Just Add Water (1) (4 page)

5

Sunday night we recovered from our weekend of drinking,
exorcizing, and boat hunting and got down to preparing for the workweek ahead.
I hate Sunday nights.

While Jan made a tuna salad, I
checked for faxes and e-mail in my upstairs office. There were four hang-ups on
my answering machine, so I made a note to myself to call the phone company the
next day and order caller ID. I then joined Jan in the kitchen for our one and
only allowed glass of Sunday night wine.

RJ halfheartedly nosed the dry dog
food plaguing his bowl, then gave me a dirty look. I was reminded of Sunday
nights when I was a kid. After all the fun on the weekend, we had to get back
to the dull routine preceding Blue Monday. And here I was, dooming us to
repetition. Certainly no way to embark upon a major life change, especially if
I wanted to do it before my change of life.

I
dumped out RJ’s dish, gave him two scoops of Ben and Jerry’s, poured myself an
extra wine, and heated garlic bread to go with our salads. Take that, Sunday
Night Blues!

After dinner, Jan and I exfoliated,
masked, waxed, and steamed. All those things “they” tell us lead to younger
looking skin. Yeah, as soon as it grows back.

Jan touched up her acrylic tipped
nails while I sorted my wardrobe for the week. Selecting a blue pinstriped suit
from my “meeting and work” closet, I added a cream blouse, pinned my
grandmother’s cameo to the high Victorian collar, and laid the entire ensemble
out on my ashes of roses duvet cover for inspection. A rummage through an
antique
tansu
chest produced taupe
hose. Navy and ecru spectator pumps completed the getup. After a quick
inspection for dog slobber and wine stains, I pronounced the outfit,
“Wednesday.”

Jan gave an approving nod. “Very
nice. Chick, even. But is it suitable subcontractor, butt-kicking attire, Miz
Hetta? Looks more like IBMer duds. Well, except for that slit up the side of the
skirt.”

“I keep it buttoned, except for
emergencies.”

“What kind of emergency, pray tell?
Them buttons go mighty high on the thigh.”

“This week’s emergency might entail
distracting the client’s in-house buffoon who thinks he’s God’s gift to the
computer world. Lucky for me, the house nerd also thinks he’s God’s gift to
women. A button or two might divert the little pervert’s attention while I
convince his boss of what they
really
need in their new system. If I can’t persuade the big dogs to pay for good tech
support up front instead of relying on their house jerk, they’ll pay through
the teeth later. So, I slip a couple of buttons, the nerd spends the day
covering up a boner, and I save the client a fortune. That’s why they pay me
the big bucks.”

“Hetta, they have a name for women like
you.”

“Yep, they most certainly do. Chief
Executive Officer.”

“Gee, the great and glorious Gloria
Steinem was right. You are becoming the man you once wanted to marry. Very
scarily, I might add.”

“I prefer to be compared to Hunter
S. Thompson, thank you. I like being scary. Inspiring fear and loathing has its
place in business.” I surveyed my outfit once more and hung it up. “Now, what
have I forgotten?”

“Other than woman’s humanity to
man? Your D-O-G.” She cocked her head at RJ and handed me the phone.

I hit the speed dial and heard,
“Noah’s Bark.”

“This is Philinda Blank of the
Oakland Chapter of the You’d Better Be Kind to Animals or We’ll Shoot You
Organization. We’ve had a complaint, doctor, that you have been dallying with
some strange pussy.”

“How you doin’, Hetta.”

“Begging, Craig. I need a favor. I
gotta go to Seattle and I’d like to park RJ with you. He needs some clipping
and dipping, and he’s favoring that leg he stuck under a speeding truck a while
back.”

“No problem. I’ll pick him up. What
day and when’s your plane?”

“Oh-dark-thirty Wednesday. I’ll
leave him here at the house. Use your key. I’ll retrieve him from that dog
prison of yours Thursday night, okay?”

“No need. I’ll drop him off at your
house and say howdy. And RJ won’t suffer dog prison because I’ll take him home
with me. He loves my house.”

And no wonder, the place smelled
and looked like an animal lair. I vowed to schedule my semi-annual den cleaning
assault on Craigosaurus’s cave soon. Dr. Craig Washington, RJ’s huge, but
gentle, giant of a vet, was a hundred pounds overweight, black, shy, and one of
my best friends. I never called him Craigosaurus to his face, although everyone
else did. I
know
about weight jokes.

“You are a prince among vets, Craig
darlin’. Thanks.” We went on to chat about his week, his love life, and his
latest veterinary venture. He was all excited about a new thing he’d picked up
at a conference in Las Vegas: dog balls. And not the ones you throw for Fido.
Seems some folks down Argentina way are so hung up, so to speak, on appearances
they have silicon testicles implanted in their neutered pets. I vetoed Craig’s
offer to make RJ Oakland’s first cosmetically enhanced canine, then said
good-bye.

“RJ’s all set. I should marry Craig,”
I sighed.

“What would his boyfriend say?”

“Minor detail. Think what I’d save
in vet bills.” I told her about Craig’s new venture into pet plastic surgery.

“You’re shittin’ me. Well, gee,
maybe Craigosaurus can do something for the poor dude in Seattle. Sounds like
you ain’t gonna leave him with any.”

“Really cute, Miz Jan. Well, yawn,
I’m gonna hit the hay as soon as I pack my gym gear.”

“You know, if you’d lay off all the
junk food on weekends you wouldn’t have to work out for two hours and then go
to bed hungry Monday through Thursday.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

* *
*

Dale Stevens was my VOD. Victim of
the Day. He pulled his chair close to mine and aimed his color-enhanced
contacts at my front. What he found fascinating about my grandmother’s cameo, I
have no idea.

Under the table, I slipped open
five buttons up the side of my skirt, shifted slightly to face him, crossed my
legs, and was rewarded with a sharp intake of jerk breath. He couldn’t take his
eyes off my exposed, albeit pantyhose clad, expanse of thigh. Some things are
way too easy.

“So,” I said, giving each person at
the conference table my most sincere look, “let’s get started by going around
the table, each of you defining your job description as it applies to our
project. As a guideline, I’ve prepared a sample organizational chart.” I held
up a magenta bordered piece of paper, giving everyone time to shuffle through
their folders and find their own color coded sheet.

“You will, of course, create your
own chart, but I’ve found that the better each department understands its
relationship to others, and to the project, the more efficiently they
interface.”

The in-house imbecile forced his
eyes from my leg slit long enough to check out my proposed org chart. His
position on the chart and suggested title, Systems Manager, seemed to please
him, especially since I had purposely elevated him to a direct-line of command
right below the Project Manager. The yahoo gave me a wink and a ‘so you
do
think I’m hot shit’ look. He didn’t
notice his little box of glory had no lineage to the rest of the project.
Anyone with a modicum of sense wouldn’t like seeing himself dangling off the
pyramid of command, so to speak. I winked back.

“Let’s start with you, Mr.
Ritchie,” I said, making eye contact with the head dude. “As Project Manager,
you have overall control. Of course, with that responsibility you will be the
first to take it in the shorts when things go south.” Ritchie looked a little
surprised, then laughed with the rest of us.

“Gee, Hetta” he said, “don’t feel
you have to beat around the bush.”

“Not to worry. You guys hired me to
try to avoid cost overruns—that’s French for pissing off the client by spending
too much of his money—and by golly, that’s what I’m here to do. By doing so,
Mr. Ritchie, I am also trying to keep you from ending up a sacrificial goat to
the client’s displeasure.”

Ritchie nodded. He’d been around
long enough to know that project managers, like professional coaches, have a
potentially short shelf life.

I then encouraged each member of
the team to describe how they fit into the picture and what, specifically,
their particular talent brought to the project. I left Dale for last. When it
was his turn, the smug bastard spouted credentials, as I knew he would, but
little substance. An ally on my client’s staff asked key questions, supplied,
of course, by
moi
before the meeting.
By the time my mark quit blathering, he had bragged himself right off the
project. God, I love the smell of burned jerky in the morning.

6

The next afternoon, still harboring
a satisfactory glow akin to post-coital smolder—as near as I remembered, that
is—I drove into the hills from the Oakland Airport. A huge leopard-spotted van
with paw, claw, and Tyrannosaurus rex footprints painted all over it was parked
in my driveway. When I hit the garage door opener, the ever so large and gay
veterinarian opened his slider.

I wasn’t quite out of the car when
sixty-five pounds of happy Lab knocked me back into the front seat. I nuzzled
my dog and asked, “You two have a good time? And a bath? Oh RJ, you smell so
good.”

“Smell his breath,” Craig prompted.

“I’d rather have a root canal.”

“Come on, Hetta, just do it.”

I held RJ’s big red head still and
took a cautious sniff. “Have you two been into the York mints again?”

“Nope. Something I invented,
peppermint dog biscuits. What do you think?”

“I’ll take ten cases. Now can you
do something about his farts?”

“I’m only human,” Craig joked, but
his tone fell a little flat. I wondered if he and his sig-other, Raoul, had
suffered a tiff. Guy problems. Something I can certainly relate to.

“Want something to drink? You can
give me an RJ report along with your inflated bill.”

Craig nodded, but didn’t smile at
my jibe. We went to the kitchen where he accepted a glass of Chardonnay, the
second alcoholic beverage I’d seen him take in ten years. The last one was when
his father died. Something was definitely amiss.

“Well?” I said, as we settled onto
the couch. Craig’s uncharacteristically solemn behavior put an edge to my
voice.

 
He sighed. “There’s a problem.”

“With you and Raoul?”

“No, with RJ.”

“Well heck, Craig, I didn’t even
know you two were dating.”

Craig finally smiled, but didn’t
laugh. Not a good sign. Neither was the deep sigh. Nor his large gulp of wine.
“I’m almost certain RJ’s got bone cancer.”

My heart threatened arrest. The
mouth of the South, the gal with the glib comebacks, the queen of repartee,
could only manage, “No.”

“I’m sorry, Hetta, but I’m
ninety-nine percent sure. We’ll get a second opinion, though. I hope it proves
me wrong.”

I chugged my wine. Got another.
Craig waited. I morphed into All Business Bitch.
 

“Where do we get the second
opinion? And if you’re right, what are our options?” I caught myself before
asking for the bottom line.

Craig sighed again. “For the other
medical input we go to the University of California at Davis. My alma mater. If
they agree with my diagnosis, we have to make a decision. We can amputate his
leg and try radiation treatments, or we could let the disease run its course
and keep him comfortable.”

“Not acceptable.”
And if you sigh again, you leviathan, I’ll
cut your heart out with this wine glass.

“Hetta, we aren’t in a board
meeting here,” Craig said gently as he took me in his arms.

I dissolved into tears, and Craig
held me until RJ, not liking the looks of a dogless huddle, poked his nose
between us. I kissed his hairy face—RJ’s, not Craig’s—and blubbered, “Amputate?
Radiation? That’s it?”

“Maybe not. That’s why I’d like to
take him up to U.C. Davis. Maybe they can offer some better ideas.”

“Jesus, it wouldn’t be hard. When
do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. I’ve already set
up an appointment for ten.”

* *
*

During the somber ride back to
Oakland late Friday night, even RJ seemed to sense the doom and gloom pervading
his humans. He’d had a trying day of strangers taking blood, x-rays, and being
generally intrusive. The jury was in, the verdict read, and a death sentence
passed. RJ had maybe nine months on death row if I agreed to amputation of the
leg. Less than six if we did nothing.

An hour into the drive, I reached a
decision. “I can’t see subjecting him to surgery unless it’ll save his life.”

“I think that’s a wise decision,”
Craig said, keeping his eyes glued to the road.

“You mean I finally, for once in my
entire life, make a wise personal decision and it dooms my dog to a painful
death?”

“Hetta, this isn’t your fault. It’s
not all that unusual for a dog to develop cancer in a bone break, especially
one as severe as his was. Most people would have put him down right after that
truck hit him, but you spent a fortune on orthopedic surgery.”

For years I’d referred to RJ as the
three thousand dollar dog, my bionic bow-wow. Now it wasn’t the least bit
funny.

“Craig, I want my money back.”

* * *

Jan, whom we’d called en route,
waited in my-oh-so chic, oval living room. A fire roared in the turn of the
century, hand sculpted, granite fireplace. The lights of several Bay Area
cities glittered through plant framed casement windows. Years of renovation,
poring over
House Beautiful
and
Architectural Digest,
and hounding
salvage yards and estate sales had paid off. Chez RJ was as pleasant to the eye
as it was to live in.

It normally gave me a moment’s
pride and pleasure when I walked through the front door, but tonight all I
could think of was one day coming home to find it empty. No wagging tail, no
joyful barks.

Craig joined us for fettuccini
Alfredo à la Jan and the Nieman Marcus takeout deli, then yawned and said he
was going to turn in early, but I knew better. He would work at his office into
the wee hours to make up for his lost day at U.C. Davis. Jan and I took our
wine to the hot tub deck off my third floor bedroom.

“Thanks for making dinner,” I told
Jan, not even giving her a hard time for buying exorbitantly priced pasta at
Needless Markup.

“You are very welcome. Hetta, that
Craig is a saint,” Jan said. Steam rose from her shoulders as she pushed
herself up from the one hundred three degree water into the cool evening air.
We had turned off the jets and were adrift in the hot, still water while taking
in the view. The lights of the Golden Gate, Bay, and San Mateo bridges
glittered like necklaces spanning the throat, waist and ankle of the Bay. A
full moon bathed us in its own pearly light.

RJ was stretched out on a redwood
seat surrounding the tub, his front paws dangling in the water. He extended one
leg, testing the waters in more ways than one.

“Don’t even think about it,” I told
him. He looked guilty.

“How can you read that dog’s mind?”
Jan asked, pulling a bottle of chilled wine from its ice bucket.

“Great minds and all that. One of
these days I’m gonna let him come in,” I said. An overwhelming feeling of loss
stung my eyes. One of these days, and soon, RJ would be gone.

“Oh, what the hell. Come on in,
boy.”

RJ’s tail thumped uncertainly once,
twice, then he stared at me with the same twitchy anticipation as when he
smelled a hidden treasure in my pocket. There was enough light so he could
study my face. “Does she mean it?” his eyes seemed to ask.

Jan slapped the water. “Come on in
RJ,” she cooed.

RJ, not a dog to be asked thrice,
launched himself forward in a full body belly flop that sent a tidal wave of
hot water into my wine glass.