The end of the biscotti disappears into the maw of the dog, who crunches it with loud abandon. Adam is chilled, sitting on the metal chair as the temperature falls. He has no doubt that the look on his own face when confronted by those gangstas had shown the same wash of fear, fear of those who have control of the moment, of those who will decide the next action.
The phantom pain twinges again and he takes another shallow breath. The dog looks up at him, his yellow-brown eyes hopeful of another chunk of biscotti, the encounter on the sidewalk forgotten. “Time to go home.”
Rafe is singing along to Tracy Chapman on his iPod, his voice seriously under pitch. “Talkin’ about a revolution, yah yah yah.” Today he’s concocted a meat loaf with brown gravy, his signature garlic mashed potatoes, and a salad tossed in a bowl the size of a try-pot on a whaling ship. This has become one of Adam’s favorite meals, which surprises him, as meat loaf, like liver, was a dish forbidden in the March home. Too many meals in his youth featured meat loaf, extended with fillers of bread or cereal, doctored with ketchup. But Rafe’s version of the dish could be served in any of the upscale restaurants Adam once patronized, and he tells Rafe this.
“You say so, man? Go on. This recipe belonged to my granny, who got it from hers and so on, back to when our people brought it over on the slave ship.”
“Rafe, your hyperbole is matched only by your skill with a spatula.” Adam unties the long white apron from around his waist, tosses it into the laundry bin.
The center’s chef plugs his ear bud back into his ear, but he is smiling.
Adam is in a good mood. Two things have cheered him up immensely. The first, a client—his first step toward breaking out from under the crushing debt he has incurred since losing his job and his assets. The second, the fact that Ariel actually initiated a telephone call to him. She wants to come spend the weekend with him, unprompted. This is a first, and Adam is fighting a rising suspicion that it isn’t about spending time with him, but about annoying her mother. Lately, Sterling has complained that Ariel is acting out. Her usual friends are absent and the new kids she hangs out with Sterling has deemed quite unsuitable. Adam has defended Ariel, chalking it up to adolescent rebellion, but Sterling, in a rare moment of unguardedness with him, wouldn’t shrug it off, fretting that there’s something going on, something beyond normal growing pains. Sterling tells Adam that Ariel wants to give up riding all of a sudden. Her grades are falling; she didn’t try out for the lacrosse team. And yesterday, she came back from town with a stud through her nose.
Adam thinks about Ariel’s form of defiance and Veronica’s sixties version. Nose rings versus miniskirts. Normal adolescent disrespect versus complete disappearance.
With everything in the center’s kitchen all shipshape, Adam shrugs into his coat, pockets the package of meat loaf Rafe is sending home to Chance, and bids his coworkers to have a good weekend. He’s in a hurry; the rest of his day will be spent honing the client’s business plan. A start-up company, three
baby-faced entrepreneurs who have managed to raise a million dollars from friends and family to start a business designing skateboard parks. They hope to be the Rees Jones of skateboarders, and Adam plans to leave the suit coat and tie at home when he makes this presentation Monday afternoon. Then he has to plan some meals for Ariel’s visit. This time, he will resist the temptation to take her to a place he can’t afford; he’ll cook instead. He’s learning a lot from Rafe, although proportions have been a little challenging and he’s overdosed more than once on a lasagna that lasted for a week. And Chance needs his daily constitutional.
It’s been awhile since Adam watched Judge Judy.
At half-past five, the park is beginning to empty out, and Adam finds this is the best time to take his dog out for some exercise. They run around the man-made lake at the center, then cool out walking along the path that loops gently through the gardens. It is still too early for flowers, but there is a certain tinge of pinky green, a hint of reanimation in the bare branches above their heads. The brindled dog lopes along beside Adam, his lolling tongue giving him a cheerful look. As they slow to a walk, Adam plays out more of the leash and lets Chance do his doggy thing along the freshly edged, if empty, gardens.
As Adam and Chance come up over a short rise, Gina appears with her three greyhounds. They both stop at a distance, uncertain about the dogs, about Chance.
“Let me get them leashed.” Gina calls her dogs, who all look like antlerless deer to Adam. He glances down at Chance and is relieved to see the dog’s tail wagging ever so slightly. Is
he happy to see Gina, or is he okay with the three tall dogs? Very slowly, everyone comes together on the narrow path. Noses are working, tails begin to wag, no hostility. The greyhounds move like dignitaries, circling Chance, winding their leashes into a braid, until Gina has to spin to free herself from the maypole dance of the four dogs, a graceful movement, accompanied by her laughter.
Chance tolerates the inquisition. No lurching. No growling. No lifted lips. “Good boy, Chance.” Adam thumps him on the ribs. The tail continues to wag.
“He’s coming along, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. He’s definitely getting better about other dogs.”
A awkward moment passes between them. What they have is a lack of definition. They have exchanged harsh words, and shared a cup of tea. She’s observed him; he’s watched her. But what did that make them: the kind of acquaintances who turn around on a walk to join each other, or the ones who keep going? Passing acquaintances? If circumstances were different, if she hadn’t been on the egg-throwing side of a long-ago controversy, would she like him? Adam is flummoxed by the thoughts darting around his head as he looks for something neutral to say.
“Well, nice to see you.” Gina gathers the three leashes into her left hand. She looks like a chariot driver, the tall, pale dogs fanned in front of her. “Bye, bye, Chance.”
“I’m heading out. Is it okay if I walk with you?” Adam twitches the leash and Chance moves closer to his side. “It’s good for him to be around other dogs.”
Gina nods. “Sure.” Not hostile, not warm. If he was to attribute any adjective to her response, it might be
cautious.
He is disheartened. By this time, she shouldn’t be so grudging
with her friendship—willing to give him a good reference for Dr. Gil, unwilling to forget about his connection to Dynamic Industries.
They walk in the direction of the entrance to the park with its wrought-iron gates. The silence is not exactly comfortable; neither is it intolerable. They both keep their attention on the dogs. Keep the dogs between them. But it is the lingering memory of her touch on his arm that emboldens him to keep pace with her, not to say “Nice to see you, too” and speed on his way.
Gina is first to break the silence. “Who did you finally decide on as a trainer?”
“No one. The truth is, I can’t afford a trainer. At least not at the moment.” Adam considers that Gina might think it strange that a man like himself can’t afford something like dog training, and he almost adds that his daughter’s horse trainer is enough trainer for him. But he doesn’t. He waits to hear what Gina might say.
“There are training tapes. You can get them out of the library.” If she is curious, Gina doesn’t betray it.
“Good idea. Although he’s got ‘Sit’ pretty well learned. And ‘Come.’ We’re definitely doing better on ‘Come.’ ‘Stay off the futon’ is not so good.”
“But not attacking other dogs is. I see some improvement there.”
“Sort of. Today is a good day.”
“Lucky for my guys.”
“Lucky for me.”
They have reached the gates. Gina stops at a Prius parked nearby. “Why don’t you come by and pick out a dog bed for him? That may help with the futon issues.”
“I will.”
“I have some that aren’t very expensive.”
“I’m sure I can swing a dog bed.”
Gina unlocks her car door and the three greyhounds jump in, only to collapse around one another on the backseat. She doesn’t offer Adam a lift. Nonetheless, Adam smiles as he picks up the pace for home.
If Ariel is disappointed that they are not going out for one of their fancy meals, she has the good grace to hide it. In fact, she’s quite agreeable, and there is no sign of her iPod or her cell phone. Adam feels like he should be either suspicious or ecstatic. Maybe she’s just growing up, he thinks. Maybe the anger is starting to wear off. She is sixteen, tall and willowy. Her physical resemblance to Veronica is heightened by the way she’s wearing her hair, not pulled back into a messy knot, nor in those slightly suggestive little-girl ponytails sported by some of the girls he sees walking to school in his neighborhood. Today her blond hair is loose; ripples of natural wave keep it from being plain. A thick cream-colored scarf is around her neck, and she wears a black lambskin jacket over her designer jeans. He can see the tiny faceted stone in the side of her nose, twinkling in the sunlight like a ruby red mole. It’s not as bad as he imagined. Surely the hole will close up once she outgrows this need to mutilate herself in the name of fashion. In the meantime, he’s learning how to look at her
face without looking at the stud. The effect of all of this is that she doesn’t look sixteen. She looks older, and he knows that is precisely what she hopes.
Sterling wants him to talk to Ariel about her friends, behavior, attitude, and blowing off schoolwork and reminded him of that when he picked Ariel up. Adam decides to be the good cop. Why spoil this “so far, so good” afternoon? Maybe when he takes her back to Sylvan Fields tomorrow, he’ll say something. But for now, he’ll enjoy this air of cooperation, this rare unsullied proximity.
As they pull into the parking lot behind his building, Adam pats Ariel’s knee. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”
Instantly, Ariel’s demeanor tenses. “Who?” She unbuckles her seat belt but doesn’t open the door.
“Not going to tell you; it’s a surprise.” He’s a little surprised at her reaction. Adam hasn’t told Ariel that he ended up keeping the dog he said was temporary. “You’ll like him.”
Ariel visibly relaxes, smiles, and twirls a lock of hair behind her ear. Three studs frame the delicate edging of pink ear that he once marveled over while watching her sleep. “Okay. Him. All right.” She elides those two words into one odd sound. A’ite.
Clearly, Ariel isn’t up to accepting another woman in her father’s life. He smiles, then thinks of Gina. If he was ready to date, would she be a likely candidate? He’s bought a nice dog bed from her, and she was pleasant enough as he got Chance to try the fit on several of them. They both knew that he could find an equally nice bed at the local pet supply warehouse for a lot less, but he handed over his abused Visa and smiled even as he chided himself for caring if she liked him or not. But there is something about her that lingers like an afterimage every time he encounters her.
Adam and Ariel climb the back stairs to his floor. He tries not to see the place as she must. Despite a perfectly serviceable hallway, no terrible food odors from neighbors, even a few door decorations cheering it up, it still has that worn industrial look about it. Gray carpet, beige walls. Uninspired sconces light the hallway, dim even in broad daylight. The only apartment building she has ever spent time in is on Park Avenue in New York. There is no hallway in that building; the elevator opens into the foyer of her grandparents’ floor. They own the entire floor.
Adam hurries to unlock his door.
Chance sits in the middle of the living room, the squashed throw pillows on the futon clear evidence that the new dog bed is a waste of money. At the sight of Ariel, the dog’s tail ticks back and forth, his jaw drops open, and his banner tongue rolls out. His eyes squint; he stands and shakes. Then sits again. As with every stranger, the dog is cautious.
“Jesus, Dad. What the f… hell is that?”
“My dog.”
“A pit bull? You have a pit bull?” She is laughing, though, laughing and patting her knees to beckon the dog to her. “Is this the same dog you had before?”
“The same.”
“How come you still have him?”
“It’s a long story.”
“That’s what you always say.”
Chance lumbers over to Ariel, tail still swinging. Ariel reaches out a tentative hand, allowing the dog to sniff the back of it before reaching under his chin to scratch. Adam wonders where she’s learned this approach to strange dogs. He certainly never taught her that. Never knew it himself. There is so much
he doesn’t know about this young woman. He wasn’t there for the first time the tooth fairy made an appearance. He was in Hong Kong the evening of her first junior high orchestra performance. Even long after she was a toddler, she was asleep most nights before he made it home. He, like the rest of his cohorts, brayed about the quality time they had with their children. The family ski vacations in Aspen; the once-a-year tennis lessons together. Surely that made up for the absences. The preoccupations.
“What’s his name?”
“Chance.”
“Interesting.” Ariel moves her scratching fingers up and over the dog’s head, down his spine, which gets him to wriggling. “Whose idea was that?”
“Gina.”
Once again, the tension shows in the tightening of her jaw muscles.
“She owns the shop across the street, fancy pet supplies and tropical fish. I bought the dog bed from her.” His voice sounds dismissive even to his own ears.
Ariel visibly relaxes again, as if a shop owner isn’t someone she imagines her father being interested in. She stands up to remove her coat, looks around the apartment, drops the coat on the futon, and goes to find refreshment in the mostly-empty fridge.
Adam doesn’t know how he’ll entertain his daughter for the next twenty-four hours.
Adam’s meat loaf isn’t quite as tasty as Rafe’s, although he’s followed the recipe exactly. His mashed potatoes are acceptable,
and he’s cheated with a can of gravy. The salad, however, is very good. Ariel not only hasn’t turned her nose up at the plebeian menu; she’s helped herself to a second, albeit thin, slice of meat loaf.