The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (30 page)

“Ruth knew your exam schedule. Bobby called first chance he got, as soon as you were done. Two hours
after
she had been laid to rest.”

I come back enough to realize this must have been the phone call Doris said she overheard. My vocal cords feel weak, as though they’ll fail me. It’s all I can do to ask, “Why didn’t he tell me?”

Lewis looks anxious, like this is just as painful for him. “He told me he wanted to be punished. In the sorry aftermath of Ruth’s death he felt like he deserved it. Eventually, over time, he wanted to explain. He reached out—letters, phone calls, he even tried e-mail—but you sealed him off and shut him down so completely he stopped trying. His will was all he had left, his last attempt to let his son know just how sorry he was. He had no expectation of whether you would or could take on Bedside Manor, but if you did, his one hope was for you to finally walk in his shoes, to feel how the work becomes all-consuming, the way you get lost in the lives of the people and the animals who come to depend on you. He wanted you to get it, to understand their fear, to appreciate their joy, to recognize the challenge of balancing a life inside and outside of work.”

For a moment there, Lewis seems so very old and fragile, and I realize that here, in this graveyard, he’s like a man on thin ice, with not much separating this world from his next.

I’m open-mouth breathing, my lower jaw slung like a hammock rocking side to side. “Why? Why did he need me to do this?”

“Because he wanted you to understand. Because he wanted what we all want when our time comes.”

“And what’s that?”

Lewis leans in, places both his hands on my upper arms. This time I let him. “A chance to be forgiven.”

I wince, lick my lips, and squeeze them together, wringing the blood out of them until the pain makes the scream inside my head go away. It’s as though he’s wedged a knife in deep, pried me open, and I already know there’s nothing good inside worth shucking out. Nothing except shame.

“When you left this town,” says Lewis, “you left something of yourself, something essential, behind. Possessing a sharp mind doesn’t make you a genius in the same way that possessing a heart doesn’t make you compassionate. As far as I can tell you’re back, in more ways than one. It’s time to reclaim what you lost.”

His kindness feels misguided and so much more than I deserve. “You said he asked you to do one last thing.”

“That’s right,” says Lewis, unzipping the front of his coat and fumbling inside. “He wanted something from the basement, from the workshop. He said it was what he wanted to be looking at when he died.”

Lewis hands over a Polaroid, and I take it, keeping my eyes on his, catching the way he raises his chin, encouraging me to look, and I don’t want to, and I’m afraid to, but slowly I bow my head and take it in, all the way. I notice the four small holes in the white border, precise, neat, one in each corner. The picture from the heart of the collage. I’m sitting on his lap and his arm is out to the side, wrapped around Mom’s waist. I’m smiling, my mom is smiling, and though his eyes are almost closed, my dad is smiling too. The three of us are together, a family, trapped in a moment of genuine happiness.

That’s as far as I got. And as I knew he would, like he’s been from the moment I came back, Lewis is there to catch me, joining me in the snow, holding me so tight as the tears come, letting me let go, and helping me to turn fourteen years of misplaced anger into fourteen years’ worth of grief.

All of a sudden I’ve got work to do. And it’s not because I’ve found a solution to my problems. I wish. In fact I’d be exaggerating if I described it as a plan. It’s more of a tactic—risky and irreversible and embarrassing and it could totally backfire, but for the first time in a long time, I’m all in. Dispose of the water wings and send the lifeguard home. Look what proof, objectivity, and deliberation got me. Time to believe in the power of my conviction. Time to let go of the sides and wade out until I’m completely in over my head.

I go down to the basement. Dad’s workshop seems different. I dig around and check it out with a fresh eye. There’s a half-eaten pack of Oreos in the top shelf of the fridge, unopened quart of vanilla ice cream in the freezer—fine antidotes to the cravings of a sweet tooth. I run my fingertips over two pieces of wood sitting in a vise, set at a right angle to one another thanks to a perfect dovetail joint. No weeping glue, no nails, just precise craftsmanship. There’s a pocket-size, dust-covered transistor radio, sitting on the bench, telescopic aerial extended, divining a signal. I’m about to turn it on when I stop myself and try to guess what I’m about to hear. Right now everything is about the truth, however painful, and the truth is I’ve no idea. I play the odds, guess sports, or talk radio, flick on the power, and once more Bobby Cobb proves how little I knew about the man—I’m listening to a string quartet.

I pull the Polaroid photograph of my family out of my breast pocket and with great care I insert pins into the existing holes at its corners and restore the centerpiece of the collage. Now I see how it fits, framed by images of a wife and son radiating from its core, drawing the eye to a focal point around which everything else revolves. I step back, take it in, and change my mind, unhooking the entire corkboard from the wall and carefully carry it upstairs.

Next on my “to do” list is a call to my landlord back in Charleston. I need him to get into my studio, raid my closet, and locate a certain framed certificate of graduation. After months of legal wrangling with McCall and Rand Pharmaceuticals, I’ve become a regular down at the FedEx office, three blocks from my apartment. This particular store closes at five, but if he hurries he can overnight it to Vermont.

Frieda remains parked where I left her, in front of the refrigerator. Given her predilection for this spot, this is where I set up her dog bed.

“Quick walk before supper?”

If it’s dark enough for stars it’s safe for us to go out, though this venture on the trails can’t take long, given the way the cold air burns my lungs with every breath. Frieda stays on leash, trotting to heel, my sentinel. The image of my mother’s graveside flashes through my mind and I wonder how many times I will have to replay my conversation with Lewis for it all to feel less raw.

“Why didn’t
you
call me?” I had asked Lewis as the two of us kneeled in the snow and I squeezed him tighter and tighter, in a vain effort to break the rhythm of my tears. “Why didn’t you tell me what really happened, before he died?”

Lewis broke my grip and pushed me back, wanting to be sure I saw everything in his answer. “If I had, would you have believed me? Would you have come? Before everything you’ve experienced since you took on Bedside Manor?”

And though I said nothing, we both knew the answer.

“Sorry, Frieda, that’s going to have to do it.” Quarter of a mile, if that, but Frieda doesn’t complain when I about turn. I read the same old contented smile on her face and it softens the pain. Then my inner demons get to work and I’m smiling too. More than anything else, Bobby Cobb wanted to be understood. He wanted to be forgiven. And here I am, back in Eden Falls, trying to do the exact same thing. Time to say good-bye to the man I have been for the last fourteen years. So long as I haven’t left it too late.

No doubt Amy will despise the word
epiphany
, but I want her to know what happened today, to know I was so very wrong about Bobby Cobb. It’s one thing to misjudge a person, it’s another to convict them and refuse them their day in court. I’m not deliberating about talking to Amy, I’m not weighing the pros and cons, I’m just following an innate desire to set the record straight with a woman I barely know. I’ve never been smitten or besotted, but if I was, Amy might be the first. That’s why I want a chance, and for a confident straight shooter like Amy, honesty seems like the best place to start.

Down at the diner, this time actually wanting to slide into my father’s favorite booth, I find it occupied by a familiar face—Chief Matt Devito.

“Hey, Doc, take a seat, I’ve been meaning to drop by and thank you.”

“You have?” I say, keeping my coat on for now.

“That thing with Mr. Greer’s dog and his neighbor. Could’ve gotten ugly. Appreciate the way you handled it. Buy you a coffee?”

“Uh … sure,” I say, my back to the door, scanning the booths and counter. I don’t see Amy anywhere.

Devito follows my gaze. “Looking for someone?” He cocks an eyebrow, like he’s on to me.

A waitress appears and it’s not Amy.

“Can I get a coffee, please, cream no sugar?”

I can’t tell whether the woman, in her sixties, hears my request. She gives away nothing—not acknowledgment, not pleasure, not disgust, but just traces her footsteps back the way she came.

“That’s Maggie. Bit different from Amy.”

I raise my chin, not touching this subject. I want to head back to the practice and call over to Harry Carp’s house, but I try to look interested in the rest of the clientele.

“You know,” says Devito, half-smiling, jabbing an index finger in my direction, “there’s something about you. Just can’t put my finger on it.”

Say hello to my little friend
.

“Really? Tell me, Chief, any luck finding that missing golden retriever? I’ve seen the posters everywhere.”

My coffee arrives, sloshing over the sides of the mug as Maggie slides it across the table like a barkeep serving a beer. She tosses me a handful of tiny half-and-half containers, and even though Devito’s still picking at the remains of his French fries, she whisks away his plate without a word.

“Not yet. But I’ve had a couple of interesting leads.”

The Chief’s intonation begs me to ask. “Like what?”

Devito leans back into his pew, checks the coast is clear, leans forward. He really has been watching way too many TV police procedurals. “Being as this is still an ongoing investigation, all I can tell you is I’m interested in talking to a man, about your height, about your age, likes to wear a hat with fur earflaps and might be trying to disguise his victim as a male.”

“I see,” I say, pouring in three artificial creams. “And how are the family holding up?”

“Devastated. At least the mother and daughter are. Dad seems fine.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, trying to sound surprised.

“Anne Small was married to a friend of mine, her first husband, Brian. Great guy. Died about two years ago. Sources tell me the replacement is having a hard time adjusting to the fact that the wife came as a package deal with a daughter and a dog.”

“What do you mean by hard time?”

The Chief interlaces the fingers of both hands and cups the back of his bald head. “I’m saying he has motive, if it turns out the retriever is more than just missing.”

Devito winks, letting me know I heard it here first.

I reach for my coffee but get waylaid by my phone buzzing in my pocket. “Hello,” I answer.

“Cyrus.”

There’s something wrong in her voice. “Amy. You okay?”

The Chief’s hands drop to his sides, his ears on high alert, listening in.

“Not really. It’s Clint. I think she’s dying. Can you see her?”

“Of course, I’ll be right over.”

I’m on my feet.

“Too late,” she says. “We’re on our way over to you.”

She hangs up.

“I’ve got to go. Thanks for the coffee.”

I shuffle out of the booth, more than enough time for the Chief to fire off a jibe. “Word to the wise, Doc, and that word is
unattainable
.” He flashes his brows, creases rippling to the top of his crown. “Pretty sure she plays for the other side, if you catch my drift.”

Ordinarily, the old Cyrus would have let this go. But not this time, not after today, not with this woman. I beckon him closer, lean in, and say, “Pretty sure she doesn’t.”

Be damned with chivalry and southern politeness, I fix him with my best attempt at the smile of a man who can only refute his accusation thanks to carnal knowledge. And judging by Devito’s reaction, I think I did okay.

I want to be prepared—IV catheter and fluids to hand, X-ray machine warming up, last set of Clint’s X-rays on the viewing box. But what am I preparing for? How can I treat let alone cure what I’ve failed to diagnose? I replay Amy’s words.
I think she’s dying
. And that’s when I realize it wasn’t fear catching in her voice; it was defeat, resignation, the inevitability of failure,
my
failure to save her dying grandfather’s dog. Amy’s phone call wasn’t a cry for help, it was a plea for mercy. Perhaps I should be prepared with a needle and a syringe full of blue juice.

Headlights pull into the parking lot and the surprises keep coming.

“She’s in the backseat,” shouts Amy. She jumps down from the driver’s side of her SUV, glances at me over her shoulder, like she barely knows who I am, and instead of joining me at the rear passenger door, she disappears around the hood, to the opposite side, attending to the other sickly patient in her life, Harry Carp.

“You okay, Grandpa? Take your time. I’ve got you.”

Why am I surprised? He’s here to say the good-bye to Clint, when what he most wanted was for her to be there to say good-bye to him.

I open the door to the backseat. Clint is sprawled across a plaid blanket. Her eyes are closed. She’s perfectly still. I’m too late. Frigid night air rushes into the truck, diluting the warm air, and I can’t see any smoky breath from her nostrils or her mouth. I grab her, and in one frantic and awkward motion, I scoop her into my arms. Stepping back, I keep both eyes on Harry. The pronouncement is forming on my tongue, but then there’s a faint whimper from under the blankets, a stirring, and my breath catches in my chest, inducing a reciprocal whimper of my own.

“Sorry to ruin your evening,” Harry says. “But she’s suffering. Can’t have that. Not this dog.”

Amy has a firm grasp of Harry’s arm, but I still worry about the ice underfoot and him falling and cracking a hip. Leave breaking his heart to me.

We shuffle inside, back to the work area, and I lay Clint and her blanket down on a table.

“Can I get you a chair, Harry?”