As Dog Is My Witness Page 14

  “Right now, I’d settle for your body,” I told her.

  Her eyes remained closed. “With a slick line like that, how could you possibly miss?”

  I kissed her again. What the hell! She wasn’t looking. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But don’t think for one moment that this isn’t a battle between your brother and me, and I’m not the one making it that way. At some point, you’re going to have to take sides.”

  That opened her eyes. “You’re asking me to choose between you and my brother?”

  “No. I’m asking you to consider the idea that once in a while, I’m not the one who’s wrong, and to back me up when that happens. That’s what marriage is about, isn’t it? Watching each other’s backs?”

  “You spend too much time watching my front,” she said.

  “I can’t help it if you have a cute front.”

  “You are a walking, breathing hormone.”

  “And you love me for it,” I tried. She smiled, but not happily.

  “You want me to see this as an issue of loyalty to you and to Ethan, but it’s not,” Abby said. “You know perfectly well that I’d do anything for the two of you, and that’s never a question, is it?”

  I should have thought before I said, “It never has been.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “And now it is?”

  Too late to back off now, I plunged ahead. “Maybe. You’re so intent on getting your brother to approve of you—or maybe to approve of me—that you’re losing sight of the people who approve of you without question.”

  “You’re making more of this than there is,” Abby argued. “I’m tired. You love me too much. I’m going to bed.” I looked at her. “To sleep.”

  “I love you too much?”

  “Too much for me to deal with right now.” She got up and started for the stairs, then stopped and looked at me. “Are we having trouble with our marriage?” she asked.

  My lips curled into a sneer. “Yeah. Let’s get a divorce. Don’t be an idiot.”

  She smiled. “That’s what I thought. Good night, honey.” And Abby walked upstairs.

  The trouble with winter is that there’s no baseball on television at night.

  Chapter Four

  Everyone slept in on Saturday morning, except me, of course. Normally, I sleep like a rock on the weekends (I believe that having to wake up before nine is a violation of the Constitution, but I’m too tired to do anything about it). But when my brain is working overtime, it wakes me up at ungodly hours like seven-thirty.

  I had resolved, somewhere around four-thirty (my brain keeps time badly) that I’d have to make another try at being civil, at least toward Howard. Abby had been right—I’d gone into this situation with an awful attitude, and even if my brother-in-law wasn’t helping, I wasn’t exactly working up a sweat with my effort, either.

  When I said “everyone slept in,” of course, I wasn’t referring to Howard and Andrea, whom I found fully dressed and at the breakfast table when I shuffled down in my sweatpants and hooded Rutgers sweatshirt. They had actually prepared food for themselves, which I decided to see as a conciliatory gesture, but none for anyone else, which I chose to ignore.

  “Good morning,” I said in a voice that sounded remarkably like my father’s. Lately, I’ve been thinking of him whenever I’m forced to be cheerful, or when I get up out of a chair. Time was, I could do the latter without actually making an audible grunt.

  Over my copy of the Times, Howard nodded (he had no interest in the Arts and Leisure section, but Andrea did). Recalling the scene we’d had at yesterday’s breakfast, she looked at me as if I were a suspicious looking suitcase and she a package-sniffing German shepherd.

  I’m not much for subtlety (you might have noticed), so I jumped right in: “Howard, Andrea,” I said, sitting, “I know we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot since you’ve been here, and I’d like to start over again and see if we can do better. What do you say?”

  They looked at each other with a “married couple” glance that indicated they had discussed this issue at length, and possibly had agreed upon a response should this very situation arise. Howard nodded at his wife, then looked at me.

  “That’s not really much of an apology, Aaron,” he said.

  An apology? Was it meant as an apology? Biting my lower lip, I maintained my tone of reconciliation. “Well, I just think that maybe we’ve all done and said things we regret, and we should just turn the page and start clean.” And there are people who think I wasn’t cut out for a career in diplomacy.

  “I don’t think I’ve said or done anything I regret,” Andrea said sniffily. “I’ve done nothing but try to support you and your family, Aaron, and I’ve been insulted and rebuffed at every turn.”

  Rebuffed? Don’t you have to be buffed before you can be rebuffed? “I’m sorry you feel that way, Andrea,” I said, again sucking in my emotional gut, “but my point is that maybe we should try to start fresh, now.”

  “Well, since we don’t feel we’ve done anything to merit a change in behavior, I guess the fresh start will have to be mostly on your end,” Howard pronounced.

  “I guess,” I said, and got a plastic bag out of the drawer to walk Warren.

  There was a reason for being nice to this man, but I just couldn’t remember what it was.

  I picked the leash up off the table near the door, and Warren immediately leapt up and walked to me, tail wagging. It’s the one thing he’s really learned under our watch: leash means walk. And walk, in Warren’s world, is the closest thing to perfection on the planet. If he could eat steak off the sidewalk during a walk, his existence would be complete.

  Bundled to the hilt and wearing sunglasses, I looked something like the South Park kid in the parka if he didn’t want to be recognized by his fans. Appropriately braced for the cold, Warren (who was, after all, wearing fur) and I headed outside.

  It was something of a surprise to see Big, Bigger, and Biggest at strategic positions outside the house, in identical parkas and sunglasses. They looked like the Yukon Secret Service.

  “What’s up, boys?” I said. “Mensa meeting just break up?”

  “Mr. Shapiro wants us to watch you,” Big said.

  “Watch me do what? I’m walking the dog.”

  I walked down the front steps to the sidewalk as Bigger said, “He wants us to protect you.”

  “Protect me? Protect me from what? I thought the only person I had to be worried about was him.”

  Big shook his head slightly. “Need-to-know basis,” he said.

  That startled me. “Don’t I need to know?” I said.

  “No,” Bigger said. Apparently, they were trading off the speaking parts today.

  “Who needs to know more than me?”

  “Mr. Shapiro,” Big said. “And us, so we can protect you.”

  I figured it was better to have guys like this on your side than against you, so I shrugged. “Okay, then,” I said. “Let’s go. Warren’s not going to wait all day.”

  Warren was growling a little, watching the three parka-ed wise-guys from the bagel capital of New Jersey. But he eventually managed to remember why he was outside, and started in on our usual route, happily wagging his tail and sniffing the frozen ground for the horrible tidbits he considers tasty treats. Don’t ask.

  The Supersized Trio created a perimeter, with Biggest in front, then Big and Bigger behind me and the dog. Biggest never turned around to look, but always knew when to stop for Warren to sniff vegetation or take care of his bladder.

  “Are you guys always this surreptitious, or are you actually going to hand out ‘I’m following Aaron Tucker’ t-shirts later on?” I asked Big.

  “Surreptitious?” Bigger asked.

  Big smiled, this time in a less threatening manner. “He means, are we always this easy to spot?”

  Bigger nodded. “Surreptitious,” he said with an air of satisfaction.

  “My wife’s going to start asking if you’ll be outside whenever I open the d
oor,” I said. “She got through law school, you know. She might be able to figure out you’re not three Christmas trees.”

  “You’ll never even know we’re there,” Big said.

  “I don’t like to destroy your illusions,” I told him, “but when I walked out the door and the three of you were standing there with your hands in your pockets and your car in my driveway, I knew you were there.”

  “We wanted you to know we were there today,” Bigger explained.

  “From now on, you won’t know.”

  “From now on? How long are you guys going to be following me around?”

  Warren stopped to take care of his main business, and we stood for a while, four grown men trying not to look at a dog’s butt. “Until Mr. Shapiro tells us to stop,” Big said.

  “Why does Mr. Shapiro think I’m in danger?” I asked. “Who would want to do me harm if they know he’s giving me protection?”

  “I don’t ask questions,” Big said. Bigger looked annoyed that his turn to speak had been taken. “He says ‘watch you,’ we watch. He says ‘stop watching,’ we stop watching. Either way, you know you’re safe.”

  “And my family?”

  “We’re watching them, too,” said Bigger, making sure he took his turn this time. Warren finished up, I bagged what needed to be bagged, and we continued on our way.

  “Don’t watch my wife too closely,” I said, suddenly feeling a little weird about this whole “watching” thing.

  Big grinned. “You don’t let us have any fun.”

  “This watching thing isn’t my idea,” I told him. “I don’t want my family weirded out, you hear? Will you be watching inside the house, too?” It suddenly occurred to me that Big, Bigger, and Biggest might be a little too close for comfort.

  “Nah,” Bigger said. “If we’re watching the house, they can’t get in without us knowing.”

  We turned the corner and headed back toward the house, our collective breath forming a cloud that made us look like an Al Capp cartoon. When we reached the house, I looked at them.

  “I’m going inside now. You guys need anything? Coffee? Hot chocolate? I think I’ve got some bagels left.”

  Big shook his head. “We’re fine. Don’t worry.”

  “You going to need my bathroom?” How was I going to explain that to Abby?

  Bigger shook his head this time. Apparently, they were taking turns on that, too. “We’re all set up. You’ll . . .

  “. . . never know you’re there. I got it. So you’re here to watch me and my wife and kids, right?”

  “Right,” said Bigger.

  “We have guests staying with us, you know,” I said.

  “I know,” Big said. “We can protect them, too.”

  I opened the front door and looked at them. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” I said, and went inside.

  Chapter Five

  Ethan woke up around ten and immediately went into his Saturday morning routine, which consists of a dizzying succession of cartoons, each timed to the minute, and remote control mastery, flitting back and forth between stations during commercial breaks that would shame the most accomplished of couch potatoes. He was still in his pajamas, which consisted of long flannel pants and a t-shirt, and probably wouldn’t come down to eat until after noon.

  I didn’t tell Abby about my conversation with Howard, or about the service we were to receive from the Really Large Bodyguard Corporation, since I didn’t understand either one, and didn’t believe telling my wife would make her feel any better.

  Leah was still in pajamas, too, and bouncing around the house in her usual Saturday morning routine, waiting for her friend Melissa, who lives across the street, to wake up. Melissa doesn’t generally wake up until a bucket of cold water is thrown upon her, at which time her front window shades are raised—the Midland Heights equivalent of Bob Woodward moving the red flag on his terrace for “Deep Throat.”

  The local YM/YWHA was being renovated so it could more plausibly raise its membership rates, and was closed, so we had installed in our basement the home version of the elliptical trainer I use there. The words “home version” are apropos, since the in-home elliptical is to exercise what the “home version” of the “Jeopardy! Game” is to playing for real money with Alex Trebec. It’s fun, but you don’t really get the same rewards.

  I got on the elliptical while I had a window of opportunity (Howard and Andrea were upstairs, probably tattling on me to Abby) and did a quick 30 minutes, which is exactly the same amount of time as a slow 30 minutes, but uses up more calories. When I was finished punishing myself for enjoying food, I trudged upstairs and went right to my bedroom to get ready for the shower I desperately needed. It might not be the professional version, but the elliptical trainer had me sweating to the point where I hadn’t noticed how cold my basement was for the last 20 minutes of the workout.

  Our bedroom is directly across from Ethan’s, so I closed our door while dressing after my shower. Since the walls are nice thick plaster, but the doors are cheap, hollow wood, I could hear something going on outside the bedroom door almost as if I were actually in the hall.

  Apparently, Dylan was taunting Ethan about his choice in television programming, which is a hair short of telling Ethan that his life is meaningless and besides, he’s ugly.

  “This is a baby show,” Dylan said, voice full of contempt. “Nobody but babies watches this show.”

  Kids make fun of Ethan a lot. Classmates imitate his hand gestures and the way he rolls his eyes when upset. Others simply try to provoke those responses by teasing him the way all kids tease all other kids, only more. So he’s used to teasing. And for the most part, he’s learned to deal with it relatively well. You can call him names, you can insult him, you can challenge his very reason for existence.

  But question his choice of television programs, and you’re practically begging for violence.

  I could hear Ethan’s teeth clench. Sometimes, his reactions to stressful situations are so much like mine I find them unbearable. “This is not a baby show,” he said in a tone that said more than his words.

  “Sure it is,” his cousin plowed on, “and you like it because you’re a baby. You act like a six-year-old, and you’re really twelve. You—”

  “This is not a baby show!” Ethan screamed. I knew what that tone meant, and I struggled to get my pants on as I scrambled for the door.

  When I opened the door, I saw Ethan with his hands on Dylan’s throat, choking him for all he was worth. I was a choker when I was a kid, too, but I learned to stop when I was much younger than Ethan. I burst out of the bedroom and ran to the two of them as quickly as I could, separating them physically.

  “Ethan Atticus Tucker!” I yelled, not thinking.

  Dylan didn’t even wait to catch his breath. “Atticus?” he crowed. “Atticus? Your middle name is Atticus?”

  Ethan wheeled and stared at me with a horrible look of betrayal in his eyes. “What did you do?” he said to me.

  There are times as a parent when you wish you could rewind the past five seconds or so, but even when your methodology is wrong, your reasons are usually justifiable. I knew I’d messed up in front of Ethan’s most relentless tormentor, but I couldn’t let him run around choking the life out of people, either.

  “Ethan,” I said. “You can’t put your hands on other people like that.”

  Dylan, his fear ebbing, was already grinning an evil grin. “Do you know your initials are EAT?” he said.

  “Dylan,” I said, turning toward him. “Ethan can’t choke you like that, but I know how you tease him, and I heard what you were saying. You have to stop treating him like that, and I mean now.”

  “I don’t have to listen to you,” the kid sneered. “You’re not my father.”

  I couldn’t react in time. “I am,” said the voice from behind me. “What happened?”

  Howard and Abby were on the stairs leading up to our bedrooms. Howard was grimacing because his son was being s
colded by his brother-in-law, and Abby was grimacing because I hadn’t made the bed, and now Howard would know what a slob she was.

  “He choked me!” Dylan wailed, playing to the crowd. “I didn’t do anything, and he choked me!”

  “Ethan!” Abigail said. “Did you choke him?”

  “Well . . . Ethan couldn’t decide who was going to defend him, since I had already betrayed him, and his mother wasn’t sounding a whole lot friendlier.

  “You did,” she gasped.

  “Abby,” I said. “You know perfectly well how this kind of thing goes. Dylan—”

  “I don’t think you need to step in, Aaron,” Howard said, cutting me off. “My son is being strangled, and I come up here to find you scolding him.”

  I looked at Howard, then at Abigail, knowing she didn’t want me to escalate the battle, but hoping she’d at least take Ethan’s side, if not mine. Howard looked at her, too.

  “Ethan,” she said slowly. “You are not allowed on your PlayStation until Dylan goes home.”

  Coming from his mother, this was a devastating blow. Ethan knew he couldn’t expect more lenient treatment from me, since I always back Abby up. Besides, she’s usually the one talking me down from an unreasonable punishment, so this was doubly hopeless for him.

  Ethan’s eyes widened, and became a little damp. “Mom . . . he said.

  “Ethan,” I said, “don’t say anything without an attorney present.”

  “I am an attorney,” said his mother.

  “I mean one on his side,” I snapped.

  She looked at me as if I’d slapped her. Before Ethan could actually break down and cry in front of Dylan and lose face even further, I gestured to him.

  “Come on,” I said. “We need to go find a killer.”

  Strangely, he followed me, and Abby and Howard retreated to the living room to let us through. Abigail and I were exchanging looks we don’t usually give each other, with the promise that our next private conversation would not be pillow talk. I got an apple out of the fridge for Ethan, and made sure he dressed and put on his coat before we left the house. Not a word was said by anyone, except Leah, who kept asking everyone what was going on and not getting any answers.