Gaits of Heaven (6 page)

As I see her in my mind’s eye, Anita Fairley sits at the
desk in her room at CHIRP, the Center for Healing, Individuation, Recovery, and Peace. The room is all polished wood and natural fabrics. Its windows overlook fields and woods. The desk is bare except for Anita’s notebook computer, a telephone, a sheet of paper with a rather long list of handwritten names, a box of thick cream-colored notepaper, and a Montblanc pen with blue ink. The notepaper and the blue ink are not figments of my imagination; they are facts. Anita, too, is a fact, as is her appearance: her long blond hair, her lovely features, her slimness, and the hauteur of her expression. She is wearing new and expensive clothes appropriate to the occasion and the setting. She always does; therefore she does so now. Consequently, I see her in a designer version of the loose, comfortable clothing invariably recommended for yoga and meditation classes. Although the diagnosis of global chemical sensitivity is now passé, having been replaced by unfortunate systemic reactions to mold, I see Anita in unbleached and thus off-white cotton: a loose long-sleeved top and drawstring pants that fall in flattering drapes.

Online, she looks up my address and makes a face. Still, she selects an envelope, addresses it to me, and, on one of the thick sheets of notepaper, pens a few sentences of apology for the pain she has caused. She is tempted to sign herself Anita Fairley-Delaney but reluctantly settles for Anita Fairley. Why the hell do there have to be twelve steps? she wonders. Eleven would more than suffice.

“You haven’t been married all that long,” Caprice said.
“Your husband probably won’t want some stranger here.”

We were drinking tea at my kitchen table. Steve’s and mine. Our kitchen table, which I’d set with mugs, spoons, a saucer of lemon slices, and, after some internal debate, a bowl of sugar and a pitcher of whole milk. No one in the house drank low-fat milk, so I’d had none to offer, and although there was cream in the refrigerator, I couldn’t bring myself to put it out. Anyway, the collectively owned object that was embarrassing the hell out of me wasn’t the table but the jacket of the book Steve and I had written together. The book itself wasn’t due out until October, but our editor had sent us a solicitation cover, as such a thing is called, the book jacket with no book inside. Delighted with this preview of our work, we’d pinned it on the bulletin board in the kitchen, where it now seemed to me to have grown to poster size and practically to thrust itself in Caprice’s face—with special attention to disfiguring pouches of fat. The jacket art was in the style of Marcel Duchamp and consisted of a series of drawings that depicted the transformation of the obese dog on the left to the lean one on the right. The title was
No More Fat Dogs
. Professional dog writer that I am, I’d tried to inveigle Steve into selecting a cutesy, if derivative, title such as
Dr. Doggie’s Diet Revolution
or even
The South Bitch Diet Book
, but in his amateur fashion, he’d insisted that the title should simply say what the book was about, and our editor had agreed, probably because ours was her first dog book. Because of Caprice, I now wished that I’d fought for a title that bewildered or misled potential buyers by making no reference whatever to weight loss.
Dogs Forever! The Happy Canine. Feeding Fido
. Anything but
No More Fat Dogs
!

“Steve isn’t that kind of person,” I said. “And Leah’s with us for the summer. She has her own room here, and we have a guest room. Besides, with five dogs and a cat, we’re never alone.”

Rowdy and Kimi were with us in the kitchen. Kimi, clearly remembering Caprice from the Harvard classes she’d attended with Leah, had greeted her with a peal of
woo-woo-woo
s. Rowdy had given her his winsome welcome of honor by fetching his favorite stuffed dinosaur, depositing it at her feet, vanishing briefly, reappearing with a fleece chewman, giving that to her, and then planting himself in front of her and offering his paw. “Which is which?” she asked. “They look so much alike.”

Harvard or no Harvard, she had no eye for dogs. For that kind of tuition, you’d think they’d teach these kids something worth knowing! Then again, an eye for a dog is like perfect pitch, inborn, so perhaps Harvard had wisely decided not to offer instruction in the unteachable. Rowdy and Kimi are, admittedly, about the same color, dark gray with white legs and feet, and they both have plumy white tails, but they do not look
alike
. In deference to Caprice’s bereavement, I’d contented myself with saying, “Kimi is the one with the dark markings, and Rowdy’s the one with the all-white face. He’s bigger than Kimi is.” I’d been on the ghastly verge of saying that Kimi weighed seventy-five pounds and Rowdy about eighty-eight pounds, but I’d caught myself in time. I also refrained from pointing out obvious anatomical differences between males and females. Caprice would have understood, wouldn’t she? Or did Harvard have to offer a course in remedial sex education?

Anyway, Caprice’s response to Kimi’s musical welcome and Rowdy’s generous presentation of toys had been polite. She’d smiled at Kimi and taken Rowdy’s paw. Kimi was now lying on the floor with her chin resting on one of the rungs of my chair. Rowdy, however, had assigned himself the task of keeping an eye on Caprice. Literally. He sat next to her with his dark, almond-shaped eyes on her face. His expression was calm and watchful, as if he wanted nothing from her and intended to offer her nothing except the solidity of his presence and the warmth of his gaze. Although it was one o’clock and time for lunch, the dogs showed none of the usual bouncy, ears-up signs that they were expecting me to produce food that they could share or steal. Kimi, my food lunatic, had all but convinced me that she could read the part of my mind devoted to thoughts of breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks. I’d been disconcerted to realize that when I rose from the table to get second or third helpings, she didn’t bother to tag along, but when I’d finished eating and was taking my plate to the sink, she followed me.

At the moment, Kimi was probably contemplating with disdain my awkward bafflement about what to offer Caprice for lunch. Like many other writers, I usually settled for the skimpiest of midday meals: a hunk of cheese with bread or a small serving of leftovers that I ate while I kept working. Every sandwich filling in the refrigerator was outrageously fattening: tuna with lots of mayonnaise, sliced ham, and cream cheese and olives. Left from last night was a bowl of fettuccine Alfredo. The only yogurt in the fridge was Greek-style Total, which tasted as if it had been made with heavy cream. Steve and I were blessed with the same high metabolic rate; we could get away with eating anything we wanted. Leah watched her weight by limiting the size of portions. Salad? It was obviously diet food, wasn’t it? I might as well serve two tablespoons of no-fat cottage cheese on a single lettuce leaf and try to pretend that it was what I always ate. It was not, of course, my job to help Caprice lose weight; it was presumably her own job and her therapist’s. For all I knew, their task was to help her accept herself as she was. It was even possible that she already did. Still, as I looked at her, I couldn’t bear to contribute to the disfigurement of her face.

I rationalized the decision to postpone the lunch dilemma by telling myself that it didn’t really feel like one o’clock, as it, in fact, didn’t. Oddly, it felt neither earlier nor later than one, either: the shock of Eumie’s death, compounded by the weirdness and nastiness of the Brainard-Green household and my compassion for Caprice, had jolted me into some out-of-time state. Also, I’d lost track of time as I’d hung around waiting for Kevin to arrange to have Caprice pack the possessions she’d need to stay with us. After being accompanied to her room by a police officer, she’d emerged with nothing but her notebook computer, a small backpack, a large purse, and a small suitcase, all of which were now on the kitchen floor.

“I should call Steve and Leah, and let them know what’s happened,” I said. “And then we’ll get you settled. Maybe there are people you want to call.”

“I have my cell,” she said. “I need to call Missy. That’s my therapist. I need to see her. And I can try to call my father.”

“Let me show you where you’re going to stay. And where things are. And there are a few rules about the dogs,” I finished. A few? There were hundreds, if not thousands, but I decided to let them wait.

With Rowdy and Kimi companionably accompanying us, we climbed the stairs to the second floor, which used to be Rita’s apartment. We’d ripped out her kitchen but left the bathroom, which was newer and fancier than the one on the first floor because when I’d bought the house, I’d remodeled the rental apartments on the second and third floors, and economized on my own quarters. My office was still on the first floor, but my old first-floor bedroom had become a dining room, and Steve and I had moved to a newly redone version of Rita’s former living room. The guest room was ready for occupancy. My stepmother, Gabrielle, had visited a few weeks earlier, and I’d vacuumed and changed the linens when she’d left. Gabrielle and her bichon frise, Molly, were exceptionally easy houseguests. Not only was Gabrielle a gracious, considerate person, but by my malamute standards, Molly the bichon didn’t shed at all.

When Caprice put her suitcase and backpack down in her room, Kimi sniffed them with something more than her usual intelligent curiosity about new objects in her environment. “Kimi, leave it,” I said softly. Trying to sound casual and matter-of-fact, I addressed Caprice. “If you have food in your room, be careful because the dogs will filch it. In fact, unless you want company, you should keep your door closed. All the dogs are friendly, and if you want them in here, fine, but keep an eye on them. And don’t let them jump on the bed. They’re allowed on beds, but only if they’re invited.” I supplied Caprice with towels, showed her the bathroom, and said, “It’s very important to keep the bathroom door closed. If you don’t, the dogs will go in and steal things.” That was a lie. The
malamutes
stole things. India and Lady never did. “They’ll eat soap.” I hesitated to elaborate, but anyone who stays here deserves fair warning. “And Sammy, my other malamute, is, uh, especially fond of makeup brushes.” That was a gross understatement. Sammy was obsessed with the kinds of brushes used to apply blush. Did he have a not-so-secret longing for pink cheeks? Or did he perceive the soft bristles as the fur of small prey? For whatever reason, Sammy not only made off with the brushes but immediately chewed and swallowed so that nothing was left but bare handles. “He’ll run off with paper, too. He looks grown up, but he’s still a puppy.”

As we were heading back downstairs, the phone rang.

“That could be my father!” Caprice’s tone was indescribably eager. “Maybe he tried to call and Ted gave him this number.”

And her cell phone? Her father wouldn’t have tried it? I did not, of course, ask. In any case, the caller was not Monty Brainard but Ted Green, whose usually mellifluous voice was hoarse and strained. “I need this like a
loch in kop
! This
grosse macher
says…Caprice has to help me. Holly, put Caprice on. There’s something I need her to do.”

Having no choice, I handed the phone to Caprice, who, after saying nothing but hello, listened for what seemed like five minutes. Meanwhile, I let the dogs out into the fenced yard and put together a small lunch. I mixed a packet of water-packed tuna with much less mayonnaise than I usually use and put out bread, lettuce, and tomatoes.

Eventually, Caprice said, “Ted, there’s nothing personal about it. It’s the law.” After listening, she added, “No, I am not calling anyone. It would be a waste of time. Besides which, don’t you want to know? I do. And it’s the only way to find out.” Again, she waited. “Yes, I am fully aware of that, but it happened a long time ago, and my mother is beyond caring.” After another wait, she said, “Being Jewish has nothing to do with anything, and as you perfectly well know, my mother wasn’t Jewish. She grew up as some kind of Protestant, and she wasn’t religious…Yes, of course she was spiritual, but she did not go to church. Your being Jewish has nothing to do with anything, and even if she had been Jewish, there would still have to be an autopsy. And there damn well should be one. I am not going to call anyone to object. In fact, if anyone asks me, I’ll say…Ted, you know what? It
does
bother me to think about it, so thanks a lot for making me talk about it…Yes, she’s here. Just a second.”

The topic Ted needed to discuss with me on the afternoon of his wife’s evidently unnatural death was, incredibly, Dolfo. In Ted’s words, “Dolfo has grief work to do.” For all that I am a dog-training zealot, it was clear to me that Ted ought to have other things on his mind. What’s more, it’s reasonable for a first-time dog owner to seek professional help in teaching sit, stay, and heel, but how could any human being, never mind a psychotherapist, fail to realize that a grieving creature, human or canine, has simple needs? Hold the dog, speak gently to him, keep life as normal for him as you can, not that poor Dolfo’s life was
normal
, but it was the only life he knew, so, crazy though it was, it was normal for him.

“They can’t cry, can they?” asked Ted. “It never occurred to me before. What a dreadful prospect!”

“Dogs grieve in their own ways,” I said. “Crying isn’t part of the repertoire. And there’s nothing I can do to make things easier for Dolfo or to speed up the process. I’m sorry.”

“You have to help,” Ted pleaded. “Just come and take a look at him. Tomorrow? How’s one o’clock? I’ve had to cancel my patients, but I might have to change the time. I have an urgent call in to my therapist, Dr. Tortorello, and he hasn’t called me back, and I’m trying to reach our couples therapist, Dr. Foote, and I’m going to have to take any hours they offer because they’re going to have to squeeze me in. But let’s shoot for one o’clock. I’ll let you know if that won’t work.”

I told myself that Ted was mad with grief. I agreed to one o’clock. Yes, indeed, which of us was truly meshugge?