14

“Let’s see how this fits.” Ed holds the collar out with both hands. The dog trots over to take a good sniff. “Can you sit?” The dog sits. Ed fastens the black collar.

“Make sure that it isn’t too tight, or too loose. We don’t know if he’ll walk without pulling, or if he’ll try to pull out of the collar. Clearly, he’s escaped once. How foolish would we look if he takes off on me?” Alice takes the new brush and smoothes the dog’s ruff over the collar so that it doesn’t show. “Let’s see the leash.”

Ed hands his wife the leash with the tiniest reluctance. Alice snaps the clip onto the ring. Ed takes it out of her hand. “I’ll take him out.”

Alice takes the leash back. “No. I will.” She doesn’t even make it sound like she’s doing him a favor. “I’m going to take him for a proper walk.”

“Where?”

“I should take a plastic bag, I guess. I don’t think I want him soiling the neighbors’ yards.”

Ed snags a plastic grocery bag out of the calico sleeve they stuff them into. “Guess we’d better stop using the green bags at the store for a while.”

The dog is dancing on his little front feet, his tail swinging in anticipation of a walk. He looks from one to the other, a little furry linesman.

“He might be a little strong on that leash. You don’t want him pulling you down the street.”

“I’ll be fine.” Alice gathers the leash in her hands.

“Be careful on the road. It’s getting dark earlier.”

“I won’t be long.”

Ed asks again, “Where are you going?”

Alice knows what he’s driving at. He’s holding her up, questioning her decision-making abilities. “To the old path.”

The old path is an ancient way that begins at the end of their dead-end road, which takes its name, Old Path Road, from it. It wends through the woods for a mile or so, to the rocky banks of the Moody River. The path meanders along the top of the escarpment, following the river, until it ends at the ruins of the old pistol factory. A set of steps lead down the steep grade to the quarter-acre millpond, where the Moody River was once harnessed for power. Alice and Ed courted along that path, holding hands, dreaming their future, walking to the place where there once was a footbridge, now a pair of stone abutments facing each other, separated by the river water that cascades over the dam in the spring. The slippery rocks are the perfect place to fish for the trout that the conservation commission stock in the millpond of dammed water. It was the place where Ed taught Stacy how to fish. They practiced mostly catch and release. Like him, Stacy preferred the hunt to the kill, and frankly, nobody in the house really liked freshwater fish all that much. In late summer, after dinner, he and Stacy would grab the poles and walk the path to the south abutment, where they would drop in their lines and call it fishing. That time of year, the Moody River no longer cascaded over the edge of the dam, escaping gently through the ancient sluice gates, so they might walk single file along the narrow lip of the dam to get to the north-side abutment, where the big trout were rumored to live, Ed holding Stacy’s shoulder in front of him. Stacy was warned over and over never to go there alone. Ever.

Because the path also branches off to Alice’s mother’s house, they used to let Stacy use it to go to her grandmother’s, because she wouldn’t have to cross any roads. She wouldn’t be in danger.

“Where else can I take him?”

“But why there?”

“Anywhere else, I’ll have to drive to, and that’s just silly. Besides, I’m not going all the way.” Not going all the way to the millpond, she means. Not there.

It’s been seven years. And still the thought of the old path hurts. Ed drops into the kitchen chair, the stony weight of his memory bearing down on him.

*   *   *

Ed runs the length of the old path, uselessly calling out Stacy’s name, hearing his own voice echo against the newly leafed trees ringing the still surface of the still pond. There is no sign of her, and the relief is pounding in his chest. He runs home, believing that she must have gone to her grandmother’s house, not come this way after all.

*   *   *

The dog, giving up hope that the leash means anything, rests his head on Ed’s knee. “I guess he deserves a good walk.” Ed turns away from Alice, but she sees that he has hurt himself with remembering. He strokes the dog’s head, keeping his face from her.

Alice hands Ed the leash. “Do you want to take him?”

Ed shakes his head. “I forgot to get the poster board. For the ‘Found’ signs.”

“That’s all right. There’s no hurry, is there?”

“His people could be looking for him. Panicked, don’t you think?”

“If he’s meant to be found, he will be.”

*   *   *

This place reminds Mack of go-to-the-park. The tall squirrel-bearing trees, the enticing bolt-holes of ground vermin, the twitter of bird life above his head. The scents. Oh, the scents of a primeval wood on the nose of a dog long removed from his ancestral purpose. Justine would encourage him with a whispered: “Get it!” and then laugh when he couldn’t. They never tired of the game.

Today, his new female, Alice, has linked him to the leash and led him to this equally glorious patch of nature. Above the scent of rodents lies the even more welcome scent of other dogs. He breathes in the calling cards of a variety of canines, all of which indicate they thought this was their territory. He covers their marks with his own. The only spoiler to this perfect outing is the fact that this Alice does not let him run off leash. She clings tenaciously to the other end, keeping up a soft patter of tongue language that Mack interprets as a request not to pull her off her feet. As if he’d ever do such a thing. From birth, Mack has known better than to pull on the leash. From earliest training, he has kept to the side of his person, his long nose just at the crook of the knee. Justine believes that he has genius. He may have, but he also has a Sheltie’s proclivity for obedience, as well as a superior sense of dignity. He has always prided himself on being a perfect gentleman. So he lets this new woman, Alice, keep him close without argument. He accepts her restraint with equanimity. He listens to her voice as she speaks of what a good boy he is and cheerfully looks up at her, his herd-dog eyes locked on hers. In catching her eye as a good sheepdog does, he gets a glimpse of her own intelligence. She doesn’t look away from his gaze; she looks deeper into it. And with that look comes a thin line of connection, of partnership. Alice strokes his muzzle and lifts it to her face. Just like Justine sometimes has on her face, this woman has tears streaming. Clearly, Alice, like Justine, needs him. He licks at the salty tears.