The Dogs of Babel (17 page)

“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 the frying pan, 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:

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—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?”

As I struggle with the dog—she does, after all, weigh more than eighty pounds, and she’s pulling back with all her strength—the front door of the house opens, and a man steps out onto the porch. He looks to be about my age, maybe a little older. He’s a heavy man with long white hair and a full beard. He reminds me of a king in a pack of playing cards. When Lorelei sees him, she begins to bark.

“Hi, there,” he says. “Having some trouble?”

“A little bit,” I say. “She’s not usually like this. I’m Paul, by the way.”

“That’s what I figured,” he says. “I’m Remo.”

Remo comes down the front steps and walks over to us. Lorelei shrinks away from him and tries to hide behind my legs. She’s still barking, but it’s a different kind of bark. I recognize it as the one I’ve categorized as Frightened Bark #1.

Remo kneels down beside Lorelei and takes hold of her head. Lorelei twists her face toward his hand and snarls, making a move as if to bite him. I’m horrified, but Remo acts quickly, grabbing her snout in one hand and snapping her mouth shut. With his other hand, he fingers a spot just behind her left ear. He parts the fur and exposes the skin beneath. I lean over to see what he’s doing, and I can see that there’s a tiny red dot there. I’ve never noticed it before; I’ve never thought to look.

“Look at that,” says Remo. “She’s one of ours.”

I stare at him, then look back at the dot with a profound sense of unease. “What
is
that?” I ask.

“It’s a tattoo,” says Remo. He releases Lorelei and stands up. Lorelei retreats behind me, pulling her leash across the backs of my legs. “We do it to all the puppies we use. This one must’ve gotten away. Sometimes they do.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “We’ve had Lorelei since she was a puppy.”

“Well, it looks like we had her first. The dot doesn’t lie.” He gives me a toothy smile. “This one must’ve gotten out early. Let me think, now—seems to me we had a litter of Ridgebacks maybe seven or eight years ago, and there might’ve been a pup or two who ran. That sound about right to you? Seven or eight years?”