Ruffly Speaking (31 page)

Doug’s voice broke in. “Stephanie, I positively
forbid
you to lay a finger on that grill! I absolutely insist on charcoal.”

Doug had brought a small portable Weber grill with him to supplement a giant Weber from Morris’s cellar. He’d also contributed a bag of some kind of special charcoal, and he’d volunteered himself as chef. After delivering the rest of a lengthy scolding, Doug went down the steps to the yard. When Steve and Matthew joined him there, I got up and took Steve’s seat next to Rita.

“Where on earth is Leah?” Rita murmured.

I aimed my whisper at her ear. “French-braiding her hair. Ironing something black. I’ll make some excuse and go in and call her.” I turned so that Stephanie could see my face. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Rita seconded the offer, and Stephanie accepted. Before long, she had Rita and Matthew moving the chairs aside to make room for the glass-topped table that occupied a comer of the deck, and I was dispatched to the dining room to pick up a pile of table linen. Returning to the deck, I passed through the kitchen, where Stephanie was transferring romaine from a salad spinner to a big wooden bowl, next to which sat a package of croutons and a bottle of Caesar dressing. If Morris had been preparing a Caesar salad, he’d have tossed those croutons on the deck for the birds and poured the bottled dressing down the sink, and every surface in the kitchen would’ve ended up thick with the skins of garlic cloves, the crumbs of real French bread, the rinds of squeezed lemons, and the discarded bits of ten or twenty other ingredients that he’d have impulsively decided to add to make the salad his own instead of Caesar’s. I reminded myself that no one had any reason to poison all of us. Still, I was glad we weren’t having
mesclun.
No one had any reason to blow us up or set the house on fire, either. Just the same, I was grateful to Doug for making sure that we’d barbecue over charcoal and not gas.

That’s when my reverse paranoia started to double back on itself. The house had smoke detectors and a hearing dog who would sound an alert the second one of them went off. Any sensible arsonist would start a fire outside, probably by taking advantage of the gas grill on the wooden deck. And Doug Winer, of course, would collect the insurance money.

I’d finished spreading the white tablecloth over the glass table when Leah finally showed up, a half-hour late,
^w
ith marigold-red curls blossoming from the Obsession-scented crown of her head. She wore a black blouse, a short black pleated skirt, and black stockings and shoes, too. Having ignored my injunction to arrive on time, she’d also disobeyed the spirit of my command to leave Kimi at home. At the end of Leah’s leash, his gorgeous white tail flapping over his back as if to flag that perfect topline, his big pink tongue protruding from his show-ring smile, was, of course, Rowdy. He bore the delighted expression of a dog who knows that someone is getting away with something and suspects that
he
just might be the one. I scowled at Leah and Rowdy, and tried to predict the damage. As a food thief, Rowdy was almost Kimi’s equal, but as a pouncer on small dogs, especially male terriers, he had an edge on her. Ruffly, however, would never have made it through the initial screening of hearing-dog candidates if he’d picked fights with other dogs. And Ruffly was neutered, too; Rowdy’s sensitive nose wouldn’t detect a belligerent hint of testosterone. Even so, I intended to make Leah take him home.

Then Stephanie came striding out of the kitchen. “Leah! And
this
must be the famous Rowdy! Isn’t he beautiful!
What
a treat!”

As always, Ruffly was prancing off leash at Stephanie’s side. He wagged his tail, folded those ridiculous wings of ears, and made the bold move of looking in Rowdy’s direction. Leah, too busy giving Stephanie a warm smile and a charming apology for being late to pay attention to the uninvited guest she’d brought, held Rowdy’s leather lead loosely in hand. Before I could grab it, Rowdy took a powerful step toward Ruffly, sniffed briefly, then veered to the side, bounded, tore the lead from Leah, dashed across the deck, and, in one swift pass, grabbed the untouched chunk of cheddar and vanished beneath the half-set table.

Stephanie proved herself a real dog person. “He’ll choke! Holly, if he tries to swallow all of that— Don’t you think you should—”

“He’s fine,” I assured her. “If Rowdy had been Jonah,
_t
he whale would’ve ended up in
his
stomach, and he wouldn’t have brought it up again, either.”

No matter what God ordered. Gospel. Seriously. From the First Book of Rowdy, chapter 2, verse 10:
And the Lord spake and spake and spake unto the Alaskan malamute, but, as usual, it didn’t listen to a single word She said.

31

 Stephanie would probably have made excuses for the whale, too. “Rowdy knew it was a party, didn’t you, big dog? But no one offered
you
anything.” The fiend sat in mock submission at my left side, his ears flattened against his head, his dark eyes at work on Stephanie. “So he made himself at home,” she continued.
“What
a beautiful dog! Look at that face! You can see how sorry he is.”

To understand a breed, understand its origins:
Alaskan
malamute, ultimate master of the
snow
job. Rowdy gently rested his right forepaw in Stephanie’s outstretched hand. I couldn’t actually see him tense the muscles to create the illusion of a human handshake, but I knew he was doing it.

“Sweetheart!” Stephanie gushed. “I am
so
sorry that we hurt your feelings.”

By now, Leah had transformed the stiff gathering into a party. On the lawn just below the deck, where Doug had started the charcoal, Leah muttered something to the men, and Doug’s and Matthew’s laughter and Steve’s rumbling chuckle emerged from one of those gray clouds of barbecue smoke that reek of male bonding. Delegated to ferry food from kitchen to grill, Leah dashed up the stairs and across the deck. Rita, who’d been clearing away wineglasses, reappeared, followed by Leah, who carried a platter of raw steak.

“The rice must be almost done,” Stephanie said. “Rita, Leah has forgotten the salmon. It’s in a bowl in the refrigerator. Could you take it out? And Holly, maybe you could toss the salad.”

While I was adding croutons and Stephanie was draining the rice, the phone rang. Rowdy, on a down-stay at my feet, ignored the soft burr, but Ruffly tore to the telephone, then dashed to Stephanie, who deposited the colander in the sink and made for the phone, clapping her hands. “Good boy, Ruffly! What a good dog!” Rita always removed the aid from her left ear before she used the phone, but Stephanie just answered. As she did, she reached into the jar on the counter, extracted a tiny dog biscuit, and tossed it to Ruffly, who sat expectantly on his haunches. He caught it neatly. Catching sight of Rowdy, whose drool was forming a slimy pool at my feet, Stephanie tucked the phone under her chin, reached back into the jar, sent a treat whizzing directly into Rowdy’s mouth, and gave Ruffly unearned seconds. “My carpets do not need cleaning, and this
is
the Fourth of July,” she told the caller, “but thank you.” She hung up. “The phone is not Ruffly’s favorite sound. After he does his work, all that happens is that he loses my attention, so we have to make sure there’s a little something extra in it for him. Otherwise, he gets lazy.”

Too moral to train with food? Consider that when a dog’s performance really counts—hearing for someone, Pulling a wheelchair, detecting arson by sniffing out hydrocarbons—the basis of training is virtually always food lures and food rewards. No food allowed in the obedience ring? In Open and Utility, no leash, either. Does that mean you shouldn’t train with one? Of course not. So love your dog and get results. Train with food. Dog isn’t interested? Nonsense. Any healthy, happy, hungry dog will work for food. Yours won’t? Bake a slice of liver in sherry and garlic powder, cut it into little bits, and shazam! Billy Batson turns into Captain Marvel.

With Rowdy and Kimi, I don’t have to fuss. I swear that either one would actually work for garbage. For steak, salmon, rice, peas, French bread, and salad—even with packaged croutons and bottled dressing—Rowdy would have instantly mastered the trick of flying through the air and landing smack in the middle of a glass-topped dinner table. Consequently, before I took my place, I hitched him to a deck post that was a little closer to the gas grill than I liked, but near my seat, where I could keep an eye on him. At the table, I again found myself stuck next to Matthew, who was on my left, but to his left was Leah, who’d talk so much that his silence wouldn’t matter; and on my right were Doug and then Rita, so I didn’t mind.

As I was spreading my napkin on my lap, I must have thrown a worried glance toward Rowdy and the grill. Doug leaned toward me. “There’s
nothing
wrong with the valve. The entire grill is perfectly safe. I’ve half started to wonder if Stephanie didn’t imagine the whole thing to begin with.”

Like everyone else, I’d taken Stephanie’s word that she’d found the valve open. Nothing else suggested that the gas had ever been left on.

“But then,” I asked, “why not use the grill today?” Doug’s expression was wonderfully disgusted. “Phew! Gas! Sickening associations. Morris and I had terrible arguments about it.” Doug politely turned his attention to Rita. “What lovely things Stephanie has!” He ran an appraising eye over the table. His voice dropped. “This is
Spode.”
The tone was reverent. “Not my favorite pattern,” he murmured. “But Spode nonetheless.”

Rita gave him a wry smile. “Indeed,” she replied, “Spode nonetheless.”

When their quiet laughter ended, Doug gallantly offered another toast to Stephanie. Serving dishes circulated. The talk became general. Stephanie asked Matthew and Leah how the Avon Hill play was progressing. Matthew complained that Ivan was messing it up by trying to add a new scene.

“But isn’t that the idea?” Stephanie demanded. “Creative student participation and that sort of thing?”

“Yes,” Leah answered, “except that it’s so gory. It’s all about hand washing and daggers.”

Matthew explained the obvious:
"Macbeth.”

“Ivan absorbs everything,” Leah commented proudly.

“Defending him again,” Matthew said. “He bought you off.”

“With what?” I asked. I was serious.

Leah avoided my eye. Matthew answered. “Flowers.”

“Ivan gave you flowers?” Stephanie beamed at Leah and then gave Matthew a knowing smile that he must have hated. “Leah, Ivan must have a mad crush on you. And how enterprising of him! To go out and buy flowers.” Matthew and Leah exchanged looks. Before Leah could stop him, Matthew said, “Yes, except that—”

Leah cut in. “Matthew!”

I couldn’t stop myself. “Leah, let Matthew finish. Except what, Matthew?”

“Except that Ivan didn’t, uh, buy them.”

Doug spoke with deliberate drama: “Ah! The case of the purloined roses.”

“Delphiniums,” Matthew said.

“Ivan stole Miss Savery’s flowers?” I said. “He raided her garden? He
didn’t."

“He did,” Matthew said.

For the next few minutes, everyone caught everyone else up on Ivan, Ivan’s pranks, Alice Savery, and Alice Savery’s delphiniums.

“The classic dilemma of highly gifted children,” Rita commented. “Peer relations. This, uh, shall we say mildly antisocial behavior, from an adult viewpoint, is probably an adaptive effort in the direction of normalizing himself in the eyes of his peers.”

While Stephanie was adding something, I leaned in back of Matthew, tapped Leah’s shoulder, and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Leah shrugged. “It was no big thing.” She turned her attention to Rita and Stephanie. “It’s true. Getting in trouble is probably the most normal thing Ivan can think of to do, which is one of the reasons:—”

Matthew groaned and finished her sentence: “—that Ivan needs a big dog. Leah—”

“Well, he does!” Leah’s face flushed. “Ivan’s problem is that he wants to be just like everyone else, just another normal, ordinary kid. A boy and his dog. What could possibly be more normal?”