Gaits of Heaven (18 page)

On the way home, Caprice and I stopped at Loaves and
Fishes for takeout. For most of my adult life, preparing my own meals had consisted mainly of walking to pizzerias. My lackadaisical attitude toward my own diet had been in total contrast to the care I devoted to making sure that my animals received optimal nutrition. As a dog writer, I was bombarded with information about canine nutrition and was forever changing or combining brands of commercial food and introducing or discontinuing additional ingredients and supplements. Meanwhile, genetic luck and my high metabolic rate let me get away with eating whatever was convenient. As usual in my life, the impetus for change was dogs. Specifically, I wrote a dog-treat cookbook called
101 Ways to Cook Liver
, the research for which had filled my house with such nauseating odors that I’d developed a temporary aversion to hot food and a craving for salad. Once the book was done, my normal appetite returned, but by then, I’d not only learned to make salad but had actually learned to cook. Then Steve and I began work on
No More Fat Dogs
, and when I started to read about human and canine obesity, I lost my taste for junk food. We ate good pizza now and then, but when we wanted convenience food, we relied mainly on Loaves and Fishes.

Even before I opened the back door, I could hear Rita’s voice and was glad I’d bought a lot of food. She was usually soft-spoken. Now, her tone was agitated. I assumed that she would want company and would stay for dinner. I was correct. She was seated at the kitchen table with Steve and Leah. Steve was always an excellent listener. Leah, however, had a tendency to finish other people’s sentences and to offer her own conclusions and interpretations before she’d finished hearing facts. At the moment, she didn’t stand a chance of interrupting Rita, who was sputtering with outrage. “Nothing was taken! Nothing that I can see. But how do I tell what was read? Caprice, you know that everything was…whatever you did so that no one could open those files. How I hate computers!”

“Hi, Rita,” I said as Caprice and I put the shopping bags on the counter.

Rita didn’t even greet us. “Shit. Someone broke into my office. I feel so damned violated!”

“Your computer is password protected,” Caprice said. “So are the individual files.”

“I should’ve thrown the damned computer in the trash and kept good old ordinary files at home. Damn it! I hate computers! And why didn’t I get a new lock for my office door? Two of them! A hundred! What kind of vile human being sneaks around…I have spent my entire professional life trying to help people, trying to assure them that here, in my office, they’re safe, that nothing terrible will happen, that this is a temporary refuge, and now this! I could strangle that stinking piece of scum! I am outraged! I am…”

Without consulting Rita, I set the kitchen table for five people. As Rita continued to vent her rage, Caprice and Leah silently helped to put out the barbecued chicken, eggplant parmigiana, and green salad we’d bought, and Steve opened a bottle of wine. I noticed a new bandage on Leah’s left hand, but Rita was still talking, so I didn’t ask what had happened. When the four of us took seats at the table, Rita finally paused for breath.

“When Rita got to her office this morning,” Steve said, “she found that the building had been entered. And her office.”

“Two others,” Rita added. “Both psychotherapy offices.”

“The second building on your block,” I said. The temptation was strong to remind her that after the first incident, she’d maintained that breaking into therapy offices was a symbolic act and a plea for help.

“What happened to the symbolism?” Leah asked. “Penetration? Wasn’t there something about a plea for help?”

Rita almost choked, but then she smiled. “Yes, what about that? That’s when someone else’s office is entered. When it’s mine, my attitude does a volte-face.”

Laughter relieved the tension. We began to eat, and over dinner, we heard the details, of which there were few. Despite the recent entering of the nearby therapy building, the last therapist to leave Rita’s building on the previous night couldn’t remember whether he had locked the outer door, and he was sure that he hadn’t set the alarm. It had a password that he could never remember, and he hadn’t wanted to lock himself out in case he’d forgotten something.

“I’ve done the same thing myself,” Rita admitted. “But not this week.”

“You did change the passwords on your computer,” Caprice said. “We went over that. No names of pets. Nothing in the dictionary. Not your phone number. Combine letters and numerals.”

“Yes,” said Rita. “But my Rolodex was there.”

“How private is that?” Steve asked. “It isn’t, is it?”

“No. And it has the names of colleagues, too. Friends. There’s nothing to identify people as patients.”

“What did the police say?” I asked.

“Not much. They dusted for prints. They told us to lock the doors and set the alarm. That was about it. I didn’t have the sense that we were being dismissed, really, but from their point of view, it wasn’t a major crime. Nothing was stolen from any of our offices. Nothing that we noticed, anyway. One of the offices was a psychiatrist’s. She had some drug samples in a drawer, and even those weren’t taken.” She paused. “But I still hate computers!”

After the meal, Rita went upstairs to her own place, and Leah and Caprice took Sammy and Lady for a walk. Leah, who was between serious boyfriends, usually walked Kimi, and I felt convinced that she’d chosen Sammy instead because he was such an attention grabber. Malamutes are tremendously showy showoffs. Furthermore, they create occasions for talking to strangers. You don’t just hear the usual
What a beautiful dog
, either. Rather, you get comments that absolutely require correction, such as
Nice husky!
Incredibly, you even get asked,
Is that an Alaskan Malibu?
So, Rowdy and Kimi were more than adequate as dating service representatives, but Sammy’s combination of gorgeous looks and puppyish demeanor was irresistible. I tactfully refrained from uttering the phrase
man magnet
lest I raise Leah’s feminist hackles.

As Steve and I were loading the dishwasher and cleaning up the kitchen, he said, “Anita showed up at work today.”

“And bit Leah,” I said. “I noticed a bandage on her hand.”

Steve laughed. “You’re closer than you know. When she showed up—I was busy. I didn’t even see her—Leah happened to be carrying a cat from one of the exam rooms to another, and the cat sank his teeth into Leah’s hand. He’s never done anything like that before. Passive, mellow cat.”

“I hope you got Leah to a doctor. Cat bites can be very serious.”

“No kidding?”

“Sorry.”

“Yes, she’s on antibiotics.”

“She showed up here this morning. Not Leah. Anita. Anita did. She’s on some kick about undoing wrongs. She called Gabrielle, too. When she got here, I was in the yard with India and Lady.”

“I hope you ignored her.”

“I told her to vaporize. She was outside the gate. I didn’t let her in. India probably wouldn’t have let me even if I’d wanted to. Lady was cowering.”

Steve stopped wiping the table. Losing his usual air of calm, he almost threw himself at me, and instead of holding me gently, he wrapped his arms around me so hard that I could barely breathe. “I am so sorry,” he said. “I am so sorry.”

“Steve, it is
not
your fault that she showed up here. I can take care of myself. She is no threat to any of us. Yes, she scares Lady, but so do a lot of other things, and Lady trusts India.”

“For good reason,” Steve said. “She trusts you, too. Also for good reason. You know, I can begin to forgive myself all the rest, but I can never forgive myself for how she treated Lady. I just didn’t see it. Until it was too late.”

“It isn’t too late. Lady is fine. She really is. She has all of us. You, me, Leah, India, Rowdy. And Sammy! He’s so lighthearted that he can’t imagine why Lady worries. Even Kimi! And now Caprice. Steve, I swear it. Anita is no threat to any of us.”

“I love you,” he said. “I love you with all my heart.”

On that same Monday evening, Ted Green is congratulating
himself on his success in the matter of limits and boundaries. Ted is pleased that over a wild mushroom fricassee delivered by his new cook and heated up according to her written directions, he calmly yet firmly refused to grant Wyeth’s irate demand for a new computer. Ted is now in the backyard with Dolfo, who is sniffing a shrub and beginning to raise his left leg. Clicker and treats in hand, Ted is prepared to reinforce a behavior heartily desired outdoors and outdoors only. He enjoys, I suspect, a sense of manly control over his environment. In my opinion, there’s nothing intrinsically masculine about his situation or his behavior, but if a gratifying illusion motivates him to train his dog, who am I to nitpick? As to Ted’s parenting, it’s outside my field of expertise, and when I think about what happens next, I’m glad of that.

What happens is that Wyeth opens his bedroom window all the way and, without even glancing down to the back-yard beneath, hurls his desktop computer, his monitor, and his printer, one right after the other, through the open window, which he then slams shut. As wood bangs against wood, howls and screams erupt from below, and Wyeth belatedly looks down to see Ted and Dolfo, both of whom have been struck. Wyeth grabs cash and his cell phone, races downstairs and out the front door, and runs away.

Ted has had the bad luck to be hit by the computer itself, the heavy CPU, but the good luck to have been struck on his right leg and foot rather than on his head. Dolfo is racing around in mad figure eights. It is clear to Ted that something, either the monitor or the printer, hit Dolfo, who howled in pain; perhaps the damage is internal. Fortunately, Ted’s cell phone escaped injury. After hauling himself to a sitting position, he unhesitatingly calls Dr. Tortorello. He is, however, disappointed to reach his psychiatrist’s answering machine and not the man himself. Still, he leaves a message.

If my dogs and I ever suffer the misfortune of being injured
by heavy objects descending from above, I’ll have the sense not to call a mental-health professional, even Rita. These people have no common sense. I won’t call a dog trainer, either, but that’s exactly what Ted did. When I’d finally elicited a few facts from him, I realized that calling our number had actually been sensible, if unintentionally so: Dolfo needed an immediate veterinary exam. Consequently, Steve and I got into his van, where he always kept basic veterinary instruments and supplies. By then, Leah and Caprice had returned. Leah insisted on accompanying us, mainly in case Steve needed help with Dolfo, and Caprice tagged along, too, perhaps because of an unexpected sense of loyalty to a family that wasn’t quite one.

When we arrived at Ted’s, he and Dolfo were still in the yard, but Barbara Leibowitz and George McBane were with them. As psychiatrists, they’d both gone to medical school, but I doubted that either one had treated a nonpsychiatric problem in decades. Even so, George was trying to examine Ted’s right leg and foot. Ted was lying on a teak bench, and someone had cut the fabric of his trousers and removed his shoe and sock. His foot and ankle were purple and swollen, but instead of groaning about physical pain, he was barraging George with complaints about his anxiety and pleading for Valium.

Barbara had taken charge of Dolfo. “Steve, thank God you’re here,” she said. “I can’t find anything wrong, but Ted says something must’ve hit Dolfo. I heard some yelping and howling. As far as I can tell, Ted had Dolfo out here, and Wyeth threw this stuff out the window.”

“Not intentionally,” said Ted.

“Of course not,” Caprice said. “Wyeth merely opened a window, and then his computer flew out all on its own.”

“Has anyone called an ambulance?” I asked.

Ted was vehement. “No! Don’t call anyone! If you call nine-one-one, the police will come, and Wyeth didn’t mean any harm. It was an accident.”

“Ted,” George said, “I’m rusty, but I think your ankle’s fractured and probably some of the bones in your foot. I can’t treat you.”

Meanwhile, Steve was kneeling next to Dolfo and running his hands over the dog. Dolfo’s ridiculously long tail was waving in the air, and his oversized tongue was hanging merrily out of his mouth. Steve and Barbara were speaking in undertones. Steve then produced a leash from his pocket and had Barbara gait Dolfo back and forth across the yard. I noticed a slight limp, as Steve undoubtedly did, too.

“Caprice,” Ted called out, “do me a favor. Go up to the medicine cabinet and get me some Valium. Or Ativan.”

George intervened. “Ted, it’s not a good idea to take anything right now.”

“I’m hyperventilating! I can feel a panic attack coming on.”

“George, do you want me to call an ambulance?” I asked. “Or I could drive Ted to the hospital. And does anyone know where Wyeth is?”

Everyone looked at everyone else.

“Caprice, go look for your brother,” Ted said.

“I’m an only child. Besides, he probably ran away when he saw what he’d done.”

“Enough of this!” I said. “Caprice, it’s just not the time. Steve, what’s the story on that limp?”

Steve nodded. “Looks like something grazed his right front foot. That’s probably why he yelped. There’s no sign of anything else, but he ought to be kept under observation.”

Leah, whose absence I hadn’t noticed, appeared from the house with a plastic bag of ice in her hands. Without consulting anyone, she went to Ted and wrapped the ice pack around his ankle. “That’ll help with the swelling,” she said. “And the pain.”

“Leah, thank you,” I said. “Steve, could you and Caprice see whether Wyeth is in the house? If he isn’t, we need to find him.”

“I didn’t see anyone,” Leah said.

“Caprice, please go with Steve. You know where Wyeth’s room is, and he doesn’t, but check everywhere.”

Ted was now sitting up. He punched a number into his cell phone. To all of us, he said, “Caprice is probably right—Wyeth has run off somewhere, running from his own irrational guilt. I tried his cell phone before. No answer.” In a few seconds, he added, “No answer now.”

Steve and Caprice had gone up the back stairs and were presumably searching the house. George said, “Barbara, do you want to take Ted to the ER? Or do you want me to do it?”

Without answering her husband, without even turning toward him, Barbara addressed Ted. “Mount Auburn?”

Ted nodded.

“George will drive you. I’ll stay here by the phone in case Wyeth turns up or calls, that is, if he really has taken off somewhere. In fact, if he isn’t here, let me be command central. For a start, we need to exchange phone numbers. Dolfo can stay here with me. I’ll keep an eye on him. If he shows any distress, I’ll call Steve, or George can drive him to Angell. Leah, would you go find a pen and paper so we can deal with phone numbers? And once everything’s a little more clear, I’ll take Dolfo home with me. Ted, you’re not going to be in any shape to manage him for a few days.”

Leah carried out her assignment. Caprice and Steve returned to the yard with the news that Wyeth seemed to be nowhere in the house. It belatedly occurred to Ted that someone should call his ex-wife, Johanna, in case Wyeth had fled to his mother’s house. Instead of placing the call himself, he tried to foist off the job, first on Caprice, then on Barbara. Caprice refused, but Barbara agreed and immediately borrowed and used Ted’s cell phone. It seemed to me that Barbara showed exceptional tact in describing matters to Johanna Green. Instead of bluntly informing Johanna that her son had tossed his computer and peripherals out a window and might have killed Ted and Dolfo, Barbara said that a difficult situation had arisen. Was Wyeth there? With a glance at Ted, Barbara said that maybe Wyeth had gone to a friend’s house. Could Johanna think of people who should be called? Ted shook his head. I heard Caprice mutter that Wyeth didn’t have any friends. As Barbara was telling Johanna that it seemed a little premature to call the police and as Leah was helpfully writing down phone numbers for everyone, George and Steve helped Ted to hobble toward the gate in the yard and thus toward George’s car. As Barbara was saying that Wyeth really couldn’t be considered a missing person, my eyes wandered to the computer that lay on the lawn. What drew my attention was, I suspect, the recognition that the piece of trash that Wyeth had thrown out was a newer and more powerful desktop computer than my own. As I was pondering that observation, I noticed that a drive door was open and that a CD or DVD remained in it. If the disc had been a commercial one, I’d have left it in the drive; it would never have occurred to me to steal a computer game, a movie, a music album, or a software program. Close inspection, however, showed me that the drive held the same brand of CD I used when I backed up documents. My only excuse for what I did is that the absence of appropriate boundaries somehow infected or seduced me. That’s no excuse, really, and I don’t want to add to my list of transgressions by lying or whitewashing. Let me just spit this out: when no one was looking, I slipped the disc out of the drive and into my jacket pocket. I wanted to know what Wyeth was up to.