But now Hero has vanished from the man’s Brooklyn
apartment. The police officer had gone to work as usual, leaving Hero asleep on the couch, and when he returned home on his lunch hour to walk him, the front door was wide open and the dog was gone. The door showed signs of forced entry, and the policeman’s TV and stereo were missing as well. As far as anyone can tell, the dog must have slipped out the door while the intruder was carrying out the stolen goods. An enormous search effort is in progress, but so far there has been no luck. All over the city, signs have been posted, asking people to be on the lookout for a four-year-old yellow Lab with
the power of speech. ‘At least,’ the grief-struck police officer was quoted as saying, ‘at least he’ll be able to ask for help.’
It’s on the day this news story breaks that Matthew Rice and his wife, Eleanor, come knocking at my door. I’m lying on the couch when I hear the knock, watching TV
and hoping for more news on Dog J, and I almost don’t answer the door. It’s early afternoon, and I’m still in my pajamas and robe. But when I stand up to peek out through the closed blinds and see who it is, I stumble over a pile of books on the floor and let out an involuntary oath so loud that I figure I can’t possibly pretend I’m not home.
I open the door to find Matthew and Eleanor standing there, smiling brightly. Matthew is carrying a stack of Tupperware containers and baking pans covered in foil, and Eleanor is holding a large bucket filled with cleaning supplies.
I wonder for a moment if I’m expecting them, if they called and said they were coming, and I’ve somehow forgotten.
‘Hello,’ I say tentatively.
‘Hi, Paul,’ says Eleanor warmly. ‘I hope you’ll forgive our barging in on you like this, but we haven’t had much luck reaching you by phone.’ It’s true that I haven’t been answering the phone lately. I’ve gotten a little bit sick of my mother and my sister calling, expressing their well-meaning concern. I’ve been letting the machine pick up, and it’s been a while since I’ve listened to my messages.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘No problem.’ Just then, Lorelei comes
trotting to the door to see what’s going on. She pushes past me and begins to sniff first at Eleanor’s legs, then at Matthew’s, looking for the source of the food aromas that are emanating from the containers in Matthew’s arms.
I grab her collar and pull her back.
‘Down, girl,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to put her in the back? You’re allergic, aren’t you?’ I ask Eleanor.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says, setting down her bucket and stooping to pet the dog. ‘I took a pill. I’ll be fine.’
‘So what brings you by?’ I ask. I’m aware that I should invite them in, but I’m embarrassed to let them see the state of the house.
‘Well, we talked to Maura after she came by,’ Matthew says. ‘It sounded like you could use some help.’
‘Help?’ I say, stiffening.
‘Oh, just a little friendly help around the house,’ Eleanor says quickly. ‘I’ve brought you some food to stick in your freezer. There’s a lasagne and some chili and a pot of navy bean soup.’
‘And macaroni and cheese,’ Matthew adds. ‘With ham
in it, like Eleanor made for the Christmas potluck the year before last. I remember you said you liked it.’
The list of food makes my stomach ache with hunger. It’s been weeks since I’ve been to the grocery store. I’ve been eating mostly crackers and dry cereal. There have been days when I’ve thought about snacking on handfuls of dog food from the economy-size bag in the garage.
Eleanor continues talking. ‘And I’m going to roll up my sleeves and do a little cleaning while you and Matthew have a nice visit.’
‘Well, that’s awfully kind of you,’ I say, ‘but I’m not sure this is the best time …’
Eleanor smiles at me and reaches out to touch my cheek, my rough, stubble-ridden cheek. ‘Let us in, Paul,’ she says.
‘There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.’ The gentleness of her touch nearly brings tears to my eyes. ‘I made you a pan of those peppermint brownies you like.’
I look at the floor and nod. I feel humbled, I feel like a small child. ‘All right,’ I say, and I step aside for them to pass.
If they feel any revulsion on entering, they don’t let on.
‘Good,’ Eleanor says. ‘Now why don’t you go shower and get dressed, while I heat up some soup for you.’
‘I don’t know if there are any clean pots,’ I say. ‘Or bowls.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ she says.
By the time I emerge from my bedroom, clean and
dressed, the house already looks better. Eleanor has opened all the curtains, and the rooms are filled with light. She’s cleared the dirty dishes off the kitchen table and set a place for me. I sit down and she sets before me a bowl of steaming soup and a plate of buttered toast. I eat ravenously.
Afterward, Matthew and I sit on the living room couch with mugs of fresh coffee and a plate of brownies in front of us. Eleanor has vacuumed the rug, and she’s cleared away the piles of clutter from the table and the floor. She’s opened a window, and the room feels fresh, airy.
‘So how’s your work going?’ Matthew asks me. He even manages to meet my eyes as he says it.
‘It’s great,’ I begin, then stop. ‘Well, it’s okay. Honestly, it’s hard to say if I’m making any progress.’ I tell him about Lorelei’s adventures in typing.
He nods thoughtfully. ‘That’s an interesting approach,’
he says. ‘You know, I read once that Thomas Mann’s
daughter tried something similar. She had her dog composing poetry on a typewriter.’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Anything good?’
Matthew shrugs. ‘About what you’d expect, I think.
Or what I’d expect, anyway.’ He smiles. ‘I think eventually the dog rebelled and wouldn’t go anywhere near the
typewriter.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘They don’t much like typing. It’s hard on the nose.’
We’re quiet for a moment, both of us looking at Lorelei, snoring on the carpet in front of us. From the other room, I hear the washing machine click on.
‘You know, Paul,’ Matthew says, ‘I’m not quite sure I’ve ever fully understood this project of yours. I guess I’m not exactly clear on what you’re hoping to learn.’
‘Well, I suppose…’ I falter for a moment, trying to remember the scholarly goals I outlined when I began.
‘I suppose I’m hoping to find out whether canine-human communication is possible.’
Matthew shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I mean, what are you hoping to learn about Lexy?’
I look away. I’ve never mentioned to Matthew that my project has anything to do with Lexy. I hadn’t realized my motives were so transparent.
‘I mean, that’s it, isn’t it, Paul?’ Matthew asks when I don’t say anything. ‘You’re hoping to find out something about Lexy?’
I nod. ‘After she died,’ I begin. ‘There were some
incongruities.’
‘What do you mean, “incongruities”?’
I tell him about what I found, the steak bone and
supermarket wrappings, the reconfiguration of books on the shelf. ‘Even the fact that she was in the tree,’ I say.
‘That’s an incongruity. What was she doing up there?’
‘You think Lexy may have killed herself,’ he says.
I look away and try to concentrate on a painting hanging on the opposite wall. I don’t like hearing the words spoken out loud.
‘And you think Lorelei can help you find out the truth?’
I look at Matthew. I look him square in the eyes. ‘She’s a witness,’ I say. ‘Don’t you see? She’s the only one who knows for sure.’
He nods slowly. ‘You know, Paul,’ he says, ‘the loss of a spouse is a very difficult thing to deal with. Have you thought, maybe, about talking to someone? A professional?
Someone who could offer you some help?’
I try to smile. ‘I have all the help I need,’ I say. ‘I have Lorelei.’
Matthew sighs. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Okay.’ He pauses.
‘Well, you know you’re always welcome back at work.
It might do you good to come back. Even half-time.’
‘No,’ I say firmly. ‘I have my hands full.’
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Well, think about it, anyway.’
We sit silent for a few moments. Lorelei wakes abruptly from her sleep and turns to gnaw at a sudden itch near the base of her tail.
‘Have you heard about this dognapping case?’ Matthew asks. ‘That dog, Hero?’
I nod. ‘Dog J,’ I say.
‘Right.’ He laughs awkwardly. ‘I have to admit,’ he says, ‘that I was half afraid I’d come here and find out you were the one hiding that dog.’
‘Well, I certainly wish I’d thought of it first.’ Matthew gives me a searching look. ‘I’m kidding,’ I say. ‘I haven’t turned criminal just yet.’
‘No, of course not.’ He leans forward to pick up a
brownie. ‘What a lunatic, eh? The guy who did that to that dog.’
I look around guiltily. My letter from Wendell Hollis was on the coffee table when Matthew and Eleanor arrived, but it appears that Eleanor has cleared it away with everything else.
‘Insane,’ I say. ‘It’s a terrible case. But you can’t argue with his results.’
Matthew looks at me warily.
‘I mean, there you have it,’ I say. ‘There’s the proof that I’m not crazy. A real live talking dog.’
‘If that’s really what he is.’
‘What do you mean? People have heard him talk. A
whole courtroom heard him talk.’
He shrugs. ‘Parlor tricks,’ he says. ‘Or wishful thinking.
Whole courtrooms in Salem were convinced they’d seen witchcraft performed.’ I must look stricken, because he softens. ‘Well, who knows?’ he says. ‘Anything’s possible.
Maybe it’s all true.’
‘It is,’ I say. ‘It has to be.’
We sit and talk for a while longer, with Matthew filling me in on the latest department gossip. By the time Eleanor’s done cleaning, the house gleams. She’s washed the floors and polished the bathroom fixtures, cleaned out the refrigerator and remade my bed with fresh sheets. She’s gathered
up the clothes from my bedroom floor and turned them into neat piles of fluffy, clean laundry. The house smells like lemons and pine.
‘Thank you,’ I say, kissing her cheek. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Any time,’ she says. ‘All you have to do is ask.’
‘Keep in touch,’ Matthew says. ‘Take care of yourself.’
I stand in the doorway and wave as they drive off. Then I turn and go back inside my shining house.
‘Come on, Lorelei,’ I say. ‘Time to practice our typing.’
I don’t have to wait long to hear from Hollis’s friend Remo. Five days after Hollis’s letter arrives, I find a note in my mailbox. It hasn’t been mailed; apparently this man I’ve never met, this man who’s been referred to me by a psychopath, has been to my house. The note is handwritten on lined notebook paper. It reads as follows:
Dear Paul,
I’ve done some checking up on you, and it doesn’t appear that you’re a cop or anything, so I decided to trust Wendell’s recommendation and get in touch with you. We’re always glad to get new members. We’re having our monthly meeting on Saturday night at 7 o’clock. Come a little early, say around 6 - that way, I can show you around the facility. Hope to see you then.
Yours,
Remo and The Cerberus Society
P.S. And bring your dog. We want to see what she can do.
I read the letter with some uneasiness. What is this ‘facility’ he’s talking about? Am I getting myself into something I might not want to be involved in? And what do they want with Lorelei? Will I be putting her in danger if I bring her? Underneath these fears, another concern begins to take shape, a concern that has more to do with my own vanity than Lorelei’s safety: If I bring her with me, what will I be able to show them, for all my months of hard work?
Lorelei poking at random keys on a keyboard? Lorelei picking out the wrong flash card from the three I offer?
If I tell my pathetic story about the time she almost said wa, what will they think of me? I could fake it, I suppose, rub meat on the keys I want her to push. But what would I gain from that?
There’s a map enclosed with the note, with directions to the building where the meeting will be held. It looks to me as though the ‘facility’ is an ordinary house in a neighborhood not far from where I live. I get in my car and take a drive past. It’s a small brick house with a neatly trimmed lawn. It doesn’t look like the kind of place that might contain a basement laboratory or a soundproofed shed where unspeakable experiments
might be conducted. We never know, do we, what our
neighbors might be doing behind their fences, what love affairs and bloody rituals might be taking place right next door. The world is a more interesting place than we ever think.
But back to the question at hand: Should I go to this meeting? Will they hit me over the head, spike my drink, take my dog away from me? Or will it be like any other meeting - other speakers, perhaps, a group discussion, someone jotting down the minutes, coffee and refreshments to follow? The truth is, of course - and I suppose you knew this already - the truth is that I want to go. I’m curious.
An underground society of canine linguists right in my very hometown? So close to my house that I could actually walk to their meetings? How can I resist? And the prospect of conversation with other people, people who won’t look at me as if I’ve lost my mind when I speak of what I’ve been working on, well, it fills me with excitement. It seems to me just now that I might find I have more in common with these people than I do with any of my so-called colleagues at the university.
And so it is that on this balmy Saturday night I’ve
showered and shaved, clipped Lorelei’s leash to her collar, and set off to join the Cerberus Society.
When Lorelei and I reach Remo’s house, I can see that the driveway is full and the street is packed with cars.
It certainly looks like somebody’s having a party. I find a parking space and let Lorelei out of the car. She trots happily along next to me until I start to lead her up the front walk; then something strange happens. She
stops and refuses to go any farther. I pull and pull, but she resists.
‘Come on, girl,’ I say. ‘What’s the matter?’