“Hey, the dog wasn’t the one who ripped his throat out.”
Mack blanched. I’d gone too far. I reached over and put my hand on his forearm. He was wearing a denim work shirt, its texture pleasingly rough to my touch.
“I’m sorry.”
He stared down at the bar. “I just can’t get my mind around it, you know?”
We sat in a companionable silence. Someone finally got the jukebox going. Vintage soul. Smoky and full of possibility. I’d met my jazz pianist in a bar like this, but that was in a bigger city and a very different time.
“You going to the funeral?” Mack’s question broke into my thoughts.
“I don’t know.” I turned to face him. Even in the bar light, his eyes looked blue. “I honestly hadn’t thought about it.” I swallowed. “Truth is, I don’t know when it is.”
“Sunday.” He named one of Beauville’s three churches and gave me a time. “It’s not much of a date, but I could pick you up.”
“Thanks, but—” I fished around for an excuse. “I’ve got a dog-walking gig. Rain or shine, with no days off for holidays.” It wasn’t true. The bichon’s owner took charge of him on weekends. She said she needed the exercise. In truth, I think she just wanted to avoid my higher weekend rates.
Mack nodded. “Well, if you want to talk to anyone, come.” He shrugged. “You’ll probably see Delia there.”
“Delia, yeah, that’s her name.” A stray thought struck me. “Why is the funeral in Beauville? His mother lives over in Raynbourne, and you’d think she’d want him buried over by her?”
“Beats me.” Mack signaled to the bartender that he wanted to settle up. “You can ask Delia. She’s been helping the old lady out. That’s how she met Chuck, I think.”
I thought of Charles’ mother. She hadn’t seemed feeble, not more than the death of a child could explain. “Delia is her housekeeper, or some kind of aide?”
Mack stood up, pulling out his wallet and enough bills to cover both our drinks. “I don’t know what the deal was, but it worked out all right for her, didn’t it?” He flashed that smile again. It faded quickly. “For a while, anyway. So hey, I’ll see you around?”
“Sunday, definitely.” We both got up. I waited, to see if Mack would follow up with an offer—a ride, or a nightcap somewhere private. But Mack was talking to the bartender, and I remembered those late night games. I had had other activities in mind, but a lady likes to be asked, and instead I made my way over to the door.
How had Charles—excuse me, “Chuck”—gotten involved with someone like Mack? For that matter, what exactly was Charles’ project and how close was it to completion? I was mulling these questions over when the front door opened, letting in a stream of light and unexpectedly cold air. Together, they made patterns in the smoke, illuminating the dark back booths, and I saw Chris Moore, sitting alone, as he looked up expectantly—and not at me. I followed his gaze as Delia Cochrane stepped inside, the street lamp making her golden hair glow like an angel’s.
“Be right back.” I heard the bartender excuse himself and start toward the newcomer as she stepped by me, toward Chris’ booth. I started toward them and stopped. I didn’t know what I was going to say. This was a small town, and these were people who knew each other. Who had shared a great grief. Still, something was off here. There were connections I wasn’t seeing. I paused by the jukebox. Smokey had given way to something newer, a young singer faking passion to a disco beat. What was I going to ask Delia? Who was I to intrude?
I looked over at Chris’ table. He’d not noticed me; he only had eyes for Delia. She had bent over him as she came nearer, saying something close in his ear that made him smile as she slid into the seat opposite his. I had no place here. But as I stood watching, listening to the dance beat, I realized I could smell her perfume. Lightly floral with a note of something else, too, more sophisticated than I’d expect, coming from our little town. The fresh air from the door and the smoke all around was swallowing it up, but I could just catch it. A hint of spice. Something sweet.
The morning of the funeral dawned cool and clear, the kind of Indian summer day we in New England pray for. It’s also the kind of day we usually overdress for, and by nine, I had already shed one layer of fleece.
Funny, I never used to be a morning person. Bars aren’t as much fun when the light is new and strong. But since I got out of the hospital, I’ve been sleeping less, waking earlier, and craving that early morning air. The sleeping part is odd. When I checked myself in, their diagnosis was “exhaustion.” True, I hadn’t slept for something like three days by then. It wasn’t fatigue that was doing for me. Albert had it partially right. I had changed, but that had happened before the aides in white coats. The doctors were there to help me. In fact, I’d called them. Not that it had done any good.
No, I don’t know what caused it. Maybe I never would. I’d been working myself sick, so maybe diagnosing exhaustion wasn’t that far off. I was still in school, so close to getting my certification that I could taste it. And between biochemistry and my practicum, the internship that behaviorists have to do to learn the realities of the gig, I was up all hours. That wasn’t new to me, and I kind of liked it. I was getting ready to kick Stevie out of my life. Those wild hands had strayed once too often. It was time for Pru to focus on Pru.
And then I’d gotten sick. Really sick. Lie in bed and listen to the clock tick sick.
Now, when you’re living with someone, getting the flu can be kind of fun. Your boyfriend, husband, whatever, is there to fetch for you. To bring you aspirin and juice; to call the doctor if your temperature spikes once too often.
When you’re living with an animal, you don’t expect this kind of care. Sure, I’d heard the stories of dogs that fetched the phone for injured humans. Of cats that curled up and purred over surgery incisions. I’d even believed a few of them. Domestic animals know which hand has the thumbs to open the cans, after all. And so when Wallis started licking my temples and then the insides of my wrists, I wasn’t freaked. I’d been sweating, during those good hours when my fever would break and I could sleep. My skin was probably salty as hell. And when she kept coming back, leaving me only to eat or use the litterbox, I attributed it to some vague maternal residue.
But then she started talking to me. Telling me, specifically, that I had to “get over” myself, drink some water, and consider bathing, then I knew I was sick. The funny thing was, the lecture worked. Sympathy is nice, but I never took it too seriously. Having someone yell at me, tell me, basically, that I was going to die and it would be my own fault if I didn’t do something, that I believed. And so I got up and stuck my head under the kitchen tap, drinking like the parched thing I was. Wallis was sitting on the counter by the time I looked up.
“And perhaps you’d like to follow that with some food?” Her voice fit her neat tabby style. Very sure of itself, a little smug.
“I’m hallucinating.” I said the words aloud, partly to make sure my voice sounded different from hers. It did. But the water had helped, and I grabbed a loaf of bread from the fridge, eating one stale slice while two others toasted and chasing it with juice straight from the carton. “I’ll be better once I eat and drink.” I didn’t say those words aloud, but the answer came loud and clear.
“If you’re really better, you might consider drinking that in such a way that half of it doesn’t spill over your face.” I choked out a mouthful and looked over to see Wallis staring up at me. “And you really might consider a shower, as well, before going back to sleep.”
I think I dropped the container. It was mostly empty anyway, but the noise—or maybe it was the look in my eye—made Wallis take off. I did shower then, letting water beat down on me until my fingertips were wrinkled and the chills had started to come back. But I didn’t go back to bed after that. Instead, I dressed as quickly as I could, aware all the while of Wallis’ eyes, watching me, and hailed a cab. I don’t remember what I said to the admitting clerk, but as a student, my health insurance was good. They gave me something, and I slept until my flu was gone.
The voices had never stopped. They had, in fact, gotten worse on my return. Not only did Wallis talk to me, I found myself overhearing every animal I came in contact with. Everything, constantly, and before you start thinking cute Dr. Doolittle thoughts, try to imagine what that’s like. In a city, you’re not just surrounded by pets—inbred Yorkies consumed with petty jealousies and neurotic housecats—but by all the wildlife we like to pretend doesn’t exist. Rats. Skunks. Pigeons. There had been a pigeon nest right by my bedroom window, and for years I’d been blissfully unaware of its existence. My first night back, they woke me at dawn with such inanities that I would have sicced Wallis on them, if I could.
But by then, we were barely speaking. She had reacted badly when I’d taken off, and in all fairness, I hadn’t thought to call a cat-sitter or even refill her bowl of dry food. She’d survived my three days on the ward, but my lack of gratitude was not to be easily forgiven. She made that clear. And when I started throwing things in boxes, unable to cope, she had fixed me with a steely gaze and read me the riot act.
“You are not going to run away from this. This is a gift, Pru, and if you can’t accept it, you’re less of a human than I’d judged you.”
“I’m not—” I remember stopping myself. Was I really talking back to my cat? And the hospital had released me?
“Yes, you are. Do you have any idea what you are doing, or even where you are going?”
That had stopped me. She was right, I hadn’t made any plans. I was simply going to run. And so I lay back on the bed, drained by my sickness and the events of the last week. And I found myself petting a familiar warm back as I thought.
“Beauville.” I announced finally, sitting upright.
“Excuse me?” Wallis stopped purring.
“My mother’s place. She’s always asking.” That was true, though I had no desire to share the rambling house with anyone, particularly a sickly septuagenarian and her aide.
Wallis stared without commenting.
“It’ll just be for a while. A week or two. Just until I figure out what to do next.”
Until I figure out how to make this stop
, I promised myself. If Wallis was listening, she didn’t say anything.
***
A few weeks had turned into a month, and my insomniac self was welcomed by the aide, who took advantage of a few nights off. When my mother went to rehab, I gave the aide notice. I could see what was happening. Sure enough, my mother never came home, moving directly to hospice, and by spring, the house was mine. But I’d never really started sleeping again, and now I was stuck with country hours in a country town, staring out at a damned perfect day.
“You’re wearing that? How imaginative.” Wallis settled her front paws over each other, as if afraid they’d be soiled by her dripping sarcasm.
“Look, it’s black, okay?” Time was, most of my wardrobe was this color. Back in the city, black was my fail-safe: good for the clubs and reasonable for work. In my few months here, I’d begun adding color to my wardrobe. Not because of any change in my basic outlook: if anything my illness, my “change” as I’d come to think of it, followed by the long drain of my mother’s final illness had made me more dour. Nor because of any protective coloration. Although I’d come to realize that Beauville was, like any small town, a tightly knit community, I’d chosen it because of the sparseness of its population. I didn’t
want
people around me. If the few who tried to get close got scared, so much the better.
But while I’d never been flush, I was now closer to flat broke than ever. My student loans had, reasonably, disappeared when I dropped my classes in midterm without explanation or excuse, and my weeks of inaction following my hospitalization drained what little savings I had. I’d dumped or given away most of my possessions, taking only what I could fit in my battered Toyota. And even though I’d given up everything but good coffee, life out here in the boonies hadn’t been as cheap as I’d hoped, and the back taxes on my mom’s house took everything she had left, too. So these days I bought what I could afford, picking up fleece and flannel as it became available and as the nights became raw. These days, I wore a lot of orange, hunters’ seconds, I assumed. Not appropriate for a funeral.
The outfit I’d pulled out that morning was one of my old stalwarts. A long-sleeved black jersey, which fell to my knees, black tights, and my biker boots. As I looked down at my feet, I sensed Wallis’ disgust.
“What?” She’d turned her head away, as if unwilling to act as witness. “They’re boots. It’s chilly out, okay?” She tucked her own soft paws under in a silent protest, and I considered my options. Sneakers, snow boots. A pair of black pumps that I’d hung onto because of the way they lengthened my legs. “I’m not wasting the heels on this. If there’s any mud, it would ruin the suede.” The tabby turned and jumped from the bed with no further comment.
***
As I walked into the packed church, I had to admire the soundness of Wallis’ fashion sense. I’d been thinking of graveyards and grassy knolls, but the clump of my boots caused every face to turn toward me as I walked through the tall doors. The white clapboard outside opened onto a light interior, the high windows letting sun beam down on the white walls and pale wood of the pews. This was a classic New England church, a design that sent tourists into spasms.
“Too bad I don’t do quaint,” I muttered under my breath, and looked for an opening that I could slip into. Up front, I could see Delia’s golden hair. She was leaning over a shorter, grey head—Charles’ mom, Nora, I figured. I remembered what Mack had said about Delia helping her out and determined to keep an eye on her. After the service, I’d try to get her alone. I had to find out why she’d been to the pound. If she had an honest interest in Lily, I’d eat Alpo. Speaking of mouth watering, Mack himself sat a few seats away, his dark hair unruly despite a heroic amount of product.
I slipped into a pew about halfway up, muttering something that I hoped sounded sympathetic to the wiry couple who squeezed in to make room for me, and went back to work examining the chief mourners. Maybe because of our encounter at Happy’s, I found myself staring at Mack, at the curls that just wouldn’t stay down. Delia’s sleek golden coif would have made a perfect counterpoint, I couldn’t help noticing. But, hey, she seemed to have made her choice. Between them, Chris Moore, his back as straight as a poker, separated them as completely as a brick wall. About as flexible, too: the former athlete’s eyes were fixed straight ahead. A coffin, draped in a white cloth, held the place of honor at the front of the church, an oversized framed photo of Charles on an easel nearby.
I was staring at the portrait when I heard a familiar voice mutter my name. Startled, I jerked back. Albert, his customary flannel covered by a dark blue pullover, was blinking down at me expectantly. The wiry couple to my left had already moved down the few remaining inches.
“Sorry.” I shifted over, and waited for Albert to squeeze in beside me.
“Didn’t know you’d be here.” He kept his voice low, but the crowd was quieting down. The minister had appeared at the podium. “I was gonna call you.”
The woman in front of us, with steel-colored hair and a face to match, turned to give him a pointed look. I followed with one of my own, and he gave a sheepish shrug. “It’s just, I found something.”
“What?” Impatience made me careless of volume and earned me a loud, reproving
“shush.”
“Tell you later.” Albert mouthed the words, and I slumped down in the pew. This kind of suspense I didn’t need. Nor did I need Albert’s thigh pressed quite so close against mine. Up close he smelled like warm bologna.
Still, anxiety and growing fury kept me awake as the service started. The minister, a nice-enough looking man with a birthmark to rival Gorbachev’s, didn’t sound like he’d known Charles, but then after a while funerals all tend to sound alike. Commitment to his community, friends, family. Someone must have given him a tip sheet at least, because he mentioned kindness to animals. That brought a small cry from up front, and I saw Delia patting his mother’s back. Lily wouldn’t get any such consolation. Nor that kitten, either.
I was thinking about the kitten, about where it might have come from—and what it might have heard or seen—when a commotion in the back caused the dozers to wake and the more attentive to turn. Jim Creighton, alone, and dressed in civies had come in. He seemed younger in his blue suit, a recent haircut giving him the big-eared awkwardness of the boy he must have been not that long ago. But there was nothing boyish about the look he gave the crowd, who all quickly turned back toward the minister. Just how small a town was this? Was Jim the only cop on the case, or had he really been a friend of the deceased? I turned away before he could catch my eye, but I sensed that he was watching me throughout the short service.
As soon as the final prayer was over, I grabbed Albert’s arm. “What is it?”
“Cool it, Pru.” He pulled his hand back as if I had insulted him. “You don’t have to get bent out of shape. I mean, he can’t help it.”
“Albert.” I took a breathe. “Would you please tell me what you’re talking about?”
“Miss?” I was blocking the exit from the pew, and so I followed Albert out to the aisle and then through those tall doors into the fresh air. The sun was high, the day wonderfully warm with just a hint of autumn cool in the light breeze. An apple of a day, crisp and fresh.
The portly pound keeper didn’t seem to be enjoying the fine weather though. He hung his head and mumbled. “I can’t help it. It’s what he does.”
“Who, Albert?” I was losing patience and had to remind myself of the rules of training. Calm voice. Steady persistence. “Tell me what you are talking about, please.” For me, these played out in stilted diction. It’s just easier with animals.
“Bandit. He likes things.”
I nodded.
“Shiny things, most of the time. I don’t know.” Bit by bit, I got the story out of him. Albert claimed he was cleaning out his desk drawer. I suspected he was looking for that last bit of gum the ferret had found, or something even older and gamier. Whatever the initial goal, his search had turned up a small cache of personal items. A long, glittery earring. Albert called it diamond, but I’d bet rhinestones. The caps to a half dozen pens. The earpiece to a set of headphones, and something else. “One of those computer doodads,” said Albert, outlining a shape about the size and width of his thumb in the air. “You know, that you carry around?”