she must. But it is lonely.

  “Cody?”

  “I’m doing homework.”