Wishbone Read online

  “Is it bloody?” she asked with a grimace.

  I shook my head. “Nope. Just bludgeoned.”

  She jotted down the details on her receipt pad and ripped off the top copy for me.

  “If he could expedite this, I’d sure appreciate it,” I said. “There might be charges involved.”

  She avoided eye contact, missing my impatient scowl. “We’ll see. He’s a busy man, you know.”

  I resisted the urge to mention the empty waiting room. “Anything would help.”

  “We’ll do what we can.” Now she chose to smile pleasantly. “You have a nice day.”

  I thanked her, folded the receipt, and stuck it in my pocket. I’d given up trying to get them to use the computer and the no longer newfangled technology of e-mail.

  “Officer Myers.” Doc Paulson approached, holding a file folder. He passed it off to his wife then leaned against the counter, his white coat starched and spotless. I pictured Mrs. Paulson ironing it every morning. His thinning white hair was combed carefully back. Dark, thick eyebrows sheltered pale blue eyes. I could see that he might have been quite handsome in his youth. Heck, he wasn’t bad looking for an old guy. “And to what do I owe the honor of your presence today?” He loved formalities.

  “Dropping off a turkey.” I nodded toward the bundle on the counter.

  “It’s March, not November, but thank you anyway.” He chuckled weakly then cleared his throat. “Do you have a minute?”

  I checked my watch. “A few. I want to stop by Town Hall before lunch.”

  “Ah, would that be about the shelter? You’re like a dog with a bone on that.” He chuckled again. This was two attempts at jokes. What was going on?

  He gestured toward his office.

  “I thought it wouldn’t hurt if the powers that be saw my continuing interest,” I said.

  “You think that will get it a favorable vote?”

  “Can’t hurt. Nothing else has worked, but the economy’s getting better, so I’m optimistic it’ll pass this year.”

  He eased into his chair and leaned back. “Well, apropos of the shelter, I wanted you to know that I’ve decided to sell my practice.”

  My breath stilled. This could be good news. Very good news. But with no shelter to replace his basement, I wasn’t sure how to react. I doubted he wanted me to jump up and go “Yippee!” So I aimed for a measured approach. “I suppose that’s not unexpected. Congratulations. What are your plans?”

  “Oh, a little more golf, a lot more traveling.” He glanced toward the door to the reception area, where his wife slaved away, possibly dreaming of a cruise to nowhere.

  “What’s your time frame?” He was under contract until the fiscal year ended.

  “Not before July, but with luck perhaps we can begin a transition before then.”

  “I don’t have anywhere else to put the dogs.” He had four at the moment, in various stages of the process—from still looking for their owners to almost ready for adoption.

  “I understand. I’ve been talking to Doctor Reed about taking over my clients. She might be able to take the dogs too, but I didn’t want to ask her before checking with you.”

  “I’m not familiar with Doctor Reed.”

  “She’s new. The Doctor Sam clinic in the Village. Samantha Reed. Been here maybe a year or two. Young, I think she could use the business. Maybe even take over the town contract. But that’s up to you, of course.”

  Of course. The name rang a bell. I’d seen the sign, but hadn’t met her yet.

  ON MY WAY back to police headquarters, I indulged my fantasy of a stand-alone animal shelter. Gone were the days of dogcatchers and dog pounds that were no better than death row. Even Doc Paulson had to be convinced that the strays I brought in did not need to be killed. Sometimes, yes, an animal was too sick, injured, or dangerous for rehabilitation, but I’d made great strides in getting lost pets reunited with their owners or adopted out to new ones. Still, there was much more I wanted to do.

  My fantasy shelter would be airy and bright. There’d be a large fenced area where dogs could play and be worked with. Cats would have a big room with lots of stuff to climb on and places to hide. Ever since I figured out I have a way with animals, I’ve wanted to work with them.

  I parked my truck in the police lot, crossed the street to Town Hall, and stopped by the town clerk’s office. Ana Velez was my eyes and ears into the political process. She would know whether a public hearing was scheduled yet for the capital budget that would include the shelter.

  I waited at the counter while she finished helping a young man fill out a form. She glanced my way, smiled, and motioned me over.

  “Any word yet?” I asked.

  “Looks like next month.”

  “Next month?” I whined.

  “Don’t worry. That’s plenty of time before town meeting in June.” The soft lilt of her native Puerto Rico always made bad news sound better.

  “I just worry they’ll run out of money if they wait too long.”

  “Police, fire, and schools come first. Not that the order says anything about our priorities.” She winked.

  “This is a public safety priority.”

  “But it’s not a police priority. Get used to it. Human services and environmental health. That’s where your best chance lies. Plus, you’re talking big bucks here, starting a shelter from scratch. It might need a special appropriation, which means more hoops to jump through. So be a good girl and be patient.”

  “Only you could get away with a crack like that.”

  “You want Mike Decker in charge of your shelter?”

  My boss? Hell no. I bowed to her superior wisdom.

  SINCE IT WAS almost noon, I stopped in at Danny’s Sub Shop to pick up a sandwich before hitting the desk and paperwork. Just my luck, Captain Mike Decker stood in line. He was easily identifiable from the back—built like a small linebacker with beefy arms, muscled legs, and a Marine haircut accentuating his bulldog neck.

  “Sir,” I greeted him.

  “Myers,” he returned. “Where’ve you been?”

  Early in my career, his tone was more, “where the hell have you been,” but he’d progressed to idle curiosity. Decker was a cop’s cop and believed the duties of animal control were best left to civilians. “When’s the last time a dog robbed a bank,” he used to complain. The turning point came with a call to a house fire, where he’d found fighting dogs in the basement. Their condition so sickened him that he’d welcomed my expertise in handling the case.

  I told him about the turkey. He humphed a response then rocked from heel to toe. He pretended to study the menu above the counter, like he’d never been there before or ordered anything other than an Italian with everything. The line moved, he got his sub and left without waiting for me.

  MY OFFICE IN the basement at headquarters used to be storage for my equipment. My rookie year, I’d retreated there when the hazing got to me. Who wants to find a dead rat in her drawer? Eventually, I got one of the janitors to help me move an old desk in. When I came back from vacation, someone had stenciled Animal Control on the frosted glass of the door, installed a phone, and hooked up my computer. Rather than be pissed, I was glad.

  I flipped on the overhead light because only when the sun was in just the right spot at certain times of the year did any light come through my one grimy window set high in the wall. Under it, dog crates and Hav-a-Heart traps were neatly stacked and ropes and snares hung from hooks. My desk sat in the middle of my tiny torture chamber, as the friendlier officers called it. A couple of file cabinets and folded tables filled the rest of the space. There was no room for artwork or other amenities, even if I’d been inclined to decorate. I wasn’t used to being in one place long enough to nest.

  I wrote down a couple of phone messages for follow up after lunch and settled down with my notebook and switched on the computer.

  Just as I finished eating and was about to head out on patrol, my phone rang.

  “Animal Control,” I said, reaching for my log book and a pen.

  “Meggy?”

  A reflex of dread shot through me. “Yes, Rosie. I’m the only animal control officer here. Who else would it be?” She didn’t know my voice?

  “You shouldn’t call me that. I’m still your mother.”

  No, you’re not. “You shouldn’t call me Meggy. I’m a grown woman. What can I do for you, Mom.” I could be as passive-aggressive as she could.

  “Why do you always assume I want something from you?”

  Because you do, usually money.

  “Can’t I just call you to chat?”

  “I’m working. You can chat in the evening, when I’m home.” When you’ll be too drunk.

  “I thought maybe you’d come by this weekend.”

  So she did want something. But did she mean the upcoming weekend or the one just past? Then it dawned on me. “Oh yeah, happy birthday, Rosie.” It had been Saturday.

  “It wasn’t very happy.”

  “Why?”

  “My daughter didn’t celebrate it with me.”

  “Do you know how many birthdays of mine you’ve missed?”

  “I couldn’t help that and you need to stop holding it against me.”

  “I’ll come over after work. If you’re sober, I’ll take you to dinner.” I doubted she’d hold to the deal.

  “You treat me like a child.” She started to cry. She must have been drunk, or still drunk from the night before. Last week, last year.

  “Rosie, I gotta go. I’ll see you later.” I hung up. She was the main reason I still saw Charlotte occasionally for a mental health tune up.

  GRATEFUL TO GO on patrol and get out of the office, I grabbed my keys and headed to my truck. I ran through my inventory of equipment and s
upplies then slid behind the wheel. With no specific calls to answer, I drove through town, stopping at playgrounds to check for dog poop that could ruin a little kid’s trip down a slide or leap off a swing. Then I stopped by Avery Park in the town’s northeast corner. This playground was strictly for dogs and served many purposes. It gave people a place to let Fido off leash safely and therefore reduced tension in the neighborhoods from bored, barking dogs. It also let me see a lot of dogs at once.

  I stood by the fence, looked over the animals, and chatted with the owners coming and going—which helped because they got to know me. I made sure the dogs all had license tags and were happy and healthy. I also watched the owners. I could almost predict which ones might turn up in my log book down the road by the way they handled their puppy.

  AS MY SHIFT ended, I drove to my mother’s place in Somerville. The trip from Brookline, at rush hour, across the Charles River, surpassed annoying. Traffic crawled, giving me time to think.

  Rosie had been eighteen when she had me. Same age as me when I first kissed a girl. All parents have two lives—before you and after you. I didn’t know much about either of my mother’s. When I was two, she drove drunk with me in the car and ran a stop sign in front of a police officer. I only knew what Gran told me later, “Your mommy did something bad, something dangerous, and you need to live with me.” That was what I heard. I believed it had to do with me, because if I hadn’t been in the car, it wouldn’t have been as bad. For too long I believed that all the bad things in my mother’s life began when I came along.

  I RANG ROSIE’S bell several times with no response. Unfortunately, she’d given me a key. Before I opened her door, I took some deep breaths then held it until I was inside. My eyes adjusted to the dim light while I exhaled slowly. Then I breathed through my mouth a few times to delay the thick, dank cigarette smoke and mold penetrating my sinuses. Just a little trick I’d developed to keep from triggering a flashback.

  Her apartment was bigger than mine. She had a bedroom, living room, and kitchen. I had a one-room studio. She was in subsidized housing. I paid my way. When welfare reform meant she got kicked off the dole, she went on disability. She was always vague on what qualified her for it. Ten years ago she’d ended up in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer. That had been my first trial as an adult, that moment when parent becomes child, and child becomes parent. Except she’d never been much of a parent. Since then, she often complained of various maladies, usually mimicking the latest fad ailment.

  The apartment was quiet, the only light came from the streetlights and the only sound a TV from next door. I hoped she’d gone out and forgotten about me. No such luck. I found her passed out on her bed, snoring softly. I didn’t consider waking her. First, it would be futile, and second, why, when we’d only fight.

  I switched on the light in the small galley kitchen and cockroaches scurried. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes. I opened the window, turned on the radio, and started cleaning. After an hour, the place looked halfway to half decent. The rooms had cooled off and smelled somewhat better, so I closed the window.

  I flipped through the mail on her desk, pulled out some utility bills, and tucked them in my pocket. I used to pay her rent too, but Charlotte worried I was enabling my mother. I never gave her money, she’d only spend it on booze, but Rosie had fought me about her bills, told me to mind my own business. I had a vested interest in keeping her off the streets, though, so occasionally I snuck them. There’s a saying, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Losing track of Rosie worried me more than what she might do to me. I didn’t want the next sleeping homeless person I nudged to be her.

  I found a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote, “Happy Birthday, Mom.” I turned out the lights, but instead of leaving, went into her bedroom, tossed a pile of clothes off the chair, and sat down. In the dark, I could just make out her sharp features and stringy blond hair. No amount of poverty kept Rosie from her bleach. She slept peacefully. Although thin like me, she looked far older than her fifty years. Her fiftieth birthday. The big 5-0. Hell of a celebration, Rosie. An empty bottle of Wild Turkey lay on the floor.

  I had lived with Gran till I was four then she had a stroke and dropped dead. When she hadn’t picked me up from day care, they called around and found out she’d been taken to the hospital from her job as a cashier at Kmart. When they couldn’t reach my mother, they called social services. We’ve been in and out of each other’s lives ever since.

  All my life, all I’d wanted was a family. Someone I could count on, who would be there for me.

  Rosie stirred on the bed and rolled over. “Meggy?” Her voice a sad, timid squeak.

  I didn’t say anything or move but waited for her to settle and resume snoring. Then I left.

  Chapter 2

  I HELD THE book so the children sitting on the floor in front of me could see the picture.

  “Grandfather gripped the hawk gently but firmly.” I lowered my voice, “ ‘Do you want to say good-bye?’ he asked,” then raised it for the small child. “ ‘Good-bye, Mr. Hawk,’ Holly said. Grandfather swung his arms up and released the bird that flew on strong, healed wings toward the woods. ‘I’ll miss you, my friend,’ she called out. Grandfather smiled and took her hand.” I closed the book. “The end.”

  The kids sat still and quiet.

  “That’s sad,” four-year-old Matthew said.

  “It is,” I said, “but she’ll always know she helped him go home.”

  “Read it again,” little Alisha called out.

  “I’m afraid it’s time for Officer Meg to leave,” Helen Barton said from the doorway.

  I said good-bye to the kids and stepped from the brightly decorated playroom into the dreary waiting area. Plastic chairs lined a beige wall dotted with posters promoting government services such as food stamps, WIC, and MassHealth. The Department of Social Services was not into interior decorating. I avoided eye contact with the men and women who sat in the chairs, dejected and disheveled. They might be parents, here for a weekly supervised visit with their children who had been removed for any number of reasons, none of them good. Or they might be foster parents, waiting for the birth parent to finish a visit.

  DSS workers, birth parents, and foster parents presented a false front of civility, all working for “the best interests of the children.” A joke. The children’s emotions were plainly visible. Some laughed for joy when they saw their birth parent, others cried or slipped into a shell of silence they hoped would protect them from the pain, but it didn’t. Nothing could.

  So I avoided the stares of the adults and focused on the children. Adults fear a uniform, little kids are fascinated by it. Almost everyone was relieved to find out I was only an animal control officer. Even the DSS workers. They got it from all sides—the families, their supervisors, the press, the legislature. Everyone but the public, most of whom knew almost nothing about what went on within these walls unless something catastrophic happened and a child died. It would be like never knowing about air travel except for the crashes. They don’t happen often, but when they do . . .