Underdog (7 page)
Aunt Peg shook her head slightly. “That's Rick's version.”
“Do you like Angie's better?”
“To tell you the truth, I don't like either of them. But I also don't like the fact that Rick feels so comfortable speaking for his wife. He did that when she was alive too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that he's the kind of man who likes to be in charge. You saw a little bit of what I'm talking about when you invited Jenny to dinner.”
“You're right,” I said, thinking back. “At the time, it seemed pretty funny.”
“Then maybe, but not always. Come on, turn over.” Peg patted Lulu's rear and the puppy stood up and turned over so that the other side could be dried. In a million years, Faith would never be that well trained. “I used to see them together all the time at the shows. Rick could be obsessive about controlling things right down to the smallest detail. Let's just say that when he said jump, Jenny usually did.”
“You just told me you didn't think Jenny would have committed suicide. Now you're agreeing with Angie that she was unhappy.”
“Don't put words in my mouth. I said nothing of the sort. What I said was that Rick was definitely the one of the two of them who was in charge. Who knows? Maybe she wanted it that way.”
“Maybe,” I mused, although her version of events didn't jibe with my recollection of the woman I'd thought I was coming to know. Another inconsistency to file away for future consideration.
“How much do you know about arsenic?” I asked.
“Slightly more than the average layman, I suppose.” Aunt Peg finished going through the puppy's neck hair and switched her pin brush for a slicker. “Amazing as it seems, in the old days some of the more unscrupulous handlers used to give arsenic to their dogs in small, hopefully controlled doses. It made them grow huge coats that looked great in the ring.”
“That's terrible!”
“It certainly is. Especially for the owners whose dogs overdosed on a drug they had no idea they were being given.”
“They don't do that anymore, do they?”
“No, although unfortunately it's not because ethics have improved any. Now the drug of choice is steroids. It produces heavy coats
and
muscles. At the moment there's no drug-testing program in place to ferret out an abuse like that. Luckily it's too risky to be widespread. Why do you want to know?”
and
muscles. At the moment there's no drug-testing program in place to ferret out an abuse like that. Luckily it's too risky to be widespread. Why do you want to know?”
“I was wondering about the rat poison in the Maguires' kennel. Rick said that all of them handled it. Is arsenic something that could be absorbed through the skin if you weren't careful?”
Aunt Peg shook her head. “That's not the way it works. If Jenny died from arsenic poisoning, she had to have ingested it somehow. Like maybe in the food she ate for dinner that night.”
“Rick and Angie were right there. Presumably they ate dinner with her.”
“I didn't say that it was a sensible solution, only that it was a possibility.”
I had plenty of possibilities. The problem was, there wasn't a single sensible solution in sight.
“Mommy, Aunt Peg, come find me! I'm hiding!”
Davey's shout from outside was followed by a high-pitched yip from Faith. My son loves to play hide and seek. He started when he was two by covering his face with his hands. Since then his skill at concealing himself has improved enormously. Having recently dug him out from beneath a steward's table at a dog show and behind the bagel bin at the supermarket, it was a game I was hoping he'd soon outgrow.
“Do you want to get him or shall I?” asked Peg.
“I'll go.” I slipped down off the stool and zipped my jacket. “You keep drying.”
I pushed open the kennel door and found Beau outside, waiting to come in. At least that's what I thought he was doing. He was whining urgently and dancing in place with impatience. But when I opened the door wide, he didn't slip past me. Instead he turned and trotted off in the other direction.
“Here, Beau,” I said, calling him back. “Go on in. Peg's in here.”
He stopped and turned around to look at me. I'm not one of those people who ascribes human characteristics to dogs. At best you might call me a recent convert to the joys of dog ownership. But I could swear Beau was trying to tell me something. Not only that, but he seemed to be baffled by my apparent stupidity in not understanding.
I looked around, scanning the large yard. Davey and Faith were nowhere to be seen.
“Do you know where they are?” I asked.
Beau wagged his tail.
So it had come to this. I was not only talking to dogs, but also expecting them to answer. Thank God Aunt Peg wasn't outside to see it.
“Okay,” I said. “Let's go.”
Beau trotted across the lawn and around the side of the house. A wide veranda started in front and wrapped around both sides. In summer, Aunt Peg had filled up some of the space with a grouping of white wicker tables and chairs. Now, with the leaves already coming down from the trees and winter not far behind, she'd pushed the chairs to one side, piled them in a heap and covered them with a tarp for storage.
Barking triumphantly, Beau scrambled up the steps. As he jumped up and placed his front paws against the pile of furniture, there was an answering bark from within.
“Shhh,” whispered Davey, his voice clearly audible. “They'll find us.”
“They already have,” I said, drawing back the tarp. Faith and Davey were snuggled together in the seat of an upturned chair. “Beau led me straight to you.”
“No fair!” cried Davey.
“Says who? If you can have a Poodle on your team, so can I.”
By the time I'd gotten both child and puppy extracted, Aunt Peg was finished in the kennel. She joined us on the porch and we went inside to be greeted noisily by the herd of house Poodles. Aunt Peg offered hugs and biscuits all around, then shooed them affectionately out of the way.
The dogs draped themselves around the kitchen, Beau sitting in the place of honor beside her chair as she put the kettle on the stove to make tea. I loathe tea, not that that's ever mattered to Aunt Peg. She serves refreshments the same way she does everything else, with the belief that anyone who thinks they have a better idea can make their own. I'd spent enough time in Aunt Peg's house recently to have stashed a jar of instant coffee in the freezer. We got down two mugs and went to work.
Davey boosted himself up on the counter, munching his way happily through what was doubtless not his first doughnut. He broke off a piece and fed it to Faith. I pretended not to notice. Aunt Peg, who is apparently a stricter parent to her Poodles than I am to my child, interceded immediately.
“Don't do that,” she told Davey. “The sugar's bad for her teeth. Besides, you'll spoil her appetite.”
Bad for her teeth? Spoil her appetite? This from a woman who'd been feeding my son doughnuts all afternoon?
“What about Davey's teeth?” I asked mildly.
Aunt Peg gave me a look. “I assume he brushes.”
“I do,” Davey chimed in.
“Well, there you are. Are you brushing Faith's teeth?”
I smiled, thinking she was joking. Slowly the smile faded. I was almost afraid to ask. “Should I be?”
Aunt Peg lifted the puppy's lips and had a look. “They're in good shape now, but it wouldn't hurt. Especially as she gets older.”
Yeah, I thought. Right.
But Aunt Peg was already moving on. She laid critical hands around Faith's ribcage. “She's still thin. Not that you ever want puppies to be fat, mind you, but a little more heft than this wouldn't hurt.”
“I was going to try a new food. . . ,” I said, then stopped. Right until that moment, I'd forgotten all about it. “Something Jenny told me about.”
“Really? What?”
“There's a woman named Crystal Mars in Stratford. She bakes her own all-natural kibble. Jenny said Ziggy was pretty picky and he used to love it.”
“You know you want to make any switch in diet like that gradually.”
I nodded.
“And you'll have to check and make sure that the protein content isn't too highâ”
“Aunt Peg!”
She stopped mid-lecture. “What?”
“I'm not two years old.”
“No, you're not.” Aunt Peg shook her head firmly. “You got Faith in September. It is now October. By my calendar you are less than one month old, which means that a little advice won't kill you.”
That shut me up, as I guess she'd known it would. I let her lecture on and didn't bring up the subject of Jenny's death again until later when we were ready to leave.
“None of the choices make any sense to me,” I said. “Could someone have wanted to harm Jenny? Is it possible that she wanted to harm herself?”
“Don't look at me,” said Aunt Peg. “I don't have any answers.”
That was definitely a first. Too bad the timing wasn't better.
Seven
Hunting Ridge Elementary School is a one-story brick building situated just above the Merrit Parkway in north Stamford. The second wave of the baby boomâthe original boomers having children of their ownâcaught our administration by surprise. For each of the last six years enrollment has been substantially above projections, which means that even though the facilities are up to date and well maintained, we suffer from overcrowding and understaffing. In spite of the fact that the school is bursting at the seams, each spring the town legislators vote to look the other way and hold our budget firm.
When Davey and I pulled into school at eight-thirty the next morning, we saw that a delivery truck had stalled outside the kitchen door, blocking off a full third of the teachers' parking lot. Business as usual at Hunting Ridge. I swung back around the front circle, avoided a bus making a wide turn and nabbed a spot in visitors' parking.
Like nearly everything else at the school, the parking lots are inadequate for the number of cars that have to use them. In theory our security force is out daily, checking for parking violations. In reality, the force consists of old Mr. Simms. As far as I can tell the major part of his day is spent drinking coffee and chatting with the school nurse. Habitual offenders like myself have little to fear.
I delivered Davey to the kindergarten playground and headed over to my classroom, which is really an annex to the school library. My first three years at Hunting Ridge, I'd had a room off the main hall like the rest of the teachers. Crowding had been less severe then and popular thinking had dictated that children with learning disabilities were taken from their regular classes and taught in special sessions for at least part of the day.
Now all that has changed. The new goal is to mainstream the LD kids, that is, to get them to be successful within their own classrooms. I spend most of my day going from grade to grade, taking aside those children that have been identified as needing extra help, and working with them in small groups. We do the same curriculum; we just work a little harder at it. The classroom teacher paints the broad strokes. For the kids who need it, I'm there to fill in the gaps.
The door to the annex was open and when I went inside I found out why. Betty Winslow, who teaches third grade, was perched on the edge of my desk waiting for me. Betty's forty years old and built along ample lines. Her skin is the color of dark chocolate and she has a short, neat Afro that's just beginning to turn gray. Her taste in clothes runs to bright colors and flowing fabric, and she wears her glasses on a chain around her neck. She can move amazingly fast for someone her size and even in a room filled with twenty-four eight-year-olds, she never misses a trick.
The aroma of hot, ground roast coffee hung in the air and I sniffed appreciatively. Betty picked up one of two styrofoam cups sitting on the desk and handed it over. One sip and I was in heaven.
“This didn't come from the teachers' lounge.”
“Of course not. That's stuff's undrinkable. Hay Day Market. I stopped on my way in.”
The way I looked at it, I was probably being set up. That being the case, I might as well take another sip and enjoy the bribe.
“I've got a kid I want you to take a look at.”
“Test, you mean?” The process for identifying children who were eligible to be part of my program could be long and needlessly complex. Among other things, it involved determining the difference between an individual's potential and achievement, then bringing the results before a meeting of a Pupil Placement Team.
“No, nothing that formal. Besides, using the usual quantitative methods, I don't think he would qualify.”
I put down my briefcase, pulled out the desk chair and had a seat. “So, what's the problem?”
“His name is Timmy Doane and he's new to the school this year. He's not LD, I'm almost sure of it. But he's been slow to make friends and he has trouble concentrating on his work. We're six weeks into the school year and he's beginning to fall behind. Nothing big yet, but all the same, something I'd just as soon nip in the bud.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Take him into your group for a couple of weeks, see if the extra attention draws him out. He's a sweet kid, smart too. I'm pretty sure all he needs is a jump start to get him going.”
I thought for a moment. Currently the third grade group was one of my smallest, probably because Betty was doing such a good job. I knew who Timmy Doane was; I'd seen him when I was working in the classroom. He was small and quiet, and integrating him into my group shouldn't be any problem at all.
“Are you going to do the paperwork?” I asked her.
“Hell, no.” Betty laughed heartily. “I'm just going to look the other way.”
It sounded like a plan to me. Betty levered herself up and left. As I finished off my coffee, the first bell rang.
Â
By the time Davey and I get home in the afternoon, Faith has been cooped up for a good part of the day. That's hard on a dog, especially a puppy. Luckily she's a Standard Poodle which means that she's gifted with enough patience and intelligence to cope.
I barely had the front door open before Davey shot past me and ran down the hall to the kitchen. That's where we keep Faith's crate, which is where she stays while we're gone during the day. I heard Faith whining excitedly as the locks on her crate snapped open. Then the back door opened and slammed shut and they were gone.
Thumbing through the mail, I made my way to the kitchen more slowly. Davey'd left the crate door open and although by now I should know better, I still managed to trip over it and tear a hole in my pantyhose.
“Damn,” I muttered, nudging the door shut with my toe. The crate didn't exactly fit in the kitchen, which was why I was always knocking into it. Getting it had been Aunt Peg's idea. In the beginning I'd resisted like crazy. I'd thought of it as a cage, one that any self-respecting dog owner should be loathe to stuff her pet into.
But in the last month, I've become a convert. For starters, the crate made housebreaking a breeze. Then it eliminated the problem of unwanted chewing when we weren't around to oversee what Faith was up to. But what really sold me on it was Faith herself. It didn't take me long to see that she doesn't think of the crate as a cage; she sees it as her den, the place she can go to get some privacy when she wants to escape from humans for a while.
Like parenting, this dog-owning business is a continual learning process. I saw the crate as punishment. Faith thinks of it as home.
I got up and tossed the mail on the counter. No notification from the lottery. Not even an envelope from Publisher's Clearinghouse. Only a few bills and a catalogue from Victoria's Secret. Just looking at those pictures depresses me. In my next life I plan to join an aerobics class, lose ten pounds, dye my hair blond, and learn how to apply eyeshadow to smoldering effect.
In the meantime I have Davey, and now Faith, to keep me busy.
I looked out into the backyard through the window over the sink. Boy and dog were spinning in ever smaller circles around the swing set. I wondered how long it would be before one of them missed a step and knocked himself silly. In general, these are the types of questions that occupy my day.
I opened the back door and stuck my head out. “Come on in. Get a drink, grab a cookie. We've got to get going.”
Without missing a beat, the two of them included me in their circle and came flying up the stairs. “Where are we going?” asked Davey.
“Out for a ride in the car.”
“Can Faith come?”
“I don't see why not.”
“Yippee!”
Oh, to be five again, and to live a life where things were just that simple.
Â
Stratford is a good half-hour drive from Stamford; and north Stratford, where Crystal Mars's kennel was located, took even longer. Davey, who gets impatient on any trip that's longer than around the block, entertained us with eighteen verses of “Frère Jacques” which he'd learned that week in school. He gave the words a spin all his own: Frère Jacques became fair-o jock-o. Despite the efforts of the Stamford school system, I don't think my son will be bilingual any time soon.
Crystal's North Moon Boarding Kennel was located out in the country at the end of a long, rut-filled, dirt road. Driving in, I wondered about the name. North Moon. Did such a thing exist? And if it did, could one by implication, designate a south moon? Maybe the name had some sort of astrological significance that I was unaware of, which is entirely possible because when it comes to astrology, I'm unaware of a lot of things.
Crystal was obviously taken with the lunar motif because moons were pictured everywhere: on the sign, the gate, and the building itself. Some were full and round and had the unfortunate luck to be decorated with eyes and a mouth. Maybe Crystal had been aiming for the nursery rhyme effect but I thought they looked like an anemic version of those stupid yellow happy faces people had plastered everywhere a few years back.
Davey didn't want to come inside the kennel with me, and I saw no reason to insist. The Volvo had come perilously close to losing its axle on the road coming in, so it was a good bet nobody else would be arriving at any great speed. I slipped Faith's collar on and looped the end of her lead around Davey's wrist. Leaving them to explore, I went off in search of Crystal Mars.
From what I'd heard and seen so far, I half expected her to be an overage hippie with tie-dyed clothing and hair down to her waist. A pot of incense burning in the corner wouldn't have surprised me either. So when I walked into the reception room of the kennel and found it to look very much like all the others I had visited, I was almost disappointed.
Wind chimes did tinkle above my head as I opened the door. I guessed that was something.
“Be right there,” a voice called from the next room.
“No hurry.”
The room was large enough to hold a desk, two file cabinets and a tattered-looking couch. The faint odor of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Here there were no show pictures on the walls; instead the space was filled with an assortment of warm doggie sayings.
Happiness is a Cold Nose. Home is Where the Beagle Lays His Head.
Happiness is a Cold Nose. Home is Where the Beagle Lays His Head.
One was not so warm, but was deliciously funny.
“I got a Schnauzer for my husband,”
it said across the top. Below,
“It was a very good trade.”
“I got a Schnauzer for my husband,”
it said across the top. Below,
“It was a very good trade.”
I was still chuckling over that one when Crystal Mars appeared. She was certainly old enough to have enjoyed the hippie era, but nary a love bead seemed to have survived. Her gray hair was close cropped and finger combed. Her blue jeans were worn; and her turtleneck sweater, sturdy and serviceable.
Her blue eyes followed the direction of my gaze and she grinned. “Lots of women get a kick out of that one. I've had it printed on a tee shirt in case you're interested.”
“Maybe,” I considered. That would be one way to explain Bob's absence. “Actually I came to buy some of your kibble. I hear it's great for problem eaters.”
“It is. Even more important, it's good for them. I use only the highest quality products and I buy everything fresh locally. Chicken, rice, corn meal. It's all natural, no additives, no preservatives, and no filler. Remember that ethoxyquin scare a couple years back?”
I shook my head, but it didn't matter to Crystal. She just kept going.
“All the big dog food companies went through it. That's what happens when you manufacture in huge batches that end up sitting on supermarket shelves for months. Ethoxyquin's a preservative. All of a sudden, somebody decided it was dangerous and nobody wanted any part of it. Dog breeders stampeded in eight different directions at once. Trouble was, it was in almost every manufactured kibble. Except mine, of course.”
“All right, you've sold me,” I said when she paused to take a breath. “I'll try twenty pounds.”
“Small bite or large?”
“Small, um. . . large.”
Crystal smiled. Obviously making customers' decisions for them was nothing new to her. “What kind of dog?”
“Standard Poodle puppy. Six months old and growing even as we speak. I was thinking small, because she's a puppy; large because twenty pounds should last awhile.”
“We'll start you with small.” Crystal disappeared into the next room and came back toting a twenty-pound sack with ease. “Next time you can move up. What's your puppy's name?”
“Faith.”
“Faith,” she repeated, writing up a slip. “I like that.”
She would. I decided not to ruin it by telling her the puppy had sisters named Hope and Charity.
“Hey, Mom!” A slender girl of about nine or ten poked her head out of the back room. She had dark, pixie-cut hair and a gap between her two front teeth. “What's the capital of Ethiopia?”
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