MB Short Story: Three Truths and Two Dogs (Part One)

(Look forward to Part 2, coming tomorrow! This short story got long.)

* * * *

Every spring, Tobias Zarneki held his annual charity auction. Ostensibly to raise funds for A New Page, a nonprofit which coordinated activities for at-risk youth in association with local libraries, Chicago’s political elite recognized the event for what it was: an opportunity to schmooze with other power players, launder bribes via the purchase of overpriced modern art, and whisper their own agendas into the mayor’s ear in return for generous campaign season donations. And if the evening provided a few kids from South Side with college scholarships, well, that only proved that the attendees truly cared about their community (and thus deserved said community’s votes).

Every spring, Kent Zarneki forced himself into a black tuxedo with a too-tight collar. He polished his shoes and practiced his smile. Then, when he could no longer recognize his reflection in the mirror, he stepped into his 1971 Ford Mustang and drove himself to The Starlight Hotel and Ballroom. It was a whimsical and overly romantic name for a venue which, in Kent’s opinion, cared more about creating an ambiance of exclusivity than true elegance. Not that Kent possessed a particularly refined palette (his favorite food was mac and cheese), but his father’s auction cost almost as much money to host as it ever raised. Kent failed to comprehend the logic of whoever had decided that it was classy to have diamond chips embedded into the handles of the salad forks. If Kent hadn’t already known that Tobias was missing a sense of humor, he might’ve suspected the cutlery to be his father making a subtle dig at all the aldermen born with the proverbial silver spoon in their mouths. But no, some things were just tacky. Expensive, but tacky.

Kent parked at the underground lot across the street from The Starlight. Kent didn’t consider himself to be stubborn, exactly, but he rarely did things that he didn’t want to do, even when that meant showing up to tonight’s event on foot and earning judgmental stares from other invitees. He’d compromised enough for one night by agreeing to attend his father’s fundraiser; he wasn’t about to let a stranger, not even a professional valet, drive his baby.

Once inside the ballroom, Kent found his father in animated conversation with one of his major donors. Or rather, Mrs. Evanton-Marely speaking animatedly, while Tobias pretended to listen with a politely distant half-smile. Upon seeing Kent approach, his fake smile flattened. He extricated himself from Mrs. Evanton-Marely and pulled Kent aside near one of the crystal paned, floor-to-ceiling windows.

“You’re late,” Tobias informed his son.

Kent shrugged.

“Damian O’Riley was asking about you,” Tobias continued. His upper lip curled with disdain so slight that anyone not related to him wouldn’t have recognized the emotion. “He’ll want to hear about your experience at Aeon.”

This time, Kent didn’t bother with a physical acknowledgement as he awaited his father’s next order.

“Arabella Zhou is seated at frontmost table near the podium. Her granddaughter will be visiting Chicago this summer; you’ll volunteer to show her around.”

Kent shrugged again. He’d already met Mei, Ms. Zhou’s granddaughter, at a different fundraiser and had no objection to renewing the acquaintance. She was a Dance and Econ double major at Yale, and her sarcastic commentary about the other guests in attendance had made that past evening less dull.

“And don’t forget that—” Tobias’s cellphone buzzed, cutting off further instruction. He looked down at the screen, scowled, and began to turn away.

“You’ll mention the shelter in your speech?” Kent asked.

Tobias paused at his son’s quiet query. They had reached an understanding soon after Kent had turned eighteen and inherited the small trust and house left to him by his grandparents (and thus was no longer reliant upon his father): Kent would attend Tobias’s fundraisers, and in return Tobias’s speeches that night would include at least one comment about the animal shelter where Kent volunteered.

Tobias nodded curtly, and Kent’s stomach unknotted. He was never certain when his father would decide pull the plug on their deal, and the shelter needed the funding. The casual namedrop didn’t take much effort on Tobias’s part, especially when compared to the energy exerted by Kent to play The Politician’s Perfect Son, but having the right word uttered into the ear of a well-funded crowd had more than doubled the shelter’s finances in the past three years. Ms. Zhou had even adopted an elderly poodle from them—another reason that Kent didn’t mind playing host to Mei.

“Don’t forget that the photo op with Times is at ten am tomorrow.” Tobias glared once more at his phone screen before shoving his cell back into his pocket.

“We’re getting two new rescues in from Florida that morning,” Kent said. “I’m on shift for their drop off.”

“Reschedule.”

* * * *

Kent should have rescheduled. Disobeying his father wasn’t something he did often; in Kent’s experience, defiance usually wasn’t worth the fallout. He’d long ago realized that it was far preferable to bargain with Tobias and get something in return than it was to deal with Tobias's displeasure. Besides, as much as the reality might irk him, Kent was his father’s son, and Tobias had taught him that there were three truths in life.

Truth One: Everyone had an agenda.

Truth Two: The key to controlling others was discovering their agenda.

Truth Three: Nothing mattered more than control.

These truths, perhaps, were why Kent liked animals so much. Their agenda was simple, driven by food and affection. Nor could animals—especially the animals that passed through the shelter where he volunteered—ever really be fully controlled. There was an element of unpredictability to even the tamest housecat. Kent respected that.

Tobias’s agenda and the third truth coincided. Nothing mattered more to Tobias than being in control, and he was willing to exchange Kent favors (such as publicly supporting the shelter) in order to maintain the illusion that he still held it over his soon. Perhaps a stronger, more idealistic person would’ve long ago severed the bond with their father. But after the death of Kent mother, and then the death of his grandparents . . . Tobias was really the only family Kent had left. Even if Tobias was a manipulative asshole.

But because Tobais was a manipulative asshole, Kent should’ve rescheduled his shift and gone to the magazine photo shoot. Yes, Jeremiah (the shelter’s owner) had been down sick with the flu, and yes, Trina (the only other fulltime employee) had been out on maternity leave. But Kent could’ve asked Glitch to be there for the dogs’ arrival in his place, leveraging Glitch’s desire to drive his car for the favor. Glitch might’ve been willing to take Kent’s shift without the additional incentive, but Kent didn’t like asking others for unpaid favors . . . even if Glitch was becoming (somewhat against Kent’s will) something of a friend.

“Should have done’s” no longer matter. Kent had screwed up. Last month, he’d chosen his shift at the animal shelter over his father's morning photoshoot, and now five of the shelter’s biggest donors had just canceled their annual donations. All were political peers of his father. Kent knew Tobias was behind their withdrawal, and he understood the implicit threat behind it: “I helped you out, son, and I can rescind that help at any time.”

“We’re screwed,” Jeremiah groaned, their forehead thumping onto the surface of their desk.

Kent leaned against the office wall. Barks, mews, and the occasional neigh drifted through the nearby open window, each animal cry hitting Kent like a wordless accusation. This was his fault, because he'd disobeyed Tobias. Jeremiah ran one of the few no-kill shelters in Chicago that didn’t only accept easily adoptable animals. Most of the residents were long-term, and if the shelter closed . . .

“I’ll fix this,” Kent said.

Jeremiah cracked open a single eyelid. “There’s nothing to fix. I knew your dad’s party was coming up, and I anticipated another surge of donations. Our funds are tied up in the kennel expansion.”

“If it’s just money—”

Jeremiah cut Kent off with a shake of their head. “I’m not taking more money from you, Zee. It’s not a long-term solution.”

Kent’s lips pursed together. He’d have to ask Glitch how to make an anonymous contribution later. As much as he hated to admit it, though, Jeremiah was right. Kent alone couldn’t afford to pay for the shelter’s upkeep, especially if any more donors withdrew.

“What if we tried to get some of the animals adopted out?” Trina asked from her seat on the beanbag. She spoke in a whisper to keep Iris, her daughter, from waking up. Technically, she was still on maternity leave, but she’d refused to stay at home after hearing about the shelter’s financial woes.

Jeremiah gave a hoarse laugh. “Right. We have maybe two cats suitable to become pets.”

“What about the new shih tzus?” Trina said. “They’re sweethearts.”

Kent and Jeremiah both stared at her flatly.

“Well, maybe sweetheart is the wrong word,” she amended. “But if the shelter is going to close, they still deserve a home.”

“All our guys deserve a home,” Jeremiah sighed. “Most can be transferred to Saint Francis’s—their whole mission is taking care of special needs animals. But there’s nothing physically wrong with the shih tzus. They won’t qualify.”

“I’ll ask around,” Trina said, “and see if any of my friends are willing to foster the cats.” She gave a sly smile. “And by ‘foster,’ I mean ‘grow accidentally attached to and ultimately adopt.’ As for the shih tzus . . . ” she trailed off with a wince. “They’re certainly cute enough to be adopted.”

“So long as their new owners is willing to adopt them both,” Jeremiah said. They looked down at the band-aide on the back of their hand. “And so long as they don’t mind being occasionally mauled.”

Kent crossed his arms and stared out the window. “I’ll fix this,” he repeated.

* * * *

“How the hell do I fix this?” Kent asked the two shih tzus.

Maintaining eye contact, Antigone squatted in the grass and peed. Cassandra, less engaged in the ongoing canine-human conversation, strained against her leash, teeth bared, in attempt to chase after one of the other dogs. None of the other shelter animals had to be leashed to wander around the gated field, but Annie and Cass were prone to attacking anyone other than each other.

Kent didn’t usually name the animals that passed through the shelter. Usually when dogs came without an ID, Trina christened them. She chose cutesy names like “Sweetpea” or “Sprinkles” or, in the case of a schnauzer that she’d later ended up adopting, “Blueberry Muffin Top.” But Trina and Jeremiah hadn’t been present when the shih tzus had arrived; Kent had been, blowing off his father’s photoshoot to instead give the two girls a greeting and proper meal. He’d taken one look at their sad, chocolate brown eyes, and instantly known that none of Trina’s choices would fit.

Kent had read the files on Antigone and Cassandra: it was a miracle that these dogs were still alive. They deserved names that recognized their shared past as survivors, not ones that erased it. Kent picked Antigone and Cassandra, although when Jeremiah had asked, Kent simply told them that he’d chosen “Annie” and “Cass.” After having their hand bitten while attempting to hook the dogs up to a split leash, Jeremiah informed Kent that he could call the shih tzus whatever he pleased so long as Kent agreed to take them on their daily walks.

Antigone finished urinating and promptly sniffed at the wet grass, appearing disinclined to provide Kent with any advice on how to handle his father.

“This is your home,” Kent told her. “The least you could do is help me protect it.”

She growled menacingly at his tennis shoe.

“Kennnnnzieeeeee!”

Kent looked up to find Glitch leaning over the fence and waving wildly.

“Kenzie, I have an idea!”

Glitch’s loud holler caused Cassandra to howl angrily back while Antigone attempted to hide behind Kent’s leg. Apparently, she was more afraid of the new human than she was belligerent at Kent’s footwear.

With a sigh, Kent scooped up the two dogs. Cassandra snapped, only for her teeth to close around air. Once in his arms, however, both dogs turned into trembling statues, and Kent’s heart broke at their frightened whimpers.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” Kent whispered soothingly. “I’m only taking you back to your room. Let me talk to Ferro, and then I’ll be right back.”

* * * *

Taliaferro Parker was insane.

Kent had always known that his MIV was eccentric (it was part of Glitch’s genius), but even he hadn’t anticipated Glitch being totally off his rocker. Because only a certifiable madman would suggest going up against Tobias Zarneki.

“The donors only gave money to earn my father’s favor,” Kent explained. “Unless Tobias comes out in support of the shelter again, their wallets remain closed.”

“Then we find new donors,” Glitch said.

“Where?”

“You’re a hot commodity right now. Chicago Mayor’s only son turned superhero? Come on. People love you.”

“Teenagers who read tabloids love me, maybe,” Kent said dryly. “I doubt they earn enough allowance to save the shelter.”

“Depends on how many allowances we’re dipping into,” Glitch argued. He sat upright on the beanbag in Jeremiah’s office and snapped his fingers. “Forget the tabloids. We go online.”

Kent arched a brow.

“Trust me,” Glitch said. “All we need is some cutesy photos of the animals here—maybe we dress those shih tzus up in Sailor Moon costumes or something. Add in some captions. Then I make a few strategic posts and BAM we’re viral.”

“Let me get this straight,” Kent said slowly. “Your solution to the shelter’s financial crisis is to create memes.”

“Viral memes,” Glitch corrected. “And yes. That is indeed our solution.”