I swallow a mouthful of cake and shake my head.
“The trial was set long before WAR was even more than a gleam in Paula Crawford’s eye. The trial date comes, not so coincidentally, after all the bowl games are played.”
“But Dade was suspended from playing,” Amy says, missing the point.
“The judge didn’t know the university would take any action. At the time he was just doing what he could to cooperate.”
“So he’s biased!” Sarah exclaims. She is seated on the couch beside Amy. As usual, I am being ganged up against by the women in my life.
“Not at all,” I explain.
“He’s just a true Hog fan. He probably assumed that the university wouldn’t do anything to Dade during the season. That’s usually what happens.
This was a bigger victory for WAR than you realized.”
My daughter puts down her fork, protesting, “That’s so cynical! They just would have used Dade and then put him on trial.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” I concede. Another way is that Dade would be using the university to show how good he was.
We are interrupted by a knock at the front door, and I open it, realizing that Woogie has not returned. I should have taken him out and walked him.
“Your dog just ate one of our newborn kittens,” Fred Mosely, who lives across the street and four doors down toward the school tells me, “and if I find him, I’m going to kill him.”
Shocked into silence by this totally bizarre allegation, I try to look around Fred, who easily weighs three hundred pounds, to see if Woogie is hiding somewhere across the street. Fred, one of the few remaining whites on the street, is not the most stable guy in the neighborhood.
Chronically out of work, alcoholic, and abusive toward his wife, he is more than capable of doing what he says.
Still, this is so ridiculous I’m tempted to make a joke out of it and tell Fred that after twelve years of dog food, Woogie probably thought it was time for a little variety in his diet, but Fred doesn’t seem in the mood.
“Are you sure?” I say weakly.
“Maybe the mother ate it.”
“You’re damn right I’m sure!” Fred thunders.
“My wife saw him do it! You get rid of that dog, or I’ll do it for you!”
Candice, Fred’s wife, isn’t nearly as loony as her husband, but still I can’t believe it. Woogie has his faults, but eating kittens has never been one of them. I catch a strong whiff of Christmas cheer on Fred’s breath and decide that he might not appreciate any crossexamination right now. What does he want me to say that I’ll have a talk with Woogie? I can hear that conversation. Woogie, I know cats are a dime a dozen, but you’ve got to quit eating them. Sarah comes up behind me and asks, “What’s wrong. Dad?”
I say hastily to Fred, “I’ll do what’s necessary. Thanks for letting me know.” I shut the door before Sarah can find out what is going on. She would want to argue Woogie’s case to the Supreme Court, but this isn’t the time to doit.
I tell her and Amy that Woogie may be lost, and we need to go search for him. Before we can get our coats on, however, there is a familiar scratching at the door, and Sarah lets him in. The little murderer prances in as if he didn’t have a care in the world. As we watch Woogie lap water at his bowl in the kitchen, I tell Sarah and Amy about my conversation with Fred.
“That’s crazy. Dad!” Sarah exclaims.
“Woogie wouldn’t eat a kitten!”
I am not so sure. We need to keep in mind that Woogie is not Sarah’s ugly little brother who couldn’t find any sugar cookies lying around and went outside looking for a snack.
“He is a dog,” I say, bending down to check him for signs of cat hair.
Woogie coughs suspiciously as Sarah strokes his head.
Amy, who has followed us into the kitchen, giggles.
“Move over, Sherlock. Gideon Page is on the case.”
Annoyed, I say, “I’ll call Candice tonight. She wouldn’t make something like this up.”
“Dad!” Sarah shrieks.
“You can’t just take her word for it.”
“Well, for God’s sake! What are we supposed to do?” I ask.
“Look for hair balls? We can’t cut his stomach open.”
Woogie yawns as if he had just finished a big meal and ambles over to his favorite corner in the living room and closes his eyes. The phone rings, and I pick it up, fearful that we have a serial cat killer asleep on our rug. It is my sister Marty, calling to wish us a Merry Christmas. I haven’t talked to her since I went out to her house almost two months ago.
“Marty,” I say, without preliminaries, “how’s Olaf these days? I didn’t see him around when I was out there last time.” Olaf was a big-chested boxer whose only trick was to pretend to devour your hand.
“Olaf?” my sister says, accustomed to my rudeness.
“Since he’s been dead for three months, I’d have to say he’s been pretty quiet.”
Have I got a dog for you, sister.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say politely.
“Listen, we may need to find Woogie a new home….”
The next morning, after drawing up a power of attorney for Gordon Dyson’s wife, I drive north on Highway 5 to Heber Springs, passing through towns with such wonderful names as Romance and Rose Bud, on my way to interview Jenny Taylor, Sarah’s other source of information about Robin’s affair with her professor. I feel depressed and edgy, knowing today is Rainey’s wedding day. How can she be marrying someone else?
Tonight will be sad, too. Sarah and I are taking Woogie to live with Marty. His dark deed has been confirmed by Fred’s wife, and Woogie will be the newest canine resident of Hutto, the dog capital of the western hemisphere, according to my sister. Last night after the arrangements were made I could hear Sarah talking to Woogie in her room, next to mine. Woogie has been her only brother for twelve years, but it is for the best, I told her. With his bladder going the way of all flesh, Woogie needs open spaces. Fred, when he is boozed up, is fully capable of killing him, too.
Without Amy, the day would have been a complete disaster. Usually, part of each Christmas Day has been spent with Rainey for the past three years. Amy filled in nicely. Nothing stays the same forever, I told my daughter, before we went to bed, whether we want change or not. With that truism out of the way, I went to sleep and dreamed about the day Rosa, Sarah, and I got Woogie as a puppy from the animal shelter. It served me right for trying to be so stoical.
In little more than an hour I am standing on the wraparound porch of Jenny Taylor’s home, a three-story red brick structure only two blocks from the Clebume County Court House. I rap hard on the door, hoping Jenny is home by herself, but it is her mother who opens it. Mrs. Taylor, who looks remarkably like my own mother with her prematurely gray hair and straight Ro man nose, invites me in and calls her daughter from up stairs.
“She should never have gone to the university,” Mrs. Taylor says, leading me into her living room.
“I shouldn’t let her go back next semester. That school is nothing but trouble.” She points to a chair and sits on a sofa across from me.
I sit down and look around the living room and notice a water stain on the ceiling. Though the house is large, it is not in good condition and could stand a paint job. The Christmas tree, in the process of being taken down, is a small and scraggly spruce. There may be another reason why Jenny should transfer. By the time you pay for all the extras at the University of Arkansas, the family bud get has been depleted.
“Ma’am, I’ve got a daughter up there, too,” I say, trying to ingratiate myself.
“I know exactly what you mean. All I’m trying to do is find out what your daughter knows about Robin’s relationship with her professor. If my client is guilty of rape, he’ll be punished.
But if he isn’t, that should come out.”
“Of course, he’s guilty!” Mrs. Taylor shouts.
“What girl is going to lie about being raped? It’s not worth the hassle. What upsets me is that if the damn
