The Wicked Flea (14 page)

“It was unsettling,” I told Dr. Foote. “Oddly unsettling. It really got to me. The little girls, I could understand. A big dog jumped up and startled them and ate their dinner, although I must say that they didn’t act afraid of Kimi. I can always tell when someone’s scared of dogs. The body language gives it away, and there’s an anti-life aura about those people. Not that I believe in auras, exactly, but there’s a kind of global emotional constriction. Just take my word for it. The girls weren’t phobic. And the grandfather, I guess that’s what he was, said they had a dog. Even aside from that, the kids’ reaction was understandable. The kids looked malnourished
and
undernourished. Both. And they were about to eat. Then the food was gone. So they started crying. That makes sense. But the adults were weird. They were angry and upset all out of proportion to what happened, even after I offered to get more food, pay, do anything. Maybe it was just what the woman said, that everything always goes wrong for them. I felt so sorry for them. They just looked so down and out. There was no resilience. A little incident was more than they could handle. Most of the time, I manage not to think that people live like that. And then I met them. It was very unsettling.”

“What’s been stolen from you recently?” Dr. Foote asked.

“Nothing.Nothing, really. Nothing of any value.”

“Nothing of value?” She gave me one of those therapist looks. They’re familiar to me. Rita is always casting them hither and yon.

“You mean Steve Delaney. Anita jumped in and... well, I guess you could say that Anita... Anita didn’t exactly
steal
him, you know.” Silence hung. “I get it. Anita staged a raid. She stole... resources. Nourishment. And no one paid. And now...”

“Poverty,” she said. “And now you are reordering. Reordering your life, that is.”

“Except,” I said, “that fast food is replaceable. Steve isn’t.” I thought about Rita’s probable response to my objection. “This is what therapists call resistance, isn’t it?”

Dr. Foote smiled. “Is it?”

“Yes,” I said, “it is.”

Chapter 18

Winter, Holly

Perseveration a consequence of the head trauma? This wretched countertransference! Pt. goes on and on, anxiety rises, she picks up on it, it escalates! Tried commonsense approach: asked her to focus on
people
in her life. She replied, “Dogs
are
people!” Re her loneliness, she vigorously resists my suggestion of square dancing in favor of (imaginary?) organized dances for dogs!

Saw dear old Dr. S. for a consult. Suggests systematic desensitization, but it’s not as if I have to confront the object themselves. What
are
objects, after all? Not introjects, that’s what!

And then there’s the unexamined matter of this miserable kitchen. Taking forever, costing hideously in excess of estimate. Did not mention to Dr. S. Should have! But with his encouragement, am concentrating on controlling my breathing as panic rises, avoiding hyperventilation when subject arises, as it inevitably does! And remains erect, so to speak! What would Freud have said?! Him and his damned chow chows, of which Dr. S. persisted in reminding me. “Love without ambivalence.” Hah!

Chapter 19

As often happens in my local newspaper, Wednesday’s sports section was divided into two subsections, the first of which concerned the NBA, the NFL, pro hockey, tennis, golf, American and National league baseball, and so on. The second part was devoted to deaths. It’s a bit odd to see mortality categorized as a form of competitive recreation.
Tennis, anyone?Fatality? Will that be singles or doubles?
Still, there’s nothing new about exploiting the possibilities of demise as a spectator event. Anyway, the typical death notice here, as elsewhere, is written by someone who flunked ESL because of a failure to grasp English word order. It starts something like this:

HARBINGER—Of Melrose, Thalia (Conroy), age 75, beloved wife of William L., devoted daughter of the late James C. and Fiona W. Conroy, dear sister of Penelope Conroy, loving mother of Jane (Harbinger) Sheffield of Nahant and Harry C. Harbinger of Brookline, cherished grandmother of Mary Ellen Sheffield. Survived also by many adoring cousins, nieces, and nephews.

The notice goes on to give details about the funeral home, its location, visiting hours, the funeral itself, the interment, and the charity to which memorial donations should be made in lieu of flowers and in honor of the beloved, devoted, cherished, adored deceased.

Here’s Sylvia’s death notice, which appeared in Wednesday’s paper:

METZNER—Of Newton, Sylvia (MacFarlane), age 54, wife of the late Ian Metzner, mother of Eric L. Metzner, Oona S. Metzner, and Pia (Metzner) Goodenough, all of Newton.

That’s it. In its entirety. Not so much as a single
beloved
or
devoted,
not even the slightest hint about visits, services, flowers, charitable contributions, or anything else at all. Not so much as
Bye, Mom! Nice knowing you!

On Thursday the paper ran a short article about the discovery of Sylvia’s body. After popping a batch of liver brownies in the oven, I poured myself a third cup of morning coffee and read:

Dog Finds Pooch Wrangle Adversary, Slain Sunday

NEWTON. The body of Sylvia M. Metzner, 54, was discovered on Tuesday afternoon by a dog walker in search of his wandering pet. According to a Newton police spokesperson, Metzner had been shot in the head and chest at close range. The victim is believed to have been killed on Sunday. The body was found in a secluded area of Clear Creek Park, scene of a recent and controversial altercation between Metzner and Newton Police Officer Jennifer Pasquarelli that resulted in Metzner’s arrest on charges of assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest. Metzner, in turn, charged Pasquarelli with brutality and violations of civil rights. A dispute about Metzner’s dog sparked the controversy. Conflict between dog owners and opponents has led to the widespread use in Clear Creek Park of noise-making devices to drive off unleashed dogs. It is thought that an aerosol alarm or similar device may have been used to mask the sounds of the gunshots. Authorities are pursuing their investigation of Metzner’s death.

You could hardly expect the death notice to include a discussion of why there’d been a mess of broken pottery at the murder scene, but it would have been perfectly appropriate for the article to mention the oddity and maybe even explain it. Unless the police were keeping the detail to themselves? When I’d given my name, address, and blessedly little other information to the Newton police, however, no one had ordered me to keep quiet about the blue and white china. No one had asked Ceci, either, and when she’d asked one of the handsome officers what the stuff was doing there, he’d said that he didn’t know.

As I was pondering the problem, my eyes wandered over the newsprint and suddenly locked on a photo of a group of people and a golden retriever. Yes, take a wild guess what caught my eye first. But at second glance, I realized that the people looked familiar. A suety man and a scrawny woman with messy hair stood on either side of a rabbit-faced fellow in a suit. In front of this trio, two little girls flanked the dog. The children registered on me: the sad, undernourished kids whose food Kimi had stolen at the burger joint. Then the couple to the left and right of the human rabbit: the faded, threadbare mother and the oily father who’d violently overreacted to Kimi’s naughtiness. The caption identified the couple as Timothy and Brianna Trask. The little girls were named, pitifully, Diana and Fergie. The rabbit, who wore a bellicose expression, was the family’s attorney, James J. McSweeney. The paper didn’t give the dog’s name, presumably because the family pet was there only to suggest what nice people the Trasks were. They had their picture in the paper because they were suing S & I’s Burgerhaven on the grounds that one of the children, Fergie, had been served a fried rat tail in what was supposed to have been an order of french-fried potatoes. McSweeney was representing the Trasks.

When the truth hit me, my coffee mug dropped from my hand. Fortunately, it fell only a few inches to the kitchen table, where it toppled over and spilled the dregs onto the newspaper. Ever alert, the dogs nonetheless came running. I could barely bring myself to look Kimi in the eye. “Those monsters,” I told her. “No wonder they were so upset. You ruined their rotten little scheme. And when I offered to order everything all over again? To replace everything you ate? They didn’t know what to say because they knew damn good and well that I wasn’t about to be able to replace... oh, yuck! Well, let me tell you, never in a million years did I dream that you’d eaten... poor Kimi! This is disgusting.”

If Kimi had known what she’d consumed, she wouldn’t have been bothered at all. Even so! Yiiiiicck! When I’d put her back in the car before leaving the place, she hadn’t licked my face, had she? I couldn’t remember. She
might
have. Kimi is very affectionate. She loves me.

I contemplated revenge. Not on Kimi, of course, but on the Trasks, who, foiled once by Kimi, had armed themselves anew, returned to Burgerhaven at a later date, planted the disgusting object in a fresh order of fries, and thus successfully carried out their foul scheme. Had they committed a crime? Fraud, maybe? Conspiracy? If the innocent Burgerhaven lost all its customers, the failure of the business would be the Trasks’ fault. I felt as if I should report my knowledge to someone. To whom? Kevin Dennehy would know whether vermin-planting for the purpose of launching a phony lawsuit constituted a crime in Massachusetts and, if so, what sort of crime. Extortion? Or maybe the whole thing was a civil matter. But what did I have to offer either the police or poor Burgerhaven? I felt absolutely certain that the Trasks had connived to insinuate the you-know-what into the fries. Burgerhaven presumably felt the same way I did. Feelings weren’t evidence.

“Kevin,” I said that evening as we sat at my kitchen table, “suppose I go to a restaurant and order french fries and plant a rat tail in them and then pretend to find it. And then I scream bloody murder and sue the restaurant. What’s that called?”

“A stupid idea.” Kevin sipped his Bud and swallowed. ‘Tired of dog writing? Exploring new career options?”

I recounted the story of Kimi’s thievery at S & I’s Burgerhaven and told Kevin about the photo and article in today’s paper. “So when I saw it, I realized why the father, this Timothy Trask, came unglued, although the more I think about it, the more I think it was the grandfather, I guess he was, the older man, who planned it all. He was more intelligent-looking than the rest of the family. The others were kind of stupefied. Anyway, when it happened, I apologized over and over, I offered to replace all the food, I did everything humanly possibly, but the father, Timothy, totally overreacted. Now I know why.”

“Hey, Holly, it’s not like you bumped into this guy and knocked over a tray of food, you know. You gotta remember that these are ordinary citizens we’re talking about.”

“As opposed to what?”

“Dog nuts! Here’s this family getting ready to eat, and all of a sudden, a great big dog that looks like a wolf comes flying out of nowhere. She must’ve scared the beejezus out of these people. For you, hey, it’s all in a day’s work, but you can’t expect them to take it like
you
would, Holly. They’re
normal.
That’s the difference.”

“I’m not
abnormal.
And these people, the Trasks, were not afraid of Kimi. They have a dog themselves. Their own dog is with them in the picture in the paper. A golden. These are not people who are afraid of dogs, and Kevin, I swear to you that their response was all out of proportion to what happened. And don’t forget that they supposedly
found
the rat tail at the
same
place. S & I’s Burgerhaven.”

Kevin smiled. “They’re regular customers.” He shrugged “Let it go.”

“Maybe they need the money,” I said, trying to talk myself into taking Kevin’s advice. “Maybe they were desperate, and that’s why they concocted this business. Kevin, the little girls were so sad. They were dressed in these threadbare old party clothes. Their teeth were all brown. Baby teeth, rotting away. And they were very sweet kids. Shy, but nice. Still, you’d think there’d be some better way for the parents to take care of them than coming up with this idea of suing Burgerhaven.”

“That’d be a funny target, anyway. Where’s the payoff? A guy goes to the trouble of planting evidence so’s he can sue McDonald’s, Burger King, whatever. Yeah, you can understand that. Deep pockets. But Bur-gerhaven?”

“I see what you mean. Maybe you’re right,” I conceded. “Maybe they’re loyal customers who honestly were served filth. It does happen. Like that pasta factory? Remember? It was in Waltham or Medford or someplace like that. It got closed down because there were mouse droppings in the dough, and the owners resisted the order to throw out all the pasta they had on hand, five thousand pounds. Maybe they thought they’d invented a new flavor.”