Brute Strength (10 page)

‘Rita's refusing to have dinner with us,' Steve called down from the top of the ladder. ‘Legal.'

Translation: Legal Sea Foods, which originated as a humble fish store in Inman Square in Cambridge but now has restaurants all over Boston and in some other lucky cities. Our destination was the one in Harvard Square.

‘Steve just can't stand to see me stuck at home,' Rita said, ‘even if I'm a little too old to mind not having a date on Saturday night.'

Treat in hand, I edged toward Willie without making eye contact, slipped the food into his mouth, gently touched his shoulder, moved slowly away, and took a seat at the picnic table.

‘Good dog,' Rita told him. ‘I must've asked you this before, but did you see any blood on Quinn?'

‘No, I didn't. And I looked. Why? Have you heard from him?'

‘No. Not from him and not from the dog catcher.'

‘The Cambridge Animal Commission,' I corrected. ‘Animal control.'

‘Nor have I received a bill from Mount Auburn Hospital.'

I shrugged. ‘Rita, I don't know what to say.'

‘To hell with him,' Steve said. ‘How about that?'

‘Would you get down from that ladder?' I said. ‘That's my job, you know. I'm the one who volunteered for it.'

‘These gutters are bad,' he said. ‘They need to be replaced.'

‘I want you to get down. Remember the rule? Your rule? No working on the high ladder when there's a dog loose in the yard.'

Steve laughed. ‘The rule doesn't apply to Willie. Or India or Lady.'

‘Hah! Anti-malamute legislation,' I said. ‘From you of all people. Rita, come to dinner with us! It has nothing to do with having a date or not having a date.'

‘I have plans for the evening,' Rita said. ‘In fact, I am spending Saturday night with Mr Darcy.'

‘You're staying home to read
Pride and Prejudice
?'

‘I've read it. More than once. Tonight, I'm watching it.
We
are watching it. Willie and I. In other words, I do have a date.'

‘Mr Darcy!' I sighed deeply. ‘I've been in love with him since I was about fifteen. But you could have dinner with us and then watch
Pride and Prejudice.
'

‘I appreciate the offer, but I am fine on my own.'

‘We know that! This is not a charity invitation, Rita.'

‘Jane Austen never married, you know,' Rita said.

‘Yes, but she had dinner with people.'

‘Thank you, anyway,' Rita said, ‘but I already have a date. A big date.'

‘A date with your dog,' I said. ‘You didn't get that idea from Jane Austen.'

‘No, I didn't,' Rita said. ‘I got it from you.'

TWELVE

W
hen I opened the envelope late that same afternoon, Kimi was meandering around the kitchen and sniffing the floor in her usual hope of finding delicious morsels that the other dogs had overlooked. ‘Damn it! Damn it all! Who sent me this?'

I addressed Kimi, but the question was rhetorical. Although I considered Kimi to be the most brilliant of our five dogs, I didn't actually expect her to reply in English. Also, if the anonymous message had been hers instead of mine, she wouldn't have minded at all. For one thing, not much bothers Kimi. For another, as applied to a female malamute, the word
bitch
is so ordinary that it doesn't pack a lot of punch.

Steve walked in. ‘Sent you what?'

I handed him the sheet of plain white paper with the single word ‘bitch' spelled out in glued-on letters that had been cut from a newspaper.

‘Where'd this come from?' he asked.

‘Mixed in with the mail. The envelope has a stamp, but there's no postmark and no return address.'

‘I didn't notice.'

Because this was my house before Steve and I got married, the bulk of our mail is mine, so Steve usually just scans for his own name, puts glaringly obvious junk with the recycling, and leaves everything else for me.

‘There's no reason you would have.'

‘Let me see the envelope.'

As Steve examined it, I took a second look and once again found nothing remarkable. It was the kind of cheap business-size white envelope sold by the million at office-supply stores, supermarkets, drugstores, and discount department stores. The flap was the kind that you have to moisten, not the pull-and-seal type that's becoming increasingly popular. My name and address were neatly and evenly printed on the front in blue ink. The printing was in the style that everyone is supposed to learn in first grade. The stamp showed the Liberty Bell.

‘That's a Forever stamp,' I said. ‘It's good even if the postage goes up.'

‘Looks like a teacher's printing.'

‘Why would a teacher have something against me? But you're right. There's nothing sloppy about any of it. The stamp is in the exact corner, and the printing is perfect. The lines are straight. The letters are evenly spaced. That's true about the glued-on letters, too. So, a neat person thinks I'm a bitch. You know what? I think I should forget about it. Let's feed the dogs and get going.'

And that's what we did. Because we both took showers and because Gabrielle called as we were about to leave, it was seven before we were settled in a cozy booth at Legal, where we ordered drinks, heard about the specials, studied the menu, and began to catch up with each other.

‘I'm tempted to order lobster,' I said, ‘so you won't think I'm a cheap date, but I think I'm going to have fried oysters and fried clams. Or maybe fish and chips. And you're having cherrystones and . . .?'

He shook his head. ‘No, I'm having clam chowder and that scallop special. You know, I've been thinking about that letter.'

‘It's hardly a letter.'

‘Hate mail.'

‘It isn't even that. Steve, it's not worth thinking about. If it were, I'd show it to Kevin. But if I do, he'll either tell me that it's not threatening—'

‘True enough.'

‘Or he'll overreact and deliver his usual cop lecture about the need to be on red alert about everything. He's hardly going to turn it into an official police matter. You've heard Kevin on the subject of people who watch crime-scene shows on TV and then expect the Cambridge police to do DNA tests for every trivial little—'

‘He probably didn't lick the envelope, anyway. But that reminds me. I was thinking—'

The server appeared and took our orders. When he'd left, I said, ‘You were thinking?'

‘If you were going to send . . . or especially if, let's say, Leah wanted to send an anonymous message, not that either of you would, but if you did, how would you go about it?'

‘Email? Except that I'd have to figure out how to stay anonymous. But yes, a lot of people our age or younger would use a computer, at least to address the envelope and print the word “bitch”. Those glued-on letters from the newspaper are
old
, aren't they? You and I get most of our news online and from NPR, but a lot of people Leah's age practically don't know that newspapers exist. So, we're dealing with someone who's technologically illiterate, maybe, or who thinks of paper first, let's say. And that fits with the envelope – the kind you lick, which is becoming sort of old-fashioned. So, someone who's not at the forefront of technology.'

‘That call you had—'

‘The call! I meant to tell you. I saw Katrina today at the show. Damn it! I hope . . . if this were just me, OK. I can deal with nasty phone calls, and so can Betty Burley, better than I can. If someone thinks I'm a bitch, well, so are Kimi and Lady and India, and I believe in the First Amendment, but it just infuriates me to have this . . . this son of a bitch jeopardize our ability to help these poor dogs. Katrina is OK, but her husband John is turning protective and saying that maybe they should stop doing rescue.'

‘I can't say that I like—'

‘Of course not, Steve. But Katrina and John are young, and their relationship is different from ours. I just hope . . . damn it all! Let this idiot target me and leave the other volunteers alone! Or target Betty and me. Betty is even tougher than I am.'

Steve smiled. ‘The human Kimi.'

The server appeared with Steve's clam chowder and my fried oysters, and we began eating.

‘You want one?' I offered.

‘No, thanks.' Steve managed to keep the smile off his mouth, but his eyes crinkled up. ‘Redeeming yourself by offering to share?'

‘No redemption is necessary. Yes, as you have astutely observed, I do tend to read a menu and then order whatever has the most grease, but as fried food goes, Legal's isn't greasy, and I love fried oysters and fried clams, and if I ordered both, so what? It's what I happen to be hungry for.'

He shrugged. ‘How sure are you that Betty is any tougher than you are?'

‘Very. But by the time I'm her age, who knows? In the meantime, I have to keep my strength up.' I ate one of the oysters and said, ‘Speaking of age and . . . Steve, I'm worried about Gabrielle.'

‘Gabrielle is ageless.' He smiled. Everyone loves Gabrielle. Steve is no exception. ‘When's she getting here?'

‘Thursday. She's going to dog training with us that night and then to the match on Saturday, but she's staying for a week after that, and she's being sort of mysterious about why.'

‘Gabrielle?'

‘I know. She's usually . . . well, what she says is that she's seeing a doctor about quote a little female problem unquote, which could mean . . . well, I don't know. That's what's scary. And what really worries me is, why is she coming to Boston? There are perfectly good doctors in Maine. So, if she needs to see someone here, does that mean that she needs some famous specialist?'

‘Getting away from your father,' Steve said. ‘Look, if she has a lump or unexplained bleeding and your father knows about it, he'll drive her crazy. What's she telling him?'

‘Don't ask me! But she did say that she'll tell me all about it when she gets here, and you're probably right. She knows what Buck is like in panic mode.'

When our main courses arrived, I happened to glance around the restaurant and saw a sight that made me want to holler and swear. Happily, I had the self-control to wait until the server had left before I said, ‘What is this? National Damn It All Day? Steve, I can't believe it! Look over . . . no, don't look. Damn it! Quinn Youngman, the skunk, is sitting at a table to your right, near the window, with Avery Jones. Avery! I mean, Quinn is practically old enough to be her grandfather. What is she thinking, going out with him?'

‘Quinn likes younger women,' Steve said.

‘Rita, that was pushing it. But Avery? Avery isn't even an adult, really. She's as adolescent as she can be, and she's a very depressed adolescent. Steve, she needs a psychiatrist, but not as a date. Quinn must know that.'

‘Good thing Rita didn't come with us after all.'

‘Absolutely!'

‘She's well rid of him,' Steve said.

‘Agreed. Especially after this. Steve, we have to find Rita another man. She is so lonely! And you know how wonderful she is. It's just a damn shame. Among other things, it's too bad that she's not lesbian, but she isn't, and I'm not even sure that there are all that many available women who deserve her. Where are all the eligible men? Well, in malamute rescue! We get a lot more males than females, which reminds me, there
is
Max Crocker. I still don't have a rescue dog for him. There's a female in Maine, and I was hoping that she'd be a good match, but she's terrible with cats, and Max has a Maine coon. Anyway, Max is a psychologist who lives in Cambridge. He grew up with a Scottie, and he and Rita would be the perfect match. All I have to do is maneuver Rita into taking Willie to the National Pet Week event, and at least I'll have the chance to introduce her to Max.' After a pause to chew and swallow, I said, ‘You can have all the fried clams you want. They're really good. And French fries. Help yourself.'

Steve accepted the offer and insisted on giving me some of his delectable scallop dish. It's easy to imagine Steve as he must have been in kindergarten or first grade. I know how cute he was – I've seen pictures – and I'm sure that his personality was the same then as it is now. At five and six, he went about his lessons in a thorough, systematic way, and every school report undoubtedly read, ‘Steve plays well with others.'

‘You play well with others,' I said. ‘You share your toys. I love you.'

For dessert, we had a big plate of profiteroles, cream-puff shells filled with ice cream and topped with chocolate sauce, served with two spoons, and we stopped talking about other people. On our way out, we passed by the table where Quinn Youngman and Avery Jones were sitting. As we approached, I heard Quinn saying something about Bob Dylan and wondered whether Avery had any idea who Dylan was. If so, she probably thought of Dylan as someone her mother had listened to in her distant youth. Catching sight of us, Avery said a polite hello. Quinn just nodded, but his face flushed crimson. When we were out of his hearing, I said, ‘Child molester. You're right. Rita is well rid of him.'

THIRTEEN

S
teve and I spent a peaceful Sunday together listening to country music, working on our house, and playing with our dogs. By unspoken agreement, we said nothing about Quinn Youngman, Avery Jones, Rita's love life, obscene phone calls, or anonymous letters, and we avoided the topic of Fiona's death. I was tempted to call Gabrielle in the hope of allaying my fears about her need to consult a Boston doctor, but I restrained the impulse: Gabrielle was usually so forthcoming about everything that if she wanted to remain silent, she had a good reason. Furthermore, one secret that she was keeping from my father – dog training – was entirely innocuous. The other might be equally so.