Two Good Dogs Read online

  She’s got a little better than a mile to walk, all of it downhill. She’ll be there in half an hour. A truck blows by her, a row of cars behind it.

  * * *

  Just as the road rights itself after the hairpin turn, Adam catches sight of a kid walking down the right-hand side of the road, oblivious to the danger of not facing traffic. Some idiot texting while driving could wipe her out. He shakes his head. “Kids. No sense of self-preservation.” Chance opens one eye, notes that the comment is nothing he needs to worry about, and shuts it again. As he glances back in his rearview mirror, Adam is pretty sure that the kid is the one from the LakeView, Skye’s daughter. What the heck is she doing this far from home? Well, Adam thinks, surely there’s a reason, and, really, it’s none of his business.

  He’s headed back to the Artists Collaborative. Even though he had deliberately not put his best foot forward, hoping to scuttle his own return to work, somehow Mosley Finch and his partners at the AC were impressed, and so he’s back in the Berkshires today to present to them a précis of his fund-raising plan.

  “Hey, man.” Mosley claps a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Glad you could make it.”

  This seems like an odd thing to say to someone with whom you have made an appointment, but Adam just smiles and shakes the proffered hand, which is gritty with some substance. “I’ve got a couple of ideas for you, so shall we get started?”

  “Sure, man.”

  Adam begins to think that his client here is a little high. His eyes are definitely sleepy. From his days doing community service in the kitchen of a homeless shelter, Adam is no stranger to the look of men who have indulged in illegal substances. Or to the smell. As Mosley leads him to the one room not converted into art space, Adam takes a little sniff. Oh yeah. Cannabis. Adam doesn’t judge, but he does wonder if this meeting is going to be worthwhile.

  “Cookie?”

  “Ah, no. Thanks. Why don’t I show you my proposal?” Adam props his tablet up on the old-fashioned wooden desk cluttered with the detritus of an artist’s life. Brushes, torn-out pages of sketchbooks, ashtray. He fires up the device and begins his spiel.

  * * *

  By the time Cody gets to the AC, she’s got a blister on one heel and she has to pee. It’s taken her a lot longer than she thought to walk here, and it’s almost four o’clock. She’s a little worried that Mosley, whose office door is uncharacteristically shut, won’t have time to talk with her. Not a lot of people know it, but Mosley supplements his income with bartending, and he is usually gone by four-thirty. She dashes to the industrial-chic ladies’ room in the basement of the old factory building. A woman wearing an actual fox stole and a pillbox hat is standing in front of the flyblown mirror, layering bloodred lipstick on her lips. She reminds Cody of an old-time movie star. She catches Cody’s eye in the mirror and smiles a foxy smile, caps the lipstick.

  Cody spots the woman again upstairs, this time sitting for one of the artists; she’s a model, the fox stole, hat, and red lipstick her costume. She’s exotic enough that a couple of the other artists have left their work and stand behind the painter, watching her intently as she turns the model into an abstract representation on canvas, the only common thread the bright red lipstick.

  Cody wanders around, visiting the other seven artists in residence today, although it’s only Kieran who notices her and gives her a little wave, then drops his protective mask back over his face and fires up his torch. She feels singled out, a nice feeling. Mosley is still nowhere around. What if he’s not here at all? All her efforts will be for nothing. That would totally suck. “Kieran, is Mosley here?”

  “Yeah, think so.” This is muffled behind the welder’s mask. “In his office with that fund-raising guy.”

  “Okay. Do you need anything?”

  “Nope. Thanks, though.”

  Cody finally settles down on a metal folding chair, placing it where she can keep an eye on Mosley’s door and also watch some of the work taking place. On the far wall, the ancient Seth Thomas factory clock chips away at her available time. She’s going to have to call her mother soon or start walking. She doesn’t relish the idea of walking the miles home with a blistered heel, then thinks, given the burns and cuts she’s seen these artists give themselves, there’s got to be a first-aid kit around here with Band-Aids in it. She hobbles around the shared space with its cupboards and dorm-size fridge, sink splattered with the full spectrum of colors, the stained coffeemaker and the pegs of hand-thrown mugs dangling above it. At last, she opens the right drawer and finds a tube of bacitracin and a box of store-brand adhesive bandages.

  Just as she is easing her boot back over her foot, Mosley’s office door opens. A guy in a jacket and tie comes out first, still talking, and Mosley follows, his hand on the guy’s shoulder, a smile on his face. “Great. Great. Super. Can’t wait to raise lots of bucks.”

  “It’s worth doing, and it’s worth doing right.” The guy throws out a hand for Mosley to shake, and suddenly Cody recognizes him: the guy with the dog. Mr. March and Chance. As if to confirm her identification, she hears a dog bark. Must be out in his car. The dog is really going at it, and Mr. March pulls away from Mosley with an apology and heads for the door. Which is when he sees her and says hello, but he keeps going.

  “Hey, kid. What’s up?”

  “Mosley, I was wondering…”

  “Hold that thought. Gotta go visit the little boys’ room for a sec.”

  The minute hand clicks past four-fifteen. Maybe he’s not working tonight. Maybe she has time still.

  Her phone rings, the distinctive ring she’s chosen for her mother, right out of The Wizard of Oz. Kind of obvious, but she likes it. When she doesn’t answer, she gets the chirp of an incoming text: Where are you? All spelled out. Punctuated.

  WAF, she responds—with a friend. She gives Skye a minute to translate.

  Home. Now.

  “So, what’s on your mind, Buffalo Bill?” Mosley is back.

  “Do you ever give lessons? Art lessons?”

  “You mean like a teacher?”

  “Yeah. No. More like a mentor.”

  “I have. Why? You interested?”

  “Yes? I am?” Even she hears the uptalk in her voice. “I mean, I’d really love to barter some lessons for chores.”

  Mosley motions for Cody to sit back down on the folding chair, pulls a second one over to sit opposite. He looks like he wants to give her bad news, the way he keeps his eyes on her, the way that he gently pushes a hank of hair back away from her face. Then he pats her on the knee, and his hand stays put. “Well, here’s the thing. I’m not really in a position to offer regular lessons. I’m going to be pretty stretched out with this fund-raising stuff.”

  Cody knows the run-up to being disappointed and she’s already telling herself that it doesn’t matter, that even though he’s letting her down gently, it’s still down. “Yeah, I was just wondering, no big deal. I mean, I can do my own thing.”

  Mosley’s hand on her leg slides up a tiny bit. “No. Hey, wait. Maybe we could do a little barter.” He is close enough that she can smell the pot on him. It’s in his skin, his hair. He is looking at her with a new interest. He reaches up and pulls her glasses off her face, tucks her hair behind her ears, lifts her chin and tilts her head. Instinctively, she pulls away, pushes against the back of the chair.

  “How about you give me a few hours as a life model in exchange for an equal number of hours in lessons?”

  “What would I have to do?” All she hears is the word model; thinks of the woman in the red lipstick and the fox fur.

  “Just be yourself. That’s it. No nudity, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I wasn’t. No. I don’t care.” She knows that nudity is no biggie for models. It’s not like the artists are actually turned on. She’d do it.

  Mosley drops his hand away from her face. “Okay, then. You give me an hour sitting for me and I’ll give you an hour in lessons.”

  “Okay.”
Cody can’t believe her luck; she’s talked her way into art lessons with Mosley. “Cool.”

  “Yeah. Cool.” The minute hand of the Seth Thomas hits four-thirty and Mosley pushes himself out of the chair, “Gotta run. Sorry.” He pats her on the head like some kind of pet and heads back to his office.

  The heavy front door clangs open and Mr. March is back in the building. “Hey, Cody?”

  “Yeah?” He’s got the look of a grown-up with a great idea.

  “Look, I saw you walking here. Do you need a ride home?”

  “Are you staying with us?

  “Not this time, but it’s on my way home.”

  “No. That’s okay. Mom will come get me.”

  “That’s silly. I’m happy to give you a ride.”

  “I’m okay. I want to hang around here a little longer.” That should do it. It would be just too weird to take a ride from a complete stranger, even if he does have a cool dog.

  Mosley bombs toward them. “Hey, man. Forget something?”

  “No, I just was offering Miss Mitchell here a ride home.”

  “You should take him up on the offer, Cody. I have work tonight so I can’t take you, and we’re closing up.”

  “I’m good.” She quickly adds, “Thanks anyway.”

  Unfortunately, she’s up against an experienced father. “If you’re creeped out by this old guy offering you a ride, that’s understandable. What if we call your mother? See what she says.”

  “Never mind. I’ll go with you.” Cody swings her backpack up onto her left shoulder. She follows him out of the old factory building, dragging her feet in the hope that Mosley will change his mind.

  * * *

  “Chance, get in back.” The moment he jumps into the backseat, Chance shoves his blocky head completely out the window and commences an uproarious barking. For the life of him, Adam can’t see what it is that’s getting the dog so riled. “Chance, enough. Quiet down.”

  Cody pulls open the front door and Chance pushes himself over the console and jumps out.

  “No, Chance. Get back in.” Adam is annoyed; this is so not like his dog. Then, listening as Chance finally stops the barking, he hears it, the sound of a howl, a plaintive canine expression of unhappiness. Chance wasn’t challenging; he was commiserating.

  Adam’s human ears can’t quite place the location, no doubt coming from one of the three abandoned-looking old factory houses along the opposite side of the river, remnants of the days when the company not only employed but also housed its workers. Suddenly, the yowling stops, and Adam hopes that whatever the situation was, it’s been resolved. Chance doesn’t flop on the backseat as is his habit, but sits upright, head cocked, anxious.

  Time to go. Adam pulls his phone out of his breast pocket. “Skye? Adam March here. No, I’m just in town for the day, but I want you to know that I’m giving Cody a ride home.”

  The look on the kid’s face is eloquent. Horrified. Clearly, Cody’s mother doesn’t know that she’s hanging around the AC.

  Skye sounds confused. “Where did you say you saw her?”

  “She’s on her way home from…” He sees the panic in Cody’s eyes. “I just happened to pass her. She’s right here.”

  Cody keeps her eyes down. Her fingers are clenched; she makes no move to take the phone when Adam offers it.

  He signs off, drops the phone into his breast pocket. “Hey, I’m not going to put a teenage girl in my car without her mother’s knowledge. I’m no dope.”

  “Thanks for not telling her. I mean that I’m here.”

  “Not my business.”

  “Good.”

  “But, it if were, I’d have to wonder why you think she might object. It’s hardly a den of iniquity.”

  Cody sits back against the seat. The dog, Chance, puts his forepaws on the console between them and pokes her with his nose. “Hey, cut that out.” She pats him on his head. “No kissing.”

  “So, you like art?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “You like the stuff at the Artists Collaborative?”

  “Most of it.”

  “I have to admit, it kind of leaves me cold. I’m more of a Norman Rockwell kind of guy. Guess you could say that I’m old-fashioned because I like my pictures to look like pictures.”

  “Lots of people do. It’s just that postmodern frees the artist from the restraints of viewer expectation.”

  “I’m guessing that’s a quote.”

  “Mosley says that.”

  “Well, he’s certainly a free spirit.”

  Cody looks like she can’t decide if he’s being sardonic or admiring. He’s not sure himself. At any rate, she says nothing the rest of the way home.

  * * *

  The unhappy girl seems tense to me as she takes my seat. I’m happy to sit in the back, give her the priority seating even I am rarely afforded. Even though Adam keeps up a stream of tongue language, she does little more than give him back one word at a time. Words I know. Yeah. Fine. Good. I can sense Adam’s growing regret that he’s allowed this creature in our space. Although I have only limited experience, I find teenage girls to be mysterious, more like cats. But not any more mysterious than the howling I heard coming from across the busy river. It reverberated in my ears, grabbing my heart and making me sing out in solidarity. There was great mischief going on and I couldn’t get to it. I howled my presence, my interest, my regrets. Too far to get a scent, too far to help. But I will know this dog should he ever cross my path. A dog in that kind of trouble wears it on his skin. I have been that dog.

  CHAPTER 8

  Despite the time spent in ISS, Cody has been in even more trouble at school in the past couple of weeks. Insolence, failure to do homework, refusing to participate, and skipping classes. I find myself begging her, asking, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” But Cody clams up and refuses to give way by so much as one inch in her determination to be a cipher to me. “Nothing,” she says. “It’s nothing.”

  I find myself weeping in the office of the school counselor, grabbing the tissue box out of his hand and using one Kleenex after another as the crying jag goes on and on. I blubber about the hangman’s noose, the silent treatment, the vegetarianism. Maybe if I had a friend, I wouldn’t impose myself on this overworked school counselor, but there’s no one I can babble to about my maternal fears, lance the boil of my mounting concerns. I haven’t had time to waste on my own loneliness. In a former time, Cody would have been enough of a companion that I wouldn’t have felt the need; now, not so much.

  In his professionally gentle, concerned voice, he presses me. “Is there any recent trauma that she’s experienced? Or some big change in her life?”

  I choose my words carefully. “My ex-husband, her father, passed away just before we moved here.” No use going into the sordid details. Randy was the kind of father who showed up unannounced, or failed to show up when expected. “They weren’t close.”

  As for a change in her life? Just the fact of the move here, and that’s old news now. The excuse is getting a bit thin. It’s time for her to accept that this is our life now, and that I’m not giving up. I say as much to the counselor. “Isn’t it time for her to get over it?”

  “That’s why I’m asking if there may be a new situation.” His eyes are tiny behind thick glasses, pinpoints of blue in a pale face; a rash of adult acne or shaving irritation cloud his rather plump cheeks. He looks like someone should scrub his face in hot water and steer him away from using harsh soap. “Sometimes if a single parent begins to date…”

  “Oh, that’s certainly not the issue.” I bat at my eyes with the soggy tissue. “That ship sailed many years ago. I have never subjected Cody to boyfriends.” Oh, there have been dates. Sure. But I have always put Cody first. No one is going to make Cody ever feel secondary. That was the promise I made her on the day she was born. Aching with the effort of bringing this child into the world, I was unprepared for the kind of love that broke over me like a tsunami; the seismic shift
in my allegiances. I looked into my infant daughter’s unfocused eyes and was lost. Maybe that was the moment I knew that I wasn’t going to stay with Randy. Even before he cheated the first time—that I knew about—I looked at this helpless baby’s sweet face and knew that Randy was never going to be the kind of father who put his child first, her well-being paramount. He would never be serious about straightening out his life.

  “Has Cody ever said anything about trouble with other kids?” Mr. Farrow, the counselor, takes me out of my thoughts. “I mean other than the dustup with Ryan.”

  I dab beneath my eyes, shake my head. “Only that she doesn’t mention any of them. It’s like she comes to school and there’s no one here.”

  Mr. Farrow sits back in his slightly off-kilter desk chair. “No friends at all? Not even kids you’d prefer she not hang out with?”

  At first I shake my head, then remember. “She mentioned a girl named Molly. But she’s never asked to have her over and hasn’t mentioned her since. I think she might have been making it up.”

  “Molly.” Mr. Farrow rocks back in his chair. “There are a couple of Mollys in school. But none I can think of in her class. She didn’t mention a last name?”

  “No. Not that I can recall. Like I said, it was one reference.”

  “Any friends from”—he pauses, hunts down the words—“back home?”

  I may be guilty of sneaking a peek at Cody’s phone log, but it remains empty except for my own number, a frequent incoming call. “I don’t think she has stayed in touch. You know how it is when you’re that age. Life moves on.”

  “I have to ask this. So please don’t think…” The rash on his cheeks grows even more distinct.

  “No. As far as I can tell, no drugs.”

  “Sex?”

  “Oh my God. No.”

  “It’s normal, you know.”

  “I was eighteen when I got married, I know what adolescent hormones can provoke.” I don’t add that it was a shotgun wedding. That my mother wept not tears of joy but of sorrow at the sight of her only daughter being walked down the short aisle to Randy Mitchell’s arms.