A Chance for Success

Veronica returned from Fitzy’s walk with her plan for adopting Cadbury firmly in place. It was important not to engage with either parent too much before dinner. Her best chance for success would be at the table when her parents were relaxed and eating. She hung up her coat and steeled herself before going to the kitchen.

Surprise surprise, her mother had the Hunan Delight menu in one hand and the phone in the other. How many times a week did the Morgans order Chinese food? Too many. Still, Veronica hoped her mother would order the string beans. She turned on the faucet and washed her hands.

“Yes, chicken with yellow leeks,” her mother told the phone. “One order of dry sautéed string beans and one order of loofah. Thank you. What? Yes! Dumplings. Thanks for remembering! Life wouldn’t be worth living without your pork dumplings. Two orders. Fried.” Mrs. Morgan hung up the phone and flung her arms around her daughter. “How was school?”

“Okay,” Veronica said, taking a stack of plates and a pile of napkins from the counter.

“Let’s eat in the dining room tonight, okay, lovey? Tell me everything.”

“There’s not much to tell. My uniform is too long, but you already know that,” Veronica said, very pleased with herself. Her plan had three parts and thanks to that last remark, part one was officially in motion. Part one depended on making her parents feel bad about how awful school was, that she had no friends, etc. Part two was establishing how sad Cadbury was: hot spots, unwanted, etc. Part three: BUY CADBURY. She was a genius. Cadbury was almost hers.

“That’s it?” her mother said. “That was your whole Randolf experience?”

“Pretty much,” Veronica said, putting plates and napkins on the table. Of course she could tell them about her teacher, about Morning Verse, about the two movie star girls with matching sweaters, but not now. Right now she had to stick to the plan. Mr. Morgan appeared from the powder room with wet hands. He kissed Veronica and dried his hands on the back of her sweatshirt at the same time.

“Gross, Daddy,” Veronica said. He responded with another kiss.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“Chinese,” Veronica and her mother answered in unison.

“Oh, yummy,” her father said, clearly disappointed. Veronica and her father walked to the kitchen.

“Marion, you’re such a good cook. Can’t you cook for us? Sometimes? Please?”

“I am a good cook. But I don’t know how to cook quickly. I have a full-time practice, Marvin.” She handed her husband a water pitcher.

“Couldn’t you just cook fewer things?” he asked. “I mean, I’m not a cook myself, but it seems to me that if you made fewer dishes, it would perhaps take less time?” He stood at the sink, running water, waiting for the pitcher to fill.

It was taking forever to sit down.

“I don’t know how to make fewer dishes. Even though I am in the mental health business, I have no sense of moderation.”

“That’s for sure,” Veronica piped in. She grabbed three glasses from the shelf and filled them with ice. Her mother could hardly be accused of not knowing herself. When she cooked, she kind of went crazy. She made dessert from scratch, she made stocks and sauces and everything was delicious and it really did take her three days to feed the three of them and then she seemed both proud and miserable watching it all get eaten in a matter of minutes.

“How was school, honey?” her father asked. Veronica took the glasses to the table.

“Good luck getting anything out of her,” her mother said, patting her daughter’s hair as she walked by.

“Fine. My uniform is too long. My teacher is nice. The kids don’t care I’m alive.”

“Fine is good!” her father said.

“No, Daddy,” Veronica said. “Fine is not good. Fine is fine. Which is much less than good.” The buzzer rang and the night doorman announced the deliveryman. Praise Hunan Delight. They would all be sitting down to eat any minute.

As always, Mr. Morgan took care of the transaction with the deliveryman at the door to their apartment, toting several shopping bags to the dinner table.

“Did you get any work done today, Marvin?” his wife asked. “You’ve got to write your conclusion. How is Mrs. Kreller? Did you take my notes?” She unpacked the Chinese food containers and helped herself to chicken with yellow leeks. Veronica couldn’t have asked for them to get to Mrs. Kreller any faster—it was almost too good to be true!

“Well,” her father said, sitting at the table, “I did, but honestly Mrs. Kreller is a mercurial woman. I may have to revise. One minute her emotions are the source of her anxiety and the next her psoriasis is the root of everything.”

Which came first, the anxiety or the rash? The Morgan family spent many evenings discussing things like this, like Greek philosophers debating paradox.

“Every time I’ve gotten her to acknowledge her withholding husband, she changes the subject to the humiliation of her skin condition,” her father continued. “It’s giving me a rash,” he said, laughing at his own joke.

Veronica and her mother looked at each other in silent agreement that the joke teller was often funnier than the jokes he told. Marvin Morgan continued, “She is turning out to be a very unreliable patient. Like Cricket Cohen was an unreliable friend.”

“Daddy, Cricket was a reliable friend,” Veronica said. She was annoyed. Cricket Cohen wasn’t part of the plan.

“Oh. I apologize. I was under the impression your friendship caused you distress,” Mr. Morgan said while looking at Mrs. Morgan.

Her parents, whose living depended on just how complicated the human psyche was, were so eager for her to label Cricket a good friend or a bad friend. They should know her friendship with Cricket wasn’t all good or all bad. She’d known Cricket her whole life and their friendship had always been less than simple.

“It does cause anxiety,” Veronica said. Anxiety could totally be part of phase one. She decided to run with it. “But it’s not her fault, she just has the kind of family that always does things, so she’s really busy,” Veronica said. “And then I can’t tell if she’s just busy or she doesn’t like me.” Veronica chewed, carefully reviewing the key parts of her plan.

“What kind of things?”

“You know, like apple picking and going to the opera, traveling. They’re just always super busy,” Veronica said. “Whereas I have the kind of family that never does anything except read and maybe go to the farmers’ market.” Even though all this talk about Cricket might contribute to her parents feeling bad for her, it was time to rein it in. “Cadbury has hot spots. Again. Please pass the dumplings.”

Veronica loved how nonchalantly she’d said that. They would never suspect she was up to something.

“Here, lovey. And have some string beans, would you? They’re a little spicier than usual but yummy.”

“Do you think Cadbury’s embarrassed by his hot spots?” Mr. Morgan said. Mrs. Morgan spooned a pile of vegetables on her daughter’s plate.

“No,” Veronica said, “but I do think he is miserable. And lonely. He has to stay by himself in the back until they’re better. Plus, I’m sure the lonelier he is, the worse his condition gets. What do you call that?”

“A vicious cycle,” her mother said.

“A downward spiral,” her father said.

“Yes!” Veronica was beside herself. “A vicious downward cycle. If only he could be analyzed. He has the equivalent of doggie psoriasis. And he’s probably going to develop small-space microphobia.” She worked her face into a very sad expression.

“Small-space microphobia?” her mother asked.

“You know: a fear of small spaces.”

“That’s claustrophobia, honey. Microphobia is a fear of small things.”

“Perhaps I should include beagles in my findings when I give my paper. I bet Cadbury would be more reliable than Mrs. Kreller. Maybe I’ll take a trip to Paws and Claws. Do you think Esme would let me have a session with him?” Mr. Morgan said.

“You could analyze him whenever you wanted if he lived here.”

“That’s true,” said Mr. Morgan.

“You would make such a difference in his life. He really is troubled.”

“Can I have that other dish? I never saw it before,” Mr. Morgan said.

“Chicken with yellow leeks. It’s delicious,” Mrs. Morgan said.

“Wouldn’t it be interesting from a professional standpoint to see if he responded to therapy? He is probably the most reliable patient you could ever have,” Veronica said.

“This is fabulous. Why haven’t we ever ordered this dish?”

“So let’s adopt him,” Veronica said. Her parents did not seem to be following.

“We have ordered this, Marvin. You just don’t remember. And you said the same thing the last time.”

Veronica was dumbfounded. Nothing was happening. She’d said, “Let’s adopt him.”

She’d followed the plan and all her parents were doing was eating their stupid Chinese food. They were supposed to have rushed out the door already, leaving the Chinese food on the table, arriving at Paws and Claws just as the front gate was closing. Esme would open it and then they would rescue Cadbury from another night of sleeping in a cage and bring him home for the rest of his life. That was the plan. It was sound. What was wrong with her parents? They gave money to homeless people, they bought goats and cows for villages in faraway places so the people there could support themselves, but they would not adopt the most helpless living being they knew. They were horrible. Veronica couldn’t bear it another moment. She threw herself at their mercy.

“It is cruel! You promised. You said when I was ten I could have a dog. I turned ten last year! You said when I proved myself with Fitzy I could have a dog. I did prove myself with Fitzy! After a month with us I’ll bet a million dollars his hot spots would go away.”

“Lovey, for the hundredth time,” her mother said, “we aren’t home enough for a beagle. They need constant company or else they howl. The co-op board would make our lives a living hell. They practically got the Fergusons thrown out because of Fitzy.”

“But you promised when I was ten!”

“We said,” her mother continued, enunciating each word, “when you were ten we would begin discussing getting a dog. We never said we were buying you a dog just because you turned ten. We said maybe. Ooh, I just love this chicken!”

“I’ll be with him,” Veronica said. Her parents absolutely said she could have a dog and now they were saying they hadn’t said it.

“You’re in school all day, honey.”

“Mary’s here.”

“Mary’s afraid of dogs so her presence would hardly be a comfort to a dog who likes company. In addition to which, Mary has a bad hip so she can’t walk a dog,” her father said.

“Not to mention the fact,” her mother added, “owning a dog is very different than visiting a dog at a pet store.”

“You have to walk a dog every day, you know,” her father said.

“I walk Fitzy all the time!”

“Veronica, the excitement will wear off,” said her father.

“And it isn’t just a question of Cadbury, Veronica. We need the right dog for our family,” her mother said.

“Cadbury is the right dog. He is sweet and nervous and he has a rash. I promise, you will never have to walk him, or feed him or do anything for him. Please. He needs us. Please. I am begging you. Please please please.” Veronica looked at her parents. They had her heart in their hands. Her pulse quickened and her mind raced to the future. Cadbury Cadbury Cadbury. Bringing Cadbury home. Walking him down her street. Introducing him to Charlie, the doorman. Riding with him in the elevator. Showing him her room. Sleeping with him on her bed every night. His tail that looked like the end had been dipped in white paint wagging every time she walked in the door after school, the little triangle of darker fur below his shoulder, his warm breath all over her face. She was so excited she could burst.

“Veronica,” her father said, “your mother is right. It’s a big decision. And it’s my impression that you are very anxious, understandably, about starting at a new school and about leaving Cricket, a friendship that caused you considerable difficulty over the years. These changes are bound to trigger all sorts of emotions. But the solution is not getting a dog that this family is not in a position to take care of. I am sorry to say the answer is no. This family is not ready for a dog. And when we decide to get a dog, we will get a dog from a shelter. Not a pet store. Millions of dogs are euthanized in shelters every year. It is just the responsible thing to do.”

“But—”

“End of discussion.”

“The discussion is over,” her mother added.

Veronica excused herself from the table, threw her dishes in the sink, and slammed the kitchen door. Or tried to. They had a swinging door that wouldn’t slam. It just squeaked while swinging back and forth until it stopped.