Racing in the Rain (12 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

M
uch of what happened to Denny regarding the custody suit concerning Zoë as well as the charge of criminal neglect was not witnessed by me. These events spanned close to three years of our lives. One of the tactics of Maxwell and Trish was to drag out the process in order to deplete Denny of money and destroy his will. It was also intended to play off of his desire to see Zoë mature in a loving and supportive environment. I was denied access to much information. I was not invited to attend any of the legal proceedings, for instance. I was allowed to attend only a few of the meetings Denny had with his attorney, Mark Fein, specifically, those that occurred at Victrola Coffee. I did not accompany Denny to the police station after his arrest. I was not present for his booking, his arraignment, or his subsequent lie detector testing.

Much of what I will tell you about the ordeal that followed Eve's death is a reconstruction based on information compiled by me from secondhand knowledge, overheard conversations, and established legal practices as I have learned them from various television shows, most especially the
Law & Order
series and its spin-offs.

My intent, here, is to tell our story in a dramatically truthful way. While the facts may be less than accurate, please understand that the emotion is true. The intent is true.

Chapter Thirty-Three

T
hey took Denny to a small room with a large table and many chairs. The walls had windows that looked out to the surrounding office, which was filled with police detectives doing their police work. Wooden blinds filtered the blue light that crept into the room, rippling the table and floor with long shadows.

No one bothered him. After being booked and fingerprinted and photographed, he was put in the room, alone, and left there, as if the police had forgotten him entirely. He sat by himself. He sat for hours with nothing. No coffee, no water, no restrooms, no radio. No distractions. Alone.

Did he despair? Did he silently scold himself for allowing himself to be in that situation? Or did he finally realize what it is like to be me, to be a dog? Did he understand, as those slow minutes ticked by, that being alone is not the same as being lonely? I like to think that he was alone for that time, but that he wasn't lonely. I like to think that he thought about his condition, but he did not despair.

And then the lawyer Mark Fein burst into the East Precinct on Seattle's Capitol Hill; he burst in and began shouting. That is Mark Fein's blustery style. Bellowing. Boisterous. Bold. Mark Fein is a capital letter B. He is shaped like the letter, and he acts like the letter. Brash. Brazen. Bullish. He blew down the door, bull-rushed the desk, blasted the sergeant on duty, and bailed out Denny.

“What the heck is this all about, Dennis?” Mark demanded on the street corner.

“It's nothing,” Denny said, uninterested in the conv-
ersation.

“A charge of criminal neglect, Dennis! That's not nothing!”

“It's a lie,” said Denny.

“Is it? Did you leave Zoë to wander off alone?”

“No.”

“This is ridiculous,” Mark said. “I can't believe the district attorney would sign off on these trumped-up charges! You can't arrest someone for abandonment because he dropped his daughter off at school. Your in-laws must have powerful friends.”

Denny said nothing.

“I can get these charges dropped,” Mark went on. “But the custody suit and the temporary restraining order is still very dangerous.”

Denny ground his teeth; his jaw muscles bulged.

“My office, eight thirty tomorrow morning,” Mark said. “Don't be late.”

Denny burned.

“Where's Zoë?” he demanded. Mark Fein dug his heel into the pavement.

“They got to her before I could,” he said. “The timing on this was not an accident.”

“I'm going to get her,” Denny said.

“Don't!” Mark snapped. “Let them be. Now is not the time for heroics. When you're stuck in quicksand, the worst thing you can do is struggle.”

“So now I'm stuck in quicksand?” Denny asked.

“Dennis, you are in the quickest of all possible sand right now.”

Denny wheeled around and started off.

“And don't leave the state,” Mark called after him. But Denny had already rounded the corner and was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Four

H
ands are the windows to a man's soul.

Watch in-car videos of race drivers enough, and you'll see the truth of this statement. The rigid, tense grip of one driver reflects his rigid, tense driving style. The nervous hand-shuffle of another driver proves how uncomfortable he is in the car. A driver's hands should be relaxed, sensitive, aware.

Seeing Denny's hands shake was as upsetting for me as it was for him. After Eve's death, he glanced at his hands often, held them before his eyes as if they weren't really his hands at all. He held them up and watched them shake. He tried to do it so no one would see. “Nerves,” he would say to me whenever he caught me watching. “Stress.” And then he would tuck them into his pants pockets and keep them there, out of sight.

When Mike and Tony brought me home later that night, Denny was waiting on the dark porch with his hands in his pockets. “Not only do I not want to talk about it,” he said to them, “Mark told me not to. So.”

They stood on the walk, looking up at him.

“Can we come in?” Mike asked.

“No,” Denny replied, and then, aware of his abruptness, attempted to explain. “I don't feel like company right now.”

They stared at him for a moment.

“You don't have to talk about what's going on,” Mike said. “But it's good to
talk
. You can't keep everything inside. It's not healthy.”

“You're probably right,” Denny said. “But it's not how I operate. I just need to . . . process . . . what's going on, and then I'll be able to talk. But not now.”

Neither Mike nor Tony moved. They looked at each other, and I could smell their anxiety. I wished that Denny would understand the depth of their concern for him. “You'll be all right?” Mike asked. “We don't have to worry about you doing something foolish?”

“I'll be all right,” Denny said.

“You want us to keep Enzo or anything?” Mike asked.

“No.”

“Bring you some groceries?”

Denny shook his head.

“He'll be all right,” Tony said, and tugged at Mike's arm.

“My phone's always on,” Mike said. “Twenty-four-hour crisis hotline. Need to talk, need anything, call me.”

They retreated down the walk. “We fed Enzo!” Mike called from the alley. They left, and Denny and I went inside. He took his hands from his pockets and held them up to look at them shaking.

“Neglectful fathers don't get custody of their little girls,” he said. “See how that works?”

I followed him into the kitchen and he went to the cupboard and took out a glass. Then he reached into where he kept the liquor and took out a bottle. He poured a drink. It was absurd. Depressed, stressed, hands shaking, and now he was going to get himself drunk? I couldn't stand for it. I barked sharply at him. He looked down at me, drink in hand, and I up at him. If I'd had hands, I would have opened one of them and slapped him with it.

“What's the matter, Enzo, too pathetic for you?”

I barked again.

“Don't judge me,” he said. “That's not your job. Your job is to support me, not judge me.”

He drank the drink and then glared at me, and I did judge him. He was acting just as they wanted him to act. They were rattling him, and he was about to quit, and then it would be over. Then I'd have to spend the rest of my life with a drunkard. This wasn't my Denny. This was a pathetic character from a lousy television drama. And I didn't like him at all.

I left the room thinking I would go to bed, but I didn't want to sleep in the same room as this Denny impostor. This fake Denny. I went into Zoë's bedroom, curled up on the floor next to her bed, and tried to sleep. Zoë was the only one I had left.

Later—though I don't know how much—he stood in the doorway. “The first time I took you for a drive in my car when you were a puppy, you puked all over the seat,” he said to me. “But I didn't give up on you.” I lifted my head from the ground, not understanding his point.

“I put the booze away,” he said. “I'm better than that.”

He turned and walked away. I heard him shuffle around in the living room and then turn on the TV. So he didn't fall hopelessly into the bottle, the refuge of the weak and the sad. He got my point. Gestures are all that I have.

I found him on the couch watching a video of Eve, Zoë, and me. It was from years ago when we went to Long Beach, on the Washington coast. Zoë was a toddler. I remembered that weekend well; we were all so young, it seemed, chasing kites on the wide beach that went on for miles. I sat next to the couch and watched, too. We were so naive; we had no knowledge of where the road would take us, no idea that we would ever be separated.

“No race has ever been won in the first turn,” he said. “But plenty of races have been lost there.”

I looked at him. He reached out, settled his hand on the crown of my head, and scratched my ear like he has always done.

Yes: the race is long—to finish first, first you must finish.

Chapter Thirty-Five

I
love very few things more than a nice long walk in the drizzle of Seattle. I don't care for the heaviness of real rain; I like the misting, the feeling of the tiny droplets on my muzzle and eyelashes. While rain is heavy and can suppress the scents, a light shower actually amplifies smells; it brings odor to life, and then carries it through the air to my nose. Which is why I love Seattle more than any other place, even Thunderhill Raceway Park. Because once the damp season begins, nary a day goes by without a helping of my much-loved drizzle.

Denny took me for a walk in the drizzle, and I loved it. Denny seemed to crave the change, too; instead of jeans, a sweatshirt, and his yellow slicker, he put on a pair of dark slacks. And he wore his black trench coat over a high-necked cashmere sweater.

We walked north out of Madison Valley and into the Arboretum. Once past the dangerous part, where there is no walkway, we turned off on the smaller road, and Denny released me from my leash.

This is what I love to do: I love to run through a field of wet grass that has not been mowed recently. I love to run, keeping my snout low to the ground so the grass and the sparkles of water cover my face. I imagine myself as a vacuum cleaner, sucking in all the smells, all the life, a spear of summer grass. It reminds me of my childhood, back on the farm in Spangle. There was no rain, but there was grass, there were fields, and I ran.

I ran and I ran that day. And Denny walked on, trudging steadily. At the point where we usually turned around, we kept going. We crossed the pedestrian bridge and curled up into Montlake. Denny reattached my leash and we crossed a larger road and we were in a new park! I loved this one, too. But it was different.

“Interlaken,” Denny said to me as he unleashed me.

Interlaken. This park was not fields and flatland. It was a twisty ravine painted with vines and bushes and ground cover. Above, it was tented by the tallest of trees and a canopy of leaves. It was wonderful. As Denny followed the path, I bounded up and down the hillside, hiding in the low brush and pretending I was a secret agent. Or running as fast as I could through the obstacles and pretending I was a predator like in the movies. Hunting something down, tracking my prey.

For a long time we walked and ran in this park, me running five paces for every one of Denny's, until I was exhausted and thirsty. We emerged from the park and walked in a neighborhood that was new to me. Denny stopped in a café to purchase a cup of coffee for himself. He brought some water for me, which was in a paper cup and difficult to drink, but I managed.

And we continued walking.

I was getting quite tired. We had been out for more than two hours, but we kept walking. I recognized Fifteenth Avenue when we reached it, and I knew Volunteer Park quite well. But I was surprised when we went into Lake View Cemetery. I had never been there before. Following the paved road to the north, we looped around the central hill and came upon a temporary tent structure, under which many people were assembled.

They were all dressed nicely, and those who weren't protected from the drizzle by the tent were holding umbrellas. Immediately, I saw Zoë. Ah. Now I understood. Denny had dressed for Eve's burial. We approached the people, who were milling about, their attention fragmented. The proceedings had not yet begun.

We got very close to them, and then, suddenly, someone broke off from the group. A man. And then another man, and another. The three of them walked toward us. One of them was Maxwell. The others were Eve's brothers, whose names I never knew because they showed themselves so infrequently.

“You're not welcome here,” Maxwell said sternly.

“She's my wife,” Denny said calmly. “The mother of my child.”

She was there, the child. Zoë saw her father. She waved at him, and he waved back.

“You're not welcome here,” Maxwell said again. “Leave, or I'll call the police. We have a restraining order.”

“Why are you doing this?” asked Denny.

Maxwell pushed up into Denny's personal space. “You've never been good to Eve,” Maxwell said. “And I will not trust you with Zoë.”

“But I did nothing wrong—”

But Maxwell had already turned. “Please escort Mr. Swift away from here,” he said to his two sons, and he abruptly walked away. In the distance, I saw Zoë, unable to contain herself any longer; she jumped out of her seat and ran toward us.

“Beat it,” one of the men said.

“It's my wife's funeral,” Denny said. “I'm staying.”

Zoë reached us and leapt at Denny. He hoisted her into the air and propped her on his hip and kissed her cheek. “How's my baby?” he asked.

“How's my daddy?” she replied.

“I'm getting by,” he said.

Trish rushed up to us. She inserted herself between Denny and the brothers. She told them to leave, and she turned to Denny.

“Please,” she said. “I understand why you're here, but it can't be done like this. I really don't think you should stay.” She hesitated for a moment, and then she said, “I'm sorry. You must be so alone.”

Denny didn't respond. I looked up at him, and his eyes were full of tears. Zoë noticed, too, and started crying with him. “It's okay to cry,” she said. “Grandma says crying helps because it washes away the hurting.” He looked at Zoë for a long moment and she at him. Then he sighed sadly.

“You help Grandma and Grandpa be strong, okay?” he said. “I have some important business to take care of. About Mommy. There are things that have to be done.”

“I know,” she said.

“You'll stay with Grandma and Grandpa for a little bit longer, until I get everything worked out, okay?”

“They told me I might stay with them for a while,” said Zoë.

“Well,” Denny said regretfully, “Grandma and Grandpa are very good at thinking ahead.”

“We can all compromise,” Trish said. “I know you're not a bad person—”

“There is no compromise,” Denny said.

“Given time, you'll see. It's what's best for Zoë,” replied Trish.

“Enzo!” Zoë called out suddenly, locating me beneath her. She squirmed loose of Denny and grabbed me around the neck. “Enzo!” I was surprised and pleased by her hearty greeting, so I licked her face.

Trish leaned in to Denny. “You must have been missing Eve terribly,” she whispered to him.

“You can't begin to imagine,” he said. Denny abruptly straightened and pulled away from her.

“Zoë,” he said. “Enzo and I are going to watch from a special spot. Come on, Enzo.” He bent down and kissed her forehead, and we walked away.

Zoë and Trish watched us go. We continued on the circular path and walked up the bump of a hill to the top. We stood underneath the trees, and, protected from the lightly falling rain, watched the whole thing. The people coming to attention. The man reading from a book. The people laying roses on the coffin. And everyone leaving in their cars.

When they were all gone, we walked down the hill and we stood before the mound of dirt and we cried. We kneeled and we cried and we grabbed at handfuls of the dirt, the mound, and we felt the last bit of her, the last part of her that we could feel, and we cried.

And finally, when we could do no more, we stood. And we began the long walk home.