This was starting to piss him off. For weeks now, he had been noticing dogs everywhere, in the same way that when you buy a new car, the road is suddenly lousy with the same model. Only now it seemed that the dogs were also noticing him. Lately as he drove up Campbell on his way to work, there was often a dog sitting at the corner of Elm. The funny thing was, it was always a different dog: Australian shepherd one day, boxer the next, scruffy little black mutt another. He watched them from a few blocks away as he approached, and they seemed to have the same routine: they sat patiently until he drew near, then stood and wagged their tails. When he could manage in traffic, he glanced in the rear-view mirror, but he couldn't tell where the dogs went after that little pantomime.
One day when he stopped for a soda at the 7-11 he met a sheltie waiting outside for its master. It reared up on its hind legs and pawed the air excitedly as Hooper passed. At the park, where he and Tillie had a picnic one Saturday, a shaggy collie trotted over and signaled its desire to play, forelegs on the ground and butt in the air. Ten minutes later a brown and black mutt did the same.
It pissed him off because some paranoid impulse in him felt as though he were being taunted, even while the rational part of him knew that was absurd. The thought occurred to him that these dogs were actually trying to reassure him in the only ways they knew how—but that was equally absurd.
One Saturday he and Tillie went to the flea market. Among the stalls of new and old junk, cheap sports jerseys and sunglasses, appliances dragged out of a garage, and sweet-smelling sticky buns, they passed by a man selling framed prints. Tillie moved on, but Hooper paused, suddenly struck by a print of Dogs Playing Poker.
“Special today, three for twenty bucks,” the man said. His Mets cap was faded and dirty; he scratched the stubble on his chin. “The frames alone are worth that much.”
Hooper tried to look impressed. “I was just wondering where the original of that came from,” he said, pointing to the dogs. “I mean you see that everywhere, but somebody must have painted it at some point.”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Got me. It's just one of those things. Lots of people have one, but try and find the real thing...”
Just then the man's basset hound decided to wake up from a nap under the table.
“Nice dog,” Hooper commented. “Yeah, Buster's a great dog.” Buster stretched and laughed at Hooper. “You ever get the feeling that dogs are watching you?” Hooper said. “Oh, yeah.” The man pulled on the bill of his cap.
“They're watching. Smelling and watching, ain't that right? Collecting information. Smelling trees and fire hydrants—just like we read a newspaper.” He scratched Buster's big head. “You can't lie to a dog. They know who likes them, who doesn't. Has to do with our body chemistry and all. Wouldn't surprise me if a dog got a good sniff and knew how much money you made.” He laughed with a snort. “Not to mention what you ate for lunch, huh?”
“That's right.” Hooper chuckled too. Oddly enough, he agreed. “Makes a lot of sense.” But then he could have sworn Buster winked at him, and he was pissed and paranoid all over again.
One day, driving home from the foothills, he turned down his street and saw someone at the mailbox, a young woman with blue-black hair. He recognized her: Sally, from Cafe Joe. As Hooper pulled into the driveway, she slammed the box shut, startled to see him. By time he parked and got out she was gone.
In the box was a sheet of green paper. “Dog Daze,” it said, “at The Shack, August 31.” Paw prints were stamped on the hand-written, photocopied flyer. He guessed it was for a band. Everybody had a band with a cute name these days. Planet Taco, Das Bootie, Mondo Me or something. But this was too much.
All he wanted was to have his dog back. He was tired of visiting the shelters and leafing through their notebooks, where he read the stark details of the ones found DOA. He was tired of returning home empty-handed. He wanted to have his own dog sitting next to him and smiling that big sloppy dog grin. He wanted to see that tail wagging furiously. He wanted to sink his hands into that golden fur and have his face licked until it felt slimy.
Inside the house he flipped on the cooler switch and poured some iced tea. His back against the living room wall, he sank to the floor in the spot where the cooler breeze hit, and closed his eyes. He wished for release. He wished that he could clear his mind of these small, nagging frustrations, these painful reminders of his loss; he wished he knew how to meditate, or had the patience to learn. It's a lonely world, he thought—and yet, as he sipped his cool drink and then pressed the wet glass to his forehead, he gradually felt his bleak mood dissipate. Even in the empty house he felt Tillie's presence. The closet was full of her clothes. The bathroom smelled of her scented soaps and lotions. And the fridge was full of food that they would eat, together, when she came home from work.
***
On Saturday morning Hooper was out and Tillie went out to check the mail. Along with several white envelopes was a small brown package from her brother Sam, which she eagerly brought to the kitchen table. Before she could open it, however, Barry appeared at the screen door.
“Hey, Barry, come on in. I've got the mail.” She flipped through the pile and pulled out letters addressed to him. “How's it going?”
“Not bad.” He didn't smell coffee, but maybe, he thought, she would make a fresh pot.
“Good,” she said absently, wondering what Sam could have sent her.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Good. Good.” Did he have something to tell her? He always had that expectant air. She was leaving in half an hour to meet Maria for coffee, but she felt compelled to do the polite thing. “Iced tea?” she offered.
“Thanks.” He pulled out a chair. He didn't really like iced tea, but it was an invitation.
“Be nice to get some rain soon,” she said, at a loss for some other topic. “We didn't get much in July.”
“Yeah.” He sipped his tea; it wasn't bad. He looked out the window, his attention caught by a woodpecker out in the mesquite. He liked this little breakfast nook.
Tillie picked up her package and peeled off the packing tape.
“Say,” he said finally. “I've been thinking about Cosmo.”
“That's nice of you. You know, she's been gone three months already. Hooper was checking the pound every few days for a while, but he's pretty discouraged by now. We wonder if she joined the circus after all.”
Barry laughed but Tillie did not.
“Listen.” He stood up to dig in the pocket of his baggy shorts and unfolded a newspaper clipping. “I was reading in the Weekly about this guy who goes around looking for other people's lost pets. I cut out the article in case you didn't see it. He has a pretty good success rate, but he doesn't even charge. Anyway, I thought it might be an idea.” He was smiling, pleased with himself.
“Thanks, Barry.” She scanned the article, touched by his thoughtfulness. “Thanks a lot.” Glancing at her watch, she mentioned that she had to leave soon; he took the hint, gulped his tea, and left.
When the screen door banged shut, Tillie tore open her package and pulled out a thin object in bubble wrap and a card in an envelope. Sam had scribbled a note that Gran wanted her to have the enclosed necklace. He promised a letter soon.
The accompanying card, a creamy pink with a bouquet of violets on the front, had an old-fashioned look to it. Her grandmother had crossed out the sentiment, “With Best Wishes for a Happy Birthday,” and in an unsteady hand had written, “For Tillie, my dear Granddaughter.”
Smiling at her Gran's penchant for recycling cards, she opened the bubble wrap. A pendant on a leather thong tumbled out. It was flat, in the stylized shape of a hand with fingers pointing down, and crudely crafted of silver and worn enamel, faintly blue and green. Slipping it over her neck, she ran her finger over the five silver beads that indicated knuckles. She thought of her grandmother's knuckles, thick with arthritis, no longer able to knit slippers, rub raw chickens with a cube of butter, or gather tomatoes and apples from her yard. She wondered if her father had time to look after her.
But it was time to go meet Maria. Tillie had been surprised when Maria called to invite her alone to coffee, because they always did things as a threesome. But why shouldn't she be friends with Maria? she thought gamely as she walked the few blocks to the coffee shop. They didn't have to mesh like a zipper to be friends. Maybe they would find things to talk about without Hooper. Then Tillie thought about how self-assured Maria was, how intelligent, tall, and articulate, and she paused a moment before opening the door.
Maria, who was already sitting at a table, gave Tillie a big wave and smile. She too was having second thoughts about this date. It had seemed like a fine idea, a friendly coffee to get to know each other better. Since Maria wasn't meeting men, she decided to make an effort to make women friends. And if Hooper loved Tillie, she must have some substance to her. But when they talked on the phone, Maria thought Tillie hesitated just a beat. That was the trouble with quiet people: they made you start questioning yourself, as though they held up a mirror instead of a personality. What did she and Tillie have in common, after all? Maria finally had to admit to herself that it was actually Hooper she wanted to get to know better. He'd been on her mind more often than she wished, a distraction whenever thoughts of Nick threatened to defeat her.
They stood in line to order, Tillie behind Maria, whose long dark hair was in a thick braid. Tillie wanted to touch it, heft it like a rope. Instead, Maria turned and remarked on Tillie's pendant, which was, she recognized immediately, a common decorative motif in Islam. Tillie held it out to her and Maria ran her thumb over it, flipped it over to stroke the smooth silver back.
“Looks Berber to me. The silver and enamel, the crude artisanship.”
Tillie was pleased that she could tell her something about it. “Is it a religious symbol, then?”
“Not entirely.” As they sat down, Maria emptied three sugars into her iced coffee and stirred. She also had a huge slice of chocolate cake, something Tillie wouldn't have dreamed of eating in the mid-morning.
“It's not my field, so I don't know much,” Maria went on. Even so, she told her about the Five Pillars of Islam, which were represented by the five fingers. Drawing from other cultures as well, she observed that the hand is a universal symbol of creation, order, protection, and healing. As she spoke, Tillie looked at her own long fingers, the uneven nails, the four silver rings, and dry skin, and thought: Were these once the hands of an artist?
She wanted to add something intelligent, but all she came up with was, “Prehistoric peoples made paintings of hands in their caves.”
Maria licked frosting off her fork. “Yes, that's right. At Castillo, Spain. Some at Pech-Merle as well, in France.”
Of course Maria would know that, Tillie thought. She might have mentioned other hands that were important in art history—Adam and God in the Sistine Chapel, Claudel and Rodin's sculptures, Michelangelo's David—but she said only, “Hands are the hardest part of the body to paint well.”
Maria chewed thoughtfully on a big bite of cake. She had planned to tell Tillie more about cave art, but something else was on her mind.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How do you two stay together?” The question was so unexpected, Tillie wondered if it were a joke. Maria was smiling, but she clearly wanted an answer.
“That's a good question.” She was stalling, unsure how to answer so spontaneously. No one had asked her that before. What kept them together? She wondered why Maria wanted to know, whether it was simple nosiness or one woman seeking insight from another.
“I'm afraid anything I say will sound banal. Like love. Trust. We like each other.” This was true, but still Tillie smiled self-consciously. Was that all she had to say for over six years together? Nothing poetic or fervent? For some reason, the memory of a cold November day in New Hampshire popped into her head. They took a picnic to a bluff by the bay and spread their blanket on the ground, which was still soft from a recent rain. She'd found an old wicker hamper at a second-hand store and slipped in a split of champagne to surprise him. But he did one better: he'd managed to sneak in a whole gooseberry pie, which he'd made himself. They drank champagne, kissed pie off each other's faces, and sat by the water until their feet grew numb.
“He surprises me.” And then she wondered, Did they still surprise each other like that? “That doesn't tell you much.”
“No, it does.” Maria laughed. It was sweet how Tillie blushed; that revealed enough. Maria had wanted to know if there was such thing as a happy couple, and she was relatively satisfied. “Love is known to make one banal. I look forward to being banal.”
Tillie laughed, too, relieved that Maria showed some understanding, even if she couched it in a near-insult. And perhaps Maria had done her a favor. Her question was one Tillie would have to examine more closely.
***
Seven-thirty in the morning. Donna had stayed up later than usual stuffing envelopes and tumbled out of bed with thirty minutes to get Joey ready and delivered to preschool. Once at work, the first thing she did was start a pot of coffee, and her mind was so muddled she nearly made decaffeinated. She relied on routine to get her through. Now on her second cup, she had filled the salad dressing tubs, stocked the creamers and coffee cups, set a bud vase on each table, checked to see what pastries were fresh, and studied the breakfast specials.
Then the restaurant filled up. It was a small place, only twelve tables, but since Mary wasn't in yet—where the hell was she?—Donna was on her own. Before she knew it, people were clamoring. Miss! More coffee! I ordered juice! and I'd like it before my meal! Someone was coughing: water right away! Honey, we have to get to work by eight-thirty!
That was Table Three, two women who came in every Wednesday. I know that, Donna wanted to say. You sit your polyester butts down at the same damn table every week and order the damn same thing; I pour your decaf coffee—yes, for the second time, it's fucking decaf—and I drop your ticket with the meal and collect your twelve percent tip, can I bring you a calculator, honey?
But she didn't say any of that. She smiled and poured their coffee, smiled even though she was dying to use the restroom and it was occupied. She gave Mary a quick call and left a message (“Get your butt in here!”?), smiled and pretended that she didn't see the dirty looks from a couple who had been waiting to order.
Then food started coming out, and the cook got some orders mixed up.
“Two ham and swiss omelets, Daniel!” she growled. “Rye toast dry, and wheat buttered.” He hurriedly broke and beat some eggs. “And I ordered fruit salad with one.”
“We're out,” he said. “I can give you cantaloupe.”
“Out! Why didn't you tell me?”
“I did.”
“He told you,” said Jackie, the prep cook, slapping some bread in the toaster.
Donna groaned. Daniel twitched his eyebrows at her. He was nineteen and cocky; sometimes he made lewd arrangements with the salad vegetables to tease her.
She backed out of the kitchen and met Mary at the wait station.
“Hey, stranger.”
“Sorry I'm late,” said Mary. “Car wouldn't start.”
“Uh-huh. Six, nine, ten,” said Donna. “All yours.” Some customers were getting impatient. One of them said, “How long does it take to make eggs?” She grabbed crackers for the kid on Four but had to be reminded twice to take salsa and replace a cracked glass elsewhere. Returning to the kitchen, she loaded up her arms with plates.
“Careful, there, sweetie,” said Daniel. “Don't drop them.”
“Danny boy, you are begging for trouble.”
“Coming from you—I can't wait.” She kissed her teeth and backed out the swinging door.
Eventually the restaurant emptied out and only a few tables remained. Waltzing around cheerfully, Mary delivered orders, brewed up some fresh pots of coffee, and wiped off the wait station in that busy-bee way that made Donna crazy.
Sitting at a table to add up the last two checks, she let Mary greet the couple that just walked in. Numbers were swirling in her head; she had to add one column up three times before she was sure of the total.
“Busy day,” the man on table two remarked nearby. “I'll say.”
“You stayed on top of things, though. Sometimes a challenge makes you realize what you're capable of.”
“True enough.” Donna lost her concentration and had to start adding over again. “My challenge right now is to find my dog. She doesn't think I can do it. I tracked her down a few months ago, but then she disappeared again.”
This was different. She looked up. Although she had taken his order and served him coffee, poached eggs and potatoes, she hadn't really paid attention to him. Something about him, though, was very familiar: that thick mustache, that intense air.
“That's too bad,” she said.
He shrugged. “She's got me thinking, though. Which was probably her plan all along.”
“Hmm.”
“We're all looking for love and companionship, aren't we? Dogs, people. I should have treated her better. And I will, once I get her back.”
“Good idea.”
“What do I owe you?” He pulled out his wallet. “Here you go.” She gave him his check and he tossed some bills on the table. “Good luck,” he said as he left. “Keep the faith.”
“You, too.” When Donna she picked up the money, it was skimpy on the tip, but he had also left a scratch-off lottery ticket. Since he had already rubbed off the silver film, she was about to put it in the trash, but then she looked more closely. Three squares showed twenty dollars. He'd left her twenty bucks! Enough to pay for some baby sitting, new shoes for Joey, or a few days' worth of groceries. She was grateful—and then suspicious. Did he want something from her? Would he come back?