Lawyer for the Dog Page 4

  “Don’t you think we’ve got enough on our hands?” I nod toward my mother, who’s walking, barefoot, toward the ocean. Delores jumps up, runs after her, and grabs her hand.

  * * *

  My years of lawyering have taught me to size people up within seconds. Most of the time I’m right, but when I’m wrong, I’m not just slightly wrong, I’m way off. So as the door opens and Maryann Hart shakes my hand—hers is small, thin, with long fingernails polished a tasteful pink—I remind myself to distrust my quick assessment: rich, high-born, hasn’t worked a day in her life.

  There’s barking coming from somewhere in the house. “That’s Sherman,” she explains as she leads me into living room. “He gets so excited when the doorbell rings.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  “Yes, well, I thought we might want to talk before … Sherman’s so adorable, he can be quite a distraction. Would you like something to drink? I have some iced tea … Just make yourself at home while I…” Without waiting for my answer she glides off toward the kitchen. I settle on the sofa, the kind that envelops you in its cushiness. The furnishings look rustic but are nearly new, the stuff decorators know how to assemble so that the room looks casual. The walls are full of nice photographs of the island in the old days, sepia-toned, in distressed-wood frames. There are a couple of magazines on the coffee table—Island Life, Architectural Digest—but no other signs that anyone really lives here. If I spent two weeks straightening my condo and getting rid of junk, it wouldn’t look this neat.

  Mrs. Hart comes back with the iced tea. She looks expensive, too, in her ice-blue linen jacket and matching pants, a silk scarf arranged loosely at her neck, silver earrings and bracelet. If she’s had a facelift, which I suspect, it’s a good one. She’s in her early sixties but could pass for ten years younger; only her hands, with those raised blue veins almost the same color as her outfit, give her away.

  “This is such a lovely home,” I begin.

  “You’re very kind to say so, but my husband has ruined it for me.”

  I don’t want to get into this, not yet. “How old is the house?”

  “The original part—this room—was just a cottage, built around 1920, but it’s been added onto over the years, and Rusty and I added the master bedroom suite when we bought it.” She sips her tea. “I think it’s important that you understand why I … why I feel so uncomfortable here.” A tear trembles on her cheek. She catches it with her napkin.

  “Mrs. Hart, my role is to help the judge decide who should have the dog. It isn’t really appropriate for me to get into the other issues in the case, unless they’re relevant to Sherman’s welfare.” As if on cue, the barking gets louder.

  “If I told you that my husband and his lover conducted their affair on this very sofa, and that Sherman probably witnessed the whole thing, would that change your mind?”

  “Mrs. Hart—”

  “Would you expose your child to such a thing? Do you have children, Ms. Baynard?”

  “Please call me Sally. No, I don’t have children, but I’ve represented lots of kids in court.”

  “Then I’m sure you have a dog.”

  “No.” I’m beginning to feel defensive.

  “Then perhaps,” she says, “you can’t really understand what I’m going through.”

  “I understand that both you and Mr. Hart want Sherman to be in the best situation, to be loved.”

  “I want to protect him from abuse, Ms.… Sally.”

  “Abuse?”

  “Emotional abuse. Terrible emotional abuse. You see, my husband—”

  “Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Sherman, what you think you have to offer him, and then we can talk about your other concerns.” I take out my legal pad. Damn my ex-husband for getting me into this.

  She persists. “Yes, of course, but I want you to understand why I’m asking for this divorce, so I’ll give you a little background, if you don’t mind.”

  There’s no way out. The dog’s bark sounds a little hoarse now. I begin taking notes, getting the basic facts.

  1st m. for both. Mrs. Hart 63, homemaker.

  Mr. H 69, retired president, First Nat’l Bank.

  “Do you have children, Mrs. Hart?”

  “You said you wanted to concentrate on Sherman.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Bear with me, because this is important to the whole question of who should have him.” She sighs. “Rusty has had several affairs over the years. I forgave him for all of them except this most recent. So flagrant and tasteless.”

  “Flagrant?” I repeat as I write this down.

  “Yes, that’s what I was trying to tell you. It was right here on the sofa. The detective has a video, if you want to—”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “Anyway, this time he went too far,” Mrs. Hart continues. “He brought his little whore into my house.”

  “I thought … Didn’t his lawyer say that the, uh, paramour … that she’s a neighbor?”

  “Oh, I don’t mean a whore in the professional sense, but I’m sure she gets around. All you have to do is look at her.” Mrs. Hart runs her fingers through her hair—expertly cut to show off her firm jaw line, colored blond but with a little gray left in so you almost think it’s natural—lifting it and rearranging it. She’s a woman who knows how good she looks even without a mirror.

  Whore next door: Mindy Greene. 19. College of Charleston

  drop-out. Drug dealer.

  “She’s a drug dealer?”

  “Well, she hasn’t been arrested yet, but it’s just a matter of time,” says Mrs. Hart. “In any event, as I was saying, I’d been suspecting something, and once we had evidence, we filed for divorce.”

  “We?”

  “Henry Swinton and I. My lawyer.”

  “Right. And then your husband counterclaimed … on grounds of habitual drunkenness?”

  “He made that up,” she says, a little too loud. The dog raises his volume, too. “I hardly drink at all. Oh, I always keep a bottle of wine on hand in case I have unexpected guests. You should ask him how many bottles of bourbon he goes through in a month!”

  Mrs. H denies alleg of h.d.

  Says H is one w/ drinking prob.

  She continues: “I suppose Rusty will say just about anything to win this case. That other thing he said at the last hearing, about my disappearing, that was a gross exaggeration.”

  I don’t remember anything about disappearances, but I pretend to. “What was he referring to?”

  “It’s just a little local volunteer project. He isn’t entitled to know my whereabouts every hour of the day, is he?”

  “Mrs. Hart, the only thing that really matters to me is your relationship with Sherman. Why don’t you tell me a little about him … like, how did he get his name?”

  She winces. “Sherman isn’t his real name.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “His papers say ‘Beauregard’s Fancy.’ I wanted to call him Beau, but my husband … he just kept calling him Sherman, to annoy me.”

  “Why Sherman?”

  “Because when we first got him, he was a little destructive, like the general.”

  “What did he destroy … the dog, I mean?”

  “He chewed up the legs of our dining room table. The one downtown. And a couple of shoes. But he was just a puppy. I didn’t think it was fair to name such a darling little dog after such a terrible character—and a Yankee, to boot!—but now it’s too late.” The dog’s bark is now more like a bleat, a hoarse plea.

  “Maybe you could let him out now?”

  “Surely,” she says, standing up, walking past me. “He’s usually much better behaved. He’s been so upset with all of this…” Her voice trails off. “There you are, my darling. Come out and meet our guest!” But Sherman needs no coaxing. He prances past her, bounds up onto the sofa, and positions himself right next to me. “Sherman,” Mr
s. Hart exclaims, “Where are your manners? Down!”

  “It’s okay,” I say. He inspects me intently, his dark eyes shining behind white bushy eyebrows, as if he’d like to conduct the interview himself. “I’m not afraid of dogs.”

  “I’m sure you’ll like Sherman. With me, it was love at first sight. Sherman, come to Mommy, darling.” The dog settles into her lap and she strokes the top of his head. His ears twitch, then relax. “Rusty—my husband—though, that was a different story. He completely opposed the adoption.”

  “Adoption?”

  “Yes, you know, through one of those agencies that deal exclusively in purebreds. His first family was just the nicest … but the poor woman was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, so…”

  “And you say Mr. Hart didn’t want the dog?”

  “He wanted a bigger dog. So you can imagine how shocked I was when he … that he’s putting up such a fight over Sherman. Would you like some more tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Sherman moves closer to me. His long whiskers brush my hand. “He seems to like you,” says Mrs. Hart. “He’s not always so good with strangers. That’s one of the things I really worry about. Rusty will just let him associate with anybody. I feel it’s so important not to … not to let Sherman just run wild. Would you like to see his medical records … I mean from the vet?”

  At the word “vet” Sherman’s ears jerk to attention, then fall back into their relaxed forward curl. “Maybe later,” I say.

  “I made copies.”

  “That’s very thoughtful. I’ll take them with me.”

  “Though I have to say I’m not totally satisfied with the vet,” she says. Yes, the dog’s ears definitely rise a little at the sound of “vet.” “He was Rusty’s choice, the son of one of his old hunting buddies,… Tony … Oh my mind’s gone blank. Starts with a ‘B’ … Brown or something like that. It’s in the records.”

  “What don’t you like about him.”

  “His clinic is way out in the country, on Johns Island. Very inconvenient. I think Rusty chose him just to spite me.”

  “Mrs. Hart, what are your specific concerns for Sherman’s welfare if—and I’m not saying this is going to happen, of course—if the judge were to let him live with your husband permanently?”

  “Rusty won’t use the leash. Poor Sherman has paid the price with a broken foot.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “A car hit him. It was awful.”

  “So your husband let him off the leash, and he ran into the road?”

  “It’s all in the vet’s records. And, as I said, Rusty isn’t particular about other dogs, he just lets Sherman associate with anybody, no matter how rough.” I can’t suppress a smile. “You think I’m being overprotective, don’t you? That’s because you don’t have a dog yourself.”

  “I’m not making any judgments. I’m just trying to understand the situation. I appreciate your honesty, Mrs. Hart. Is there anything else?”

  “Rusty uses foul language around Sherman.”

  “Such as?”

  “The ‘F’ word. And other words. It frightens Sherman. Rusty has an awful temper.”

  “He yells at the dog?”

  “He’s abusive.”

  “Does he hit the dog, Mrs. Hart?”

  “Not that I’ve observed. But he abuses me verbally and emotionally, so I just assume that when I’m not around, he might do something…”

  “Is there anything else you’re concerned about that relates to Sherman?”

  “I’m sure I’ll think of more later. This whole thing’s has just been so … so upsetting.”

  “Would you mind if I spend a little time alone with Sherman?” This is what I’d normally do if I were representing a child. I’m desperate for a break from her, and maybe she’ll think this is standard procedure—as if there is such a thing—in a dog-custody case. “Maybe I could take him for a walk?” Sherman sits up, interested.

  “Well, I don’t know. He isn’t so comfortable around strangers.”

  “He seems to be doing okay with me. I’ll have him back in half an hour.”

  “Well, if you promise not to let him off the leash, or into the road. Sherman prefers to walk on the sidewalk … And he may try to lead you to the beach, but I’d prefer you not do that. He’ll get all wet and sandy.” She brings the leash, bends over to attach it to the collar. “You have my phone number in case—”

  “I won’t let anything happen to him.”

  “Just ring the doorbell when you get back. I don’t like to leave the door unlocked.”

  * * *

  Sherman walks in front of me, his nose held high. He seems to know how handsome he is: gray coat, perfectly groomed white eyebrows and whiskers. He tugs at the leash and I give him an extra foot or two. At the intersection just past Mrs. Hart’s house, he pauses, puts his nose to the pavement, then starts to turn to cross the street.

  “No, we can’t go to the beach,” I say, and give his leash a tug. He looks up at me, black eyes pleading. What harms can come from a little detour? “Oh, okay. I need to check on my mom, anyway.” There’s a wave of dark clouds coming from the west, moving closer.

  The dog leads the way down the public boardwalk through the dunes, stopping to sniff an abandoned plastic bucket and a once-blue flip-flop, bleached by the sun. As the dunes give way to level sand he stops again, sits, takes in the salt smell and the roar of the ocean, then heads for the blanket I brought for my mother and Delores. One of the chairs is still there, but the other has blown down the beach.

  “Mom and Delores must have taken a walk,” I say. I’ve always thought people who talk to their dogs are a little pathetic, but I feel the need to explain. “Let’s just sit here for a while and—”

  It’s then that I see Delores at the ocean’s edge maybe fifty yards down the beach, up to her knees in the water, arms waving frantically.

  “Delores! Where’s Mom?” I yell, coming up behind her.

  “Out there!” she says, pointing toward the roiling waves. Sherman hears her panic, lets out a series of piercing barks. “She just wanted to dip her feet in the water. I was holding her hand and then she … then she—”

  I can barely see my mother bobbing in the waves. She’s not exactly swimming—I can’t remember the last time my mother went swimming—but floating in the swells, so far out you could mistake her head for a crab trap or a piece of flotsam.

  “Mom!” I scream. But of course she can’t hear me. The undertow is pulling her farther and farther down the beach, toward Breach Inlet, where even strong swimmers can drown. There’s nothing to do but go after her. “Here, you hold onto the dog,” I say to Delores, who’s crying now. I throw off my jacket, kick off my shoes and jump in—the water’s so cold it stings—swimming hard, the waves smacking my face. I see a huge one coming and I duck under, as my father taught me to do so long ago. I come up for breath, go under again, and then I come up next to her.

  “Mom!”

  The expression in her eyes is not exactly amusement, but something close, as if she thinks it’s odd to find another of her kind out here.

  “Mom, hold onto me. I’ll take you back in.” There’s an instant when I think she won’t listen, but then she grabs my arm. “Don’t fight the undertow, just go with it.” Slowly, slowly I pull her back to shore, the waves whacking the backs of our heads, half submerging us, taking us under, then pushing us to safety.

  Delores meets us with the blanket and wraps it around my mother, whose lips are blue and trembling. “Lord, Miz Margaret, you scared the bejesus out of me. What you been thinking to jump in like that?”

  “I lost…” my mother says breathlessly. “My dog.”

  And that’s when I realize that we’re not just missing my mother’s stuffed chihuahua. We’re missing Sherman.

  How can I go back to Mrs. Hart and say, “I’m sorry, I lost your dog”? As I run up the beach looking for him, the sky turns purple and the wind shoots sand in my eyes.


  To stay calm I talk to myself: You’ll find him. How far can he go on those little legs?

  Losing Things

  “You’re always losing things,” my mother used to say.

  When I was twelve I lost an Easter hat my mother paid twenty dollars for—a lot of money for a little girl’s hat back then—a white straw hat festooned with fake daisies and a yellow ribbon that matched my dress. I hated the hat as much as I hated the dress, and maybe that had something to do with my losing it somewhere in the graveyard behind the church. My father was buried in that graveyard, and I used to go there to visit him after the service while my mother chatted over coffee in the parish hall. I believed it was somehow my fault that I had lost him. Maybe I hadn’t loved him enough.

  And I lost Brownie, the spaniel my father gave me just before he died. He’d adored the dog as much as I had, and in the weeks after the funeral I clung to Brownie as if she had magical powers, as if her presence meant my father hadn’t completely vanished from the earth. My mother dealt with her grief by packing Daddy’s clothes for the Salvation Army and putting an ad in the paper: “Spaniel free to good home.” Weren’t we a good home? “Of course,” she said, “but I’ll be working now and you’ll be in school. There’ll be no one here to take care of the dog.” Maybe if I’d cried harder, begged harder, she might have changed her mind, but I was exhausted from weeks of crying. Looking back, I realize she was exhausted, too, and terrified of going back to work after all those years.

  And I’ve lost plenty of cases, important cases—although no case is unimportant for the human beings in the middle of it. Early on, imagining that with a little practice I could be Clarence Darrow, I lost a murder case. I wasn’t hoping for a miracle, just for the jury to come back with a manslaughter verdict for my client, a nineteen-year-old woman from the housing project on America Street, who’d shot her boyfriend when she found him screwing her best girlfriend. Surely, I argued, she’d done it “in the heat of passion.” There’d be no problem convincing the jury she was only guilty of manslaughter. I hoped they’d overlook the fact that after she discovered his infidelity she drove two miles to her cousin’s house to get a gun.