The Lost - J. D. Robb [61]
“Did.”
“But I just never realized. You’d never say, and from what I’ve always gathered from Laurie . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing, I just—assumed it was more of a hobby, is all. But, Sam, you’re good. Really good.”
Oh, shut up. She wasn’t flattering him, though; she meant it. And Sam beamed with pleasure. So unfair—I wanted to say it to him. I wanted to make him smile and blush and look tickled.
Why hadn’t I ever told Sam he was good?
They finished in the kitchen and moved past me—I watched their legs—into the hall. “Ustin and Jethan!” Monica called; a family joke. “Time to go home!”
Sam started thanking her again. She cut him off to ask, “How are you doing, Sam? I haven’t had a chance with all the birthday business to really talk to you, not in days.”
Days, big deal.
“We’re all right,” Sam said. “We’re fine. Day at a time.”
“But you. How are you doing?”
He hadn’t combed out his Great Sambini hair yet. Back-lit in the open door, he looked like a punk angel. “Starting the new job will be good,” he said, with no enthusiasm. “Get my mind off things.”
“Is anything new with Laurie?” Monica asked gently. Speaking of things.
“Not really. We’ll go see her tomorrow night. I usually take Benny on Sundays, but . . .”
Since it was his birthday, he got a reprieve. I put my paws over my eyes, wishing I could disappear. Cease to exist. Think how much better off everybody would be.
When I looked up, Monica had her hand on Sam’s arm, rubbing it in a comforting way while her melty eyes shone with sympathy. Instantly I was on my feet, snarling, slinking forward, low to the ground like a wolf.
Who knows what might’ve happened if Benny and the twins hadn’t come bouncing down the steps just then, quar reling and overstimulated, minutes away from a meltdown. Everybody’s attention shifted to them, including mine. Good thing, because at that moment Monica’s pert little butt had never looked more, how shall I say, toothsome.
I was allowed to go, too, when everyone went outside to the car—Monica had driven over instead of walking. Piling the twins and the birthday paraphernalia in took a while. When it was done, she cupped the back of Benny’s head and kissed his forehead. “Happy birthday, mister.”
He reached his arms around her waist—she squatted down in front of him. “Tell Monica—” Sam began, but Benny didn’t need reminding. “Thank you,” he said, and she said, “You are so welcome,” and pulled him into a close hug. I took two steps toward them, stiff-l egged, hair standing on end. My mouth watered.
Monica patted Benny’s shoulders and started to sit back on her heels, but he hung on. He hung on. I saw his tight-shut eyes, his wrinkled lips. The need and the blank satisfaction on his face.
I could’ve eaten a whole family—I could’ve mauled a playground full of children. God! I wanted something between my teeth to grind and shake until it was dead. But I couldn’t lift a paw to interrupt a few seconds of happiness for Benny, even if it came in the arms of my mortal enemy.
I walked around to the side of the house and threw up.
After that, things went downhill.
The day after the party, Benny started first grade and Sam started his new job. Sam dropped Benny off at school on his way to work, and in the afternoons Monica kept Benny at her house until Sam picked him up. I never met Benny’s teacher. I never saw his classroom. Sam dropped the first week’s lunch menu on the floor and I made out “teriyaki beef bites” and “café burger with baked beans” before he picked it up. In the evenings, I might hear a precious tidbit about a new friend of Benny’s, a confusing assignment, a funny thing that happened that day. But he told Sam all the good stuff as soon as he saw him; by the time they came home, all I got was leftovers.
As for Sam’s job, he never mentioned it.
A day lasted a year. I know why dogs sleep so much—there’s nothing else to do. The highlight for me was when Mr. Horton, the next-door neighbor, came over at noon to let me out in the backyard for ten minutes. Sam had told him to be sure to change