I stand outside, my fists shoved into the pockets of my jeans. Why is it that every good idea goes to hell because of someone else’s failings? Even to my own ears, that sounds harsh, but I’m really getting tired of Carl’s failure to finish any project that he isn’t interested in. Case in point, the lack of a proper run for the doggy day care that I’ve sunk weeks of work into and not an inconsiderable amount of money I don’t actually have. I’ve had Carl work on the worst of the four little buildings. He’s gutted it. The two bedrooms are now dog-friendly and the tiny kitchen has only a small fridge and a sink left. The tub in the bathroom has been retrofitted with a faucet that turns into a handheld shower should any dog need a bath. The floor is covered in cheap linoleum, but it looks nice even where he had to tack it down over the uneven floorboards. The doorways have new Dutch doors, so that whoever I get to lease the place can keep an eye on the dogs in residence. The next step is a big fenced-in run. Of course, now Carl has disappeared, leaving the key element of the doggy day care unfinished.
So simple, this last piece, and yet so incomplete. On the ground, where the lumberyard truck left them, are the fencing components just waiting for installation. The rented posthole digger leans against the side of the cabin, the days of rental ticking along one by one. I’ve been forced by finances to choose the cheapest way of building a small enclosed yard, and the least attractive. But I console myself. I’m planning on replacing it with something less utilitarian-looking than chain link just as soon as the doggy day spa begins to pay off. Which may be further away than I had hoped. The one party interested in leasing space isn’t interested in leasing a property that isn’t ready, even when I offered a rebate on the first month’s rent. The woman said it wasn’t worth it to her to have to find someone to build the run. As a sole proprietor of my own enterprise, I fully understand the sentiment. Every penny counts. In the meantime, I can’t offer the service to my guests, and, with the cost of fencing sitting on my credit card like a deadweight, I’m already losing money on this proposition.
When I talked with him about this project, Adam had been very enthusiastic, assuring me that offering a pet spa to people who would rather spend money on their dog’s grooming than on their own massages would put me on the map. And having a place to keep their pets safe and happy while exploring all the region has to offer will be the deciding factor for any guests who are on the fence about bringing a pet in the first place. If Carl doesn’t finish this project this week, Adam’s optimistic projections are going to have to be recalculated. Speaking of which, Adam is due back today—work this time, not vacation; not hiding out.
Cody comes up beside me. “You think that Carl will ever finish the run?”
“If I knew the answer to that, I might start buying lottery tickets. He’s a free spirit.”
Cody starts off down the slope, then turns. “What if I know somebody who might be able to do the work?”
“A friend?”
“Kind of. He’s just this kid I know.” Cody doesn’t look directly at me when she says this, toes the dirt beneath her feet. “He works, like, for a carpenter. He’s learning a trade.”
“And how do you know this boy?”
“What? I make a suggestion and you give me the third degree. Sheesh. Forget it.” Cody strides away.
“Wait. Come back and tell me more.”
Cody pauses. Turns. “It’s stupid. Forget it.”
“You think he can do the work?”
“Sure. It’s just that…”
“What?”
“He’d need a ride to get here.”
“From?”
“North Adams.”
“And just how do you know him? This kid from North Adams?”
“I just do. No big deal.”
“Cody. Stop it. Who is he?”
“He’s Mingo Ayala. He’s a nice kid. He’s not going to, like, break in or murder us. He just needs work.”
“How do you know him if not from school?”
“I said, forget it. My whole life isn’t school.”
There’s the clam-up. Right on schedule.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Mom, it would be a nice thing for us to do, giving a poor kid another chance.”
“Another chance at what? Where are his parents?” Even as I throw out the questions, I know that I’m going to let Cody talk me into giving some street kid from North Adams a job. A one-off, simple, a day’s worth of work for ten bucks an hour and lunch. That’s the best I’ll offer. That and a ride. Hey, who knows, maybe he’ll prove to be a better handyman than Carl and I can let his lazy ass go. There is something to be said for Cody’s better nature, this charitable urge to help someone down on his luck. We’ve never been churchgoers, but it is nice to think that Cody may have absorbed the basic lessons. Of course, the actual truth might be that Cody sees something of her old world, her city life, in this kid, and all this kindness may be a cure for loneliness. Near as I can figure, she still doesn’t have any friends, unless you call those artists at the Collaborative friends.
“All right. I assume you have some way of contacting … Mingo, so ask him if he’s interested in coming up on Saturday.”
“And we’ll get him, right?”
“Yes. We’ll go pick him up and then take him home at the end of the day.”
“Thanks, Mom. Thanks.” Cody turns. “And, Mr. March will be here, right?”
“He’s here till Sunday. Why?”
“Just asking.” Cody is smiling as she heads off to do up her quota of rooms.
I head back to the office. I’ll call that prospective doggy day care operator and let her know that the fencing will be up by the end of the week. Maybe saying it out loud will make it true. I know that I’m putting an awful lot of faith in a street kid. Maybe Cody met this Mingo fellow at the AC. He’s probably some gifted street artist. Isn’t it just like Cody to skip over the facts that would reassure me and make this out-of-the-blue request understandable.
* * *
They sit in Mosley’s office, Mosley going on about the plans for the big gala, as pleased as Punch with the progress, most of the component parts having come into place already, when Adam notices the pencil sketches pinned to the corkboard wall. Most of what Mosley does leaves Adam cold, concept pieces with no rhyme or reason he can figure out. But these, these are lovely little studies, not one of them bigger than five by seven. It takes him a moment to realize whom he’s looking at, but when he does, Adam feels the annoyance percolate. Cody Mitchell, her gawky, girlish figure set in various poses that make her look coy and sophisticated in one sketch, and an utter naïf in the next. Her face tilted in a three-quarter come-hither profile; another full face, eyes wide, lips pursed, hands framing her cheeks, Voguing for the observer.
Chance squeezes his big head under Adam’s arm, reminding him to chill out. Maybe Mosley did these before Skye laid down the law about using Cody as a model. Yeah, that’s it. Adam lets the irritation out with a breath. Pats the dog, thankful that Chance is, as always, there to push him away from the edge. Adam makes a concerted effort not to look at the sketches, but now that he’s noticed them, it’s impossible, and he finds himself glancing back at the array of four little portraits of a child-woman. That’s what he doesn’t like about them: They edge an innocent fourteen-year-old girl out of girlhood and into that dark region of female knowingness. Even if Cody were sixteen or seventeen and had come into her feminine powers, these would still be borderline prurient. Adam can’t figure out why they’re upsetting to him; there’s no nudity per se, nothing lascivious. Nonetheless, the four sketches, to him, sexualize a child, and he digs his fingers deeper into Chance’s rump, scratching the dog instead of speaking his mind. And then he wonders if there is something wrong with him, that he should see these pictures in this way.
He’s got to get out of here. He interrupts Mosley’s monologue. “Sounds like things are under control. I’ve e-mailed you the final invitation list and I think that you’d better get the invites out by the end of next week.”
“Can do. I’ll get some help.”
“Like Cody?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s always good for a little barter. Stuff a few hundred envelopes and I’ll give her another lesson in the arts.”
“Keep it to stuffing envelopes.”
Mosley shrugs. “There’s not a lot for her to do around here. She wants more lessons and her mom isn’t willing to pony up. So I got to make work for her. Pain in the ass.”
“Maybe she should find another teacher.”
“No one around here is interested in taking on a student.”
“Just you.”
“Yeah. Just me.” Mosley gets to his feet, drags an ashtray across his cluttered desk, then opens a drawer and pulls out an old-fashioned metal Band-Aid box. “Why do you make it sound like a flaw?”
“Guess those sketches behind you kind of make me nervous.”
Chance, still on his feet, nudges Adam again, pressing his moist nose against the skin of his wrist.
Mosley makes a show of turning around to see what Adam is talking about. “Those? That’s from memory. Using my imagination. It’s art, man. Just art.”
“Better hope her mother doesn’t see how rich an imagination you have.”
“This really isn’t any of your business.” Mosley gives Adam a conspiratorial smile. “Or, hey, you dating her, the mom? She’s definitely a MILF.”
“And that’s none of your business.”
Chance sits down, presses his chin against Adam’s lap, hard, as if to say, Pay attention to me. Adam knows that he should dig his fingers into the dog’s loose neck skin, soak up some of his companion’s calmness. But, he doesn’t. Instead, he gets to his feet. Meeting over. “Keep me posted on the guest list. I’ll do more data mining on the folks who say they’ll attend.”
Mosley pulls a thin joint out of the Band-Aid box, snaps a match into life. “You know, Adam, maybe we’re about done here.”
“You’ve paid me for a year, and we’re a couple months shy of that; but it’s your call.” Adam buttons the middle button of his sport coat. “The contract does stipulate that either party can call it quits. But, as you may recall, no refunds.” What he is thinking is that the AC is limping along and the forfeit of a couple of grand is not a smart thing to do. What he is also thinking is that he’d be plenty happy to call it quits with this guy. It might even be worth not bothering with a negotiated refund.
And then it occurs to him: If he quits, then his Berkshire trips will be a thing of the past, and that thought makes him a bit sad. As if picking up on that brief floating sense of prenostalgia, Chance bumps his blocky head against the back of Adam’s leg, whines softly.
* * *
“Girl, you out your mind?”
This wasn’t the reaction Cody was expecting from Mingo.
“What do I know about buildin’ a fence? I don’t know how to do that.”
“Can you ask your boss how?”
“My boss, he ain’t gonna let me go nowhere. My RC ain’t gonna let me go nowhere. Don’t you get it?”
“Can my mother, like, sign you out?”
“I dunno. Maybe. But that don’t mean I know how to build a fence.”
“How hard can it be?”
“Plenty hard. Gotta dig holes, make it straight. They accuse me of smokin’ crack, but you, girl, you high on somethin’.”
She plays her trump card. “I’ve got Dawg. He’ll be here.”
There is a long-enough pause that she thinks maybe Mingo has hung up on her. “A-ite. I’ll ask my RC if I can leave for the day. I’ll let you know what your mom needs to do to spring me.”
“Thanks, Mingo. You’ll be fine.”
“Doubt it. But okay.”
The dog Adam calls Lucky gets to his feet, shakes from nose to tail, and moseys over to where Cody sits on the grass that borders the lake. She’s dog-sitting for Mr. March and is glad of the couple of bucks he’ll give her for minding the dog. She recognizes the irony: Here she is with the dog and there’s Mr. March, close enough to where Mingo is to finally get the two together. Near misses. If she’d been thinking on her feet, she could have suggested that she go with Mr. March to the AC and watch the dog there. But no. She just grinned up like some kind of idiot and said, “D’uh. Sure.”
The water is still too cold to put her feet in, and the ground under her bare skin is damp and cold. She hugs the dog to her. “You want to see Mingo?”
The dog licks her chin.
Nonetheless and against all odds, Cody has accomplished part one of her plan, to bring Mingo and the dog back together. But for the life of her, she can’t quite figure out part two—how to actually give the dog back to him. Maybe Mingo can figure it out. The fact that she’s managed to involve her mother in this means that she is also at the mercy of her mother. There’s no way she’s going to talk Skye into surrendering the dog to Mingo when Mr. March is here and so clear about that never happening. The adults will team up against the kids. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe it will be enough to have a short reunion, enough that Mingo will see that she’s on his side, that she’s his advocate. And then Cody wonders why she cares. It’s not like Mingo is especially nice to her, or even grateful that she saved his life. Her grandmother would say that he’s got a chip on his shoulder. It’s what she used to say about Randy: “He’s a little man with a big chip on his shoulder.” Even at the funeral home, Florence Lenihan had trouble saying one nice thing about Randy, offering a stiff condolence to the aunt who had raised him: “Sorry for your loss.”
The dog points his red nose up the slope toward the hotel. Cody follows the dog’s point with her eyes, but all she can see is the east end of the building, the peak of the roof between green pines. If you could sit on the roof of the hotel, you’d be able to still see the lake. That’s kind of a cool idea. Maybe she can talk Skye into having a rooftop deck built. Make this stupid, gross building into something interesting instead of an outdated box with nothing more architecturally interesting than the double porches stuck onto its face. Really, when you think about it, the place is really nothing more than a glorified motel and not even as interesting as the Bates Motel or that hotel in The Shining. Tyler and Taylor call it the “No-Tell Motel,” followed by the usual suggestive gestures or kissy noises. Cody really wishes that they’d get some new material.