One Good Dog (25 page)

Like a rust-stuck wheel, Adam’s thoughts begin to loosen and turn. He is the hub of the wheel, his thoughts spokes leading to the faces of Ariel and Sterling. Sophie. Their voices connect to him with the rivets of scorn and accusation. He has failed them; he has frightened them. He has damaged them. They have reacted to him—his behavior, his temper, his unresolved issues.

He is unredeemed, despite the punishment of community service. Loss of job, loss of status, wife, daughter, friends. Most of all, he’s lost his humanity.

This conversion from victim to villain is stunning to him. Guilt, embarrassment. Shame. “This isn’t who I am.” This is what he’s said to Gina, and yet it
is.
The person he has become, the person so tightly wound that he can be undone by a minor misunderstanding. The person no one wants to be around. A pariah.

Until and unless he makes amends, he will never regain his humanity. He will never find redemption.

Chance drops the ball. He makes his little
rrooorr
sound, but this time it sounds like speech. This time, it sounds like approval. The dog shoves the damp tennis ball against Adam’s closed fist. The two, man and dog, stare at each other for a moment, the man taking great comfort in the reflection of himself in the dog’s brown eyes—the only eyes that don’t look at him with disappointment.

Who knows where the tennis ball-playing gene comes from. All I knew was that this object fell to the floor from the counter—perhaps a mild earthquake, or perhaps I nudged it when I was reaching up to snag a half-eaten sandwich from the countertop. At any rate, the ball fell and I hit upon a great way to get my man out of his self-indulgent slump.

He was sitting there with his hand wrapped around a glass and his eyes fixed on the floor, just like the day he sat with his eyes and nose running and first touched me—the first time he acknowledged that I lived alongside him, and from then on it was much better being in this crib. I admit it. So now the sharpish scent of the fluid he was knocking back worried me. He hadn’t been indulging in this as much lately, which meant that he’d had more time for me. I was alert to the fact that he was agitated, pacing around, sitting, banging his fists against his skull. Drinking. The odor of his beverage began to seep out of his pores, mingled with an amalgam of fear, anger, grief. He reminded me of a dog I’d known in the cellar who chewed
himself with a self-destructive obsession until his skin was a bloody mass of scratches and sores.

I watched him for a long time while he drank and muttered, sinking deeper into a state of anxiety. Even as I grew increasingly fretful about him, I wondered why I was wasting my time observing him, worrying about him. This wasn’t something that I came to naturally, this concern about a human. Yes, I knew all about dogs who did, who saved Timmy from the well. But I am not that kind of dog, I told myself firmly, reminding myself that once I was a professional fighter. All along I have been telling myself that I am not a
pet.
My plan had always been to book it for greener pastures in the spring, or early summer at the latest. Not to get attached. If the door opened right now, I reasoned, I would leave. Sayonara, pal.

I had been kind to him once before, but that didn’t mean I was a permanent fixture in his life. I was not going to be part of one of those pathetic bonded pairs, man and dog, that I’d been observing a lot lately. Watching the dogs in the park play with their people—undignified romping, tails upright and wagging like out-of-sync metronomes. Happy looks on their faces—dog and man. Lavish face licking. For what? Nothing more than I had right here, a bowl of water, although mine was empty right now, and a twice-a-day meal of dry, crunchy bits and pieces. An occasional pat on the head. No no no. I’m an independent creature, a creature of self-possession, a dog who belongs to no man.

It was nearly dark, and I thought that if I could get him to take me out now and let me off the leash at the empty lot, then maybe it was time to go. To bid farewell to this solitary human.

Even as I thought it, I knew that I wouldn’t go. He was talking, but clearly not to me. His speech was slurry, equivalent to the low moan of a defeated champion. I felt a twinge in my heart, a clenching against independence. I went over and stood in the bed that we’d taken away from the woman who liked to give me cookies. Although I frankly preferred the futon, this cushiony substitute curled nicely around my back; snuggling into it felt like a return to puppyhood. This time, I couldn’t get comfortable, so I went back to stand and stare at him, urge him to look at me and remember that I had needs, too.

I took a deep sniff, filling my nose with his scent. Beyond the odor of his emotions and his drink, I could still detect the underlying essence of him. For the past days or weeks, or whatever the artificial enumeration of time is for these people, I had been feeling something beyond a normal thanks-for-the-kibble gratitude. Thanks for not hitting me. Thanks for not handing me back to those boys. I was grateful for the times we sat on the couch together and he let me rest my head in his lap. I was grateful that he talked to me, not for his scintillating conversation, but for the sound of companionship. That’s the scent that was being overwhelmed, the odor of calm, of partnership, of connection. I was afraid that something very powerful had hold of him, something that mere companionship wasn’t going to scare off.

Then the ball dropped. I picked it up and forced him to look beyond his trance to see me. Could I get him to play with me? Could I remind him that I needed him?
I needed him.

At first, he looked at me as if with someone else’s eyes. Me, a critic of play, I urged the ball forward with my nose until it jammed between his feet. Looked at him with a silly dog grin
and waited. Something slid away from his eyes and at last he saw me, saw the ball and picked it up.

He threw that ball hard against the wall, where it bounced crazily around the room until I trapped it. Over and over he smashed that ball against the wall, and over and over I pounced after it like some demented retriever until we both collapsed on the futon. I was panting, and so was he. Then he picked up his glass and, with the same violence as throwing the tennis ball, he flung it against that long-suffering wall and it smashed into a thousand shards. I flinched; the sound hurt my ears.

He reached an arm around my shoulders and dropped his head against mine. We might have been littermates snuggling. “Good boy.”

I knew then that I might never again entertain the notion of leaving him. Not as long as
he needed me.
I raised my muzzle, lifting my head backward until I could reach his face with my tongue. My own version of “good boy.”

The insistently repeated rhythm of his cell-phone tone penetrates the haze of alcohol-induced sleep. It is an annoying sound that has periodically entered his dreams as voices or objects or touching. Coupled with a full bladder, the sound of his phone ringing finally brings Adam awake. He fumbles for the teeny-weeny button but misses the caller. His missed calls function identifies a number he doesn’t recognize. Tossing the instrument on the coffee table, Adam extricates himself from the gravity of the futon and stumbles to the bathroom.

Chance is waiting for him in the kitchen, the empty water bowl an indictment against Adam. He hasn’t seen to the essential well-being of this animal. Adam rinses out the bowl, pours in fresh water, and watches as the dog laps up half. Which reminds Adam of his own thirst. Downing two glasses of water and a handful of aspirin, Adam becomes fully conscious of a new day. He looks at the shards of glass and the yellowy streaks of scotch that finger down the bland white wall.

“Ready to go out?”

Rrooorr
says the dog, and Adam takes that as an okay.

The dog needs to go out. He needs to start his day. This new day.

Gina’s store is open, the parrot sign turned to WELCOME. Adam walks in, Chance at his side. The parrot named Fred squawks a greeting, or an alarm. Gina holds a bucket of water and her window-washing pole. She sets both down, stands still. She doesn’t smile at him, and her left hand goes to her throat, an unconscious gesture that makes her appear nervous and at the same time demure, persuadable.

“You’ve checked me out, haven’t you? On the Internet.”

“Yes. I was curious. I mean, after I realized who you were, I just wondered why you were living here, why you weren’t at Dynamic anymore.”

Adam is pleased that Gina isn’t denying her curiosity. “Why didn’t you ask me?”

Gina’s supple mouth purses. “Wouldn’t be polite.”

“Ask me.”

“Will you tell me the truth?”

“What I’ll tell you will jibe with what you’ve read, only it’ll be my side of the story. Can you accept that?”

“Yes.” Gina locks eyes with Adam. In hers is a glistening of something that urges him on: a desire to believe him, to reconcile the two Adam Marches, the one she’s found on the Internet and the one who stands in front of her.

Adam picks up the bucket and the squeegee. Taking Chance’s leash, Gina follows him outside. He wrings out the sponge into the warm water, then wipes it in broad strokes across the rainbow and the dancing fish. As he draws the rubber blade down
the window, smooth lines of water rushing ahead of the edge, he begins to talk.

The story he tells her spools out from deep within. He hasn’t rehearsed, and so his story comes out in chunks, in truths that he has never before voiced. She knows a little bit about his sister, but he tells her about his childhood among strangers, about his father. As he talks, he finds himself elaborating, bringing old memories up from the depths of his subconscious. Stein would say that he was free-associating. He not only tells Gina things he has yet to speak about in therapy; he tells her about therapy. About Fort Street. About his anger at being assigned to serve food to the homeless and now his dependence on that place as the center of his days.

He feels no compunction about discussing a marriage that was more corporate partnership than love affair. About painful and abiding love for a daughter who detests him. About Sophie, what he’d done to her. And why Veronica’s sudden reintroduction into his life had triggered his downfall.

“A nervous breakdown?”

“My shrink can’t quite fit me into a diagnosis. I’m not quite a conduct disorder, not quite a depressive. A little of both. So we agree only that I had an ‘episode.’”

Gina’s olive eyes scan his, needing clarification. “But you say that you ran your departments, or divisions, with a firm hand. You were no one’s friend. Even choosing your wife was a calculated measure. Everything was about the power.”

There is a softening in his chest, a loosening up of the tightness he’s felt for months, maybe years. It’s as if the urge to cough has suddenly gone away. “Yes. And I now know that you just don’t get to control everything. It’s not sustainable. I’m not that man anymore.”

He is done with the window washing and they go back inside. She takes the bucket of dirty water and disappears into the back room. The fish tanks burble gently, a soothing percolation. Chance wanders around, the leash dragging behind him, sniffing at the chew toys and bottles of homeopathic remedies, stuffed animals and ceramic kittens. Adam leans his elbows on the counter, facing Gina, who has come back but stays behind this barricade.

Gina looks at him, her mouth set in a way that suggests her doubt. She realigns the dozen charity jars. “I don’t think that people can change that much just because they want to.”

“With practice, you can.” Adam lays a palm on the top of the jar designated for the shelter where he found Chance. “I’ve already changed into a dog owner.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Although her words are sharp, Gina’s eyes have begun to soften toward him. He can see that she wants to believe him. “Is this some kind of AA task where you have to go around making amends?”

“No. Although AA might not be a bad idea.” He thinks of the shattered glass, the streaks of scotch on his wall. The dark terror of failure that plunged him into a soul-deep vortex must not happen again. Despite his proclamation that he is a new man, Adam knows that the vortex is only one bad moment away. Every thought, every action from now on has to keep him from that edge. He likens it to exercise: Every day he will strengthen. “I had a waking nightmare where I was visited by the ghosts of my life as it has been thus far. But today I have awakened to a new day. A new life. You represent the Bob Cratchit of the story, the humble clerk who understands that the good things in life are beyond price.”

Adam watches a single tear slide out of the corner of Gina’s
eye, its contrail glistening in the morning light. He reaches across the counter and touches it, erasing its journey with a thumb. Gina reaches up and cradles the hand touching her face. She leans in and their lips meet over the divide of the counter.

Adam needs to go; Gina needs to get on with her day. He’s got to head to the center. “Thanks for listening.”

“Can I ask you one question?”

“Of course.”

“Your sister. Do you ever wonder why she ran away? What she was running from?”

“I guess I’ve always believed that she was, like Ariel, rebellious. Maybe a boyfriend.”

“Running from your father?”

Adam shrugs his coat on over his shoulders. “Maybe. I don’t know, maybe running from me. From the responsibility of a little brother.”

“You should find her. Ask her.”

Even with all the resources of his former life, Adam has never considered searching for Veronica. She has always been so deeply embedded in a past he had disassociated himself from that the very idea was out of the question. Until now. Until Gina ever so gently has made the idea live.

The parents’ waiting area at the barn is empty except for Adam. He sits down on the lumpy couch, pats his knee, and invites Chance up beside him. Asleep on a pile of empty grain bags is a cat. Chance, before jumping up, gazes at the recumbent feline. “Leave it,” Adam orders the dog, and is pleased when Chance jumps up onto the couch instead of going after
the small animal. Lately, Adam has been devoted to watching Cesar Millan on TV instead of Judge Judy. They are both forthright.