Women are more vulnerable.
“By the way, the wife’s a lush. She’s functional, but she keeps her tank topped during the day. She was lit the afternoon I saw Leigh, and Rainey confirmed she has a problem. Norman didn’t mention it.”
Dan grimaces. I have confirmed his prejudices. He says, “Of course not. These guys go halfway around the world while their families go to hell in a hand-basket.”
Julia sticks her head in the door.
“Can’t you stay in your office thirty minutes by yourself?” she scolds me.
“I thought you were having a heart attack in the crapper. Mrs. Chestnut’s been waiting for ten minutes while I’ve been trying to find you.” Julia looks at Dan and shakes her head.
“That’s how Elvis died, straining on the pot. That’s how you fat boys check out a lot of times, you know.”
Dan grits his teeth, pretending to strain. I stand up, trying to remember mrs. Chestnut’s problem. Some kind of contract dispute. I follow Julia into the waiting room for my client.
“Thanks for looking for me.”
She turns and grins.
“It was just an excuse to see Dan . It’s like visiting a preschool every time I go back there.”
mrs. Chestnut is a sweet-looking old lady with oldfashioned puffed sleeves and a floral-patterned skirt that almost touches the floor. Jewelry and pearls give her a nice rich look. Though she was extremely vague about her problem over the phone, she expressed the hope that she wouldn’t have to go to court. I hope so, too. I can’t read a contract without yawning. She sits primly in my small office, and I wish, not for the first time, my furnishings were classier. Judging by her clothes and her address in western Blackwell County, I wouldn’t mind probating her estate.
“An acquaintance gave me your name, Mr. Page,” she says, smiling pleasantly at me. This is the kind of woman who takes a cruise every summer and whose major interest on board is the stock-market report.
Money has a way of announcing itself, even to me.
“Good,” I say hopefully, glad to hear my name is getting around.
“What can I do for you?”
A timid smile comes to her lips.
“I signed up Bernard Junior for spiritual development classes,” she says, her voice delicate and shy, “and I’ve been extremely disappointed with the results.”
Sometimes, I think I’m losing my hearing. This is one of them. What on earth? Bernard Junior must be hooked up with a correspondence course with one of those New Age groups in California. Maybe Dan can enroll, too.
“Is that a grandson?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” she says, looking me in the eye, daring me to laugh.
“Bernard Junior is a pit bull.”
I fight to retain control of myself. This is a gag Dan and Julia are pulling. The potential for spiritual development in the humans who frequent this office is almost nil. Pit bulls may have a little better chance, but not much. Still, I can’t risk not taking this woman seriously.
She could be loaded.
“I wasn’t aware anyone in Blackwell County,” I say, not believing I’m saying this with a straight face, “gave, uh, pets classes in spiritual development.”
“Oh yes!” mrs. Chestnut says firmly.
“And it’s not for just any animal. Canines only. And then only dogs over five pounds.”
No chihuahuas need apply. She is serious. There is too much dignity in her voice, even if she is totally and certifiably mentally ill, for this to be a lie.
“Who does this?” I ask. Somehow, I don’t see this presumably capitalistic endeavor as a part of corporate America.
“I’ve seen ads for obedience school but never for spiritual development.” Each time I say the words I realize I am close to hysteria. I wish I had the nerve to ask if I could record this interview so someone would believe it.
“Purely word of mouth, no advertising,” mrs. Chestnut says. Carefully groomed, with every hair in place, she is attractive for someone surely in her seventies.
“Not every dog is accepted.”
Woogie probably couldn’t get in. He meets the weight limit, but beyond that, I doubt if there’s much to work with. Undoubtedly, I’m a bad influence on him. I can’t bring myself to take any notes.
“Did Bernard Junior make any progress at all?”
mrs. Chestnut shrugs dejectedly.
“At first he seemed to,” she says, “but after about the third week he was back to his old self, scratching and licking his privates, that sort of business.” With this revelation, mrs. Chestnut wrinkles her nose at the thought of Bernard Junior’s backsliding.
“It was as if he just didn’t seem to think it was worth it.”
I know the feeling. If virtue is its own reward, we need new door prizes. I try to sit as erect as mrs. Chest nut, but no dice. My spine could be stretched on a rack for a week but it would still look as if I were slouching.
She seems to be reluctant to tell me who fleeced her, so I ask, “Were you told what the classes consisted of, or was that a trade secret, kind of like the formula for Coca-Cola?”
“Oh dear me, no!” mrs. Chestnut informs me, a frown of disapproval crossing her face.
“We were allowed to observe the first hour. Unfortunately, Bernard Junior went to sleep during the introductory lecture, but we were told that was to be expected at first.”
As if I were talking to a normal person, I hear myself sympathizing, “I’ve nodded off at a lecture or two my self.” Unfortunately for my clients, law school was one big snooze, which, come to think of it, was full of Bernard Juniors.
mrs. Chestnut complains, “I spent five hundred dollars; and to watch him now, you’d swear he didn’t get a thing out of it. The instructor said sometimes he even kept Bernard Junior in during the exercise period, but I can’t see that helped him.”
Five hundred dollars! That would buy a lot of Puppy Chow. The think method. Right here in River City.
“How many were in a class?” I get the feeling that Bernard Junior might have been the only one to pay tuition.
“Just five at a time,” mrs. Chestnut says.
“Small classes for small minds, Mr. Von Jason said.”
Not in the presence of Bernard Junior, I hope. That would crush a spirit, no matter how many classes he attended. I can’t bring myself to talk about fees.
“Would you like for me to make a phone call and see if I can get your money back?” I’m not putting anything down on paper. As soon as I do, it will probably start showing up on billboards all over Blackwell County as the most elaborate pre-April Fool joke ever played.
Eagerly, mrs. Chestnut digs in her purse and hands me a business card. In script it says:
Canine Spiritual Development By Appointment Only Jason 683-9888
Keeping a somber expression in place (this could be me someday sitting across the desk, I have decided), I dial the number and push the button on the speaker phone so mrs. Chestnut can hear. A male voice, cultured yet friendly, instructs that Jason is busy teaching a class but not to worry: he will call as soon as possible.
I manage to leave my name and number without giggling.
“That was Jason’s voice!” mrs. Chestnut says excitedly.
“He’s always talking in the third person.”
Why am I not surprised?
“Why don’t you call me tomorrow?” I say, standing to indicate the interview is over.
mrs. Chestnut looks disappointed but asks, “How much do I owe you?”
I shake my head.
“If I can get your money back with a phone call, there won’t be a charge.” What am I saying?
I should have told her my fee was two thousand dollars just to get rid of her.