“I think when he thinks about it, he might just be pleased to have Ronnie so well placed. I tell you, Hazel Marie, Thurlow is really upset at Helen for keeping Ronnie outside, but she simply refuses to have a dog in the house. Your family could be the perfect answer.”
“The girls have been wailing about wanting him, and J.D. just found out that the people fixing up the house next door are worried about dogs in the neighborhood.”
“What dogs in the neighborhood?”
“Well, there’re not many, but Mr. Pickerell told us that one of the ladies working over there asked him what kind of dogs are around. She said that a lot of the homeless teens they’ll have are afraid of dogs. And . . . wait a second.”
She put down the phone, but I could hear her walk across the room, then come back to pick up the phone and the conversation. “Sorry, Miss Julia, I wanted to make sure that J.D. is upstairs putting the girls to bed. Because, see, I hate to tell you this, but as soon as J.D. heard that they were worried about neighborhood dogs, he decided he wanted one. Or rather, he decided to give in to the little girls, who’re the ones who really want one.”
“You mean he’s going to use Ronnie to demonstrate his unfavorable view of a group home next door? Along with that mile-high fence?”
She giggled a little. “Yes, and when I suggested that he might be acting a little petty, he told me I should be glad he wasn’t getting a pit bull.
“Anyway,” she went on, “we’re all excited about maybe having Ronnie, only I’m so afraid Thurlow won’t let him go. So I was wondering if you would feel him out for us—kinda prepare the way for J.D. because you know he can be a little abrupt.”
A little abrupt? But I didn’t respond to that. I just said, “Well, I’ll bring it up to Thurlow if that’s what you want and let you know what he says. I really think it would be the ideal solution, but if Mr. Pickens is looking for intimidation, he’ll be disappointed in this dog. Ronnie’s a pussycat.”
“Then he’s perfect for the children, but his size will scare everybody else, and that’s perfect for J.D. Oh, my,” Hazel Marie said, “somebody’s screaming upstairs. I have to go, Miss Julia, but let us know what Thurlow says.”
—
“Mildred?” I said as she answered her phone. “Would you like to walk with me to Thurlow’s in the morning?”
“Walk? Why don’t we drive?”
“Because we both need the exercise, and because it won’t be long until it’ll be too cold for walking, and because it’s only a couple of blocks. Come on, Mildred, and go with me. I don’t think Thurlow’s doing too well, and I don’t want to go by myself. You know how he is.”
“Well,” she said, “I guess we should, although why we feel any obligation to visit the old coot, I don’t know. But Ida Lee is making some of those miniature lemon tarts that everybody loves. I’ll ask her to pack up a few for Thurlow.”
“And for Helen,” I reminded her.
—
Helen met us at the door because I’d done the proper thing by phoning beforehand. Helen was not the most welcoming to drop-in company, and I well understood her antipathy. I didn’t much care for it myself.
Mildred, panting a little from our stroll to Thurlow’s, handed over a tin of lemon tarts which Helen received with pleasure.
She took them to the kitchen, and upon her return to the morning room said, “The cook will bring coffee and the tarts upstairs in a few minutes, so let’s go on up. Thurlow is looking forward to seeing you both.”
The cook, I noted—something besides painters, wallpaperers, seamstresses, furniture men, maid, yardman, male nurse, and who-knew-who-else that was new in Thurlow’s household.
Chairs were arranged around Thurlow’s bed in expectation of our visit, and as we greeted Thurlow and took our seats, Helen gave Mike, the minder, leave to take a break.
“How’s my dog?” Thurlow demanded, his eyes bright with either malice or fever—who knew which?
“Ronnie is quite well and, I assure you, he is thriving. He has the run of the house, but he’s well behaved in every way. In fact, he’s such a gentleman that Lillian has taken to calling him Mister Ronnie. I do think he misses you, though, because he loves to lie in front of the fireplace, just as he used to do here.”
“Ha! Used to do is the operative phrase,” Thurlow said, casting a sullen glare in Helen’s direction.
“Now, Thurlow,” Helen said, “we’ve been over this a dozen times. A house, this house, is no place for an animal. He’ll be perfectly fine in his pen.”
“And some morning in January,” Thurlow said, “you’ll find him froze stiff out there. Which is just what you want, ain’t it?”
Helen smiled indulgently. “No, Thurlow, all I want is to put this house to rights and to keep it as it should be kept. I declare,” she went on somewhat tiredly, “I don’t know why you’re so concerned about that dog when you have this jewel of a house that seems to mean nothing to you.”
A young maid entered the room with a tray of coffee and lemon tarts, sent, I supposed, by the cook from the kitchen. Wondering just how large a staff Helen had employed, I tried to add up the ones I’d seen, but lost count when Ida Lee’s lemon tarts were passed around.
Thurlow ate one, but turned down a second. He was noticeably quieter on this visit than he’d been before, and I almost missed his acerbic remarks that could take your breath away with their outrageous content.
“Thurlow,” I began, thinking that I might as well take the bull by the horns, “Ronnie will have had the full course of his medications by the end of
