Over sixteen hundred air miles from Los Angeles, in Minnesota, the digital clock on Cora Gundersun’s oven read 11:02 when she closed her journal. She was no less mystified by this most recent session of furious writing than she had been by the one that had preceded it. She didn’t know what words she had set down on those pages or why she had felt compelled to write them, or why after the fact she dared not read them.
The still, small voice within her counseled serenity. All would be well. More than two days without a migraine. By this time next week, she would most likely return to her sixth-grade classroom and the children whom she loved nearly as much as if they had been her own offspring.
The time had come for Dixie Belle’s late-morning treat and second toileting of the day. In consideration of the bacon granted to her earlier, the dog received just two small coin-shaped cookies instead of the usual four. She seemed to understand the rightness of the ration, for she neither begged for more nor grumbled, but padded across the kitchen to the back door, nails clicking on the linoleum.
Shrugging into her coat, Cora said, “Good heavens, Dixie, look at me, still in my pajamas with the morning nearly gone. If I don’t get back to teaching soon, I’ll become a hopeless layabout.”
The day had not warmed much since dawn. The frozen sky hung low and constipated, providing no evidence of the predicted storm except a bare minimum of white flakes slowly spiraling down through the becalmed air.
After Dixie peed, she didn’t scamper back to the house, but stood staring at Cora on the porch. Dachshunds didn’t need much exercise, and Dixie in particular was averse to long walks and to more than an occasional experience of the outdoors. Except for her first visit to the yard in the morning, she always hurried inside after completing her business. On this occasion, she required coaxing, and she returned hesitantly, almost as though she wasn’t sure that her mistress was her mistress, as if both Cora and the house suddenly seemed strange to her.
Minutes later, after Cora showered, she vigorously toweled her hair. There was no point in using a blow-dryer and a styling brush. Her curly tresses resisted shaping. She entertained no illusions about her appearance and long ago made peace with the fact that she would never turn heads. She looked pleasant and presentable, which was more than could be said for some less fortunate people.
Although it was not suitable to the season, she put on a white rayon-crepe dress with three-quarter sleeves, a semifitted bodice with a high, round neckline, and a skirt with knife pleats stitched down to hip level. Of all the dresses she had ever owned, this one came the closest to making her feel pretty. Because high heels did nothing for her, she wore white sneakers.
Only after she had put on the shoes did she realize that this outfit was what she wore in the fire-walking dream, which she’d had the previous night again, for the fifth night in a row. In addition to feeling almost pretty, she now channeled at least a measure of the sense of invulnerability that made the dream so delightful.
Although Dixie Belle usually lay on the bed to watch her mistress dress, on this occasion she was under the bed, only her head and long ears poking out from beneath the quilted spread.
Cora said, “You’re a funny dog, Miss Dixie. Sometimes you can be so silly.”