Chasing Stanley (3 page)

At least they weren't identical. Eric took after their blonde, blue-eyed mother, while Jason, with his unruly dark hair and deep-set brown eyes, was the spitting image of their father. Their only physical similarity was stature: both were big and broad. Their mom said they were built like her grandfather, who'd worked the farm until he dropped dead among the corn at ninety-one. Both boys figured out early on that with their less-than-stellar grades, the only ways out of Flasher were hockey or the military. Both had made the NHL. But of course, Eric did it first.

Jason looked at his brother, slack-jawed as he watched the action on TV. Eric's penchant for watching TV amazed him. “Let's take a walk,” he suggested.

“Screw that. It's ninety-eight degrees out there. I prefer air-conditioned splendor, thank you very much.”

Jason frowned, restless. All his life he'd dreamed of coming to New York. He wanted to be outside so the city could soak into his skin—its sounds, its smells, even the taste of the air. Instead he was cooped up in his new apartment with his brother, his dog, and his TV.

Stanley woke up, and after a big yawn that sounded like a creaky door opening, began licking Eric's feet. Eric jerked them away. “Jesus! Why does he do that?”

“He's just telling you he loves you. Don't be such a wuss.”

“I still can't believe you brought him here. You should have left him with Mom and Dad.”

Jason looked down at Stanley, who'd taken Eric's rejection in stride. That Eric could even suggest leaving Stanley behind was proof Eric had no clue about the sacred bond between a man and his dog. Jason had bought Stanley as a pup in Minnesota. They'd grown up together. Stanley was his rock. When Jason had a bad night on the ice, he had the comfort of knowing that when he'd get home, Stanley would be thrilled to see him, and it would lift his spirits. There was nothing that relaxed Jason more than hanging out with Stanley in the backyard playing fetch or taking Stanley swimming in his parents' pond. Of course, now he didn't have a yard. Or a pond.

“Do you know if there's a dog run or anything around here?”

Eric scratched his arm. “No idea.”

“How long have you been living here?”

Eric looked at him. “Three years. But you may have noticed I don't have a dog. I'm not needy like you.”

Jason gave Eric the finger and bent down to pet Stanley. Delilah would know if there was a dog run. He pulled her business card from his back pocket and looked at it. Delilah Gould. You didn't hear names like that in North Dakota, or in Minnesota, for that matter.

“Whatcha got there?” Eric plucked the card from Jason's fingers. “ You thinkin' of boarding Stan the Man?”

“I'm going to have to during road trips, aren't I?” Jason took Delilah's business card from his brother and slipped it back into his pocket.

“What did you do with him in Minnesota?”

“David Kavli's little sister would stay with him at the house for twenty-five bucks a day.” Kavli was one of Jason's teammates on the Mosquitoes.

“Kavs couldn't put one in the net if his life depended on it,” Eric declared.

“Yeah, no shit.” For once he and Eric were in agreement.

“Was the sister cute?” Eric asked.

Jason shrugged. “I never really noticed.”

Which was true. Delilah Gould, however, was another story. Jason noticed right away that she was pretty. She had big, brown doe eyes and light brown hair that fell in soft waves around her shoulders. Her baggy shorts and loose T-shirt made it hard to tell if she had a good body, but her calves were shapely. He'd been a little annoyed with her attitude at first, but his irritation evaporated as soon as he saw how quickly she was able to get Stan's ass in gear. She was right: Stan
was
a delinquent, and it was all his fault. Still, he had no idea how he was going to fit obedience lessons into his schedule.

Eric suddenly turned to him, sniffing the air with a questioning look on his face. “Are you cooking
hot dogs
?”

“Yeah, for Stanley.”

“Since when does Stanley eat hot dogs?”

“Since I discovered it's the only way to get him to do what I ask.” Delilah would kill him if she knew he intended to keep using the hot dog trick with Stanley, but he'd worry about that later.

“Do you have any idea what's
in
those?” Eric was asking.

“No, but I'm sure you'll tell me.”

“Nitrates and trites and God knows what else. You're killing him slowly.”

“Thanks for your input, Eric.”

“Any time.” Eric glanced around Jason's apartment. “I did pretty well for you, didn't I?”

“I have to admit, you did.” Jason was genuinely grateful to his brother, who managed to find and secure this apartment for him before Jason even got to town. Some people might find it weird that they lived on the same block, but considering they'd spent the first sixteen years of their lives sharing the same room, this was a vast improvement.

He took the TV remote from his brother and turned off the TV. “I was wondering something.”

“What? Why I'm a great player and you're mediocre?”

Jason ignored him. “Why do you live in Manhattan if you play for Jersey?”

“Because there's fuck all to do in Jersey if you're single, that's why.” Eric snatched the remote back from Jason's hand and turned the TV back on. “Why not live in the city? My commute is short, and this is where all the fun stuff happens. I'm not the only Jersey player taking bites from the Big Apple, bro. A bunch of other single guys on the team live here, too.”

Jason nodded. It made perfect sense. What better playground for young, single guys making a ton of money than Manhattan? Being professional athletes didn't hurt, either. Jason had already noticed the adoration that sprang into people's eyes when he mentioned he played for the Blades. He liked that.

Jason rose to go check on the hot dogs. Stanley followed him. “Yeah, you know what's cooking in the pot, don't you, buddy?” He reached down to scratch the top of Stanley's nose. Stanley basked in the attention, then stretched out right in front of the stove. Jason laughed. When he sat at the kitchen table, Stanley sat right beside him. When he stretched out on the couch, Stanley did the same on the floor. It wasn't unusual for Jason to emerge from the bathroom to find Stanley sitting right outside the door.

Eric appeared in the kitchen doorway. “I'm kinda hungry.”

“Hold on.” Jason swung the door of the refrigerator open. “I've got some eggs.”

“Screw that. Gimme a hot dog.”

Jason closed the fridge, staring at him. “You're a piece of work, you know that?”

“And you're a friggin' pantywaist whose ass I'm gonna kick up and down the ice this season. Now shut up and give me a dog before I call Mom and tell her you're dating a tranny named Lola.”

Jason shook his head. “ You know what, Eric?”

“What?”

“I can't believe I'm related to an asshole like you.”

 

 

“
You are ten
minutes late, Miss Thang.”

Delilah hunched her shoulders apologetically as she joined her assistant, Marcus, on “their” bench at the local dog run. She and Marcus had a standing Saturday afternoon date, more to catch up on gossip than anything else. Delilah considered canceling, given the heat, but she knew Marcus. “If we were working you wouldn't be able to cancel,” he'd chide her, and he'd be right. Being a dog walker was like being a mail carrier: come rain or shine, you had no choice but to do your job. Sunny days were known as “the dog walker's revenge”: you got to work outside in the gorgeous weather, while most people were stuck inside toiling behind desks. But when it rained, snowed, or was blazing hot, no one wanted Delilah's job, Delilah included.

“Where are the kids?” Marcus asked.

“I left them at home in the AC. Which is where
we
should be.” Delilah looked around the small, wooded park. Usually it was packed, especially on the weekends. The combination of the heat and summer vacation accounted for the thinning of the ranks. “Have you seen Gin?”

Marcus's eyes got moist. “Cha-Cha died this morning.”

“Oh, no.” Delilah held back tears. Cha-Cha was their friend Ginny's beloved Chihuahua, who'd been battling cancer for over a year. “I'll pick up a sympathy card on Monday and bring it over here so we can all sign it.”

“I knew it was Cha-Cha's time,” said Marcus. “When Ginny carried him over here on Thursday, he looked straight at me and said, ‘Amigo, I'm ready to go home to the casa of the Lord.' ”

Delilah held her tongue. She believed animals and humans
were
connected. If you knew a dog well enough, you knew when he was in pain, or sad, or agitated. But Delilah did
not
believe people who put their ear to a dog's mouth and announced things like, “She says she wants you to take her to Mexico because she's always dreamed of seeing the Mayan ruins,” or “He hates those drapes in the living room; they clash with the parrot.” Delilah had been attuned to her pets for years, and not once had any of them “told” her anything of significance beyond
Love me, Feed me, Take me out, Pet me, Play with me, I'm bored
, or
Leave me the hell alone.
Occasionally one of her animals might convey that he felt threatened, afraid, or confused, but rarely. That was because she kept her dogs to a strict routine, which they needed and thrived on. Dogs didn't do well with mixed signals. Neither did Delilah.

“I saw a Newf today,” she told Marcus.

“Really? Where?”

“On Eighty-first and Madison. He was sitting in the middle of the sidewalk and wouldn't budge. His owner was beside himself.”

“People shouldn't have dogs they can't handle,” Marcus sniffed.

“I agree.”

“What was the owner like? Big and dumb like the dog, right?”

“Newfs aren't dumb!”

“They're no Border collies, honey.” Marcus took out a pack of gum, unwrapping a stick for himself before passing the rest to Delilah. “The owner?”

Delilah hesitated. “He's a hockey player. For the Blades.”

“Oooh, a jock.” Marcus popped the gum into his mouth. “Hot?”

Delilah absently fingered the gum. “I don't know. I guess.”

“You
guess
? Tell me you didn't notice what he looked like.”

“Okay, maybe I did. A little.”

Marcus tapped his foot. “I'm waiting.”

“Big, broad shoulders, darkish hair, brown eyes. Tennis shirt. Hiking shorts. Black Tevas.”

“You remember the color of his
footwear
?”

“So?” Delilah began chewing her gum.

“Well, to me that says, ‘Smitten kitten.' ”

“I am not smitten,” Delilah insisted, watching Marcus as he walked to the nearest garbage pail to throw out their gum wrappers. She loved the way Marcus moved; he was muscular yet sinewy, a natural-born dancer. Striking, too, with a gleaming shaved head and caramel-colored skin. Delilah hoped he got his big break soon, even though it would make her life hellish until she found another assistant.

“You're smitten,” Marcus insisted, returning to the bench. “I'm glad.” He gestured indelicately toward her crotch. “I was beginning to think the amusement park was closed down for the season.”

“Marcus!”

“Seriously: when's the last time you got laid?”

“I don't know!”

“If you don't know, then it's been too long.”

“No, wait! It was with Dennis.”

Dennis MacFadyen had been her boyfriend for six months. Things were fine until he brought her home to meet his parents. Delilah walked through their front door, and the first thing her nervous eyes latched onto was a painting of a handsome, bearded man. “Is that your brother?” she blurted to Dennis in front of his mother. It wasn't. It was Jesus. Things went downhill from there.

Marcus's gaze was filled with pity. “That was over a year ago, Lilah.”

“You're the one who's counting, not me.” She moved to wipe some sweat off her forehead. There was no air moving at all. It felt as if someone had taken a steaming, wet towel and was pressing it against her face. She thought back to her encounter with Jason and how awful she must have looked. He, on the other hand, had appeared cool as a cucumber. He must have had his sweat glands removed.

Marcus began fanning himself with a rolled-up copy of the
Times
. “I assume you gave Wayne Gretzky your card?”

“Of course. I might be taking them on as clients.”

“For what? Obedience, boarding, or walking?”

“All three, probably.” Delilah thought of Stanley's noble but lovable face and smiled.

“Honey, we've got a waiting list a mile long,” Marcus reminded her.

“I know. But this dog really needs training.”

Marcus stopped fanning himself. “Oh, you've got it bad for Hockey Boy. B-A-D bad.”

“No, I don't,” Delilah insisted again, though she could feel her face burning. She kept remembering the way Jason's face looked when he'd asked if she thought he had a wonderful temperament like Stanley. The look was kind of flirtatious, or so she thought. Not that it mattered. The last thing on earth she wanted was a relationship. Dogs were better, hands down. They didn't make fun of you for being shy. The only way they could hurt you was by dying.

Marcus wagged a finger in her face. “She who blushes is the one with the crushes.”