Gaits of Heaven

you’re after, Ted, so lay off.”
    “Wyeth’s mother isn’t Jewish. That’s the only reason—“
    “Don’t tell me! I know! There’s a Yiddish word for it: meshugass" she said. You and your Yiddish. You are such a phony. You put a mezuzah by the door and a menorah in the dining room, and on the High Holidays, you don’t go near a temple. But the main thing, the important thing, is that you don’t know a mitzvah when you see one. Or when you benefit from one. Holly’s trying to save your awful dog. Steve and Holly took me in. Mitzvahs both. So shut up.” She stomped out.
    I made as graceful a departure as I could manage.
     

CHAPTER 31
     
    On the way home, Caprice and I stopped at Loaves and Fishes for takeout. For most of my adult life, preparing my own meals had consisted mainly of walking to pizzerias. My lackadaisical attitude toward my own diet had been in total contrast to the care I devoted to making sure that my animals received optimal nutrition. As a dog writer, I was bombarded with information about canine nutrition and was forever changing or combining brands of commercial food and introducing or discontinuing additional ingredients and supplements. Meanwhile, genetic luck and my high metabolic rate let me get away with eating whatever was convenient. As usual in my life, the impetus for change was dogs. Specifically, I wrote a dog-treat cookbook called 101 Ways to Cook Liver , the research for which had filled my house with such nauseating odors that I’d developed a temporary aversion to hot food and a craving for salad. Once the book was done, my normal appetite returned, but by then, I’d not only learned to make salad but had actually learned to cook. Then Steve and I began work on No More Fat Dogs, and when I started to read about human and canine obesity, I lost my taste for junk food. We ate good pizza now and then, but when we wanted convenience food, we relied mainly on Loaves and Fishes.
    Even before I opened the back door, I could hear Rita’s voice and was glad I’d bought a lot of food. She was usually soft-spoken. Now, her tone was agitated. I assumed that she would want company and would stay for dinner. I was correct. She was seated at the kitchen table with Steve and Leah. Steve was always an excellent listener. Leah, however, had a tendency to finish other people’s sentences and to offer her own conclusions and interpretations before she’d finished hearing facts. At the moment, she didn’t stand a chance of interrupting Rita, who was sputtering with outrage. “Nothing was taken! Nothing that I can see. But how do I tell what was read? Caprice, you know that everything was... whatever you did so that no one could open those files. How I hate computers!“
    “Hi, Rita,” I said as Caprice and I put the shopping bags on the counter.
    Rita didn’t even greet us. “Shit. Someone broke into my office. I feel so damned violated!”
    “Your computer is password protected,” Caprice said. “So are the individual files.”
    “I should’ve thrown the damned computer in the trash and kept good old ordinary files at home. Damn it! I hate computers! And why didn’t I get a new lock for my office door? Two of them! A hundred! What kind of vile human being sneaks around... I have spent my entire professional life trying to help people, trying to assure them that here, in my office, they’re safe, that nothing terrible will happen, that this is a temporary refuge, and now this! I could strangle that stinking piece of scum! I am outraged! I am…”
    Without consulting Rita, I set the kitchen table for five people. As Rita continued to vent her rage, Caprice and Leah silently helped to put out the barbecued chicken, eggplant parmigiana, and green salad we’d bought, and Steve opened a bottle of wine. I noticed a new bandage on Leah’s left hand, but Rita was still talking, so I didn’t ask what had happened. When the four of us took seats at the table, Rita finally paused for breath.
    “When Rita got to her office this morning,” Steve said, “she found that the building had been entered. And her office.”
    “Two others,” Rita added. “Both psychotherapy offices.“
    “The second building on your block,” I said. The temptation was strong to remind her that after the first incident, she’d maintained that breaking into therapy offices was a symbolic act and a plea for help.
    “What happened to the symbolism?” Leah asked. “Penetration? Wasn’t there