It is widely understood that the Maddox companies will not do business with anyone employing her. The last I heard, she was working for a credit union based in Salt Lake City. I’ll let her get comfortable for a few months before I make a phone call. No one who threatens my children is enjoying a life of peace, not for long.
For once, no one has to pee or have their diaper changed before we arrive at the Muncie’s, the beagle’s foster family. After we get all that settled, and I’ve taken Mr. Muncie aside to personally thank him for hosting us, Mrs. Muncie leads us into the fenced backyard. There’s a weathered picnic table, a rickety playset, and plastic toys—for both animalsand children—strewn about like this was the scene of a great battle.
“I’ll be right back with Gonzo,” Mrs. Muncie says. Apparently, in anticipation of our visit, the animals are in their crates in the basement.
Cora and Pearl nervously take a seat on the picnic table bench, facing the house. Winnie sits in Cora’s lap. They’re all vibrating with excitement. Winnie has no idea what’s happening, but she’s feeling the vibes.
It’s still terrifying, if I stop to think about it, how everything that matters to me in the world, my entire reason for living, is just sitting there, the three of them crowded together, squirming and kicking their feet and smiling at me in anticipation, as if I’m the man about to make their dreams come true.
It’s still terrifying how close I came to successfully throwing it all away.
I go take a seat next to my family, scooping Winnie onto my lap. She squeals with delight. I think it’s because of me, but then I see the adorable dog bounding up the basement steps, floppy ears flying. He makes a beeline for us, his paws swallowing up the distance between us.
Pearl opens her arms.
“Gonzo! Gonzo, sit!” Mrs. Muncie calls, and at the very last second, Gonzo, with more self-control than I’ve ever seen exhibited by any living thing in my life, pulls himself up short and plants his butt on the ground between Pearl’s feet, huffing and puffing like he ran a mile, not a yard.
“Shake,” Mrs. Muncie says, coming up behind him.
Gonzo raises a paw. Pearl’s eyes light up like Christmas. “Mommy?”
“Go ahead,” Cora says.
Pearl shakes.
“Gonzo is a very well-behaved gentleman. Aren’t you, Gonzo?” Mrs. Muncie asks.
I don’t know. Gonzo looks to me like a guy just waiting for the boss to leave. I’m proven right, when a few minutes later, Mrs. Muncie excuses herself to move a load of laundry to the dryer.
I couldn’t say who starts it, but as soon as she disappears into the basement, Pearl and Gonzo are rolling around on the ground together. He’s slurping her face, and she’s squealing with pure delight. Winnie bends as far forward on my lap as she can, wiggling her fingers, trying to get a piece of the action.
Cora and I are watching, bemused, when another floppy-eared fellow struggles up the stairs from the basement. This time, Mrs. Muncie doesn’t follow. Did she accidentally leave the door open? I can’t imagine this creaky old guy executed any kind of daring escape plan.
For starters, he’s not a runner. His muzzle is grizzled, and his eyes are cloudy. He has more than a few extra pounds on him. He steadfastly trots our way, snuffling the ground as he comes. When he arrives, he sniffs our shoes and pant legs and Cora’s crotch, then decides upon his preference, setting his chin on Cora’s knee and closing his eyes.
Cora immediately begins scratching behind his ears. “Where did you come from? I don’t think you’re supposed to be out here, are you? Did you escape?”
The fugitive has nothing to say for himself. He accepts a few more minutes of attention and then pads off to continue his sniffing mission.
“Should we tell Mrs. Muncie?” Cora asks.
“He’s okay. The yard is fenced.”
We both watch him wander from tuft of grass to tree trunk while Pearl tries to get Gonzo to shake again. Gonzo is no longer familiar with the term.
I’ve turned my attention to the two of them when the fugitive returns, carrying a sun-bleached bone made of frayed rope in his mouth. He drops it at Cora’s feet and plops his head back on her thigh for his reward.
A torrent of tears practically bursts from her eyes, and my stomach leaps into my throat. I overpower the urge to jump to my feet, ready to do battle. There’s a baby on my lap, and also, I already know that whatever’s wrong is something I can’t fight. I wouldn’t trade the Cora I know now with the woman I married, not for anything, but it’s humbling to be a kingmaker who sways markets and influences the course of modern events and who is also completely powerless in the face of his wife’s tears.
“Cora, what is it?” I ask quietly, but Pearl has already noticed.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?” She runs over, Gonzo at her heels.
Winnie lurches, grasping for her mother.
We’re a scrum of children and dogs and tears, and I’m supposed to be the man, and I’m struggling to keep a baby from casting herself off my lap.
“He brought me a toy,” Cora chokes out through the tears.
