10

Edward Parmalee sees the dog as he heads out in the morning to gas up the Cutlass. Can’t miss it. The dog is sitting just where Alice saw it, between the cemetery gates. It carefully studies Ed’s car as he slowly drives by. He probably belongs to some neighbor who lets his dog loose to roam the countryside. Don’t see much of that nowadays, not like when he was a kid and everyone knew everyone else’s dogs because they were allowed to wander—as were the kids. You didn’t worry about leash laws or child molesters in those days. Didn’t neuter male dogs, and bike helmets hadn’t been invented. Ed rolls his window down, slows enough to lock eyes with the dog. “Go home!” Didn’t worry about drugs and AIDS and terrorists. Well, maybe they worried about the Russians, but by and large, they didn’t worry about the things that he and Alice had to worry about with Stacy, the dangers of perverts lurking in malls or poisoned Halloween candy. Not wearing a seat belt, or easy access to drugs.

“Go home!” Ed stares at the dog that sits outside the cemetery gates. No. It’s always been tough to raise kids. His parents had to cope with potentially fatal childhood diseases that they were lucky enough to have vaccines for by the time Stacy arrived.

But sometimes the threat isn’t external at all. It doesn’t come from outside, but from the inside.

The dog doesn’t move.

Like Alice said, no visible collar, but that doesn’t mean anything; he might have slipped it, or maybe it’s buried beneath the fur of its ruff. If Moodyville had a dog officer, he’d probably get a call. Lacking one, what can be done?

It’s unlikely that the resident state trooper will come by and collect it. He barely responded that time the gas station alarm went off. Meandered over from the MassPike half an hour after Tooley figured out it was a bird that had gotten caught in the garage, its panicked fluttering in the bay triggering the motion alarms that the tire distributor had insisted Tooley install if he was to sell that brand of tire. Goddamned statie took so long that a tire thief could have taken the whole inventory and been all the way to Hartford by the time he showed up. It’s a different guy now; the former trooper, the one they knew, had moved on.

Ed cranks the car window back up, thinking, He’ll find his way home. Thinking that he’ll mention the dog to the guys at Lil’s, where he’s going after he gasses up the Cutlass. It isn’t a planned thing, this coffee with Joe and Chuck nearly every morning. Joe calls it “the early retirees club.” Stupid, really. They barely knew one another at the plant, and now, forced into retirement five years earlier than any of them planned, they meet like a clutch of old hens to knock politics and weather around, tell bad jokes, talk about their wives as if the women are really the tough old bats they make them out to be. My old lady. Christ, they sound like yokels or, worse, toughs. But it is the time of day Ed Parmalee looks forward to the most. He says it gives Alice time to vacuum without having to make him pick up his feet. It means a little time out of each other’s hair. Out of the silence. Maybe it’s the only thing he looks forward to these days.

Being cut loose from his job of thirty-five years has left Edward Parmalee rootless. He lives in this town only because of the job. He met Alice because of the job. His daughter grew up with dozens of other kids, attending the annual holiday party, sitting on Santa’s lap in the evergreen and construction-paper chain–decorated cafeteria. The “old man” of the plant, the owner himself, ho-ho-hoing and handing over the bubble makers and coloring books as each child perched on his knee, along with a big candy cane, which would later show up under the seat of the car or end up sticky on the kitchen counter. Then the old man sold up, caved in to progress. And then some fucking Japanese company swooped in and everything was about efficiency and function, the bottom line. Pride and longevity were no longer hallmarks. The old man is living in Florida now; word is that he found himself a new young wife.

So now Ed looks forward to killing some time with the guys at the diner. Killing time.

Ed does a Uie from the gas station driveway, going across Route 146, which serves as Moodyville’s main street, and directly into an angled parking space in front of Lil’s. He gets out and nods to Chuck, who is pointing his remote key lock at his 2007 Tundra. “How ya doin’, pal?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Won’t help.”

Same old greeting, more like code words than sentiment. Friend or enemy? The Lil’s Coffee Shop Secret Society.

Joe has claimed the counter, his big butt drooping over the old-fashioned canister-style stool, the tumor of his overstuffed wallet protruding from his back pocket. Ed and Chuck flank him, nod, and simultaneously reach for the folded sections of the Boston Globe in front of him. Ed scores the sports page; Chuck is left with the “Styles” section. Lil pours coffee into the thick ceramic mugs in front of them and walks away. This is most likely all any of them will order. Ed is perfectly aware that, arrayed along the counter, these three don’t have to face one another, look one another in the eye. All conversation can be spoken out of the side of the mouth. “Sox are going to be out of it.”

“Maybe. They can still get the wild card if they pull it together.” Chuck positions the sugar dispenser over his mug and lets it pour freely.

“Remember the pools?” Ed sips his black coffee, winces at the temperature, and sets it back down. If he were at home, he’d blow into it, but here he just pretends he’s taking his time.

“Office pools?” Joe hands the front-page section to Chuck.

“Yeah, the betting that we’d do on the Sox or the Pats.”

“I remember the year we got to betting on the pregnant women. Remember, there were three of them at once?” Joe swallows the last of his coffee and holds his mug out to Lil.

“Hey, Ed, didn’t you win one of them?” Setting the sugar dispenser down, Chuck pours half-and-half from the little metal pitcher.

“Fifty bucks.” Ed makes another attempt at drinking his coffee. He doesn’t add that he gave the money to the new mother, one of the secretaries. Or that he never told Alice he was betting on delivery dates and baby weights. That was the bet; You had to get two out of three—date, time, and weight. He’d managed to pick the right time and weight, and was only a day off on the trifecta. It was when they were still trying to get pregnant. Alice was in a weepy stage and any mention of someone else’s success sent her into a funk.

“Good times,” Joe says, his lumpy hands embracing the curve of the mug.

“Yeah.” Ed’s coffee is finally cool enough to drink. He handed the cash to the new mother, who had come into the plant to show off the baby. He put the fifty bucks in her hand, admired the child, and told himself that it didn’t matter, them not being parents, that it just wasn’t meant to be. You couldn’t dwell on it. You couldn’t let it ruin your life.

*   *   *

The dog is still waiting by the cemetery gates. Once again, its eyes follow him as he slows down. Ed won’t stop, won’t turn into the cemetery road. Not for this dog, not ever. But he slows down enough to see that the dog’s eyes are two different color—one blue, one brown. “Go home.”

The dog merely cocks his ears at Ed’s words, unimpressed.

It’s a fanciful notion, but Ed thinks that the dog is waiting for someone.

*   *   *

Mack positions himself at the cemetery gates. In his mind, this seems like the likeliest spot for Justine to find him. His scent won’t be mingled with that of other dogs. Besides, it looks like the place near home where they go when Justine decides that walking isn’t enough exercise. It’s not the park. It’s like the park, but not the park. She puts him into a down-stay position at a spot that looks like this one, stone pillars that cast enough shade that it’s a comfortable wait while she runs. So Mack decides that if he stays here, Justine will come back for him.

He’s found the brook that runs alongside the western perimeter of the graveyard, so he is no longer thirsty. He’s discovered acorns and roots beneath the massive oak trees that border this little plot of grass and stones. They crunch in his mouth, unappealing, but are a little something to put in his belly, although he throws them up a little while later. There are field mice; he can hear them in the tangle of briars and in the grass, but he has yet to capture one. He imagines snapping his jaws down on the fragile bones of the rodents, savoring the wild meat, being true to his distant ancestors, but the field mice are too quick even for a dog that dances. That’s the word that Justine uses: dance. “Want to dance, little man?” He always keeps his eagle eye on Justine’s face and hands, watching for the subtle signals of weave and bow, prance and spin. And, finally, his favorite—leap into her arms as she laughs and cuddles him close, proud and pleased with their performance. He has learned to like applause.