Gaits of Heaven

drag me there. It’s my decision. But you’ll be there? For sure?” Monty must have said yes. Caprice’s face brightened. Then she changed the topic. “I need you to talk to Ted. About Eumie. Mommy. He wants to do something so awful. She’s being cremated.” Another pause. “Yes, I know. It’s what she wanted. But then he has this awful idea about turning her into a coral reef. It’s grotesque. He e-mailed me. I can’t even manage to answer his e-mail. It makes me feel sick.” After that, she listened and murmured. The call ended.
    “Your father’s coming,” I said.
    “He doesn’t want to either. Dr. Zinn talked him into it. But I can change my mind. Even at the last minute. And I can always walk out.”
    “That’s true. And if things somehow get out of control or hurtful to you, Caprice, I will walk out with you. I promise.”
    “I have an idea,” Caprice said.
    “Yes?”
    “Could we take Lady?”
    “Lady?” I was thrown, so surprised that my voice registered my feelings all too accurately. India, Rowdy, or Kimi, yes. Any of the three would have been a solid choice as a symbol of protection and a source of powerful support. Sammy? I was starting to wonder whether his puppy brain would ever catch up with his maturing body. In the midst of a serious gathering intended to address the horrendous problems of the Brainard-Green family-—problems including a murder and a suicide attempt, not to mention prescription drug abuse, obesity, and breaking and entering, to name a few—Sammy was more than capable of interrupting the proceedings by hurling Pink Piggy in the air, catching him, and repeatedly biting on Pink Piggy’s loud squeaker. So, Sammy would have offered the promise of comic relief. But Lady? She was the vulnerable one, the one least able to offer protection, the one in unremitting need of it herself. Still, Lady was the one Caprice loved most. “Of course,” I said. “We may not be able to have her in the meeting with us. I don’t know. But she can come with us. If you want her, she’ll be as close as my car.”
    “I know she’s fragile,” Caprice said. “I really do know that. I’ve been talking to Dr. Zinn about her. But Lady is a survivor.”
    “Yes, she is.”
    “And I am, too. Or I’m going to be.”
    “Yes,” I said. “Yes, you are.”
     

CHAPTER 43
     
    If I could travel back in time, I know exactly where I’d choose to go: without hesitation, I’d pick the 1939 Mortis and Essex Kennel Club Dog Show, which was held at the New Jersey estate of Geraldine Rockefeller Dodge. All of Mrs. Dodge’s shows were spectacular, but the Morris and Essex show of shows was the one in 1939- The pageantry! The bright banners, the tents, the rings, the sterling silver trophies, the famed foreign judges, the proud exhibitors, the 50,000 spectators, and the 4,456 gorgeous dogs! The goal of the newly revived Morris and Essex Kennel Club is the rebirth of the legendary Morris and Essex in all its glory, and it looks as if the club will succeed if it can do in its only serious rival, which, I regret to report, offers whopping competition. The pageantry! The splendid tents, the famed foreign academics, the proud parents, and the thousands of canine stand-ins resplendent in their flowing caps and gowns! Indeed, Harvard University Commencement!
    So, Harvard Commencement being the closest Cambridge offers to the Morris and Essex Kennel Club Dog Show, I make a habit of taking Rowdy and Kimi to the Square each June to enjoy the annual spectacle. Since we aren’t actually entered in the show, we are not allowed to wander in the show grounds proper, namely Harvard Yard, during Commencement Exercises, but we saunter around and take in the scene. The dogs sniff. I gape, especially at the famed academics, foreign and domestic, who, in their brilliantly colored and elaborately embellished caps and gowns, put even the best-dressed dog show judges to shame.
    So, on the afternoon of Thursday, June 9, Rowdy, Kimi, and I walked down Concord Avenue to Garden Street and into the Square, which was satisfyingly crowded with distinguished-looking people in flamboyant academic costumes. Obedient to tradition—it supposedly never rains on Harvard Commencement—the day was sunny and still, and the three of us had a lovely time, as we’d had in previous years. The only unusual event was minor, or so it seemed at the time. It was this: when we’d finished sniffing and gaping in the Square itself, I