12

“Alice, this is not a good idea.” Ed leans over to place both palms on the kitchen table, pressing his weight against the surface. The dog stands in the center of the room, tongue lolling out, almond-shaped eyes focused firmly on Ed’s face. Ed can’t decide if the gaze is friendly or judgmental; the odd eyes study him, minute flickers of movement at Ed’s changes of expression, as if they’re having a subtle conversation without words. When Ed straightens up, the dog’s muzzle lifts, his blue-and-brown focus penetrating. Little smudgy circles of black against the silvery fur of his forehead act like tiny eyebrows, giving him a quizzical expression that is very nearly human.

“He’s been standing outside the cemetery gates since yesterday, and he’s starved.” Alice has made tuna fish sandwiches for Ed’s lunch. “You should have seen him drinking the water I gave him, like he was parched. If anybody has lost him, they aren’t looking for him very hard.” Ed Parmalee has been married long enough that he knows when to sit down and eat his sandwich and put the conversation aside. Alice has always been a tough fighter for things she wants—a new couch, when he knew the old one had years of life left in it; a deck on the back of the house, when he couldn’t see the point of sitting outside slapping mosquitoes and staring out over the neighbor’s backyard. Theirs was the first development carved out of cheap farmland when the plant was running at full capacity and new people were coming into the area, swelling the class size at the elementary school. Now half the houses on their street are up for sale and no one wants these little raised ranches with one and a half baths on half an acre of lawn, and the student population has diminished so much, teacher layoffs have been threatened.

He watches as Alice places the plastic bowl back down, the fresh water swirling a little but somehow not slopping over the edge. The dog waits patiently until she straightens up, then laps politely at the new water, clearly sated, but willing to be grateful. Alice trails a hand down the length of the dog’s body, picking out bits of leaf and twig. She is smiling, and she reminds Ed suddenly of her younger self, the one who smiled down on the baby as she nursed, holding to herself a singularly female satisfaction in having this ability. As if the child belonged more fully to her.

“Well, don’t get any ideas about keeping him. We don’t want a dog.”

“I never said anything about keeping him.” Alice turns her back to him, busying herself with cleaning up the counter. “If this one-horse town had a dog officer, I’d have called. What else can we do until someone claims him?”

“How long do you expect that’s going to take? We don’t need the bother of a dog. You don’t need the extra work. And what if we want to travel?” Ed fists half of the tuna sandwich, taking a large bite.

Alice laughs, a sharp, humorless laugh. “Ed Parmalee, when was the last time we traveled anywhere but to my sister’s for Christmas?”

“It would be that much harder if we had a dog.”

“I never said I wanted him.” Alice holds out the empty tuna can for the dog to lick. He does so daintily, his facile tongue sliding along the smooth interior of the can. “But please don’t make travel an argument against it.”

Once upon a time, travel was the grail at the end of child rearing and mortgage payments. Once Stacy was launched, they dreamed of Europe or a Caribbean island. Looking back now, the only travel they ever did of a recreational nature were the trips they took to Disney World and camping in the White Mountains. The occasional weekends they spent in Boston with Ed’s relatives, wanting to give Stacy some culture: the BSO, the MFA, Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market. Once Stacy had gotten busy with Girl Scouts and sports, ballet lessons and band concerts, they had a hard time finding a free weekend. Eventually, they traveled east only for the day, paid their duty call, and came home. Now with Ed’s parents gone and his siblings scattered as far away as Poughkeepsie, they haven’t been east in years. The idea of a European vacation or the winter visit to a warm island has been not so much abandoned as simply forgotten.

Can cleaned, the dog goes back to sitting in the middle of the kitchen, as if he’s waiting for something, some action on their part.

Ed gets up from the table with his empty plate in hand. He has to pass the dog as he goes to the sink. A pat on the head is only a pat on the head. Not capitulation. The fur beneath his hand is as soft as down. The dog presses his skull up into Ed’s palm. The eyebrow spots lift, making Ed think of Stacy when she saw him coming home from one of his rare trips, maybe a union gathering in Springfield or training on a new machine out in the Midwest. The eager anticipation of presents writ large on her face, the hope for a new board game or the next book in The Baby-sitter’s Club series, nothing exotic.

Ed looks down on the dog. “What do you want, fella?”

The dog suddenly yawns, his sharp muzzle widening, his tongue curling up in a lingual arc. He emits an elastic vocalization that ends in a sound that could have been words: Home-home-home.

Ed and Alice Parmalee laugh simultaneously. They keep their eyes on the dog, where he absorbs their surprise at the sound of it.

*   *   *

He watches these two new people carefully. Food, water, and gentle touches are very welcome, but what he really wants is for them to take him home. He’s tried to tell them, but, like most humans, they are single-language speakers. For now, though, this is all right. He is satisfied with his decision. He is safe, fed, and watered. The woman has tidied up his coat. There is a tension in the man, not like Artie and his solid hostility, but a withholding. Like some dogs who refuse to sniff and get acquainted. That’s okay; Mack can handle aloofness, even respect it. He also enjoys a challenge. Just accepting the man’s grudging pat on the head is a start.

The woman takes him outside at night, fastening a length of clothesline around his neck, walking him around the grass until he squats. He keeps to his training, staying close to her side until he needs to do his business, which she picks up with a plastic bag and a squeamish look on her face. She praises him with words he knows: good boy.

He is Maksim, although Justine mostly calls him Mack. This person just calls him “boy.” He’s been called that before; it’s okay. If she calls, he’ll come to it.

The important thing is that maybe they will know how to find Justine.