Golden Retriever

Pilates with the other grade school mommies cannot be missed. Most of us go for the social hour and the promise of after-sweat smoothies, but I love the workout. It keeps me trim, strong, and ready for whatever happens next.

My smartwatch pauses its heart rate tracker to inform me that Michael is calling. I slip out of the studio with a whispered apology to the instructor and take the call.

“Sorry to interrupt, babe, but I’m feeling so down. I know hearing your voice will help,” Michael says.

“What is it?” I’m instantly on high alert, but I try to slow my ragged breathing. I can always blame the workout for any tension in my voice, but luckily, my husband is too awash in his own woes to notice.

“The city council didn’t approve my permit application. We aren’t going to be able to expand the shelter.”

“Oh Michael, that’s awful. After all your hard work!”

“Yeah, well, I know the city council people are doing their best. Maybe they’re using that space for something wonderful for the community, like a park or a food bank or something. It’s more awful for these guys.” I hear an errant bark and whine, the jingle of a collar. Michael is undoubtedly scratching one of his many rescue pups. “If we can’t house them, we’ll have to put them down. I don’t know if I can bring myself to do it.”

“There has to be another way. You’ll think of something; you always do,” I assure him.

“You know how to cheer me up, Allyson. I’m going to pray about it, and we can talk more after the little guy gets home from school.”

“Sounds great. See you soon, I love you.” The words tumble out of my mouth automatically. I think guiltily about the gold cross pendant he gave me on our first wedding anniversary. It sits untouched in my jewelry box.

The other mommies stream out of the studio, minds already on their kale and mango concoctions from the cafe. I slide behind the wheel of my Lexus SUV and head for City Hall.

***

City Hall isn’t busy on Thursday afternoon, but I’m still subject to the full security protocols. Luckily, spandex athleisure leaves little to the imagination. My entry is met with no objections. The security guard has bigger threats to identify than a soccer mom.

The placard by the elevator tells me the permit clerk’s office is on the third floor. I toy with my phone, accessing the dossier I’d compiled before Michael submitted his permit application. Local government may seem boring, but it’s always wise to know who’s who. The permit officer has a long tenure and an equally long list of questionable activities he wouldn’t like made public. Fortune favors those who have leverage, and I've never been above a little blackmail.

I check in with the receptionist and she invites me to take a seat. I’m waiting just a few minutes, photographic evidence in hand, before I’m ushered into the clerk’s office.

Instead of your standard-issue overweight white man in city government, a petite woman greets me. She’s neat as a pin from her glossy bob to her lacquered flats. There’s something smug in her expression as she extends her hand. My handshake is weaker than I’d like it to be.

“You were expecting Mr. Anderson, perhaps? He’s enjoying an early and somewhat unexpected retirement. Can I offer you water, or tea?”

She gestures to an electric kettle and four aluminum water bottles lined on her filing cabinet like soldiers.

“A black tea would be lovely, thank you.”

I use her brief distraction to scan the office for anything I can use against this woman. The placard on her desk reads Ms. Campbell, but that’s not a clue I can work with. Her laptop is firmly shut. There’s no family photos, personal affects, or décor of any kind. It’s all beige and shades of gray.

She returns with my tea.

“I’m here to appeal a permit application on behalf of my husband?” Inwardly, I resent the upward inflection of my voice, but it seems to have the desired effect.

Ms. Campbell smiles gently. “What a devoted wife. What was the company?”

“Retriever Ranch,” I say. Her eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch, but her smile spreads wide, straining the skin beneath her eyes.

“Oh, you’re Mrs. Armstrong. Yes, I have that application right here.” She slides a folder across her desk. I gape at the documents’ frayed edges, lined with a rainbow of tags. Michael’s permit application couldn’t have been more than four pages; this file rivals Tolstoy.

“I noticed some irregularities with the application and so I had to deny it,” she says, her voice dripping with syrup. “But since you’re here, you could clear some of these issues up for us.”

Irregularities. Warning bells sound in my head. There is nothing irregular about Michael, my golden husband.

“I’m—maybe I should wait for—my husband would want to know about this,” I stammer. Get a grip, Allyson. I match Ms. Campbell’s customer service smile. “That shouldn’t be any trouble, but I might have to consult my husband on the details.”

“It’s not the content of the permit application, per se, but rather the activity surrounding this business,” Ms. Campbell flicks through the pages, but I recognize her act. She knows the contents of this dossier from back to front. “For example, there was a suspicious influx of cash roughly five years ago.”

“We received an unexpected windfall shortly after our marriage,” I explain. A windfall I liberated from an overseas bank.

“Ah, then I’m sure there’s appropriate tax documentation to supplement that assertion. Additionally, there’s been a surprising rotation of inspectors and auditors at the worksite. I wouldn’t expect to see such turnover from year to year.”

I shrug as casually as I can. “Certainly you don’t expect me to understand the hiring practices of the local compliance agencies.” Especially if I bribed those inspectors to look the other way.

Ms. Campbell cracks before I expect it. “Drop the act, Allyson. Your husband might be blameless in the operations of his business, but you have your finger in more pies than is appropriate for a suburban wife.”

“That’s an assertion I’m sure you have appropriate documentation to support,” I coo.

“No, we both recognize you’re better than that.” To my alarm, her wicked smile is back. “But even without documentation, I’m sure your husband wouldn’t enjoy the barest hint of wrongdoing on your part; a morally upstanding citizen like him. There’s more than enough here for a hint.”

I pause, simply breathing, centering myself and pushing the panic down. I think of the puppies, and all the joy they’ll bring to people in this community. I think of this clerk, Ms. Campbell, and the joy she does not bring to people. I think of Michael, blameless Michael, and all the lines I've crossed to give him the opportunity to do good in this world.

“What do you want?” I ask flatly.

“Nothing too odious for a woman with your skill set.” It’s Ms. Campbell’s turn to preen. “I daresay you’ll be able to accomplish it between drop off, pick up, grocery shopping, and Pilates. You see, a clerk’s life, like a wife’s life, is mundane. The real power rests with City Council, and it just so happens there’s an election next fall. I’d like to unseat the incumbent.”

I accept a folder from her desk and take notes.

***

Gravel crunches under my tires as I pull into Retriever Ranch’s parking lot. I unclip MJ from his carseat and we’re greeted with a chorus of joyful barks.

“Allyson, you’ll never believe it!” Michael leaps down the stairs and gathers MJ and I in his arms, twirling us around in a vortex of jubilation. “The permit clerk called! They’ve reconsidered my application, and it’s approved! We can expand!”

“That’s wonderful news, isn’t it MJ?” Our son squeals, kicking his feet in a fit of glee. I set him down and the boys bound off to spread the good news to the kennels.

I raise the Lexus’ automatic lift gate and wedge open the spare tire compartment. The folder rests atop banded bundles of cash, vacuum sealed wigs, and a 3D printed gun. It seems I’m serving two masters.