Unsaid Page 2

  Like the rest of the house, the kitchen is a mess. Empty wine bottles line the counter, and dirty dishes and glasses fill the sink. If this were the city, roaches would be everywhere. Because we live beyond even the borders of suburbia, however, there are no vermin that cannot be rationalized as “wildlife.”

  I find David in the kitchen struggling to open a can of dog food while my three dogs—Chip, Bernie, and Skippy—wait patiently at his feet. In a dirty pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, work boots, and several days of stubble, he is the house personified. He’s lost even more weight and looks so gaunt that the new harsh angles of his face mar his handsomeness.

  He is too young for this. Thirty-seven is too young to bury a wife. He still wears our wedding band because even now he cannot believe this is happening to him. I know this because he has the same look on his face as the deer trapped in his headlights so many years ago.

  It is more than just the fact that I’m gone. David poured himself into my life. My friends became his friends. My animals became his animals. My plans became his plans. All connections passed through me. That’s not a complaint. I was not only a willing vessel for David’s life; I found it exhilarating.

  In return, David became my rock—steady and dependent, a safe harbor when I became overwhelmed by the accumulation of still, little bodies. He calmed me down when I started to lose it on a difficult case and convinced me to trust my own instincts instead of the textbooks. David’s confidence in me was a great gift, and I realize now that I never really thanked him for it.

  Up until now, it all worked, didn’t it, David? It was a good deal all around, wasn’t it? Still, I cannot help but fear that my death has severed your slender tether to this human plane. You are beginning to fade, just like me.

  I swear, David, I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was all going to end this way. It’s not like I could’ve changed things; we met at a crossroads, and the people you meet at the most important times of your life invariably become the most important people in your life. But I do wonder if it would’ve turned out differently if there had been no death—no Charlie—in the story line. Would I have been available for you when the layers finally peeled away? Would you even have cared if I hadn’t been so haunted? Every action is inextricably dependent upon the one that preceded it, like some infinite dance that continues out in perpetuity until one of the partners exits the floor. I know that now. A fat lot of good it does me, though.

  David finally manages to open the can of dog food and quickly fills the three bowls on the floor. The dogs look at David, then the food, and back to David. I usually add rice and chicken broth to their dinners, but David doesn’t remember this or (as likely) can’t be bothered by the extra effort.

  Chip, Bernie, and Skippy. My sweet, sweet boys. I miss you so much. I long for the feel of you, to rub your fur, touch your wet noses.

  Seeing my dogs again is almost as heartrending as looking at my husband. The always-anxious Chip, the Labrador, was with me the longest. I brought him home soon after our move following one of my monthly vet visits to a nearby mall pet store. When I first saw Chip, the product of some Midwest puppy mill hell, he was only eight weeks old and his face was covered with running sores from a rampant staph infection. I told the asshole of a store owner that I could cure him with a month or so of antibiotics, but the owner complained that the dog would then be too “old” to sell. He demanded that I “put him down” so he could save the cost of the drugs. Chip came home with me that same day and left me only when David drove me to the hospital for the last time.

  Bernie, the Bernese mountain dog, is beautiful, huge, goofy, and the sweetest dog I’ve ever known. He came to us a year later. Bernie had been bred locally to be a show dog. Given Bernie’s parents, the breeder had high hopes for “best of breed” at Westminster and then many years of stud fees. Within a few months of his birth, however, it became clear that Bernie’s bad shoulders would keep him out of not only Westminster, but any breeding circle that would pay his way.

  The breeder requested that Bernie be “put to sleep.” I told her that I could easily find Bernie a good home. The breeder insisted that death was the only option that would preserve her reputation; it simply wouldn’t do to have a “defective”—her word—out in the world that was traceable to her stock.

  I sent the breeder away with assurances that I would take care of it, and then I snuck Bernie home on my lunch break. That was a good day. Chip loved the company, and the two big dogs became fast friends.

  Skippy the schipperke, the last dog I adopted in life, was my greatest challenge. He is a small black bundle of thick fur with a beautiful fox-like face and pointed ears. Intelligent, industrious, and energetic, Skippy does not suffer fools lightly. Of the three, he reminds me most of my husband.

  I always assumed that Skippy was yet another Missouri puppy mill special, although I don’t really know where he came from. Early one winter morning, I went to open my office and found Skippy sitting patiently and alone on the welcome mat at the front door as if he were waiting for an appointment. When I opened the office door, Skippy trotted in with an air of entitlement that I could not question.

  I carried Skippy into my exam room and gave him a once-over. Skippy didn’t object. He had no tags, no collar, and no visible injuries. I noticed almost immediately, however, that he was breathing too fast for a small dog at rest. When I listened to his chest for the first time, I began to understand why. Skippy had a heart murmur that sounded only slightly less turbulent than Niagara Falls. The sonogram I took of Skippy’s heart later that morning completed the sad picture of a heart built wrong. We predicted he had maybe a year of life in that heart before it gave out.

  I figured Skippy was a runaway. My staff posted notices everywhere while I silently prayed that no one would come to claim him. That particular prayer, at least, was answered.

  Skippy is unaware of his death sentence, or it may be simply that he enjoyed our life together too much to let it go. He is now almost four years old and still going. He’s been a great companion and helped keep my own heart open during my last year. I could hold him upside down between my legs or swing him high in the air and he would wag his little stump of a tail and yip with excitement. He would wake me every morning by licking my nose and then run and hide until I found him. After we had our special morning alone time, he would go off and play with the big guys, oblivious to being stepped on or the physiological failings of his heart.

  The fact that Skippy has actually outlived me makes me smile. You just never know with dogs.

  “Well, come on then,” David says, motioning to the food. The dogs reluctantly move to their respective bowls as David raises a full wineglass in toast. “Cheers.”

  The doorbell rings and the dogs run out of the kitchen barking wildly. David slowly follows them.

  In the darkened living room, David parts the curtains just enough to peek out into the driveway. A silver BMW convertible sits next to the garbage cans.

  David trudges to the front door as if he’s on a schoolboy’s trip to the principal’s office. He tries to quiet the dogs and then opens the door. There on the front porch stands Max Dryer.

  Max would look like a caricature of an incredibly polished and self-important Big Manhattan Law Firm Rainmaker if you didn’t believe his claim that he was in fact the initial model for that caricature. He is fifty-four, tall, thin, handsome, dressed in a custom-made charcoal pin-striped suit, purple tie, and sparkling Allen Edmonds shoes. As soon as he sees David through the screen door—the first time in three weeks—Max pulls out a box of Davidoff cigarettes, lights one with a gold Dunhill lighter, and inhales deeply.

  “Max, Max, Max,” David scolds and shakes his head. “Those cigarettes will kill you.”

  Max offers a tight smile. “I’m assuming my clients will get to me first.”

  “There’s always that hope. I guess you want to come in?”

  “That’s the general idea.”

  “Fine. Leave the
smoke outside, though.”

  Max tosses his cigarette into the snow, where it sizzles dead, and then he steps into the house.

  David, ignoring his visitor, addresses the three dogs. “Fellas, I believe you know Max.”

  Max bends down to invite the dogs to come to him, but they decide instead to return to their meal in the kitchen.

  “Don’t take it personal,” David says. “As you might expect, they’re not themselves. By the way, neither am I. That is your one and only fair warning. Drink?”

  “A little early, isn’t it?”

  David shrugs off the question. “It’s some time after Helena’s death. That makes it late enough in the day for me. But suit yourself.”

  “I’ll pass for now.”

  David enters the kitchen while Max heads for the living room. Max opens the curtains and in the sudden light winces at the scene before him. The only part of the room that is not in disarray is the long bookcase that lines one of the walls. The bookcase holds the books I’d read and used for research during my illness. My books still remain as I’d left them. I’m not surprised. Change has been cruel to David in the past, and he has learned to avoid its proof until events overtake him.

  Max walks over to the bookcase and scans the titles—Animal Rights Today; When Elephants Weep; Being with Animals; Kanzi; Animal Behavior and Communication Studies. Every title concerns animal behavior, animal rights, communication theory, or American Sign Language, but to David they might as well have been in Latin.

  David returns with his glass and the dogs at his heels. Pointing to the shelves, Max asks, “All of these Helena’s?”

  “She read a lot once she became sick. I guess she felt she was running out of time to learn. She was right.”

  David drops into an overstuffed chair by the fireplace, leaving Max to fend for himself. All the seats by this point have been taken by the dogs. Max tries to make room on the couch next to Chip, but Chip holds his ground.

  David enjoys Max’s confused discomfort for a minute before calling Chip to join him by the chair. Max quickly takes the open spot.

  Max cares about three things—money and women (loved in that order, I believe) and last, my husband. Max, who recruited and trained David from day one, saw him as his protégé. This was a problem for both of them. Although I know David felt a great deal of gratitude toward Max and, when pushed, would admit that he had a deep but inexplicable fondness for his mentor, Max had a recurring tendency to confuse his c-words—care, concern, and control. Max wanted David to be more like him and ultimately replace him on the firm’s governing executive committee. The prospect of becoming any more like Max, however, used to keep David awake at least two nights a month.

  “So, what is it that gets the great Max Dryer to leave Manhattan on a weekday?”

  “You knew I’d need to come to you at some point,” Max says. “You don’t pick up the phone and you don’t return messages. Even my messages.”

  “Don’t beat me up about my communication skills right now.”

  “I’m not. I was just worried.”

  David rolls his eyes, a gesture he has perfected around Max. “I can only imagine.”

  Max glances at the wedding ring that David still wears. David follows his gaze and then self-consciously hides his hand in his pocket.

  “Look, I understand how you must feel,” Max says.

  “Really? Do tell. How many wives have you buried?”

  “You know that’s not what I meant. You’ve every right to be bitter, but don’t be an asshole.”

  David looks away as he tries to compose himself. “Sorry, but I warned you.”

  “It’s just that… well, it’s been over two weeks since the funeral and four weeks since you’ve even seen the office.” Max once again takes in the disarray that is the living room. “What have you been doing to yourself here? Didn’t you have someone coming in to take care of things?”

  “She was only a home care aide for Helena. I haven’t replaced her yet since…” The sentence hangs between them.

  “I think you could use some help around here,” Max says while avoiding David’s stare.

  “You didn’t come up here to talk about my housekeeping, did you?”

  “No, but you could’ve made this a little easier.”

  “But it is so seldom that I get to see you fumfering. It’s the most fun I’ve had since the funeral.”

  “Lovely.”

  “So, I’m out of time?” David looks at his watch. “Note to self: The exact duration of the firm’s compassion in the event of death of wife. Three weeks, three days, ten hours, and twelve minutes.”

  “That’s not it at all. We only want to know how you’re doing. That’s not unreasonable.”

  “I don’t really know how to answer that. Seriously, what’s the appropriate benchmark? My wife is dead. I can’t see her again on this earth. Not today. Not ever. So, how am I doing? I’m doing just great.”

  “Is sarcasm a sign of healing?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Let’s start with the basics. Do you need anything?”

  “Sure. I need a device to go back in time and get back all those nights I spent out with you reliving your greatness, or in the office working on the next draft of a brief that mattered little or not at all, or following you around the country on rainmaking trips. I want—no, I need—all that time back.”

  Max nods. “I know,” he says softly. “If I had the power, I would give it to you.”

  David looks at Max skeptically at first and then in growing disbelief. “Wow. Do you actually feel guilty? Max Dryer? Is that really you in there?”

  “Please stop it. I loved Helena in my own way and subject to my own many limitations—of which I am well aware, thank you.”

  David searches Max’s eyes, but Max quickly looks away. “I think I believe that,” David says. And so do I, Max. It’s just that you always seemed so proud of your limitations. Perhaps I should’ve looked at you harder and longer.

  “Would you like us to get you a place in the city? Temporary, you know, until you can get your own?”

  “The city? Who said anything about moving back to the city?”

  “This is me, David. I know you and how you work. I’ve seen you prepare for trials and I’ve seen you try cases. How’re you going to handle this place? What happens when you’re in trial? How can you take care of all Helena’s animals?”

  Really, David. How can you? I asked him this same question months ago. I was the gaunt woman with the eyes hollowed out by chemo and the scarf wrapped around a bald head. Propped up on pillows in our bed, David’s arm around my bony shoulders, I tried to reason with him when all he wanted to do was avoid looking at what I’d become.

  “I can tell that you miss it,” I told him. “Ordering Chinese food for delivery at midnight, jumping into a cab home instead of racing to catch a train or fighting traffic. Think of how much easier it’ll be for you.”

  “Why are we talking about this? Why is this even relevant?” David asked me, beginning to get upset.

  I pulled back from him then, suddenly hot and angry. “Relevant? Look at me. It’s the most relevant question we have left, don’t you think?”

  “Stop it,” he begged, turning away from me.

  I took David’s face in my hands and made him look directly at me while I spoke. “Please don’t make me pretend. It is what it is. We both know it. The animals have needs and they’re not going to stop having them just because I’m gone. I’ve given this a lot of thought and made arrangements for placing everyone.”

  “How could you have decided this without me?”

  “Because someone needed to and you won’t talk to me about it. Please don’t be angry. I’m just trying to be realistic and think of your life.”

  “This is my family you’re talking about, too. You can’t just break us up.”

  “Those are just words, David. Nice words, but just words. We both know the truth. I dragged you
up here. You’ve been great about it all, but you’re here because of me. These were never your animals. You’re even still afraid of the horses and Collette. You barely know the others. How will you care for them and work sixty hours a week?”

  “We’ve done okay so far,” David argued back. “I’ve made accommodations, haven’t I?”

  “This isn’t a criticism of you. It’s really not even about you at all. We knew the demands of your career going into this. But this can’t be an accommodation; this is the rest of your life we’re talking about. You’re not going to be able to count on my friends to take care of everyone forever. People will move on. You will move on. You must.”

  “It is my decision to make now and I want to keep us together.”

  “Why? I still haven’t heard one reason why.”

  “Do I really need to say it?” David’s voice rose.

  “It would be nice if I finally understood what you thought,” I said, my frustration and fatigue getting the better of me. “You’re a lawyer. You know words. Use them with me for once!”

  “Because…”

  “Because what? You’re still not saying anything.”

  “Because there is nothing else, okay? There’s nothing else,” David shouted. “There never was!”

  I melted at David’s desperation. “I know you feel that way now, honey, but—”

  “Don’t tell me how you understand! You don’t! You can’t! I’m the one who’s left behind. Again.” David rose, but I pulled him back down to me and waited for his breathing to slow.

  “Okay,” I told him, finally. “You’re right. I won’t be able to tell you what to do, but I need you to know that you don’t have to do this. You’ve nothing left to prove to me. Just do what’s best for them and for you. There might come a time very soon when this may not be the same thing.”

  Now David tells Max precisely what he told me during that conversation months ago. “I’ll handle it.”