“My Allie dog, my Allie dog,” he kept crying, jumping out of his chair to hug Mitch.
“Ernie should get a dog,” Clara said. “He hasn’t been this together since before his motorcycle wreck.”
I nodded. “I know someone who trains dogs for hospital visits. We’ll go see her on Monday and get her help in finding the right dog and the right training for Ernie. I’m also going to give you Deb Steppe’s contact information. She’s a crackerjack defense lawyer. We’ll call her, you and I; I think if you can bring your father in to see her, he’ll feel better, and then things will calm down at home.”
Clara played with the feathers in Peppy’s tail. “Did my dad—did he really shoot Prince Rainier?”
“Sweetie, I can’t answer that. I didn’t see him fire the gun, and if I say more than that, you may be forced to repeat it under oath.”
“But—half of me wishes he did, to avenge Allie and Nadia. Half of me wishes he didn’t, because it’s terrifying to think my own father could shoot someone.”
I took her hand. “What you and your family endured for the last three years, no one should have to live through. There are so many casualties of war, and many are far from the battlefield. If your father did shoot Rainier Cowles, you should think of it as post-traumatic stress, the same way poor Chad Vishneski suffered from it. I don’t think your dad will go around attacking other people. Once he talks to the lawyer, things will settle in his mind about what the right course of action is for him and for what remains of his family.”
We called Deb Steppe. She listened to me and then spoke privately with Clara. The conversation seemed to help Clara feel ready to go home again, although she and Ernie stayed until after eleven. It was hard to dislodge Ernie from Mitch—without Mr. Contreras’s help, I’m not sure we could have—but the promise of more time with Mitch and the promise of finding him his own true Allie dog very soon, finally got through to him, and I was able to drive the two Guamans home.
When I got back to my own place, my melancholy mood settled on me again, and I found myself writing a long e-mail to Jake. He had finished his tour with the contemporary group, playing Berio’s Sequenze in Berlin, and was heading to London with his early-music group, High Plainsong. The Raving Raven had flown over on Wednesday to join them with her historically correct, unamplified period instruments.
I’d written Jake once, briefly, to tell him the highlights of Sunday’s show, trying to make it humorous. Tonight I wrote more honestly. Or maybe with more self-pity. Hard to tell, sometimes.
The fact that the Guaman kids turned to me in a time of trouble should make me feel better, but the truth is, I don’t know if I do more harm than good. Cristina Guaman said I treated her family like a stage full of puppets, and maybe I’ve done that again, finding a lawyer for them, promising to get Ernie his own dog.
Sometimes I think the fact that I’m so willing to act is a danger to the world around me. Like Sal’s criticism a few weeks ago that I seem to put myself on a plane above everyone else. It’s not that. I don’t. I think I’m driven more by despair, even, than confidence, especially the despair of seeing so much misery around me. And then I leap into action and make it worse. But at least Ernie will get his dog. Surely that will be better, but the law of unintended consequences, that’s what seems to bite me time and again.
I wish you were here or I was there. I wish that my life had followed a calmer path.
I hoped to hear back from Jake the next day, although between the time difference and his work schedule I knew he might not even be looking at his mail. I went to the gym and took part in a pickup basketball game. I went to my office but decided I was sick of work. I went to a spa in my neighborhood, got a massage, lounged in the pool.
When I got home, I found a message on my machine from Lotty.
“Max and I are coming over for breakfast tomorrow. Be up by a quarter of seven.”
When I called her back, she only laughed and told me to be up and have my computer turned on. Before I could beg or wheedle any other information out of her, she hung up.
Sunday morning, I was so curious I got up early enough to run the dogs. When we returned, Max was just pulling up across the street from my building. He and Lotty followed me up the stairs, exchanging reminiscences about wartime concerts in London, a night at Wigmore Hall when they’d held candles for their performing friends because the power had gone out.
While I made coffee, Lotty unpacked a hamper with fruit and rolls, and Max fiddled with the Internet on my laptop. A jangling Prokofiev concerto was coming to an end, and then an announcer stated the time, just after one o’clock, and the station, BBC Radio 3. He read the news, and then said he was turning us over to the Early Music Show.