One Good Dog (17 page)

“Thanks.”

“Read it.” Gina flips her hood back up. “You should know
something about the dog if you’re going to just foist him off on someone.”

“Once the shelter is open—”

“Yeah. I know. And you know that’s death row.”

Adam sets the book down on the coffee table. “Okay. Thank you for bringing it over.”

“No problem.” She pulls the front door open, and Adam feels a wash of disappointment.

“Wait, I’ll bring you a cup of tea if you want.”

Gina folds back the hood. She studies him with eyes the color of olive oil, eyes that suggest she hasn’t forgotten his association with the cosmetics industry. Then she softens. “That would be nice.”
Nahss.
That soft clue to a previous life. “It’s been a slow day.”

“Okay, then.”

“Bring him.”

“Why?”

“Just bring him.”

Clutching two travel mugs filled with hot water in one hand and the dog’s leash in the other, Adam dashes across the street between cars waiting at the red light. The dog lopes beside him, his satchel mouth open as if this is some kind of game, looking for all the world like a pet out for a romp with its person. Adam doesn’t look at the dog, just hopes no other dog appears while he’s carrying two cups of hot water.

Inside the pet shop, the air is fuggy with warmth and the scent of aquarium water. Adam is greeted by the squawks of the parrots, his eye caught by the tropical flash of color in a winter world. He sets the travel mugs down on the counter
and fishes out two tea bags he’s thoughtfully put in a plastic bag. “I couldn’t manage the sugar and milk, not with both hands busy, so I’ll just go next door and see what he’s got.”

Gina leans her elbows down on the counter, a posture that elongates her neck. Her molasses-colored hair is loose, and a layer curves against her cheek, framing it. “I’ve got both here. Don’t bother yourself.” She chooses a travel mug, one he’s picked up at Dunkin’ Donuts, and levers the cap off.

“I only have Tetley.” Adam proffers the plastic bag, lets Gina choose which sachet of tea she wants. He is still in his coat, still gripping the end of the leash.

“Adam, why don’t you let go of him? He can’t get into trouble here; there’s nothing much he can reach.”

Adam drops the end of the leash, but the dog stays put, unaware that he’s free to move around.

“How’s he doing?”

“Except for taking over the futon, and trying to attack any dog he meets on the street, I guess you can say he’s being good.”

“Being on a leash does that to some dogs. They feel threatened.”

“Seems more like he’s the threat.”

Gina bobs her tea bag, then scuttles it with a spoon she has produced along with the milk and sugar. “I think he’s going to be a good dog. He’s quiet.”

“I haven’t heard any complaints about barking.”

“No, I mean his demeanor. Some dogs are all movement. This guy likes to take it all in.” Gina looks over the edge of the counter at the dog, who looks up at her with adoration. “He’s a good boy.” This is addressed to the dog, whose tail ticks left and right.

“Are you sure you don’t want him?”

“I would, if I didn’t already—”

“Have three greyhounds.” Adam takes the spoon from Gina and retrieves his tea bag from the bottom of his Starbucks mug.

The object of the conversation suddenly finds it too hard to remain sitting and flops to the floor, stretching out on his side, releasing a contented grunt.

Gina and Adam pay close attention to their travel mugs. There is nothing else obvious to talk about. This is suddenly like a bad first date. A bad first blind date. There’s only one thing they have in common—not the workplace, nor a school, nor a mutual friend, but a dog. The awkwardness of being imperfect strangers. Neither wants to resort to the weather, but no topic presents itself for a prolonged moment. Adam is unaccountably tongue-tied and wonders how fast he can drink his tea and get out of there.

Gina DeMarco sips her tea, grimaces at the scorch of hot water through the small aperture, and asks Adam a question. “If I can find any in the back room, would you like a cookie?”

“Sure, but don’t go to any trouble.”

Gina disappears and Adam breathes a sigh. What an imbecile he is. Why did he think she’d want his company? When Gina comes back with an opened package of Fig Newtons, he takes one and quickly asks her a question to fill in the silence. “How long have you owned the shop?”

Gina nips a corner off of her cookie and shrugs. “It seems like all my life, but I’ve only owned it per se since my grandfather passed. About twelve years. Before that, I just worked here. Once he started getting a little confused, he stopped waiting on the customers and just tended the tanks. Then one day, he turned the water temperature up on the angelfish and
essentially cooked them. I came in and found him scooping them up in the net and then putting it back in the water and wondering why they were belly-up.” Gina shrugs, a delicate gesture. “I couldn’t leave him alone in here. But we spent a lot of time together even as he declined, so, in the end, I never had to put him in a nursing home. That’s all that I wanted; he’d been so good to me.”

“You were responsible for him, not your parents?”

“No. A long time ago, my mother and stepfather sent me up north to live with Grandpa; we haven’t been much in touch since.” Gina’s remark has the worn spots of an old story.

Adam tastes the fig on his tongue, rough and sweet. “Where’d you come from originally?”

“I was born in Louisville, but we lived all around, North and South Carolina, Texas. Any place with an army base, any place hot.” Gina leans her elbows on the counter. A barricade of donation jars leaves her a loophole through which to conduct business: greyhound rescue, miniature horse rescue, food bank, breast cancer awareness, therapy dogs, Thoroughbred rescue. Rescue this one; rescue that one; rescue me.

She rearranges the jars, soldiering them. “I have another stool back here if you want.”

The space behind the service counter is narrow, an alley between the shelves on the wall behind them and the countertop with its displays of flea and tick remedies, pamphlets on how to feed your gerbil, your Betta fish, how to take care of your saltwater aquarium. Adam sits on the wooden stool he finds tucked under the overhang of the desk and sets down his tea. He pulls another cookie out of the package. “Your dad was in the army?”

“Dad and stepdad. My father was killed in Nam. My step-dad was his buddy.”

“A lot of our guys are vets who served in Vietnam.”

“Your guys?”

Adam realizes the trap he’s set for himself. How to explain his “job” to Gina? Stein would have something to say about this, something along the lines of “Here’s your chance. Start with the truth and see where it gets you.” Stein is determined that Adam give up his sense that he has any control over history.

“I volunteer at the Fort Street Center.”

“Good for you.” Gina is looking at him with approval, ratcheting up her estimation.

A fan of dismay colors his cheeks. “Actually, it’s not exactly volunteering. It’s community service.” Adam sees the approval meter slide back down. He hasn’t practiced how to tell this story; he doesn’t know whether to blurt out the salient facts, or just hope she doesn’t want to hear more. Gina is intent on her tea, adding more sugar, a dollop more of the milk from the quart she’s found in the back of the store. Intent on not asking the question he can see forming itself in as she deliberately pays careful attention to doctoring her tea.

The dog, which has been meandering all around the store, dragging the four-foot leash behind him, suddenly notices that he’s on the wrong side of the counter from the people. He figures out how to get back there and comes up to Adam, pressing his blunt nose on Adam’s leg.

“Look who’s here.” Gina reaches across Adam’s knees to pet the dog. “You want a cookie, too?” Gina produces a dog biscuit, which the dog gently takes out of her hand. “He’s a sweetie, although I’m sure he’s been fought.” She reaches farther over to scratch the dog on the scar on his chest. Her elbow touches Adam’s leg. He thinks he feels the touch of her hair beneath his
chin, but he keeps his eye on the dog. “They say once they’ve done that, there’s no saving them. But that’s not always true.”

Adam sips his tea, doesn’t look at the dog or at Gina.

“You could call him Cassius. Or how about George? You know, Clay and Foreman? Good fighters who were good men.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to name him.”

“Because you’re not keeping him?”

“Because I’m not keeping him.”

Gina pulls on her bottom lip, crosses her legs. “Let’s shoot the gorilla.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We’ve got unfinished business, and I think that if we can just have the conversation, we’ll feel better.”

Adam is stymied. Is she talking about his community service? Then it hits him. “We sold the division; the Fraîche Crème product was discontinued.”

“Yeah, but did you really stop animal testing?”

Adam is wholly unprepared for this. “Experiments were under way. Those were finished. No new experiments were begun. And no more rabbits were used.” It’s close enough to the truth. “I left the division shortly after your protest.”

“I know. You didn’t leave the division; you were promoted. I remember reading about it in the
Globe.
Best thing we ever did for you.” After all these years, there is still an obvious and righteous anger at Dynamic’s policies. The hand not holding the travel mug is shaking slightly, as if adrenaline is pouring through Gina.

Adam feels his own righteous anger simmering. He may have been promoted, which would have happened eventually anyway, but for six weeks Gina and her group made his life a living hell. Eggs thrown at his brand-new Lexus, the predecessor
to the one he is still driving; damning signs held by NATE volunteers who lined the public thoroughfare leading to Dynamic’s access road; shouts and accusations broadcast every night like clockwork on the local television channels; interviews with talking heads, who condemned him personally. Holed up in his division headquarters eighteen hours a day, consulting with public-relations people and attorneys, he barely got home in time to change for the latest dinner party or benefit; never had time to see Ariel before she was put to bed by the nanny.

A jangle as the pet shop door opens breaks the moment. Gina greets her customer by name. She takes a little while to wait on her customer, a middle-aged man fussing about pH balances in his tank. She discusses this problem with him, her elegant brows arced in concern for his trouble, but once she glances back at Adam, who’s still behind the counter, her cold glance tells him the topic isn’t finished. The customer pays for his purchases and jangles out the door. Once again they are alone.

“He’s a regular. Can’t seem to keep his fish alive, but he keeps trying. One of these days, he’ll either give up or get it right.”

“Sounds like the rest of us.” Adam swallows the last of his tea, which is still hot and which burns his throat as it goes down. “You can’t dwell on the past. You have to move forward.”

Gina nods and turns her attention back to her fast-cooling tea. “I understand. Sometimes there are things you just want to put behind you.”

“That’s right.” Adam sets his empty travel mug beside Gina’s on the counter. His is a little taller, a little narrower. The handles touch. “Although I’m learning that even if you put things behind you, they aren’t gone. They follow along like a
phantom.” Unaccountably, the image of the dog running down the street with the pole trailing along behind pops into Adam’s mind and he realizes that very possibly this is that dog.

For his part, the dog makes a little
rrrooor rrooor
noise and his tail thumps against the old wooden floor.

Gina remains at the register, fiddling with the arrangement of bills in the drawer, quiet.

“I should go.”

“Thanks for the tea.” Gina hands him the two empty mugs. Slips the cookies back into their package, busies herself with small tasks.

Adam comes out from behind the counter, the dog behind him, the leash trailing. He feels deflated, disappointed, as if he’s failed at something, some attempt.

Adam stops at the doorway. “It’s history, Gina. Over and done with.”

“Yeah. Ancient history. We were both a lot younger then.” A hint of sarcasm.

“We didn’t understand what we were doing.” He hates that he’s defensive.

“Doesn’t excuse it.”

“Maybe not, but a whole lot more has gone on in the world since then.”

“Yeah, Enron, nine-eleven, Iraq, recession. Makes the eyes of a bunny seem somehow frivolous.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.” She sounds just a little defeated. “I guess you could make up for it.” She looks at the dog meaningfully. “A little payback?”

Adam tugs on the leash, bringing the dog to heel. The sound of the bells against the plate-glass door hurts his ears.

My man and I have taken to long walks now that the weather is a bit better. Sometimes we even run, although I don’t like that quite as much. I prefer an olfactory perambulation to a training-level exercise, but, hey, when in Rome. He’s developing some stamina. We go as far now as the outer edges of my old territory. Once in a while, when he slows down enough, I catch a whiff of an old friend still haunting the area. Sometimes, I pick up the scent of one of the boys. I tug on the leash when that happens. I don’t want to go back into that cellar.

He still hasn’t put me in a pit, nor given me any bouts with sparring partners.

Life here is pretty good. I do spend a fair amount of time alone, but I’m free to wander this crib, stretch, lap water, and sleep the untrammeled sleep of the secure. We go for rides. I am not one of those dogs who hang their heads out the window. I sit with dignity in the backseat, casting my glance right and left, surveying with the utmost authority the
cityscape rolling out before me. Sometimes we go to places where I can smell my own kind, places like where we met. I can hear the vocalizations of the lost even from the quiet seclusion of the car, where I jump into the front seat the minute he leaves.