The Lucky One(14)

Years ago, along with her husband, Nana had taught them to do pretty much everything. Together, they’d bred and trained hunting dogs, service dogs for the blind, drug-sniffing dogs for the police, security dogs for home protection. Now that he was gone, she did those things only occasionally. Not because she didn’t know what to do; she’d always handled most of the training anyway. But to train a dog for home protection took fourteen months, and given the fact that Nana could fall in love with a squirrel in less than three seconds, it always broke her heart to have to give up the dog when the training was completed. Without Grandpa around to say, “We’ve already sold him, so we don’t have a choice,” Nana had found it easier to simply fold that part of the business.

Instead, these days Nana ran a thriving obedience school. People would drop off their dogs for a couple of weeks—doggie boot camp, she called it—and Nana would teach them how to sit, lie down, stay, come, and heel. They were simple, uncomplicated commands that nearly every dog could master quickly. Usually, somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five dogs cycled through every two weeks, and each one needed roughly twenty minutes of training per day. Any more than that, and the dogs would lose interest. It wasn’t so bad when there were fifteen, but boarding twenty-five made for long days, considering each dog also needed to be walked. And that didn’t factor in all the feeding, kennel maintenance, phone calls, dealing with clients, and paperwork. For most of the summer, Beth had been working twelve or thirteen hours a day.

They were always busy. It wasn’t difficult to train a dog—Beth had been helping Nana on and off since she was twelve—and there were dozens of books on the subject. In addition, the veterinary clinic offered lessons for dogs and their owners every Saturday morning for a fraction of the price. Beth knew that most people could spare twenty minutes a day for a couple of weeks to train their dog. But they didn’t. Instead, people came from as far away as Florida and Tennessee to drop off their dogs to have someone else do it. Granted, Nana had a great reputation as a trainer, but she was really only teaching dogs to sit and come, heel and stay. It wasn’t rocket science. Yet people were always extremely grateful. And always, always, amazed.

Beth checked her watch. Keith—her ex—would be here soon. Though she had issues with the man—Lord knows she had serious issues—he had joint custody, simple as that, and she’d tried to make the best of it. She liked to tell herself that it was important for Ben to spend time with his dad. Boys needed to spend time with their dads, especially those coming up on their teenage years, and she had to admit that he wasn’t a bad guy. Immature, yes, but not bad. He had a few beers now and then but wasn’t an alcoholic; he didn’t take drugs; he had never been abusive to either of them. He went to church every Sunday. He had a steady job and paid his child support on time. Or, rather, his family did. The money came from a trust, one of many that the family had established over the years. And for the most part, he kept his never-ending string of girlfriends away on those weekends he spent with his son. Key words: “for the most part.” Lately, he’d been better about that, but she was fairly sure it had less to do with a renewed commitment to parenting than the likelihood that he was between girlfriends right now. She wouldn’t really have minded so much, except for the fact that his girlfriends were usually closer in age to Ben than they were to him and, as a general rule, had the IQs of salad bowls. She wasn’t being spiteful; even Ben realized it. A couple of months back, Ben had to help one of them make a second batch of Kraft macaroni and cheese after the first attempt burned. The whole “add milk, butter, mix, and stir” sequence was apparently beyond her.

That wasn’t what bothered Ben the most, however. The girlfriends were okay—they tended to treat him more like a younger brother than a son. Nor was he truly upset about the chores. He might have to rake the yard or clean the kitchen and take out the trash, but it wasn’t as if her ex treated Ben like an indentured servant. And chores were good for him; Ben had weekend chores when he was with her, too. No, the problem was Keith’s childish, relentless disappointment in Ben. Keith wanted an athlete; instead he got a son who wanted to play the violin. He wanted someone to hunt with; he got a son who would rather read. He wanted a son who could play catch or shoot baskets; he was saddled with a clumsy son with poor vision.

He never said as much to Ben or to her, but he didn’t have to. It was all too apparent in the scornful way he watched Ben play soccer, in the way he refused to give Ben credit when he won his last chess tournament, in the way he continually pushed Ben to be someone he wasn’t. It drove Beth crazy and broke her heart at the same time, but for Ben, it was worse. For years, he’d tried to please his dad, but over time, it had just exhausted the poor kid. Take learning to play catch. No harm in that, right? Ben might learn to enjoy it, he might even want to play Little League. Made perfect sense when her ex had suggested it, and Ben was gung ho in the beginning. But after a while, Ben came to hate the thought of it. If he caught three in a row, his dad would want him to try to catch four. When he did that, it had to be five. When he got even better, his dad wanted him to catch all of them. And then catch while he was running forward. Catch while he was running backward. Catch while he was sliding. Catch while he was diving. Catch the one his dad threw as hard as he could. And if he dropped one? You’d think the world was coming to an end. His dad wasn’t the kind of guy who’d say, Nice try, champ! or, Good effort! No, he was the kind of guy who’d scream, C’mon! Quit screwing up!