11

The second time she sees the dog, still at his post between the cemetery gates, Alice pulls her fifteen-year-old Dodge Caravan to the narrow shoulder of the road, a few yards from where the dog waits. “Here, boy.” She clucks at him from the safety of her car. A half a pound of sliced roast beef is in the sack beside her on the seat, Ed’s lunch. The dog stands up, then sits again, but his eyes remain on her, odd eyes, one blue and one brown, clearly skeptical. Why should he trust her? Alice climbs out of the van. The dog watches with interest as Alice pulls the meat out of the plastic deli bag. Ed won’t miss one slice. The dog does not approach her, nor does he move away; the unmatched eyes focus on what’s in her hand. The skeptical look has become that of wishful thinking. Gingerly holding the floppy piece of roast beef where it stains her fingers pink, she proffers it. “Come on, boy. It’s okay.”

Suddenly, the dog trots over, as if he’s made his mind up about her, that she is trustworthy, and all hesitation is gone. She holds out the meat and he takes it from her fingertips with surprising gentleness, swallowing the slice without chewing. He licks his muzzle, cocks his head with its jack-in-the-pulpit-shaped ears, and waits for more.

“Oh, what the heck.” Alice takes another slice of roast beef out of the deli bag. Now the dog’s tail end wriggles from side to side, his eyes on her hand, and his tongue, pink and narrow, appears. She can’t just leave him here on the side of the road, now, can she? He’s been here long enough that she knows he must be homeless. Just waiting outside the cemetery gates like that Scottish dog, Greyfriar’s Bobby, keeping his dead master company. Maybe the dog belongs to someone recently deceased. Alice can’t think of anyone who’s recently passed. Mrs. Fontaine died a couple of weeks ago, but she was in a nursing home, so this can’t be her pet. Besides, nowadays most everyone gets planted in the new cemetery, closer to town. In an old-fashioned way, this place is still called “the graveyard.” No one but those with old Moodyville names buried here. Moody, Thompson, Pierce. Her family names, dating back to when her great-great-grandfather came from England with a young bride, bringing his skills as a metal smith to the new factory.

Four generations of Alice’s family before her. And one after. Their daughter. All here.

Alice thinks of Ed’s warning about approaching strange dogs. This one isn’t so strange, except for his eyes. He is now fully engaged in rump wagging and whining for more roast beef. He prances on tiny Muppet paws, making little chuffing noises of hope. His plumy tail gracefully waves in the warm September air. He’s an unusual color, deep gray, with a white ruff and black streaks here and there in his coat, like someone with a wet paint brush got too close. He looks like a miniature Lassie painted all the wrong colors.

“Ed’ll kill me for sure.” Using the last piece of beef, Alice entices the dog to the sliding door on the passenger side of the van and opens it up. “Get in.” As if he expected nothing less, the dog hops right onto the middle bench, turns around three times, and curls up. Alice slams the door shut and goes around to the driver’s side. A car passes her, slowing down to see if she needs help. It’s their next-door neighbor, Mr. Fry. Alice waves him on. No problem here.

Not yet.

*   *   *

The woman gives him meat. From her fingers. He wants a slice of the cheese he can smell in its plastic wrapper, but she doesn’t offer him that. As a dog, he seldom gets to choose. Usually, things are just the way they are. Out now. Eat then. If offered meat and cheese, take both. Maybe there is choosing in where to bed down for the night—in his bed or in Justine’s. Snooze on the couch or in front of the sliding glass door where the sun beats in at noon on cold days. But other than that, Mack has never made a deliberate, meaningful choice in his life. Even living with Justine wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t his choice that she disappeared.

When the woman talks to him, Mack feels soothed, a little of the anxiety smoothed over by a woman’s voice. He is lonely. He’s never spent more than a few hours alone. No one is here to tell him what to do, and he is nervous. Justine hasn’t come, and he’s been here, in this down-stay spot, for what even a dog knows is a long time. So when this woman speaks sweetly to him, calling him “doggy,” Mack knows that he has a real choice. If he jumps into the van, he is leaving Justine behind. She won’t be able to follow his scent. But if he stays here, waiting for her to find him, he will die.

He stands at the open door, nerves making him yawn.

“Go on, then, hop in.” The woman’s voice is gentle. Maybe she knows where Justine is and is taking him there. With that thought, Mack leaps into the car.