“Sounds like an oxymoron. How can altruism be pathological?”
“It doesn’t just do damage to others, it also damages oneself. Think: the tireless worker for others who doesn’t care for herself and gets sick. I think I have found a statistical link between excessive volunteerism and victimology, the pairing of accomplished, intelligent, motivated women who are preyed upon because of the depth of their compassion. It blinds them to a type of predator who is keenly aware of that trait; it predisposes the woman to give him the benefit of the doubt. I think predators seek out women with an overabundance of exactly what they lack. Predators feed off compassion.”
I looked to see how Billie had registered all that I had said. She did not say something flippant; rather, she looked as though she was thinking it over. Then she asked if I thought that she was a pathological altruist. Did I feel that she set herself up for being victimized in this way?
“It’s hard for me to see you as anyone’s victim.”
“Is this what Bennett saw in you?”
Could I give her an honest answer? But what would that be? I’d been turning the question over since Bennett’s death. “Maybe I’m not the best judge of that.”
She veered off onto the exit ramp for Cross River and Katonah.
“Where are we going?”
“We’ve got time. There’s a really nice spot about three miles up where we can give Cloud another walk. Off leash.”
Ward Pound Ridge Reservation. We passed the reservoir right off the exit, and when we made the turn to take the walk, we saw no other cars parked at the entrance. Cloud was delirious in her discoveries of country scents; we let her drink from the stream. I thanked Billie for letting Cloud have this intermission between shelter and sanctuary.
“There’s a part of me that wants to take her and keep driving,” I said. “Take her to some other state and start life over, away from everything that’s happened in New York.” I let my guard down just that much.
“But you would never do that.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I would.”
I returned my attention to my dog, who was loving her freedom.
A deer stood on the path several yards ahead of us. It didn’t bolt. Cloud froze, did not give chase. “Good girl,” I said. We stayed silent and didn’t move, until people talking on the path behind us startled the whole lot of us, and the deer took off into the woods.
“We should get going,” Billie said. “Better to arrive while there’s still light.”
We drove the rest of the way without music or talk to New Milford. Down the dirt road to For Pitties’ Sake, bouncing in ruts from melting ice, we pulled up to the raised ranch house and parked alongside other cars in front of the garage. Alfredo had heard the car and came to the door to greet us. He handed Cloud a biscuit, then another.
Alfredo asked if we could stay long enough for him to give Cloud a bath. That way, he explained, he could blow-dry Cloud with the dog’s head between my legs and me holding a towel around her head to shield her from the noise of the dryer. I told him that of course we would stay.
He led us into a downstairs bathroom that had been converted into a kind of dog spa. I urged Cloud into the tub and stood back while Alfredo shampooed her. Once her fur was wet and clinging to her body, I could see how much weight she had lost. I rubbed her ears through the towel and thought again about Billie’s having said that I would not run away and start over with my dog. That she would, but I would not. But I no longer believed that anyone could start over. You can continue and grow, but you can’t begin anew. People who believe you can don’t understand the continuum of life.
I didn’t want to see Cloud put into her kennel, as spacious and clean as it was, so we left while Alfredo was brushing her out. I was grateful for this vision of my girl — clean, soft, being cared for by someone who cared. Billie walked ahead of me, out into the muddy yard. The wetlands that bounded the property on one side were the reason they’d got the place at such a good price. That’s what Alfredo had told us. Dogs didn’t care if one side of the seven-acre property was marshy. I was glad we were leaving while it was still light. The view from the heated garage’s window, Cloud’s new view, was wetlands, and she loved the water.
“I got a text from McKenzie,” Billie told me as we got into the car.
“Just now?”
“When he got the photos of Cloud.”
“What did he say?”
“That he can finally put your case to bed.”
Finally? I reached into my tote bag for a Kleenex, just to have something to do to break the thought.
“I should tell him I can’t make it tonight. Could you get my phone out of my bag?”
I reflexively reached for her phone when she asked if I would text him since she was driving. Now I was the go-between.
She dictated, Rain check. Unless you’ll be up late?
“You hungry?” Billie asked.
“I could use a drink.”
“There’s a bar in Danbury, a few miles ahead. We can shoot some pool while we drink.”
Billie drove to an Irish pub, Molly Darcy’s. A drum set and a couple of coffin-size amplifiers were onstage, but it wasn’t yet seven, too early for live music. There was even a dance floor, empty now, but the scuff marks promised it wouldn’t be empty for long. Maybe a dozen customers sat on garnet-red stools facing a soundless soccer match on a flatscreen on the wall. The pool table was free. I ordered two beers while Billie racked up.
She chalked the tip of a cue stick, collected the balls from the trough under the table, and filled the rack. She walked to the far side of the table.
I wondered why Billie was taking the time to shoot pool with me when she could have been meeting up with McKenzie. A choice I would not have made.
I watched her sink two more balls. “You didn’t tell me you were a hustler.” It was less a game than an exhibition as she leaned over to make her shots in such a way that her black tank top gapped and showed her black lace bra.
Billie missed the next shot and handed me the cue.
“I only ever played solids and stripes,” I said, paving the way to a second-rate show of skill. There would be no show of skin with me; I was more than demure in a vintage T-shirt and skinny jeans. I had pulled my hair into a ponytail to reduce interference, but the bangs I had recently cut on a whim fell in my eyes anyway.
“No excuses.”
I sank two balls in corner pockets, then scratched.
Billie dispatched the next four, then reached for the bridge to make a seriously difficult shot — she had to bank off three sides before sinking it. She didn’t waste a motion.
I finished my beer and watched as she cleared the table. “Next round is on me,” I said, conceding defeat, “unless you want to get going.”
“I earned another beer. I’ll rack ’em up again.”
She retrieved the rack and started to fill it. A couple of guys who had been drinking at the bar walked over to the pool table. I didn’t know how long they had been watching.
These guys were just off a construction job, looked like. They wore flannel shirts tucked into loose jeans, scuffed boots, and looked like men — none of that androgynous look you found in Williamsburg. When they saw Billie looking them over, they raised their beers and suggested a bet. Billie took them up on it. When she could have been with McKenzie.
“Come meet our new boyfriends.” Billie waved me over.
I did not appreciate being implicated, but I gave the men a noncommittal “Hey.” I told Billie it had been a long day.
“Why are you being a wet blanket?” Billie reminded me that we were allowed to celebrate the successful transfer of Cloud to her new home.