Before You Know Kindness

  Heather and Randy were walking a few paces behind him, chatting. He wondered if perhaps he should bring the animal home tomorrow--Friday--instead of on Monday. The advantage was that Charlotte didn't have school on Saturday and Sunday, and so she would have more time to bond with the pet. They all would. Moreover, Monday might be chaos for him because of the press conference on Tuesday, and it was certainly possible that his day would get away from him and he wouldn't even be able to make it to the humane society to pick the animal up.

  On the other hand, Willow was arriving this weekend and surely Charlotte would want to see her. And Sara and Willow and ol' Francis Macomber wanted to take Charlotte and Catherine to the Cloisters on Saturday.

  "You have cats, right?" It was Heather talking to him, the woman standing suddenly right beside him. Her eyes were blue and she was staring at him intensely.

  "Yes. Two."

  "I believe Tanya's pretty good with cats. But when we get back, let's bring her to the playroom on the third floor of the shelter. We can see how she does there with some of the cats we have right now."

  "Okay."

  She pushed her bangs off her face and gazed at his sling. "How are you doing?" she asked. "It looks like she's giving you a pretty good workout."

  "I'm right-handed."

  "When do you get your arm back?"

  "Never."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Completely. Nerve damage."

  She nodded thoughtfully and then said, "Your daughter's thirteen, right?"

  "Just turned thirteen, yes."

  "So, tell me: What are you going to do in four or five years when she leaves home? When she goes to college or gets a job?"

  "You mean in regard to Tanya?"

  "Yup. You said this dog would be a present for her."

  "I guess I'll be walking her more often, then."

  "I presume you're married."

  "I am," he said. Glib responses passed through his head: For the moment. At present. Trying like hell. But he squashed them because the last thing he wanted was to give Heather the idea that Tanya might be brought back to the shelter at some point in the next four or five years because his daughter was leaving for college and his marriage had gone belly up. And though he knew it wasn't necessary, he felt a prickle of defensiveness--that old anger--at the sensitive spot this woman inadvertently had touched, and he continued in a voice that was needlessly sharp, "Really, you don't need to worry about my commitment to this dog. I've devoted my life to trying to stop animal cruelty: The last thing I would ever do is act irresponsibly in regard to this creature or behave in a manner that would in any way make her life difficult."

  "You don't need to sell me on your devotion to animals," Heather said. "I was only asking because I like Tanya, and I will do what I can to make sure she has a happy new life."

  Quickly Randy took the leash from him and gently reeled Tanya in. She knelt on the sidewalk before the animal and nuzzled her. "I think you are going to love every minute of your life with the McCullough family. Yes, I do," she said, murmuring into the dog's snout as if it were a microphone. And though she was talking to Tanya, Spencer knew she was speaking largely for Heather's benefit. He sighed, forced himself to relax. He was very glad she had joined him.

  LATER THAT DAY, farther uptown in Central Park, Nan Seton walked her own dog. Though the sun had set it was still light out, and they were on the path just north of the museum that bordered the reservoir. They were passed by joggers and young people on in-line skates, and sometimes the dog would crane his nose into the air as the exercisers slid by, savoring the aromas that their exertions left in their wake.

  She liked walking the dog, despite the fact that she no longer felt well, because it created routine. And Nan cherished routine. Granted, in the country it was nice also just to allow the animal to wander aimlessly into the fields of lupine that surrounded her house. But here in Manhattan? It was reassuring to have a regimen. It would not expunge the despondency that had begun to envelope her in New Hampshire, but it would take her mind off it for long moments at a time. She could focus once more on the small repetitive acts and social rituals that filled out her days in the city, instead of on her fears for her family once she was gone. No one--no thing--was irreplaceable. But some people were more useful than others. And now she had to contend with the reality that whatever was ailing her (and Nan knew it was real, because she was many things but a hypochondriac was not among them) was not merely going to take her: When she was gone, her family would still be estranged.

  She had just turned around and started back toward the park's exit, the dog's leash in one hand, when she saw that woman whom she believed was her son-in-law's boss jogging in her direction. Dominique Germaine. She was wearing the sort of tight Lycra bike shorts which in Nan's opinion bordered on the indecent and a halter top that left little of the woman's stomach to the imagination. She was wearing a headset as she ran.

  Nan didn't believe the woman would recognize her as Spencer McCullough's mother-in-law, though they had been introduced two or three times, including one afternoon when Spencer had lectured about George Bernard Shaw and nineteenth-century vegetarianism to a luncheon crowd at the Colony Club. (Nan had felt a twinge of guilt that the club had served salmon that day, but certainly her son-in-law hadn't expected them to serve something with beans or tofu to a group of already gaseous elderly women.) She hadn't really thought about what she was going to do--or why--but she called out to the woman as she approached, "Excuse me."

  Dominique stopped and for a moment jogged in place, and Nan could tell that she was trying to decide whether this stranger who was accosting her was a FERAL friend or foe. Clearly she was accustomed to being stopped by unfamiliar people. Then she allowed her legs to stop churning and bent down to pet the dog on the leash.

  "This is a beautiful animal," she murmured, and she nuzzled her face against his. "I am so sorry that I don't have any Kibble-Soys for you," she said ruefully to the dog.

  "Kibble-Soys?"

  "Meat-free dog biscuits."

  Nan resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "My name is Nan Seton. You are Dominique Germaine, aren't you?"

  "Guilty as charged. Are you a member of FERAL? I do hope so."

  "Well, I give money to your group each year in December. But I don't know if I am, technically, a member."

  "Certainly you are. Thank you. We--the animals--appreciate whatever you give. Truly."

  "I'm Spencer McCullough's mother-in-law."

  The woman rose to her feet, and Nan felt an odd and unexpected twinge of pride at her reaction.

  "Well. I am so sorry about what happened," she said. "It is such a tragedy."

  "John Seton is my son."

  "Of course he is," she said, and instantly returned their conversation to her son-in-law. "It's so good to have Spencer back. You can't imagine. We missed him dreadfully this summer. Dreadfully."

  "I haven't seen him since he was in New Hampshire. I only returned to the city a few hours ago. I may see him this Saturday or Sunday. I hope so."

  "He's doing so much better this week. Really. So much better. He will, of course, never--"

  "I know all the things he will never do again," she said, surprising herself by cutting the woman off. She knew she could be blunt--on occasion even curt--but rarely would she interrupt someone while that other person was speaking.

  "I feel so bad for him."

  "And for my daughter."

  Dominique nodded. "Yes. And for your daughter."

  "I'd like to talk to you."

  "We are, aren't we?" She smiled.

  "Spencer and my son aren't speaking. And it's making everything difficult. This weekend my son and his family are visiting the city, and I want to do something special for my granddaughters' birthdays. Unfortunately, whatever I do, it won't involve Spencer. He won't go because John will be present."

  Dominique pasted on her face what she hoped was a thoughtful expression: one that was interested and
winning and sympathetic. Inside, however, she was feeling peevish. She wanted to resume her run. Besides, it was this woman's son whose indefensible enthusiasm for hunting had left one of her most senior staff members permanently disabled. "And you're telling me this . . . why?" she said finally.

  "Because Spencer is doing this for you. For FERAL."

  "He's not talking to John for FERAL? Or he's suing the gun manufacturer for FERAL? Forgive me, but which?"

  "Both."

  She inhaled. She wanted to correct this woman, to explain to her in no uncertain terms that Spencer was suing Adirondack, first, because the long-term costs of his disability would be enormous and, second, because he saw no reason why so many animals should be hunted and killed with weapons capable of inflicting precisely as much pain as he himself had been enduring since the middle of the summer. Nevertheless, she would be patient. She had to. She hadn't a choice. She was a public figure, and, besides, Spencer was very good at what he did.

  And so she said simply, "And you want me to do something."

  The woman's jaw fell slack, and for the briefest of seconds she actually saw the gold fillings residing in the teeth in the lower half of her mouth. Clearly the responses Spencer's mother had anticipated had not included what she had heard as an offer to help. It wasn't, of course, in Dominique's mind. It was merely a confirmation of what Nan Seton was asking; but if this other person had heard more than she meant and it would allow her to disengage from this unwanted conversation quickly, so be it.

  "Yes, I do," Nan answered. "You're his boss. I don't see how his refusal to talk to my son is benefiting anyone. I don't see how this press conference next week will help. It seems to me, all any of this is doing is tearing my family apart."

  "I'm sorry. It shouldn't have to be that way. But I'm sure you've seen how much pain Spencer has been in since your granddaughter shot him. Right?"

  Nan seemed to flinch on either the word granddaughter or shot; Dominique couldn't tell which.

  "Imagine, then: Spencer was shot with a gun and a bullet designed to inflict exactly that sort of agony on a deer."

  "The deer die quickly," Nan said.

  "Some do. But that doesn't make it right. And some run for hours before they die. Or days. The truth is, an awful lot of deer die slowly of their wounds or of starvation because they are unable to browse. And every minute of it they are enduring what your son-in-law is experiencing now."

  "None of that justifies the turmoil my family is experiencing."

  "Reasonable people could debate that. Look at your sweet companion animal here. Why is it acceptable to inflict such pain on a deer but not on this fine creature? Why is a dog more deserving of our protection than a deer?"

  "I don't want to be theoretical. I'm speaking as a mother. As the head of a family. None of this justifies Spencer not speaking to John."

  "Spencer's angry. Can you blame him?"

  "John is very sorry."

  "I'm sure he is."

  "Look, I'm very concerned about this!"

  Dominique scratched the dog once again behind his ears. Her patience, she realized, was at an end. "I'll talk to Spencer," she said simply.

  "Will you?"

  "Yes."

  "Thank you. That's the right thing to do, you know."

  She nodded, wished this old woman a pleasant evening, and slipped her headphones back over her ears. It was semantics, but she told herself as she started to jog that she had never said to Nan Seton precisely what she would say to Spencer. She guessed she wouldn't tell him anything that he didn't already know. His mother-in-law wanted the two boys to play nicely in the sandbox. And that, she understood, was no more likely than FERAL deciding not to hold a press conference on Spencer McCullough's behalf.

  THURSDAY NIGHT CATHERINE phoned her brother. Spencer and Charlotte were in the living room listening to the CD for The Secret Garden, playing over and over the cuts in which young Mary Lennox had her solos. Though Catherine was happy to see the two of them spending so much time together, she feared if she had to hear that over-the-top feigned British accent much more--both the one that young actress had used on Broadway and the one her daughter was attempting--she would take the disc and flip it from their apartment window like a flying saucer. She called John while she cleaned up the dinner dishes largely so she could hold the phone against her ear with her shoulder. She hoped that the combination of the conversation, the running water, and the sound that she made when she scrubbed hard, blackened vegetable matter from the bottom of a cast-iron skillet would drown out the Victorian melodrama being reenacted in her living room.

  "So, I gather we'll see you on Saturday," he was saying to her. Yesterday she and Sara had coordinated the logistics of the Seton family's visit to Manhattan this weekend, and Sara clearly had briefed her husband on the itinerary.

  "Yes, indeed. God, I can't even remember the last time I went to the Cloisters," she said. "How old was I? Eleven? Ten? I was definitely younger than Charlotte."

  "I don't know. I wasn't with you."

  "You sound tense."

  "Gee, I can't imagine why I might be tense. Can you?"

  "You won't even see Spencer this weekend. He's going to take advantage of the fact we'll be at the Cloisters on Saturday to prepare for the press conference. And on Sunday Dominique is speaking at some rally against the cat show at the Garden, and Spencer's going to join her. "

  "But the point is, I would like to see Spencer. I want this cold war behind us."

  "Not gonna happen."

  "I know."

  "The thing is . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "The thing is, he seems so happy these days. He really does. Or, at least, serene. He barely flinched when I told him I've been a closet carnivore all these years."

  "Better living through drugs. I'm sure it's the painkillers."

  "Well, clearly they're helping with his injury--though he's still hurting a lot. But what I meant is something different. His attitude. Do you know what he's doing right this second?"

  "Tell me."

  "He's rehearsing with Charlotte. Again. Suddenly he's become superdad."

  "Spencer never does anything halfway."

  "Marriage, maybe."

  "Excuse me?"

  She wasn't sure why she had said that, and she wished now that she could take it back. She couldn't, however, not with John, and so she told him--hoping to diminish the significance of her inadvertent disclosure--"I was just grousing."

  "Indeed."

  "It's been years since I've had more than half of Spencer's attention, because so much has always gone to pigs and monkeys and circus bears. And now that's he become superdad, I have him even less. He used to . . ."

  She was going to say, He used to worship me. When we were in college, the man had actually worshipped me. And even though it was true, she couldn't bring herself to verbalize such an idea to her older brother, especially since college had been so very many years ago now.

  "He used to what?" John asked her. "Go ahead."

  The irony, of course, was that seven or eight weeks ago she wasn't even sure she wanted to remain married to him. Why now was she begrudging him his composure? Here he was crippled and in pain, yet he was striving to be more giving, more tolerant. Why was she still angry with him? Was it all because of that press conference? "We don't need to discuss this," she said. "I'm fine. Really."

  "Ah, that's what I like to see: our family's wondrous emotional repression in action. Good work, Sis. Mother would be proud."

  "Mother's back now," she said. "She got home late this afternoon." She put the skillet in the drying rack and wiped her hands on the dish towel.

  "So I hear. I gather she's joining us at the Cloisters, too."

  "Yup."

  "And we're doing something with you and Charlotte to celebrate the girls' birthdays, right? A brunch or a dinner or something?"

  "Mother wants us to do brunch on Sunday. Someplace elegant that would give the girls a chance to get dressed
up and consume vast numbers of Shirley Temples."

  "Charlotte will want a mimosa."

  "She might. But even she has seemed oddly composed the last week."

  "Maybe it's that play."

  She squirted gel into the dishwasher and pushed the door shut. "Maybe," she agreed.

  "And Spencer's definitely not coming?"

  "To the brunch? Nope--though he did apologize."

  "Well, I'm glad Charlotte's feeling better."

  "I didn't say she's feeling better. I said she's composed. It's pretty clear she's still shaken."