Gaits of Heaven

bread, lettuce, and tomatoes.
    Eventually, Caprice said, “Ted, there’s nothing personal about it. It’s the law.” After listening, she added, “No, I am not calling anyone. It would be a waste of time. Besides which, don’t you want to know? I do. And it’s the only way to find out.” Again, she waited. “Yes, I am fully aware of that, but it happened a long time ago, and my mother is beyond caring.” After another wait, she said, “Being Jewish has nothing to do with anything, and as you perfectly well know, my mother wasn’t Jewish. She grew up as some kind of Protestant, and she wasn’t religious... Yes, of course she was spiritual, but she did not go to church. Your being Jewish has nothing to do with anything, and even if she had been Jewish, there would still have to be an autopsy. And there damn well should be one. I am not going to call anyone to object. In fact, if anyone asks me, I’ll say... Ted, you know what? It does bother me to think about it, so thanks a lot for making me talk about it... Yes, she’s here. Just a second.”
    The topic Ted needed to discuss with me on the afternoon of his wife’s evidently unnatural death was, incredibly, Dolfo. In Ted’s words, “Dolfo has grief work to do.” For all that I am a dog-training zealot, it was clear to me that Ted ought to have other things on his mind. What’s more, it’s reasonable for a first-time dog owner to seek professional help in teaching sit, stay, and heel, but how could any human being, never mind a psychotherapist, fail to realize that a grieving creature, human or canine, has simple needs? Hold the dog, speak gently to him, keep life as normal for him as you can, not that poor Dolfo’s life was normal , but it was the only life he knew, so, crazy though it was, it was normal for him.
    “They can’t cry, can they?” asked Ted. “It never occurred to me before. What a dreadful prospect!”
    “Dogs grieve in their own ways,” I said. “Crying isn’t part of the repertoire. And there’s nothing I can do to make things easier for Dolfo or to speed up the process. I’m sorry.“
    “You have to help,” Ted pleaded. “Just come and take a look at him. Tomorrow? How’s one o’clock? I’ve had to cancel my patients, but I might have to change the time. I have an urgent call in to my therapist, Dr. Tortorello, and he hasn’t called me back, and I’m trying to reach our couples therapist, Dr. Foote, and I’m going to have to take any hours they offer because they’re going to have to squeeze me in. But let’s shoot for one o’clock. I’ll let you know if that won’t work.”
    I told myself that Ted was mad with grief. I agreed to one o’clock. Yes, indeed, which of us was truly meshugge?
     

CHAPTER 10
     
    Although George McBane has never shared his wife’s interest in animal welfare, he has always supported Barbara’s good works. Lists of donors to the Audubon Society and the MSPCA include both names, George McBane and Barbara Leibowitz, and George has dutifully attended many fundraisers, especially the ones that Barbara has organized. On a small and domestic scale, George has contributed by assembling and repairing the bird feeders in the backyard.
    On the afternoon of Eumie’s death, as Barbara fills her bird feeders, she can’t help noticing the contrast between her squirrel-battered collection and the sparkling new avian dining establishments visible through and above the fence in the Brainard-Greens’ yard. Her own classic pole feeder retains its built-in green baffle but long ago lost its perches to the squirrels, and the best that can be said about the chopsticks that George cleverly substituted is that they are effective. The green paint is chipped, and the pole shows rust. George has performed many repairs on the platform feeder, which is a shallow wooden box with a screen floor for drainage. The birdseed stays dry, and certain ground feeders, including juncos, sometimes land on the platform and peck away in apparent comfort. It occurs to Barbara that none of the squirrel damage she notices today is recent. What’s more, the thistle feeder is still half full of expensive thistle seed. In fact, as Barbara remarks aloud to Portia, who accompanies her, it’s been a while since she has even seen a squirrel in the yard. Portia, despite her terrier heritage, takes no interest in squirrels. It is characteristic of Barbara to have a thoroughly peaceful dog; a predator wouldn’t suit her at