40

Alice is at the library and Ed is left at home. It’s raining, which is a good thing, as it’s been a very dry month so far. Still, it keeps him inside, bumbling around the house, looking for a task that will occupy him. He wants to get back to wire-brushing the cemetery gates, but that will have to wait. Buddy patiently follows Ed around the house: down into the basement to get a screwdriver, back upstairs to fiddle with the loose doorknob, back down into the garage to pull a fresh box of crackers out of the Costco closet, upstairs to make lunch, then into the third bedroom, where the computer lives.

Ed boots it up and finds YouTube on the Web. He doesn’t even log on to Alice’s new account, just types in “dog dancing,” and public videos crop up, a long line of “dancing” titles, including theirs: “Dog Dancing with Buddy.” Ed is annoyed at Jen for not safeguarding their privacy and keeping this one-and-a-half-minute clip inaccessible. The nerve. These kids nowadays think that everything should be out there, available to all. The fact that it pops up almost at the top just means that more people will see it. But Ed isn’t looking for Buddy’s clip. He scrolls down slowly until he comes to the image of the other Sheltie.

The light from the monitor glows like a lamp in the rain-gloomy room. This is a neutral space. A bed is set up for the rare overnight visitor, but otherwise it serves, as it always has done, as a sewing room, a computer room, a room where they keep off-season clothing in the good-size closet. North-facing, it is never as bright as the other bedrooms. Because they have this room, they never had to change a thing in Stacy’s room. All the bits and pieces that belonged to her that had drifted into other parts of the house have long since been moved back to her room. The torn athletic shorts, now mended, are in the bureau drawer. All the tiny patterns Alice used to make toddler clothes and the remnants of homemade Halloween costumes are all packed away. There is nothing of their daughter in any room except her own.

*   *   *

They called it “depression.” A common-enough word. A meteorological word, a financial word. An emotional word. Apparently, a treatable word with the right drugs. Drugs for a child.

Drugs that came with a booklet of contraindications.

*   *   *

Ed clicks on the image of the dog that looks like Buddy. A showy announcer’s voice booms, “Introducing Justine Meade and her wonder dog, Maksim.” At first, there’s only the woman, a tall, lithe-looking woman dressed in a stretchy white suit with sequins sparkling in the lights. The Beatles’ familiar song “Help” begins and she mimics loneliness. Suddenly, the dog, her dog, races into the spotlight and teases her into action. He leaps and spins and literally sails up and over her back. At the end, the announcer repeats their names: “Justine Meade of Seattle, Washington, and her Sheltie, Maksim. Good job, Justine and Mack!”

Buddy is sitting behind Ed, looking every bit like he wants to watch this video, too. His ears are on the alert and he keeps his eye on Ed, waiting for some signal, waiting for some action. Ed looks at the still image of the dancing Sheltie. Both of the dog’s eyes are visible. Unmistakable.

“Mack?”

*   *   *

Mack hears his name and cocks his head. He knows this word. This is so exciting. Finally, this guy remembers what to call him. Mack jumps to his feet and barks a short, sharp yap, just to say, Yessss! Spontaneously, he spins around, pivoting on his back legs. He barks again. Woohoo!

Then Ed says something else, using the Buddy word this time. Mack doesn’t understand what he says, but he hears the grief in the saying of it, which stops his barking and spinning. He flops onto the carpet, down but keeping his eyes on Ed. He’s not sure what Ed wants. A good dog, he focuses on the man’s face and waits for clarity. For a long moment, nothing happens except that Ed’s head is down and his hands are clasped together between his knees.

Suddenly, Ed rolls the desk chair away from the computer table and calls the dog over. Buddy jumps up from his self-imposed down-stay and snuggles up between Ed’s knees, happy to have the back scratch, hoping that maybe they’ll go someplace. But Ed’s touch feels unhappy. Buddy presses himself closer.

When Ed gets up, Buddy follows him out of the spare room and down the stairs to the garage. Excited, anticipating a ride in the car, Buddy makes a little chortling sound, encouraging Ed to get a move on. Maybe just a quick run to Potter’s for jerky, or another ride to Lil’s. It doesn’t really matter; a ride is just fun. Ed lets Buddy into the Cutlass and the dog assumes his shotgun position, ready to navigate. Ready to do this job that Ed has given him, to be a good passenger and point out squirrels. He swings a look in Ed’s direction. Ready? Let’s go! Finally the rumble of the garage door signals departure. Ed starts the car and backs out of the garage. He hasn’t said a word, not the Buddy word or the Mack one since leaving the spare room, but now Ed begins to talk. Ed uses another word; his monologue is laced with it until Buddy gives up trying to figure out if it’s meant as a command or a praise word; a random vocalization or a human word not meant for canine comprehension. Stacy. Buddy doesn’t know what Ed is saying, but he grasps what he needs to do.

Buddy moves from his shotgun position to the middle of the front seat, scooting his rump over so that it touches Ed’s hip. Ed wraps his right arm around the dog. He keeps talking, his voice streaming out a story that even a dog can understand, because he’s felt the same way.

Lost.