Dog Crazy (17 page)

Still, one long look is plenty. I'd like to turn back around, but Henry has his hand on my arm and the pleasant feeling of its pressure and warmth is enough to keep me there a moment or two longer. Seymour lies at my feet, gazing out at the horizon. He doesn't look worried.

Henry and I both hear a muffled noise and turn at the same time. Anya and Huan are walking along a far edge of the scrubby hilltop. Anya cups her hands around her mouth and yells out over the city. Her words are lost in the wind, but I know she's calling for Billy. Huan stares at her. Anya yells a few more times, and then they head back to where we stand on the boulder.

“See anything?” I ask.

Anya shakes her head. She seems to have fallen into a dark mood, her eyes still roaming over the streets below. I decide it's as good a time as any to tell her about Sybil's idea for the fund-raiser; maybe it will cheer her up—or at least distract her.

“The woman who runs SuperMutt was really impressed with your photo of Seymour,” I tell her, explaining that Sybil hopes she'll be willing to take photos of the dogs that will be auctioned off at the fund-raiser. “She wants to blow up all of the photos and decorate the event space with them. It should be good publicity.”

“Publicity for what?”

“Welllll.” I flash her a quick, guilty smile, feeling Henry and
Huan's eyes on me, too. “I
might
have let Sybil believe that you were a professional photographer . . . but only because there's no reason you shouldn't be. I saw you in action myself—you were fantastic. Totally in control. You took an anxious, tough-to-photograph dog and made him look happy and confident. As Sybil says, you made Seymour look like a real SuperMutt.

“So, I've been thinking,” I continue, “that you should consider starting your own business. And if you were interested in doing that, the gala would be a great way to get your name out there. Maybe you could even donate a pet photography session as an auction item—it would be good publicity, and I bet the referrals would roll in once people saw your work.”

Henry and Huan are both smiling encouragingly at Anya, but the look on her face is harder to read, so I just keep talking. “If you'd like, I could help you set up a business website. That's really all you'd need to get started. You seem to have all the equipment already.”

Anya kicks at the ground with one of her huge boots. “Yeah,” she mumbles. “Maybe.”

I decide to ignore her hesitation. “The only catch is that we'd need you to get started right away. The gala is three weeks away and there are six dogs that are being fostered around the city that need to be photographed.”

Anya shrugs. “I have some time on my hands. It shouldn't be a problem.”

“Anya, you're a lifesaver. Really. Sybil is going to be thrilled, and more importantly, you're going to make a huge impact in getting these dogs into their forever homes as quickly as possible.” I glance at Huan, who is giving Anya one of his not-so-subtle looks
of adoration. “It seemed like you were lugging a lot of equipment when you photographed Seymour, so if you have a friend who could help you carry stuff when you take the dogs' photos, you definitely should bring him along.”

“I'll be fine,” Anya says. “It's not that much.”

“Well, also, it might be helpful to have someone who can assist in wrangling the dogs—some of them might be more energetic than Seymour. You know, someone who could squeeze a squeaky toy over your head so the dog actually looks toward the camera, that sort of thing . . .” I trail off, looking pointedly at Huan, willing him to speak up.
Come on! Here's your shot, lover boy!

Huan catches my look and his eyes widen. “Oh! I, um . . . I could do that. I could help you, Anya.”

“I really don't need any help.”

Huan glances at me and I give him a little nod of encouragement. “Oh, I know you don't. But it sounds fun. And my school schedule is kind of light the next few weeks.”

Anya snorts. “Yeah, double majoring in computer science and economics sounds really light.” She shrugs. “But, whatever. You can help if you want. Maybe you'll wind up adopting a dog. Give your old dad a conniption. Fight the power.”

Huan laughs. For some reason, Giselle barks, startling all of us, and then we're all smiling, even Anya. Even without looking over, I can feel Henry's eyes on me.

Then it begins to rain.

“Crap,” Anya says.

None of us move. My eyes blur, my eyelashes growing damp. I lift my palms and watch the raindrops bounce off of them. When was the last time I stood outside in the rain, just stood there and
let it wash over me? Maybe when I was a kid. Maybe never; my mom was always worried I'd get sick. Anya and Huan and Henry jog toward the path but I stand there at the top of Tank Hill a moment longer. Henry stops and looks back at me.

“Maggie, are you coming?”

I shrug, grinning, and point my face up to the sky. Henry laughs. I shake the water from my hair like a dog and jog toward him.

The path is already turning slick with mud. Ahead of Anya, Giselle seems distraught, hopping from one side of the path to the other, trying to keep her paws out of the mud. Seymour lopes obliviously through the puddles, his fat paws spattering mud with each step. There's something carefree about his gait; his grin, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, verges on ecstatic. My eyes blur again, watching him. Toby would have loved this, too, running down a grassy hill in the rain. I feel happy and sad and happy again. We're all slipping and jogging and wiping the rain from our eyes. Henry stumbles and I catch his elbow and then we're just sort of holding each other, shuffling and sliding and hurrying down the path. My heart races, but not in an unpleasant way. Below us, the city is a watercolor, all of its sharp edges softened.

We jog all the way down to Cole Street, and fall into seats at a table under the awning of the French bakery on the corner. Henry ducks inside and returns a few minutes later with a tray of hot chocolates and a stack of napkins. We pat our faces dry and watch the rain pour off the awning and the steam rise from our drinks. Giselle curls into a ball under the table and Seymour follows suit. As he wedges himself between my feet and Giselle, he releases an old-man groan that makes me laugh.

When Huan and Anya head back inside to pick out some pastries to bring home for Rosie, the atmosphere—our little table, sheltered from the rain by the orange awning, the car tires whispering over the wet street as they pass, the soft, blurred lights of nearby shops—turns irrepressibly romantic. Henry and I exchange smiles. My shirt is still damp, clinging to me. I should be cold, but I'm not.

“So, I was wondering,” Henry says, “if maybe I could take you out to dinner sometime.”

I bite the inside of my mouth, trying to summon a response that won't make me seem like a crazy person, which rules out explaining to him that if we went to dinner there's a very good chance that I would start shaking, stop breathing, or feel the overpowering, irresistible urge to sprint home.

“Or the movies,” he adds when I don't respond right away. “Or . . . just a drink?”

“Maybe we shouldn't make this any more complicated,” I say. “Because of my relationship with Anya.”

“But you aren't her therapist.”

“Yes, but—”

Henry gives me a tight smile. “No, no, it's fine. Let's forget I said anything.” He looks into the street, away from me.

He's leaving,
I remind myself. Even
I
can't ignore that ticking clock. I can see it already: I fall for Henry and we date for a year, trying to make the long-distance thing work until eventually we acknowledge the “Dead End” sign that has been looming right in front of us the whole time.

What is taking Anya and Huan so long in there?
I shift in my
seat, pulling my feet away from Seymour. He peers up at me, knotting his brows together, concerned.

What's wrong?
he seems to ask. His huge ears flick back and forth and his big black nose twitches and his eyes widen, picking up all of my signals.

I look away. Rain continues to pour, forming narrow, black slurries that hug the curb. I feel Seymour's body shift at my feet, hear his old-man sigh as he lays his head back down, but I keep looking out at the rain, and begin to count my breath.

D
espite Seymour's new picture and upgrade to “designer” dog status, there hasn't been any interest in him over the past few days. Sybil and I decide that we'll include him in the small group of dogs that we'll showcase for adoption at the SuperMutt fund-raiser. At previous fund-raisers, Sybil tells me, all of the dogs up for adoption had new homes by the end of the night, so it's as close to a sure thing as you get in the world of dog rescue. If Seymour doesn't find a forever home in the next few weeks, he'll find one that night.

Anya has invited me to another Sunday breakfast at her house.
No burned eggs this time,
she'd written in her e-mail. Apparently it was Henry's turn to cook. At the bottom of the e-mail, Anya wrote:
Please bring Seymour and Giselle. I'd like to piss off Clive as much as possible.


When Grant opens the door for me on Sunday morning, Seymour immediately comes out from behind the couch and trots over to me. His head is so low that the bottoms of his ears drag on the ground, but his body is doing a sort of submissive wagging thing and he's looking up at me with what is unmistakably happiness in his eyes.

“Good morning, little man,” I say to him, handing him the first of many counterconditioning treats he's certain to receive that day. Giselle snorts into his ear and his tail wags faster.

“Seymour! You're willingly out of your cave!” Grant says, surprised. “He's really taken a shine to you, Maggie.”

I hold up the bag of treats. “Food,” I say. “The way to every dog's heart.” I tell Grant about our plan to include Seymour in the SuperMutt auction.

Grant's face falls. “So he'll be here until then?”

“Does it soften the blow if I tell you that Sybil is sure he'll be adopted the night of the event?”

Grant sighs. “Sure. We can hang in there a few more weeks, can't we, Seymour? That's only one more run to the market for those behind-the-couch piddle pads we've all grown so fond of.” Despite his sarcasm, I can see that Grant is relieved to know that his record of keeping foster dogs until they find their forever homes will remain intact.

W
E MANAGE TO
speed-walk off Carl Street without seeing or hearing a train. I ply the dogs with treats the entire way to Anya's house, and I'm happy to see that Seymour's tail is no longer tucked between his legs. He's not walking with the same happy-
go-lucky confidence as Giselle, but frankly, that makes two of us. At least we're all outside, trying, and there have been no negative incidents to derail our progress.

“For some reason,” Anya says when she opens the door, “Henry isn't making his usual waffles. He's making some complicated quiche thing and a salad with strawberries. You know someone's trying to be fancy when they put fruit on lettuce.” She gives me a meaningful look that I pretend not to notice. “It's like he thinks the queen is coming.”

From the direction of the dining room, someone bellows, “Breakfast!”

Anya rolls her eyes. “Clive.” She looks down at the dogs. “Okay, team. I'm counting on you to be as annoying as possible.”

In the dining room, Rosie lies on a hospital bed that is angled into a seated position, and Clive and Terrence sit on either side of her. Rosie looks smaller than she had when we first met, but she seems to recognize me and a faint smile passes over her lips. Her hair is wrapped in a beautiful red turban embroidered with shimmering gold thread.

“Do you like it?” she asks me, touching the turban. “If I'm going to be confined to a bed, I thought I ought to at least wear something snazzy. I don't want anyone to accuse me of fading away.”

“Impossible,” I tell her. “And I love it.”

“Hello,” Terrence says, nodding to me. He, too, looks different than he had the last time I was here—he seems paler and his eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. I wonder if he stayed over at the hospital with Rosie earlier in the week.

“Morning,” Clive says.

“Good morning,” I say.

Henry pushes open the door from the kitchen and flashes a small, uncertain smile when he sees me. “Hi, Maggie,” he says, and sets a golden-brown quiche on the table.

“This looks delicious,” I say. Anya waves for me to sit in the same seat I did last time. Giselle and Seymour settle down into the tight space between my chair and Anya's and I give them a couple of peanut butter treats.

“I hope it is,” Henry answers. “I'm trying something new. But I think I made too much.” He looks over at Terrence. “No Laura or the kids? It's been ages since I've seen them.”

“They have the flu. They haven't left the couch all weekend. I'm trying to keep my distance from them so I don't pass anything on to Rosie.”

Rosie doesn't turn toward Terrence, so I'm not sure she's heard him until she says, “How much distance can you keep from your own family? If I get the flu, I get the flu.”

“We want to keep you healthy,” Terrence says, sounding plaintive. I can't help but feel sorry for him. It seems like he's continually trying, and failing, to win his grandmother's good favor.

“Well, you look like shit,” Clive says, cutting into the quiche. “You probably have the flu despite your valiant efforts. Thanks for spreading disease.”

Terrence runs a hand over his face and sighs. “I'm just tired. Long hours at the stores.”

“I suppose that's what it takes to have a great big house in St. Francis Wood. The house that mattresses built! Who knew? And here I went to law school like a chump.”

“You're not exactly starving, Clive,” Terrence says.

“But from the looks of things, I'm not eating quite as well as you, Terrence.” Clive barks out a laugh and Terrence's round face reddens.

Rosie says, “Are you four going to keep squabbling like this when I'm gone or is it just for my benefit?”

Everyone falls quiet, looking at her, and then Clive says, “Of course it's for your benefit. There's nothing we love more than your attention.”

This makes Rosie smile. She attempts to lift a hand to Clive's cheek, but it falls back to her lap. Clive reaches out and grasps it and it seems to me that for a split second his bottom lip quivers ever so slightly.

Terrence turns toward me, the red blotches spreading on his cheeks. “Forgive me, Ms. Brennan,” he says, “but I'm confused. Are you here in a professional capacity?”

“No,” Henry says quickly. He clears his throat. “Maggie and Anya are friends.”

I nod. “If anything, Anya is the one helping
me
in a professional capacity. She's been taking wonderful photographs of the foster dogs that are up for adoption through an organization that I—”

“You have time for that, Anya?” Terrence interrupts. “Volunteering? On top of looking for Billy and working at the frame shop and your classes?”

Anya, I'm pleased to see, has already polished off half of a slice of quiche. The dark smudges below her eyes seem to be fading, and a pink rosiness blossoming below her pale skin. “I stopped going to class. And I'm not working at the frame shop right now,” she says calmly. “You know that.”

“No, I don't think so.” Terrence's voice seems to be getting louder. “Were you fired? What happened?”

“She's taking a short break,” Henry says.

“A break from working part-time at a frame shop?” Terrence shakes his head. “Must be nice.”

“Maybe
you
could use a break, Terrence,” says Anya.

“I sure could. But I have bills to pay. Responsibilities.” It doesn't sound to me like Terrence is trying to be cruel; it's more like he is so tired he doesn't know what he is saying. His shoulders are slumped, his large forearms as motionless as felled trees on either side of his plate. He looks around the table, blinking slowly.

“Is it just me,” Anya asks, “or does it seem like Terrence is in a particularly bad mood this morning?”

“He seems stressed,” Henry agrees.

“Oh, Terrence is always stressed,” Clive says, waving his fork dismissively. “He just usually hides it better. Under that mustache, I think.”

Rosie releases a wheezing laugh. “Clive,” she says, coughing and smiling. “You're a terrible person.”

Clive waves his fork in the air again, does a little bow, and grins.

“Forgive me,” Terrence says, turning toward me again. “I'm just trying to wrap my head around what exactly is going on here. You're a pet bereavement counselor, and Anya has lost a pet, but you're not her therapist, you're just her new friend? And you're going on all these walks with her out of some devotion to this brand-new, sprung-from-nothing friendship?” He looks around the table. “Am I the only one who finds this odd?”

“Terrence,” Henry says. “What's gotten into you? You're being rude.”

“It's fine,” I tell Henry. I smile at him, grateful, but I don't need anyone to protect me. Well, except, you know, a dog. I reach down to pet Giselle, but Seymour's nose moves below my hand first, probably angling for another treat. “I know he's just looking out for Anya.”

“Maggie believes me,” Anya says. “She believes someone stole Billy. It's nice to finally have someone on my side.”

I look at Anya, swallowing.

“Is that right?” Terrence asks me. “You believe that someone stole Billy? You believe he is alive?”

“Yes,” Anya says. “She does.”

“I'm asking your new friend Maggie.”

Everyone looks at me. “Well, I . . .” My voice trails off. I feel Seymour lick my hand, and I reach down to pet him, hoping everyone will just move on.

“Maggie?” Anya says. “Tell him.”

“Oh, just tell her the truth, Maggie,” Clive says. “Put the poor girl out of her misery. You know as well as anyone that no one stole that dog. He ran away and he's not coming back.”

Anya drops her fork and it clatters against her plate. “Shut up, Clive!”

I take a breath. “Anya,” I say softly. “I told you from the beginning that I have no idea if Billy is alive or not, but that I'd like to help you.”

Anya stares at me. “But I thought you believed me. I thought you were helping me look for Billy. You said if you were in my shoes, you'd do the same thing.”

“I would. If I were in your shoes, I'd probably do the same thing. That's completely true.”

“But—but you don't think I'm actually going to find Billy! You think he's dead.”

“I don't know what I think, honestly,” I tell her. “How could I claim to be sure of something that I have no way of knowing?”

“You could trust that
I
know,” Anya says, locking eyes with me. She shakes her head, and her dark hair falls into her face. She doesn't bother to move it away. “I fucking hate that you've just been humoring me. I'm not a child. I'm not some fucking crazy person.”

“But why does it matter whether Maggie thinks Billy was stolen?” Henry interjects. “You can't fault her for not being able to ignore the facts, can you? She's been nothing but honest and supportive since the moment she met you.”

Anya stands abruptly from the table. Giselle and Seymour swing their heads to look up at her, tensing. I feel my chest constrict.

“Honest?” she spits. “You think Maggie's being honest with me, Henry? With
you
? You think she's training that poodle to be a therapy dog?” Her hard, empty laughter cuts through the room's thick silence.

No. No. No.

“Anya, please . . .” I say quietly, but I can't seem to get any more words out. I try to breathe in deeply, but come up short on air.

“Anya, sweetheart,” Rosie says, her face twisted with concern. Terrence takes his grandmother's hand and whispers something to her.

“Stop looking at me like that!” Anya cries. “All of you! You all
look at me like I'm crazy! You think I don't see it? I don't feel it? I know what you're thinking. But
she's
the crazy one.” She swings her gaze to me, pointing her finger at my head. “This therapist you hired, Henry, to try to make
me
better? You think
she's
being honest? Here's the truth: Maggie can't leave her house without a dog. Even with a dog, she hyperventilates. She gets all panicky and pale and falls to the ground. You should see her!”

I can feel her eyes burning into my scalp, but I just stare at Giselle and Seymour, frantically trying to arrange my thoughts within the fog of shame and embarrassment and panic that swirls darkly through me.

“It would actually be funny if it weren't so fucking sad,” Anya says. “She's supposed to be helping people? Helping me?
She's
the nutcase! You think I'm obsessed with Billy? She can barely even
talk
about her dead dog. That's what a mess she is. Right, Maggie? Apparently it's honesty hour. Time to come clean. You don't believe Billy was stolen, you don't believe he's still alive somewhere, and, oh yeah, you're
fucking crazy
!”