Melanie Travis 06 - Hush Puppy (2 page)

Thank goodness the prop room was small or I might have been there all afternoon. As it was, it took me twenty minutes to find Honoria’s portrait and another ten to pry it out from behind the cupboard where it had been wedged. The oil painting was of medium size, and encased in a massive gilt frame whose faded gold color did nothing to lighten the portrait’s somber tone.

For some reason, the artist had painted primarily in shades of brown and gray. Perhaps he’d decided that livelier colors didn’t suit his subject, for he’d portrayed Honoria, seated in a straight-backed chair, as a woman with rigid posture and stern, unbending features. Her eyes were small and deep-set and seemed to stare directly at the viewer. Her mouth was fixed in a line of permanent disgruntlement.

One of Honoria’s hands lay fisted in her lap. The other dangled at her side, its fingers twined through the topknot of a medium-sized gray dog. A Poodle, I realized, moving the portrait out into the light and taking a closer look, either a large Miniature or a small Standard. When I wiped away a decade’s worth of accumulated grime, the dog’s lion clip was clearly visible, identifying it as a relative, albeit distant, of Faith, my own Standard Poodle at home.

A small brass plaque screwed to the bottom of the frame read, “Honoria Howard and Poupee. 1936.” Honoria’s inclusion of the dog’s name along with her own made me smile. I knew very little about the school’s cofounder, but already I liked her better than I had a few minutes ago.

“There you are!”

I jumped slightly. The painting, propped on the floor but still heavy, swayed in my grasp. Michael Durant, the new drama coach, hurried to grab the other side of the frame. He was tall and slender, his build almost storklike, but there must have been strength in his arms because he held the portrait upright easily. He brushed back the dark brown hair that was long enough to curl around his collar and studied the painting with his usual intense gaze.

“I see you found the old witch. My God, she’s a handful, isn’t she? No wonder you didn’t bring the painting back. We were all wondering where you’d gotten to.”

By “all” he meant the rest of our newly formed Spring Pageant Committee. Six weeks earlier, Russell Hanover had come up with the idea of putting together a lavish drama production to celebrate the lives of Howard Academy’s founding family. In honor of this first-time endeavor, Michael had been added to the staff, and plans were now supposed to be taking shape.

The only problem was that although Russell’s idea seemed good in theory, nobody could quite figure out what the play was supposed to be about. By all accounts, Joshua Howard had been a shipping magnate whose methods had stopped just short of larceny. He was also rumored to have dabbled in bootlegging. And while I thought such topics would make for a lively and entertaining production, I could also understand why Russell felt the need to highlight other aspects of our esteemed founder’s life. If only someone could come up with any.

The week before, our somewhat desperate headmaster had formed an ad hoc committee, and, to my chagrin, I’d found my name at the bottom of the list. Our first meeting had taken place the previous Friday. In a frenzy of creativity befitting a bevy of educators, we’d brainstormed wildly. Everyone had thrown out ideas, and nothing had been settled.

This week when we met again, we were still at square one. It had been Sally Minor’s idea to dig up Honoria’s portrait and hang it in the teachers’ lounge where we were meeting in the hope that it might prove to be an inspiration. Sally had been at Howard Academy for more than a decade and was a prime source for all sorts of interesting snippets of past history.

“It’s just a ratty old painting,” she said. “I’m sure nobody’d care if we borrowed it and stuck it up in here.”

“Except maybe the other teachers who’d have to look at it all day.” Ed Weinstein smirked. He taught upper-school English and always seemed to be laughing at some private joke that he declined to share with the rest of us.

“I don’t think anyone would mind.” Rita Kinney was shy and soft-spoken, possessing a quiet beauty that she did nothing to enhance. She taught fourth through sixth grade history, and this was the first time she’d volunteered a thought. “I vote for giving it a try. It can’t hurt.”

Being the newest staff member in the group besides Michael, our leader, I’d been dispatched to hunt down the painting. “There was a bit of a problem,” I said.

“I guess there would be. I’ve never seen so much junk.” Michael lifted the painting free and laid it back against the couch. “This place is a pit, isn’t it? Your basic testament to the excesses of private education. Do you suppose they ever threw anything out? Or even thought of using it twice?”

He picked up the burgundy-velvet curtains I’d folded and tossed the heavy bundle on top of a similar pair in a faded shade of hunter green. A cloud of dust rose, then settled, around them. “Russell promised me free rein with the drama department, such as it is. I can see the first order of business better be cleaning this room.”

“After we come up with a theme for the pageant,” I said firmly. “Did the committee think of anything after I left?”

“Lots of things, none of them useful. We did manage to pass a rule prohibiting smoking at the meetings.”

“Ed?” I ventured.

“Ed. He seemed to think that if he stood next to the window when he lit up, nobody would mind. Sally changed his mind about that pretty quickly.”

“She would.” I grinned. “Do you really think we ought to take this monstrosity back and hang it up?”

“The committee voted for it.” Michael squatted down in front of the painting. “I’m happy to bow to majority rule. Who’s the artist anyway? Is there a signature?”

“Just initials.” I’d already looked. “R.W.H., whoever that is.”

“Maybe an artist with too much taste to want his name associated with the finished product? Hey, what’s this?” Michael read the plaque on the bottom of the frame, then looked at the dog in the lower corner of the picture. “Poupee? Silly name for a rather silly looking dog.”

“It’s a Poodle,” I told him. “Probably a small Standard. Even though they were originally bred in Germany, lots of people still think of them as French Poodles. I would imagine that’s how he got the name. As to the silly looking trim, that’s not his fault. In those days, it was called a lion trim. Now we use a variation called a continental in the show ring.”

Michael stood up and dusted off his hands. “How do you know so much about it?”

“I have a Poodle at home that looks quite a bit like that one. My aunt breeds Standard Poodles. She’s shown them for years, and now she’s got me doing it, too.”

“I have to admit it’s a pretty distinctive look, with the hair long on the front and all shaved off in back. Maybe we could use your dog in the pageant.”

“Doing what?” I asked, surprised.

“She could play the part of Poupee.” Michael saw the expression on my face and grinned. “Hey, don’t knock it. That’s probably the best idea we’ve come up with all week.”

Somehow, that wasn’t a comforting thought.

 

By the time we got back to the teachers’ lounge, the rest of the committee had grown tired of waiting for us and gone home. Meetings held at the end of the day on Friday are never popular, especially as Howard Academy has early dismissal so that everyone can get a jump on their weekend plans. Some of my students would be heading north with their parents to ski; others, south, in search of sun. At least one had theater tickets for Broadway and another was planning to go fox hunting.

As for me, I was heading home to let out the dog and meet my six-year-old son, Davey’s, school bus. We’d have milk and cookies together, and he’d tell me about his day. After that, I had to give Faith a bath as she was entered in a dog show that weekend where I had high hopes of picking up some much-needed points toward her championship. I wouldn’t have traded places with anyone.

As always, Faith was waiting by the door when I got home. She whined softly as I fitted the key to the lock, then launched herself into the air in a frenzy of greeting as the door swung open. Standards are the largest of the three varieties of Poodles. Faith stands twenty-four inches at the shoulder and weighs more than forty pounds. Catching her in full flight requires both strength and dexterity, but I was used to the task by now.

Margaret Turnbull, Faith’s breeder and my Aunt Peg, would have been horrified to see one of her dogs exhibit such a lack of manners. The Cedar Crest Standard Poodles are an illustrious line, well-known throughout the dog show world for producing generation after generation of eye-catching champions. Each of Aunt Peg’s dogs is impeccably trained, and she never allows anything less than the best behavior.

Unfortunately for me, it’s a standard she also applies to her relatives.

Since Aunt Peg wasn’t around to see, however, I gave Faith a hug and ruffled my hands through the long black mane coat on the front half of her body. Poodles have long been one of the most popular breeds in the world and, as an admittedly biased owner, it wasn’t hard for me to see why. Beneath the highly stylized show clip, Faith was a dog of uncommon intelligence and dignity. She understood my moods and most of what I said, and had a marvelous sense of humor. In short, she was the perfect companion.

It didn’t surprise me that Honoria Howard had chosen to include her Poodle when she’d had her portrait painted. Poodle owners tend to think of their pets as members of the family. No doubt she’d felt the same way about Poupee as I did about Faith.

I’d just let the dog out into the fenced backyard when the squeal of air brakes signaled the arrival of Davey’s bus. My son never does anything at half speed. As I headed toward the front of the house, I could already hear the front door opening.

“Hey!” called Davey, slamming the door behind him. “Where is everyone?”

I reached the hall and saw my son standing just inside the door. He looked like he’d grown an inch since I’d sent him to school that morning. A new gap had appeared between the hem of his jeans and the tops of his sneakers. Luckily for the sake of warmth, it was filled by gym socks, currently an indeterminate shade of muddy brown. They’d been white when he’d left.

Davey dropped his backpack and jacket on the floor. “Where’s Faith?” he asked. She was usually the first to greet him.

“Outside in back. I just got home. Do I get a hug?”

He shied away and made a face. Six years old and already cynical.

“Pick up your backpack,” I said. “And hang your jacket in the closet where it belongs.”

“I should have hugged you.” Davey sighed. “It would have been easier.”

I’ve always been a sucker for logic like that. I held out my arms. “There’s still time to change your mind.”

“Okay.” He allowed a brief embrace. Thank goodness Aunt Peg wasn’t there; no doubt she’d have complained about the way I was training my dog
and
my child.

Not that I tend to pay much attention to things like that. For most of Davey’s life, I’ve been a single mother. Though Davey’s father had recently reappeared, and we were now on good terms (albeit from opposite ends of the country), I was still accustomed to doing things my own way.

All that was due to change soon; several months earlier I’d gotten engaged. Sam Driver and I have known each other for nearly two years. Not unexpectedly, we’d met over a dog, a stolen Standard Poodle that each of us was pursuing for a different reason. By the time we got things sorted out, it was clear to both of us that our initial attraction was also worth investigating.

Sam’s the kind of man women fantasize about but never expect to find. I had no idea how I’d gotten so lucky, but I wasn’t about to question my good fortune, especially as Davey and Sam adored each other. Even the notoriously picky Aunt Peg approved, though the fact that he was a fellow Standard Poodle breeder had obviously swayed things in his favor. We’d be seeing Sam and his new puppy, Tar, at the show the next day.

I brought Faith in from outside, gave her a biscuit and put out a glass of milk and plate of cookies for Davey. While they were both munching, I set up Faith’s grooming table and hair dryer in preparation for her bath. Showing a Standard Poodle is no small undertaking, and Faith was now nearly two years old and in full bloom. Her correctly textured coat was long and dense; the bath and blow-dry that followed would take several hours to complete.

Faith’s continental trim is one of two approved show clips for adult Poodles, and the one in which the majority are shown. The previous evening I’d clipped her face, feet, and most of her hindquarter and legs. In addition to her mane coat, she had pom pons on her hips, legs, and at the end of her tail, all of which needed to be carefully scissored.

The job is an exacting one requiring an educated eye and a steady hand. Fortunately, I’d be able to count on Aunt Peg’s help at the show the next day to pull everything together. For much of Faith’s show career, Peg and I had been competing against each other as she’d kept Faith’s sister, Hope, from the same litter. Thanks to my aunt’s experience and superior handling skills, however, her Standard Poodle had sailed through the process, completing the requirements for her championship before Christmas. Hope was now retired from the show ring, and Peg had promised me her expert assistance.

With that in mind, I allowed myself to hurry through Faith’s blow-dry. After her bath, I blotted the excess water from her hair with several big, fluffy towels, then didn’t redampen the areas of her coat that had air-dried before I was able to work my way around to them—a cardinal sin among people who show Poodles professionally.

Then again, I reminded myself, the pros were paid to do this job. I was a mother first, a teacher second, and a Poodle exhibitor third. And sometimes, something had to give. I brushed quickly through Faith’s now crinkly bracelets, and declared the job done.