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by Michele Hanson
 

2012/03/24
 

http://zenmagiclove.com/where/where.zml

http://zenmagiclove.com/where/where.html



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Black Hactcin, the creator in Jicarilla Apache myth, creates a human companion for dog and teaches the man to run and shout.

.

“What else?” said the man.

Black Hactcin thought a minute. “Laugh,” he said. “Laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh.”

When Black Hactcin said “laugh” the fourth time, the man laughed.

The dog was very happy when the man laughed. He jumped up on him and ran off a little, and ran back and jumped up on him. He kept jumping up on him the way dogs do today when they are full of love and delight.

The man laughed and laughed. “Now you are fit to live,” said the creator. So the man went off with his dog.

—Maria Leach
God Had a Dog: Folklore of the Dog
Rutgers University Press, 1961



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One Saturday in April, Hooper Green woke up at dawn with thoughts about a garden. He slipped on some shorts and went outside, closing the front door quietly. The morning was mild and clear, scented by the white jasmine blossoms in the barrel by the step. As he surveyed the yard, Hooper tried to work some magic in his head—which was to imagine a lush, green oasis instead of this dirt desert scene. A patch of prickly pear unhurriedly shouldered its way across the middle of the yard, and next to the side fence grew sunflowers and a lemon tree, which sucked up huge amounts of water but at least repaid him with real fruit. He knew that container gardening was the best method for growing things in the desert, but it was hard to let go of his desire to work with the earth. He had tried his best for two summers now, but in spite of his efforts—adding sacks of steer manure and sulfur to amend the dirt, watering diligently and copiously, hand-picking for cut-worm in the corn, and setting up shade cloth for the tomatoes—he was master of nothing but a sorry patch of spindly green stems, bug-chewed and sun-weary. It was the caliche, people said, the layer of cement-hard rock a few feet under the surface, which prevented proper drainage. It was aggravating, Hooper said, humbled by the fact that he, a man who earned a living as a gardener and landscaper, had cultivated only a yard full of dust.

He walked gingerly in his bare feet over the gravel driveway to pick up the newspaper and sat down on the front step. As he unfolded the paper and glanced at the headlines, he heard a distinct, expectant sort of cough.

He looked up, looked around. There was no one but a yellow dog, sitting on the sidewalk and looking at him. He went back to the paper.

A different noise, between a squeak and a yawn, distracted him again, and he caught the dog staring at him still. It shifted its weight, blinked twice, then opened its mouth in a tongue-spilling grin, panting a ka-ka-ka that implied the joke was on Hooper.

“Hey,” Hooper said. The dog trotted over and sat at his feet.

No collar. It was kind of skinny and dirty, but its brown eyes were clear, its chest muscles strong. This dog had been traveling. It was a good-looking dog: medium size, an acorn-blond shaggy coat with white on its chest and belly, a long furry tail, and a flourish of fur at its back legs. If he cleaned it up, brushed out some of the mats, it could be a fine animal. Hooper turned on the hose and let the water course out, kicking up dust as the stream hit the ground. The dog slurped and slurped, chomping on the water as though it were a milk bone. Finally sated, it flopped down in the bit of shade under the mesquite tree, sighed and rubbed its face on a patch of Bermuda grass.

Hooper crouched down to pet it. “Well, now. Where do you belong, huh?” The dog rolled on its back and splayed her legs, luxuriating in the attention. She looked down her nose as though incredulous: Figure it out! Hooper laughed, knowing he was outmatched. He let her in the house. Sniffing hastily in the living room and kitchen, her nails clicking on the hardwood and linoleum floors, she quickly found the bedroom. Tillie started awake when the dog nuzzled her ear.

“I don't know. She doesn't look like she belongs to anyone.”

Tillie scratched the dog's ears and got out of bed. As she and Hooper took turns showering and getting dressed, the dog followed them from bedroom to bathroom, sniffing and wagging her tail. When they sat down for some cereal, she lay under the kitchen table.

“I guess we should take her to the pound,” Hooper said tentatively.

“Mm,” said Tillie, noncommittal. “What if no one claims her?”

“Do you want to keep her?”

“I don't know. I never thought about having a dog.”

“Let's wait and see, then. Maybe we can put up some flyers, in case the owner is looking for her.” Now that he had a plan, he was eager to enact it. Jumping up from his chair, he retrieved some printer paper and a thick marking pen, and wrote, “Dog Found,” with her description and their phone number. In the broom closet he found a thin rope to put around the dog's neck, and the three of them walked to the photocopy store a few blocks away. He made a dozen copies and they spent the morning putting the notices up around the neighborhood: at laundromats, the university student center, utility poles, the ice cream shop. After lunch they left the dog in the kitchen with the swamp cooler blasting and drove to the pet store. They debated about the color of the collar and leash. Why should it matter? was the unspoken question, but they agreed on purple. Two kinds of brushes, one with wire teeth for the matts and a softer one. When Hooper picked out an expensive cedar shampoo, Tillie didn't counter with something cheaper. That evening, clean and smelling like a forest, she curled up nose to tail on her bed—an old sleeping bag—and slept.

They got up early Sunday morning. They always got up early in the summer to catch the lingering coolness (or rather, not-hotness) of the night, but today they had both awakened with a sense of something remarkable about to happen. At the park Hooper let her off the new purple leash and she trotted intently with her nose in the grass, wandering away and returning at a trot, smiling, brushing against Hooper's leg and bumping Tillie's hand. They walked over to the coffee shop and sat outside, the dog settling easily under the table.

She spent the rest of the morning lying in the shade of the oleander in the backyard, and later she stood by the front door as Tillie wheeled her bike out of the spare room and strapped on her helmet.

“Sorry, pal,” she said. “Just me and the bike.”

“C'mere, Dog,” Hooper coaxed her away from the door. “We'll watch the ball game together.”

“No dog on the couch, though,” she said, picturing the two of them eating chips and drinking soda together.

“I'm the only dog on the couch,” he agreed, waving cheerily good-bye.

***

Hooper and a friend ran a part-time, low-budget acting company, called the Stone Soup Theater. It began as a lark, something fun to do in their spare time, and during the first two years he and Nancy begged and bartered for performance space wherever they could find it. Their actors had been school-teachers, a bank clerk, students, a gift-shop owner, even a councilwoman; basically, just about anyone tried out. About the time they started to make a little money, they stumbled on a space to rent, an old movie theater downtown. It was owned by a retired and rich real estate agent, who showed an eclectic selection of repertory films on the weekends, mostly for his own pleasure. He offered it to the Soup to use Sunday night through Thursday, and Saturday mornings for rehearsals. The space was cheap. Who else would be interested in it? Downtown after five o'clock was quiet—spooky, even, with only a few wandering homeless people or an errant patron of Wally's bar.

There were signs, however, of a potential renaissance in the neighborhood. In the last year a coffee house, an art gallery, and a vintage clothing store had recently moved into the block, and even though Hooper was glad to see more life downtown, he feared that the owner might decide to sell the theater, or raise the rent when the lease came up in August. Stone Soup was barely holding together after an uneven year. They had tried some risky performance pieces that didn't do so well, and some of the better actors had defected to more prosperous companies. The bank account was gasping. And the new play, called Plaid Suit, was looking like a stinker.

The frustrating thing was that Hooper himself was responsible. He had written it; he was directing it. Drastic measures were needed, but he was unsure about taking chances, given his recent track record. Had he lost his touch, his nerve? There was a time when he would have known how to shake things up: bring in the Michelin Man as a deus-ex-machina, have the cast members dye their hair blue, engage the audience in a sing-along or something. He felt like he was getting to be an old fart, and only thirty-three years old. He had wrenched his back the other day and it surprised him; he'd always been in such good shape. He thought he needed a new prescription for his glasses, and his hairline was gradually receding. And while friends were talking about what preschool to send their kids to, he was scrambling around town posting flyers for upcoming performances, keeping an eye on other people's trash for props, and combing thrift stores for costumes. What the hell was he trying to do with this Soup? It had started out fun but now it was a headache. The actors showed up, but they didn't throw themselves into their roles, they didn't click as a team. Even though they were amateurs, he had hoped for vitality, some passion. He would be happy with moments of embarrassing failure if he could also spark some flashes of brilliance, but what he seemed to inspire was mere competence. What was the point?

These were his thoughts as he drove to rehearsal Tuesday night, the dog on the truck seat beside him. He had invited her along without thinking, but even in this cranky mood he realized her presence was reassuring. He parked in front of the theater and let her out, not bothering with a leash. His spirits improved even as he unlocked the door and stepped into the building. The lobby, dimly lit, smelled of stale movie popcorn. The dog went right in, sniffing her way across the flowered carpet, which was worn and stained by untold spilled cokes and coffee. She sat by the doors to the house and Hooper let her in. Opening a door marked “Employees Only,” he switched on a light and mounted the squeaky staircase. At the top was a small room, the catbird seat, where the lights and equipment were controlled. He wheeled one old office chair in front of the panel, drew back a small dark curtain, and looked out on the house, which was partially lit by sconces along the walls.

It was really not much of a theater. Years ago, in a fit of ambition, someone planned to renovate the place and removed the seating and the carpet, exposing a gray cement floor. The present owner had simply bought a slew of folding chairs at various estate sales, and he allowed the Soup crew to paint the floor in a patchwork of rusty orange, yellow, black and whatever anyone had to donate. So it was colorful, anyway; and what mattered most was that there was a stage and a curtain, and enough variety of lighting for them to create a few different moods.

When Hooper first started here, the labels on the control panel had been so ancient and greasy as to be illegible, and he spent hours trying to sort them out and relabel. He still did not know what some of the switches did, but now he flipped on his favorite, marked “Heaven.” With that, the ceiling began to twinkle. He had once borrowed an enormous ladder, strung white Christmas lights from whatever points he could reach, and plugged them into a socket he discovered near the ceiling. The effect was definitely low-tech, but still rather charming. Down below, he could see the yellow dog sniffing among the aisles and chairs. What a rich layer of smells, he thought. Countless numbers of people had sat their butts down on those seats, applauded, snoozed, laughed, become uncomfortable, cried, for so many movies and performances. He felt a little better about what he had accomplished there, for adding something to the mix.

He turned on some stage lights, went downstairs, and sat a few rows from the stage. As the actors arrived, one by one, tired after a long day of working elsewhere for money, they perked up visibly when the dog trotted over, tail wagging, to greet them. Hooper had brought cookies and oranges, which they gladly devoured. When all five of them had gathered, they launched into the rehearsal. A little creaky to start, they soon warmed to their roles and gave their lines smoothly, even convincingly. Hooper was cheered.

When they reached a scene that had always lumbered along, however, he stopped them.

“Hey, what's wrong with this? Can anyone tell me? It's duller than dirt.”

The scene involved all the actors. They looked at each other.

“Well, Hooper, to be honest,” said Jon, a skinny man with a beard.

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“It's not natural,” said Jon. “These characters don't talk like people talk. I mean, here's the scene, right? They're waiting in a doctor's office, they start asking each other questions about their personal lives, they end up spilling their guts one by one. I don't know, it just seems contrived. Self-conscious.”

The others nodded.

“At least, when I go to a doctor's office,” Bea said, “people go out of their way to ignore each other.”

Hooper rubbed the bridge of his nose where his glasses sat. He could feel another headache coming on.

“Okay,” he said, sorry he had even asked. “Suggestions? I can't see it anymore.”

“How about this?” said Nancy.

“Please,” Hooper said. He trusted Nancy, who was his partner in running the Soup and an impressive actress. He reached for an orange and started peeling it.

“Well, you know how we used to do some improv just to warm up? We haven't done it for a while, but was kind of fun, and I think it was good for us. Made us looser.” She raised her arms and wiggled her large body. The others laughed.

“Good idea,” someone said.

“Okay.” Hooper tried to sound casual but he felt tense. Everything suddenly seemed out of his control. He had worked so hard to get them to this point, and they wanted to scrap it all, with the play due to open in a week. The dog chose that moment to nudge his hand to get him to scratch her ears.

“Let's try it.” He gave the dog a slice of orange, remembering too late that he and Tillie had agreed not to let the dog mooch.

Tillie, meanwhile, was at home, listening to opera. Her spirits were expansive. What she most liked about opera was that it was so big. Big voices, big people, big events. At five feet five and one hundred seventeen pounds, she sometimes felt slight as a grasshopper, overlooked and underestimated; but as an ersatz diva she was an oak, a thunderstorm, a mountain, an ocean. Immersed in La Traviata, she felt her body swell: she imagined her lungs filling, her breasts straining the bodice of a low-cut dress made of satin and chiffon; her voice filled the entire space of La Scala like a genie in a bottle, squeezing even into its boxes and orchestra pit. As Violetta she waltzed around the living room, entertaining her guests and delighting her admirers. Violetta's end would be a tragic one, but for this moment she was the party's belle, witty and graceful, in her element.

As the waltz ended, she made some popcorn and sat down on the couch. Stuffing big handfuls into her mouth, she thought about Hooper. She'd been worried about him lately. He was so absent-minded she had to wait whole minutes before he responded to her simple questions. He was forgetting to return phone calls, leaving gardening tools at job sites, and banging his shins, thumbs, and head more often than usual. He swore frequently and profusely. Something was up, and she wasn't sure what.

When he came in that night, nearly eleven o'clock, Tillie was already in bed with the light out. He tried to be quiet but the dog ran in and licked her face.

“Somebody had a good time,” she said.

“Yes, she did.” He tapped the floor so the dog would lie down.

“What's up, Hoop? You're not usually so late.”

“I'm sorry.” He sat on the bed and took his shoes off. “But the play is a mess. We started to improvise on this one scene that used to take place in a doctor's office, and then it turned into a bus stop. Then an elevator.”

“Really. Why?”

“I don't know.” He had a terrible headache, which spiked as he thought once again of the evening's confusion. “The scene wasn't working as I wrote it, so everybody wanted to try something different. We've had weeks of rehearsal, and now this. I can't believe we open next Wednesday. Our last play of the season, and we're as ready as a dead battery.”

“You'll get it together.”

“It was this weird free-for-all,” he said, undressing. He felt slightly calmer, hearing Tillie's voice; the room was dark, the floorboards cool on his feet. “They started out trying to express the characters' inner lives, and then they're cranking about all the little things that bug them, and before I know it they're all shouting.”

“What about?”

“God, you name it.” He climbed into bed and lay on his back. “Fear of the dark, fear of cancer, fear of being alone. Things their mothers said to hurt their feelings; things their fathers never did.” He had nearly shouted at them to just shut up, he was so frustrated. Only the sight of the dog scratching her ear (Did she have fleas? Surely fleas didn't live in the desert) had distracted him enough to regain his composure.

“Yikes.”

“Phone solicitors, disappearing rain forests, bad drivers, El Nino.”

“I think I get it.”

“Theater people,” he said disparagingly. “They're so damn dramatic.” When the actors had finished their experiment, everyone except Hooper was ecstatic. They called the experience cathartic, energizing. “A rush.”

Tillie waited. “What else?”

“I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“Remember when I used to leap-frog over parking meters, just for fun?”

“I do,” she said. “You nearly killed yourself.”

“Remember when I used to compose songs on the ukulele?”

“That wasn't so long ago. You will again. You've been busy.”

“I used to be fun.”

“You're still fun.”

“You're the Queen.” He turned to kiss her good-night, rolled back over, and was asleep in a minute.

***

Setting aside the book on Kiki Smith, Tillie massaged her eyes and temples. She'd been staring at pages of full-color pictures of human figures, life-sized, many of them cast in raw-looking material like plaster or cheesecloth dipped in resin. Some showed body fluids flowing variously as a dark rope, strings of red or yellow beads, or stars shooting from a woman's breast. The artist had blown clear and opaque glass into the shapes of organs, hearts and stomachs mostly; in one piece she had strewn glass stars and scat across a deep blue cloth on the floor. How should Tillie classify this book? She was still learning how to catalog, how to properly analyze a book in terms of the discrete categories in the record before her on the computer screen. For instance, was the artist also the author? Should the subject heading be installation art or sculpture? Was it important that the body was a prominent theme? She felt that she should really spend a good hour reading the accompanying text and studying the artwork. But she had a quota to fill, a tall stack of other books to get through.

She'd been working at the library for nearly a year, dividing her time between the bindery and acquisitions, repairing books and filing papers, when her supervisor discovered she had a background in art history. One day Charlene approached her and asked if she was interested in cataloguing a few hours a week. They could use someone to help with the backlog, and any expertise was welcome.

Are you kidding? was Tillie's response. She was immediately excited. Look at art books and get paid for it? Be the first to touch them before they went on the shelf? It was like inviting a starving woman into Julia Child's kitchen for samples.

There was more to it, of course. Even though it seemed a simple matter—you found a copy of the record online and added the library's holdings; how hard could that be?—you had to verify the names on the record, their nationalities, the time period, and the medium. You had to decide whether the subject headings and authors were appropriate. She came across many exhibition catalogs from all over the world, maybe with a German artist showing in Korea, or a group of plein-airistes in Canada; which was most important? Then you assigned call numbers: with so many Smiths, for instance, were you sure you had enough numbers after the decimal? You type what you think are the right call letters—but maybe you scrambled them. It required an attention to detail, an exactitude that she found tedious. And perhaps beyond her, for her new supervisor was finding too many mistakes. If she didn't improve, she'd have to give up her precious hours with these books.

She sighed.

She was late. That is, maybe not late, because she wasn't ever regular, but it was about time for her period and the expectation made her thoughtful, more so than usual. What if she were pregnant? What would that be like? She imagined a microscopic flutter of life in her womb, like a translucent mandala turning imperceptibly, drawing her energy into itself. She was surprised to find she liked it. Tillie a mother. She'd never really imagined herself as a mother. She loved big empty blocks of time and space to herself, and mothers rarely had that. Besides, her body—small breasts and slim hips—didn't seem comfortably motherish. She hadn't played with baby dolls as a kid, she'd had no younger siblings to take care of. She hadn't even done any babysitting. Her own mother was a businesswoman, not given to displays of affection or cookie baking, and Tillie had no other role models. And yet it was possible; it could happen. Her body would change, once it nurtured a baby; the way she thought of herself, her every action would be colored by the presence of a child. The idea, both exhilarating and terrifying, made her draw a deep breath.

Still not completely satisfied with the Smith record, she nonetheless finished it up and chose another book, about Michel Verjux, from her stack. She said his name under her breath a few times, for the music of it. Michel Verjux. It sounded like jewelry or perfume, like a whisper and a hum. He worked in light. Installations of light projected onto buildings, displayed at night; discs of light that seemed as open and knowing as eyes on a face. A shaft of light gleaming on a gallery wall, art there but not there: nothing to touch, no color, no texture. But beautiful. A familiar medium made extraordinary by being concentrated and made the center of attention. Like a new life taking hold.

What would Hooper say? She guessed he would be thrilled. The night before he had spent over an hour lavishing attention on the dog, brushing her teeth and fur, massaging her ears, all with a tenderness that made her think he would also be good at diapers, playgrounds, and homework, all those mundane parental duties. They had talked about kids a few times, but always with the understanding that the two of them were too unsettled, too poor to really consider a family. That sort of future had seemed vague and safely distant, as though it belonged to couples more focused and accomplished than they would ever be. But now they had a house: it was modest, dusty and in need of a new roof, but it was a house. They both had jobs. They owned a truck and a car; they could go out to dinner once a week and movies whenever they wanted. They had a nice life together. What changes would a child bring?

Suddenly there was music in her ear. She looked up: Frank, from Serials, was holding up a headphone for her and singing reggae off-key.

“Hey, Frank,” she said. “Hey, Sunshine. Ready for lunch?”

She checked her watch. Yeah, she could do lunch. She was glad he asked, for Frank was one bright spot in the downstairs doldrums. He was a handsome man, with a thick dark ponytail, given to wearing tie-dyed tee shirts, leather necklaces and silver bracelets—so different from the other clean-cut, designer-wearing men on campus. His desk was interesting, too: he had a collection of wind-up toys, an Elvis painting on velvet, a Slinky, and several geodes. He sometimes brought her zucchini bread he baked himself and showed her his sketches of buildings—he was studying architecture—with King Kong on the roof or Betty Boop at a window.

“Susan,” he called to a woman at a nearby desk. “You up for lunch?”

They gathered lunch sacks and cold drinks and went outside to a table around the back of the building. Tillie watched Susan empty her bag: a white-bread sandwich with no lettuce, cookies, chips, diet soda. A chubby person's lunch, thought Tillie; but she had to admit, it looked good. Susan was one of several chubby women working downstairs who settled comfortably on their office chairs in the morning and scarcely budged the rest of the day. They decorated their cubicles with family photographs and crayon drawings, all of which had seemed interchangeable to Tillie—until recently. But asking Susan about her children, she noticed that her face lit up as she talked about them. She has a rich life, Tillie thought. Her job might be boring, but she sure likes being a mom.

“And how's your dog?” Susan asked.

“You have a dog?” said Frank.

Tillie explained the situation.

“I don't think I could live with a dog,” said Frank.

“Really? I'm surprised,” Susan said. “I would have thought you'd be a dog person.”

“What's a dog person?” Frank waved a carrot stick. “Someone who likes to be followed around and slavishly adored? Who wants his every command to be obeyed?” He clicked his tongue. “No, I don't want that kind of loyalty.”

“Don't you think animals are good companions, though?” Tillie had never been interested in dogs before, and so she was still trying to understand why she liked having one in her house. “There's something very comforting about coming home and being greeted by this creature who is wildly happy to see you, who can give such you unconditional love.”

“I suppose,” he conceded. “But I prefer a love that knows me for the jerk I am and still is happy to see me.”

Tillie smiled, thinking that must describe Hooper's love for her.

“What do you think about cats, then?” asked Susan.

“Cats at least have some sense of self,” he said. “They don't live for your attention like dogs do. Feed them and they stick around: it's an unambiguous arrangement. But actually, for pets I prefer fish.”

“Fish!” Tillie laughed. “All they do is swim around a little tank.”

“Exactly. They're quite Zen. They're in their element. They don't struggle with the state of their existence.”

Tillie was watching Frank eat. Having polished off four ropes of string cheese, he pulled a green pepper out of his bag and took a big noisy bite.

“Frank.” She had never seen anyone eat a pepper like that. “How is it that such a colorful person as yourself is working in the obscure bowels of the library?”

“That is what I ask myself, dear heart. And the answer is, it pays for tuition. But that reminds me.” He pulled three plastic cups out of his bag, opened his thermos, and poured out a thick orange liquid. “Carrot-apple juice. You're helping me celebrate.”

“What's the occasion?” asked Tillie.

“A promotion of sorts. I'm moving upstairs. I'll be supervising the shelvers.”

Tillie's heart sank as they toasted to his good fortune. The downstairs would be a duller place without him.

Two days later she had her period. Although her first reaction was relief to know she wasn't pregnant, this time she felt a small sense of loss as well. She remembered an installation piece she'd once seen, set up in the bathroom of a house about to be destroyed. Both the toilet and the bath were full of red liquid; a mannequin in one corner was holding an egg, and more eggs and broken shells littered the floor. It had offended a lot of people, but Tillie, who knew the artist, was moved by her deep desire to have a child and her inability to do so, by the installation's representation of both abundance and waste, of potential and disappointment.

She was newly amazed that the blood flowing blue in her veins could also be such a rich red issue from her body. It was a sign of chemicals communicating with each other in an intricate process over which she had no control. Green leaves sprouting in spring, blue tides responding to the moon, brown snakes shedding their skin.

It was no wonder, she thought, that we used to celebrate the Great Mother and her creative genius.

***

The morning of the opening performance, Hooper woke up and started to laugh.

“What's so funny?” Tillie asked, her voice muffled by the pillow.

“I had this great dream. I was at this very formal dinner, tuxes and evening gowns, very posh. So we're all sitting down, the host rings his little bell for the servant, and here comes this dog—”

“Like this one?” she asked. The dog was on the floor and resting her snout forlornly on the bed, like some discarded flower.

“Yes, just like this one. She trotted out in a little maid's outfit, with ruffled apron and little hat and all.” He coaxed her onto the bed and flipped her ears up to form a cap. “She was there to clear the table, so she licked off one plate, went around to the next person's left side—because that's the side you clear from, you know—cleaned that off, and so on all around the table. Everyone was so impressed. We all said, 'What a refined, sophisticated dog.'”

“That's pretty funny, all right. What do you think it means?”

“Well, two things. For one, it means this dog has a sense of humor. And for another, I think she needs to come to the play tonight.”

“Really? Won't she just get in the way?”

“I don't think so. I've been taking her to rehearsal all week, and she finds a spot in the wings to lie down. She'll lend a presence.” Tillie knew better than to argue with him once he'd set his mind to something. In any case, she trusted his judgment. When he used to perform on the college stage and then in summer stock, he had transfixed audiences: in the seats around her, people would murmur their admiration and flip through their program to find his name. As a performance artist, he chose the most unlikely combinations—nursery rhymes and choreography from a Noh play was one—and made them succeed. He still tried to inject these sorts of surprises in the plays he directed, but, in her opinion, the actors were so painfully amateurish they couldn't deliver with any conviction. For the first year or so of Stone Soup's existence she had attended faithfully, but now that it had wider support she went only occasionally.

When he came home that night, Tillie woke up to look at the clock; he was much later than usual, and smelled of beer.

“It went great,” he said in answer to her unspoken question, and told her to go back to sleep. “I'll tell you in the morning.”

At breakfast, he asked for the arts section of the paper.

“What do you think, did we get reviewed?”

She paused with coffee cup en route to her lips. “Gee, I don't know.” It was unlikely. The theater critic, Charles Bledsoe, generally only reviewed the more important theater companies on opening night. If he did write about the Soup, it was usually a short piece in the Sunday paper, often when the run was over. What surprised her about Hooper's interest, however, was that he never read reviews of his own plays until weeks after the final performance. It was her job to clip and save the articles in a folder in the file cabinet, where he could see them when he was good and ready.

“Here,” he said. “There's a review?”

“'...engaging and quirky performance of Plaid Suit,'” he read, “'a new play written and directed by, blah blah blah, competent ensemble work...' Listen. 'The most provocative scene comes at the end of Act II, when the characters, stuck in an elevator, give voice to their hopes and disappointments in short soliloquies or blurted sentences. In an absurd but gracefully timed gesture, a dog comes onto the stage and sits staring at the audience, like some wayward bodhisattva whose humble bearing brings order to a cacophonous universe. In the midst of the space junk of human experience, the dog's very presence suggests that love and loyalty act like gravity, ultimately creating a harmonious system.'”

Hooper paused. “Wow.”

“That guy is over the top,” she said. “Was that really what the scene was about?”

“Beats the hell out of me. But our dog's a star.”

“A star! From Bledsoe's description, she's an entire cosmos.”

He laughed. “She needs a name.”

“She does. How about Mabel?” Her grandmother's name.

“Mabel's good. Or... Buster.”

“Buster! Maybe Sophie.”

“Zuzu.”

“Della?”

“Stella?”

“Let's write these down and think about it,” she said. “I know,” he said. “How about Cosmo?”

“Isn't that a man's name?”

“More like the cosmos, I mean. You said it yourself.”

“Hmm.”

“'Brings order to the universe,'” he read again. “Cosmo.” She tested the sound of it. “She'll be our cosmopolitan dog. Citizen of the universe. At home anywhere.”

“That's a lot to put on a dog.”

“She can handle it, don't you think? She's already well traveled. Cosmo. Do you like it?” Tillie had to admit that she did. So Cosmo she became.

***

The day after Cosmo's debut performance, Hooper revisited all the places they had tacked up their “Dog Found” notices, and tore the sheets down, feeling only slightly guilty. She had a name, after all, he reasoned with himself, and seemed happy with him and Tillie. Then he went to the bookstore, bought three books on dog training, and spent any free time he had that week building a doghouse. He sketched plans, went to the hardware store, sawed, nailed, cursed, and returned to the hardware store a few more times. When he was ready to paint, he realized he'd forgotten fresh sandpaper—the stuff in the garage was worn thin—and was just about to kick something when someone behind him said, “What's up?”

Hooper jumped. It was Barry, a graduate student in environmental studies, who rented the small guesthouse at the back of the property. A nice guy, Hooper and Tillie agreed, except that he had the disconcerting habit of appearing suddenly, then hanging around with not much to say.

“Hey, Barry,” he said. Cosmo greeted him by wagging her tail and directing him to scratch her rump. “Got any sandpaper I could borrow?”

“Sure. Building a dog house, I see.”

“Yeah, more of a manor. See, it's got this nice sloped roof, which opens up so we can get in there if we need to clean it out. And this lovely feature: a shaded veranda where she can watch the world go by.”

“Very nice. Lucky dog.”

“Thanks. I just hope she likes it here.” He grinned, knowing he sounded like a solicitous hotel clerk. He tried to coax her in the house, but she balked and he finally gave up.

“Maybe a dog bone inside,” Barry suggested.

“Good idea.” Hooper rapped on the roof and Cosmo jumped up. Now they were nearly nose to nose.

“A free spirit,” Barry observed. “She likes to be up in the air.”

“Evidently.”

“She seems well trained.”

“Yeah, she's a smart dog.” He felt a pang of compunction about keeping this dog. If someone had trained her, wouldn't they miss her?

Barry scratched Cosmo's ears. “Say, if you need me to walk her or, you know, look after her, I'd be happy to. I mean if you go out of town or anything.”

“You bet,” he said, although he could not imagine leaving his dog with anyone. Even though he doubted the doghouse would get much use, he finished it up that day. As he was painting it—a bordeaux red—Tillie let Cosmo out of the kitchen by mistake, and the dog trotted up to Hooper with a lick and a huge grin, as if to thank him for his efforts. Of course she got paint on her wagging tail, but it bothered her not in the least.

***

Hooper encouraged Tillie to take Cosmo to obedience classes. She might learn a few new commands, he said, but mostly he thought it would be good for Tillie to take charge. One night a week, for six weeks, the class met in the feed store parking lot, across the street from Juanito's, with its giant neon sombrero. There were seven other dogs: among them, an English sheepdog who refused to budge, a keeshund pup that nibbled at its leash, and a springer spaniel that was constantly distracted by the other pupils. With her golden coat and intelligent face, Cosmo had a noble air, but she dissolved into silliness whenever the instructor came near. She'd madly wag her tail, panting with pleasure, so that the instructor dubbed her “the party girl.” Tillie felt an immoderate pride to be at the other end of the leash. Since much of the first few classes covered commands Cosmo already knew, Tillie scarcely needed to use the choker chain for correction. She was glad for that; she hated to yank on the poor dog's neck.

When Hooper ran errands, she sat in the front seat of the truck, facing front as though a passenger, unlike other dogs who rode with their heads out the window. Sometimes he even took her to work sites. He started talking to her as he drove, telling her about the theater, his business, the city. He once pointed out the restaurant that hired Tillie as a waitress, had her work one night, then let her go.

“We don't patronize that place,” he said. “I'd explain why, but you wouldn't understand about holding a grudge, would you? We leave you in the back yard all day and you're still happy to see us.”

He explained to her that developers were digging up the desert at a phenomenal rate, building houses in a place that clearly shouldn't support so many showers, toilets, and washing machines. “These are the same people who hire me to put plants in their yards, though, so I suppose I'm being a hypocrite. Which you wouldn't understand, either.” He pulled up to a park and let her out to wander and pee, her tail wagging and nose to the ground.

People would often stop to admire her and ask what kind of dog she was. Hooper thought she might have some collie as well as golden retriever in her, and so he'd answer, “She's a coalition dog.” Tillie would sometimes tell people, “This is my familiar,” and they'd look at her blankly. A friend told them about Yellow Dog Democrats, old-style Texans who were so fiercely democratic that they'd vote for a yellow dog before any Republican. They envisioned a career for her in politics, shaking hands and sniffing shoes.

She was the Uberhund, thought Hooper, the Queen of Canines, the Darling of Dogdom. If dogs had a country, her plumed tail would be the flag. The perfect dog: he knew she would come when he called, sit when he asked, and back her rear up against him, waiting for a scratch. She was already ready for a walk. She never let him down. Could he say the same for anyone else? He was devoted to Tillie, but even she—he had to admit it—could disappoint him.

He wanted her to be happy, and she wasn't, not entirely. Since they had moved to Tucson from New Hampshire three years before, she seemed to get sad more often than she used to. Or rather, she got quiet, and that to him meant sad, even if she said she wasn't. He couldn't get her to talk about what was wrong. They'd had a rough time in Tucson those first couple years. Before she got the job at the university library, they didn't have much money. They were paying off student loans and eating rice and beans three nights a week; their treat was to go out for a cup of coffee. They were lonely but clueless about how to make friends, and overwhelmingly nostalgic for the ocean, snow and leafy trees.

Hooper felt guilty: it had been his bright idea to move. He had enjoyed his summer jobs as a gardener and occasional house-builder in Portsmouth, but found it hard to get much going in the winter. Some plowing, some bone-chilling roof and gutter repair; for a while he even drove the truck that delivered oil to people's furnaces. Then he inherited this house in Tucson, which used to be his grandmother's, and was seduced by a sense of adventure. The Southwest, how exotic! Warm weather, spicy food, golden landscapes. Coyotes and cacti. He even thought there might be inspiration here for Tillie to start painting again, but whenever he tried to persuade her to do so, she changed the subject. Even after three years in this house, he wasn't sure she thought of it as home.

She seemed in better spirits since Cosmo's arrival; at least Hooper could make her laugh by pulling antics with the dog. He taught Cosmo to jump over his outstretched leg as he hummed circus music. He taught her to perform imitations: a dead cockroach (on her back, legs up), Audie Murphy (her metal water dish an army helmet), an alarmed cobra (her loose neck fur pulled to the sides). He asked Tillie to find the zipper that would let Cosmo out of her dog suit. He made up nicknames like Cosmonaut and, in an Italian mood, Petmabelli.

One night he looked over Tillie's shoulder as she read the arts section of the Sunday New York Times.

“You could do that,” he said, pointing to a painting of a couple sitting on a flowered couch.

“Right.”

“Why not?” He sat down on the couch with her. “You're at least that good.”

“Hardly. This woman has her own show at a New York gallery.”

“So what?”

“So what have I been doing the last four or five years?” she said, annoyed. “I don't have any work to show.”

“But you could.”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“It takes so long.” It seemed obvious: did she have to explain? “I mean, it takes a dedication, a commitment I don't have. I come home from work and I'm tired, and on weekends we're busy doing things. I can't just squeeze it in. I can't just pick it up now and then.” She folded up the paper noisily. “Besides, there's nowhere to paint. The back room gets too damn hot and outside is too damn dusty.”

He was pained. It was a small house, even for just two people, and little by little he had added more of his junk, like his weights and extra props, to the back room.

“We'll buy a bigger house. In the meantime, we'll set you up in the living room. What do you think?”

“It's not just the space.” The idea of another house was too drastic to take seriously. And even though the living room was large enough for an easel in the corner, it was too public a place. She started to stack up the papers on the floor. “I'm not ready to give it a try, okay? It's sweet of you to think so, but I'm not that good. Just because I doodle something doesn't mean I should laminate it.”

“So what if it's good or not?” In spite of his best intentions, he could feel his temper rising. He felt like she wasn't listening to him; he wanted to mess up the pile of papers again. “Why does it have to be good?”

“Because I want it to be!” Her response was childish, she knew, but she couldn't hide her exasperation.

“Because I went to school for four years to try to get better at it, and now I just want...” She couldn't express the thought.

“Listen, Tillie, you used to do wonderful work.” Aware that he should back off, he plunged ahead nevertheless. It was clearly still so important to her. “Why not try?”

“I can't. I'm sorry. I don't want to.”

She was maddening. If she wasn't so close to tears this would be funny.

“You want it both ways!” he said. “You don't want to try because you're afraid you won't be good enough, whatever that means, and then you think you're a failure for not even trying.”

She sniffed.

“Damn it, Tillie, you're a wonderful person. You have no idea, and it makes me really mad.”

She didn't answer.

“Won't you look at me?” he asked. She reluctantly raised her eyes.

“I just want you to be happy,” he said. “It's selfish, I know, but I'd love to come home from a Saturday job and see what you've been working on. I want our being together to inspire you, not stifle you. I feel like I get in your way.”

“It's not you. I don't know what it is. All I know is that the times I've tried to work, I just produce crap and it makes me crazy. So it's safer to not even try, and I know that's a cop-out but I don't know what else to do.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Tillie grabbed some tissues a side table and blew her nose.

“It's like origami,” he finally ventured.

“What.”

He was making this up as he went along, as much to calm himself as to cheer her up. “I've told you about Yoshi, right? That exchange student from Japan? He stayed with us when I was in high school.” Tillie nodded. “Once he asked my mom for some wrapping paper, so she gave him a whole roll. Then he wanted more.”

“I remember,” she said. “I've told you this story before.”

“You can tell it again.”

“Mom had a big box of used wrapping paper. She'd unwrap presents very carefully so she could use the paper again. Dad would get out his pocket knife to cut the scotch tape so it wouldn't tear.”

“You do that now.”

“I know. I thought it was so cheap at the time; I just wanted to rip the damn things open. Anyway, Mom gave Yoshi the box of used wrapping paper. A few days later he asked Dad to take him to the drug store, and he bought more wrapping paper. We all thought Yoshi was a little bit odd, but hey, whatever. Meanwhile he was spending more time than usual in his bedroom with the door closed.

“Then came my birthday. Yoshi gave me a big box—nicely wrapped, of course. And inside was this... fountain, this huge cascading bunch of little origami birds strung in three-foot strands. They were cranes, which are good luck. One thousand of them, he said. One thousand of these little paper birds. He had folded every one. It was so kind of him. It's really a special gift to give someone, because it means a thousand wishes.”

He paused.

“You're that box of wrapping paper, Tillie. You have so much potential, but you just want to crumple it up and throw it away, when you could be stringing magic cranes.” It wasn't exactly what he meant to say, but he had talked himself into a corner.

She knew he meant well. It sounded simplistic to her, but maybe he was right. She could be kinder to herself. Or maybe she just needed a project. Her mother, who used to buy her craft kits when she was young—paint by numbers, yarn art, or beadwork—used to say the same thing in a voice half-proud, half-lamenting: Tillie needs a project. But she wasn't interested in kits anymore, and she couldn't make things happen because he wanted her to.

He kissed her hand. “I have great faith in you. I only wish you wouldn't be so hard on yourself. Maybe it would help to say, This is just wrapping paper, no big deal.”

She nodded as though willing to try, but he could see she didn't believe him. He fought again to check his anger. Did she think he was just blowing smoke? He meant it when he said she did wonderful work. As a student in college, she used to have at least five projects going at once. She'd paint big, splashy, colorful canvases of fauvist trees and portraits of friends with orange, pink and teal faces. She'd make small figures in clay, women with heads of birds or bodies that metamorphosed into seashells. She would collect metal that she found in the street or in the trash—parts of cars, bathroom fixtures, twisted wire—and make sculpture. He had been continually surprised by her creations, fantastic animals that moved in the wind or an Eiffel Tower made of bric-a-brac, and was always eager to see what she was working on.

In fact, she had surprised him the first time they met. That evening Hooper and a friend had gone to a movie, where he drank a huge cup of soda; he didn't think to stop at the bathroom on the way out, so by the time Dan led him to a party at someone else's apartment, he practically raced in to find the bathroom. As he flipped the switch, closed the door and turned around, he nearly yelped in surprise. A woman was just stepping out of the shower, a blue towel draped around her and a pink shower cap on her head.

He realized after the first shock that she was actually emerging from the wall above the toilet. And she only looked as though she were human: she was actually only a head and torso made of plaster, bright white, with an arm outstretched. A plaster Tillie, as he was to find out; she had wrapped her own head, shoulders, and arm for a class project. She was just about eye-to-eye with him as he peed.

When he went into the kitchen for a beer he met another Tillie—part of her, anyway, her arm poking through the wall with a ghostly wave and holding up the dishtowel. In the living room, when he made his way back through, he saw one he'd missed before: a bust of Tillie on a pedestal made of a crumpled bicycle wheel, rebar, and flyswatters painted in bronze. She had a wry grin on her face and he smiled right back at her. When she showed up in the flesh, he knew he was smitten.

And he still was smitten. They had been together five years; it was a long time to live with someone, and yet he still didn't understand why her one-woman circus had folded up her tents. Was it him? Did he distract her from her work, or crush her spirit? She denied it, but he couldn't be sure. She picked up a sketchbook once in while, to humor him, he felt, but more often than not set it aside with a drawing only attempted. She seemed to him a woman in love with the ocean, who dared not wade in.



<-     -c-     ->    

Barry rode his bike down the alley to his little home and was happy to hear Cosmo barking at the sound of his tires crunching on the gravel. When he opened the gate she was waiting there for him, wagging her tail. She picked up a piece of wood and circled around him, making excited, odd little chirrups. He chained his bike to the awning post, unlocked the sliding glass door, and let the dog run in ahead. At least someone was glad to see him, he thought, if only for a scratch on the butt and a brief sniff around his small, messy house. He cleared some newspapers and clothes off the futon couch and sat down.

This room served as living room, bedroom, and office, and so there were books, student lab reports, and camping equipment piled up and scattered on the floor. Cinderblock bookshelves held more books, his stereo and TV; laundry baskets in the one closet were his dresser. In the kitchen, which was a separate room, was a fridge and a tiny stove, all he needed for his steady diet of beans, rice and beer. It was a life of graduate-school decor and virtual poverty, but he was quite content. When he moved from his first apartment to this place, he inquired after other guesthouses for rent but had no luck. Maybe landlords didn't like his hair, which he forgot to comb sometimes, or maybe even the looks of his car, an old rusted-out Skylark. After many rejections, he was grateful that Hooper and Tillie made an offer. They even said he could start a square of wildflowers or vegetables in the yard. If he caught Tillie at the mailbox on Saturdays, she would sometimes ask him in for coffee, made strong and with cream, the way he liked it.

Once the dog had made her round of the house, she sat at his feet and he scratched her head.

“How's it going, there, Cosmo? You know, you're making me think I should get a dog.” As long as he no longer had a girlfriend, he could at least do with some companionship, someone to take backpacking, to lounge with on the couch. The last woman he dated didn't like to go hiking; he couldn't believe she didn't even own hiking boots. Anita freaked out when she saw a cockroach in his bathroom. She didn't like his tarantula, the way he danced, or even pizza, and was embarrassed to ride in his car. Even so, he was disappointed when she told him she didn't want to see him anymore. He was tired of being dumped.

He liked the idea of a dog. When he was an undergraduate in Santa Barbara, he and his roommate had a good-sized mutt, some sort of shepherd mix. They lived in Isla Vista, the student enclave adjacent to the university, just a block from the beach. He'd take Beau for a run nearly every morning and they'd both come back with pieces of tar stuck on their feet. It was unpleasant, but unavoidable. Whether the tar was the result of “natural seepage,” as the officials said, or residue from an offshore oil-rig spill in the seventies, it was sprinkled on the beach like black crumbs. He'd have to rub paint thinner on Beau's paws to remove it, and although he would have preferred running barefoot himself, he wore a pair of gunky shoes and left them outside the door.

A couple times Beau found some dead seagull or seal to roll in, and he'd come bounding back to Barry with a huge, proud grin on his face. Christ! Barry laughed now at the memory, but at the time the smell made him gag. He would shampoo Beau two or three times and still the scent of putrefaction clung to him. Dogs reveled in such stink. Animal behaviorists said they did it to make themselves more interesting to other dogs, but Barry was sure it was to piss off their domesticators, or at least to remind them that some of the natural world was beyond their control.

Barry had heard stories about packs of wild dogs that once roamed Isla Vista during the sixties and early seventies. The dogs had been abandoned by students and were left to fend for themselves, dumping trash barrels, stopping traffic, harassing people who picnicked in the park, and generally acting like a bad-ass gang. They also took on otherworldly qualities as creatures of the night, or so the stories went: they emerged from a swim in the lagoon, dripping phosphorescence; they acted as protectors, escorting single women home after parties; they appeared, glinty-eyed, on the bike-trails. Some of the more distinctive dogs were even given names like Cerberus or Anubis, ancient gods who served at the gateway to the afterlife. Barry believed whatever he heard. He was a scientist who respected mystery.

***

Tillie was tired of blue. Bright blue skies, day after day. She missed green, the quick, glowing green of leaves in the spring, the saturated green of late summer, the other-worldly green of the ocean. She missed the crimson and vermilion and harvest gold of the trees, the smudged and deepening grays of winter, and the riot of flowers blooming all summer long. Life in the desert was so brown. Save for the wan khaki of cacti and some olive and citrus trees, the houses all had front yards of brown dirt or brown rocks. The mountains north of the city were brown. The weeds seemed brown and dead even as they grew.

She missed snow, the clean whiteness of it, the sound of it crunching under her feet or falling with a hush. She missed wearing sweaters and jeans for many months of the year, seeing puffs of her chilled breath in the air and ducking into coffee shops to warm up. She had grieved for all that and more the first couple years they were in Tucson and, even though Hooper raved about the majesty of the mountains and sky, she struggled to see beyond the barren soil, the endless strip-malls in a flat, sprawling city, the glaring perpetual sun. People had a different sensibility in the west, one that allowed for howling coyote figurines and pastel Navajo blankets, wearing shorts year-round and bolo ties to dress up. She feared she would never get used to it, much less learn to like it enough to stay.

She had to remind herself that she'd been excited to come. The west was a new adventure, as was love itself, and she and Hooper were both hopeful. When they were getting ready to leave Portsmouth, they got rid of as many of their possessions as possible. Furniture and most of their kitchen stuff were sold at a yard sale; extraneous clothes went to the thrift store; and whatever books they didn't sell they asked a friend to mail, along with a few small boxes of mementos, when they arrived. Tillie's easel and art supplies were shipped. All they had in the car were backpacks, camping gear, and an atlas to make the cross-country trek. To live with only a few worldly belongings, even if only for a few weeks, was liberating. This was a clean start, a new land.

She'd felt at the time that she wasn't leaving much behind. She had a job as a hair-stylist, but she could do that anywhere. Most of her friends from college had moved out of the area, to try their luck in New York or Boston, to take jobs at their fathers' companies, or to become art teachers in secondary schools. She scarcely saw her family any more: her parents were divorced and led busy lives in Connecticut, and her brother, Sam, was newly married and commuted from the country to his job in Boston. They all were glad she'd found a good man, one with a sense of adventure and a plan; they envied her freedom and wished her well. She and Hooper left in spring, when the lilacs were just blooming, and they picked some the morning they left to carry in the car. After a detour by Newcastle Beach, where they to dipped their hands in the ocean, they faced the other direction and drove.

Near the end of their second summer in Tucson, when she felt the heat was desiccating her very bones, she went by herself to visit Sam. Hooper didn't want to spend the money, since his landscaping business was just getting established, but he insisted she go without him. It rained the first three days she was there, a thick, soaking summer rain, and she went for long walks without an umbrella, finally feeling rehydrated.

One day she rented a car and drove north to New Hampshire and the university where she had Hooper had gone. The campus was quiet, in between sessions, and she wandered among the brick buildings, under leafy trees and over long grass as though she were the single, privileged guest of some vast estate. She came to the creek that ran through campus, crossed the bridge, and continued on to the art building. As she stepped inside, the smells alone, of oil paints, turpentine, and clay dust, made her stand stock still for several moments, allowing her nose to reanimate the past. Finally she checked a door to one of the studios and found it open; she peeked in, saw it was empty, and entered.

A big room with a tall ceiling. Wooden chairs in a circle, as though anticipating a model or still life arrangement. One forgotten easel; the others, she knew, were stored in the anteroom. The morning light, breaking through the clouds, shone in narrow rays through the high windows, illuminating particles of dust in the air and warming the wall of wooden cupboards where students stored their supplies.

Along another wall were long, low shelves, and on top of these some drawings and acrylic paintings had been left. There were two nudes, a still life, and an abstract, all on paper. A beginning class, she guessed: they'd tried a bit of everything. The artists were certainly inexperienced—the colors were safe, the forms uncertain, the compositions awkward—but some of them had a certain charm. She remembered how time had flown in these rooms, a three-hour class over before she was ready to clean up. She would leave the room in a daze and have to go drink some coffee before attempting anything else.

***

And then she graduated. No more studio classes, no more live models, no more experimenting or sharing with fellow classmates. She started working fulltime at a local salon to pay off student loans, so it was hard to find time and energy to paint; but some other, more insidious paralysis crept in. When she picked up a pencil or brush she found herself wondering, What's the point of this? What am I trying to do?—as though she had to have some end result in mind. She was dismayed and frustrated by her heightened self-consciousness; it was as though she'd asked herself to analyze walking. But she couldn't shrug it off. She wasn't sure if her art was any good, and started to panic that she couldn't discriminate good from bad, or intuition from ignorance. She found herself reworking a canvas over and over, reluctant to let it go, making it muddy and forced. Her sculptures seemed little more than heaps of junk, her clay pots something any hack could produce. So art wasn't the grand experiment it had once been. Having trained in it, she began consider it less of a lark and more of a calling, like a ministry meant for a chosen few, and she had too many doubts to devote herself to it.

A young man with a paint box entered the room, disrupting her reverie, and she left. Driving back along the familiar highway to Portsmouth, she thought how much Hooper was part of this landscape for her. They used to travel this route together, from home to school and back, for months, usually on the bus. In fact it was on the bus that she first saw him. She might not have noticed him at all except that one day he literally made a spectacle of himself. The bus was riding into Portsmouth, and when the bus driver pulled up at the first stop in town, he stopped the engine.

“I'm running early, folks,” he informed the passengers, who were mostly students. “Just going to wait here a few minutes.”

The bus was quiet. Tillie almost got out to walk the mile home, but instead pulled out a book to read. Sitting near the front, she noticed a twenty-something man talking with the driver. Then he turned to face the passengers, cleared his throat and held his arms in the air to get their attention.

“Dig into your pockets,” he said loudly, “and dig into your soul.” He pulled an orange out of his overcoat, held it up with a flourish, then started peeling it.

Intrigued, she set her book aside. What a hambone! she thought. What extravagant nerve. At first she was rather embarrassed for him, but he seemed so comfortable in front of an audience, so self-assured, that she was won over. He'd made the bus his theater.

“Orange, you globe you sweet C and slice, fragmenting life,” he proclaimed in a beat rhythm. “Hup-hup-hup! You gift of hope and daring; unmasked how juicy and still blaring orange, orange, orange; pleasure of pip and drip on my hands.” He pulled the orange apart and passed sections to people nearby, including Tillie.

He bowed grandly and waved to applause and whistles. Someone gave him a tissue to wipe his hands. Smiling to herself, Tillie went back to her book. She had assumed then that this was a chance encounter, an interesting moment and no more; how was she to know he would become such a part of her life? In a moment the bus driver started up the engine, released the brake, and continued on.

They met later that semester. The morning after a party at her house she found a small cairn of rocks topped with a red maple leaf outside the front door. Her housemates were intrigued by this mystery, but she had a pretty good idea who had left it. He'd come late to the party, but she recognized him from the bus and this time took more notice. He wasn't exactly handsome, but there was something distinctive about him: his European-looking glasses, his rich voice, his thick, unruly hair, the way he made people around him laugh. Moreover, he kept catching her eye and smiling at her, with no hint of self-consciousness. She tried to work her way over to his circle but was distracted by one person after another, and then he was gone. But the rocks, those were surely his; and a few days after that, a seashell and a pine cone appeared. A week later he was waiting at the bus stop when she got off. How long had he been there? His ears were red from the cold.

“Want to go for a walk?” he asked.

They headed to the river and sat in the park for a long while, talking, watching the seagulls wheel and cry above the fishing boats. Water plashed against the stone wall below their bench; cars buzzed across Memorial Bridge. The middle of the bridge rose up once, its midsection rising slowly and gracefully, its counterweights lowering with a faint squeak. Now they could read clearly the red letters spray-painted on the industrial-green paint: EAT THE RICH. A few cars lined up behind the barrier, waiting, as a lonely red tugboat chugged through on its way out to sea.

“It's cold,” she finally said.

He held out his elbow for her to take as they walked back to the Depot Diner. His glasses steamed up from the warmth as soon as they entered.

“Just coffee for me, please,” she said to the waitress as they sat down.

“Yes, coffee, please,” Hooper said. “And cookies. Do you have any cookies?”

Tillie peeled open a plastic cup of cream and dumped it in her coffee.

“Do you take cream?” she asked.

“Never,” he said, reaching for some. “Until now.”

She laughed, although she guessed he meant it.

After that day, they walked all over together. Between classes they walked through the campus woods, or just around the nearby neighborhood. Hooper might come to her house and they'd walk through town, down to the river and through the park. From his overcoat pocket he'd pull out small Maine potatoes, still warm from the oven, for her to eat or just hold against her cold cheek. Some evenings they went dancing at a place near school, a bar converted from an old stone church where local bands played. It had a wood stove in one corner and an old black dog that shuffled back and forth between two dog beds placed in corners. They drove down to Boston and walked for hours in the Common, along the river, or around Cambridge. They wandered museums and the market, drank coffee, went to movies. Their first kiss tasted of the spicy papadam and sweet anise seeds from their dinner at an Indian restaurant.

She found herself wanting to share even the smallest things with him: Look at this! Listen! She showed him an installation she was working on, made of tread marks on burlap, road maps, Chinese lanterns, and old shoes from the thrift store, and he was gratifyingly enthusiastic. She gave him seashells and packets of seeds even before she knew he liked to garden. She made a little sketch—a cup and saucer in space, a cookie moon—turned it into a post card, and mailed it to him. He sent one back, an old post card of the Golden Gate Bridge, the kind where the photograph is touched up in dreamy pastel colors. He wrote, “Here's another bridge we could cross.”

Remembering all this, Tillie drove back to Portsmouth and by their old house. They had moved in by February, to the bottom flat of an old Victorian, which was drafty as life on a tree limb. They cranked up the heat in the kitchen and spent most of their time there, in the morning scampering naked from the very cold bedroom to the very cold bathroom. There were two shelves already built in the kitchen window, where their cyclamen and philodendron thrived, and in one corner hung a mobile Tillie had made of bent spoons and small old gears from the basement, strips of iridescent cellophane, and shards of glass edged in electrical tape. In the summer they sat on the porch and drank their morning coffee or afternoon beer, watched the Fourth of July fireworks from a nearby park, and cheered when the girl across the street learned to ride her bike.

***

The house was a light gray now, an improvement over the dark brown and yellow trim they knew. The old wicker rocker, which they had found in the basement and painted red, was still there on the porch, but the barrel in which they'd planted asters and bachelor buttons was gone. The house itself had nothing to tell her; someone else lived there now. Driving into town, she stopped at the bagel place for lunch. The same two women that used to work there were still behind the counter.

“Where's your sidekick?” one asked.

“He's at home.” Tillie was pleased but not surprised to be recognized, as though nothing had changed. Not much, except that home and Hooper were over two thousand miles away.

As she drove the thruway toward Boston, past green fields and familiar road signs, Tillie was pained to think that Hooper had found a new landscape to love, a place where he flourished. He'd made a lot of business contacts and friends. He rhapsodized about the desert plants and animals he was discovering, the liberating vistas, the big blue sky. He seemed to belong. Where did she belong? This was the question she kept returning to, with no resolution.

That night she explained her dilemma to Sam.

“What do you think I should do? Stay in Tucson, or come back here?”

Sam laughed. “You want me to tell you?”

“Well, what would you do? How would you decide?”

“Do you love him?”

“I do.” Of that she was certain.

“There's your answer. 'Nough said. If it were me, anyway.”

She gave him a hug. He was right. There's nothing to do, then, she thought, but go west.

***

Early one morning Hooper had a dream. His hands were full of the rich dirt of a well-kept garden, and he was kneeling in front of huge, bright yellow sunflowers; but instead of pulling up weeds, he was picking out gold-foiled chocolate coins, the kind he used to get in his Christmas stocking. He sat right there and ate them, and it seemed as though the chocolate and dark earth were of the same substance.

When he awoke, he put on some shorts and went out to the front yard. Cosmo followed and he gave her a drink from the hose. The day before, he had soaked the patch of dirt he had in mind for the sunflowers so that he would be able to dig in it today. He would add some fertilizer before planting the seedlings, which he'd been growing in small pots back of the garage. He put on some old work boots he kept on the back step, grabbed his shovel, and nudged it into the earth. As Cosmo sniffed around, a shiny thing caught Hooper's eye. Bending down, he fished out two quarters and a nickel. Small change, but enough to make him and Tillie laugh later about his new career as a psychic fortune hunter. And enough to make him thoughtfully smooth over the dirt again and again later that evening, feeling that he had been given some kind of sign.

One night Tillie dreamed that she was on the Lawrence Welk show and bubbles enveloped her in a soft cocoon. Later that day at work she found herself doodling, which she hadn't done since school. Circles and spirals, cylinders and seashells flowed from her pen as she sat at committee meetings or talked on the phone. Although neither she nor Hooper said so, they both felt as though the air were charged with some new offering.

Cosmo seemed to sense it, too. When the phone rang one Sunday morning, she trotted over and sat expectantly as Hooper answered it. When he hung up, Cosmo jumped in a circle and ran to the door.

“How does she know?” he said. “That was Maria, asking if we want to get the dogs together.”

They first met Maria a year ago at the historical society museum, where she gave a lecture on Mimbres pottery. She was an imposing figure at the podium, very articulate and tall, with long dark hair and bright smile. At the reception afterward, Hooper pressed his way into the circle around her and asked her some questions, which she clearly appreciated; he had listened well. It was a talent Tillie had always admired in him, the ability to engage strangers in conversation. As they talked, Maria mentioned she was doing research for a paper about female images on salsa labels, and Hooper expressed interest.

“I suppose that means you have to sample all those salsas,” he said.

“That's right,” Maria assured him, and soon the two of them were expounding on an entire menu of chiles rellenos, tamales, and so on. By the end of their conversation, Maria had invited him and Tillie to her house for dinner. They met her partner, Nick, and her two dogs, a lab named Gula—after the Babylonian goddess of healing, she said—and a shelty named Tasha. Since then they'd had dinner together occasionally, at one another's home, but when they adopted Cosmo, Maria insisted they get together more often to exercise the dogs.

As Tillie and Hooper arrived at the campus lawn, Maria and her dogs were already there. She said hello and then casually informed them that Nick was about to move out.

“Oh, no.” Hooper and Tillie were both surprised. “That's too bad.”

Maria shrugged, trying to make light of it. “Well, it's been coming. He has a hard time with the fact that I have a more prestigious job than he does. But I know he could do so much better than being a janitor.” She threw a ball, awkwardly, to Gula. “He says it gives him time to be a musician, but he's just not making it.”

Tillie was astonished that Maria could be so arrogant, so certain what was best for Nick.

“It's hard to find a decent job in this town,” she said in his defense. “I was even bagging groceries for a while.”

“Yes, but you kept at it and found something,” Maria said. “Nick's been disgustingly lazy about it.”

“There are jobs out there,” said Hooper. “You just have to be willing to start at the bottom and work hard.”

Tillie's jaw dropped. Hooper was usually more sympathetic to the worker; he was sounding like a Republican. He knew how frustrating her job search had been—scanning want ads for months, sending out countless applications, going to interviews for jobs she wasn't interested in—and how close she had come to giving up and being a cashier at the grocery store, or going back to being a hairdresser. She couldn't deny that he had worked relentlessly the last three years, but that didn't give him the right to judge.

“Maybe music is really import—” Tillie started to say, but Maria interrupted her.

“Plus, his cat is afraid of my dogs.”

“That's a problem,” Hooper agreed. “Cats invented paranoia.”

Maria laughed, pleased that Hooper understood. “This one lives under the bed. I swear I've never seen it come out. I've only seen its eyes glowing in the dark, but Nick says he used to be a friendly little lap cat.”

Tillie was wholly on the side of the cat. When Tasha dropped a very gooey ball at her feet, she kicked it just two feet away with a grunt of disgust.

Hooper gave her a quizzical look, which she ignored. Why is she so petulant? he wondered. He picked up the ball and zinged it across the field, wiping his hand on his shorts.

“Cosmo's looking good,” Maria said.

“She's great,” Hooper said.

“Are you giving her wheat germ oil for her coat?”

“What's that for?” asked Tillie skeptically.

“Keeps her fur shiny. Are you brushing her teeth?

As a matter of fact, I am.” Hooper winked at Tillie.

“She's your baby, you know,” said Maria. “In fact, I just read about a native Canadian tribe who believe that an unmarried man is father to his dog.”

“No kidding.” He rather liked the sound of that.

“I won't try to pronounce the tribe's name, but they're known as the Dogribs. They believe humans were descended from dogs.”

“That sounds as good as any creation story to me,” said Hooper.

“What happens when the man gets married and has kids?” asked Tillie.

“I don't know. Maybe the dog becomes a nanny. Like in Peter Pan.”

This was enough for Hooper and Maria to start a discussion of Tinkerbell's jealousy and Captain Hook's—well, whatever. Tillie wasn't interested. And suddenly she couldn't stand these dogs, who kept dashing up, panting and slobbery, bumping into her and wanting their tennis balls so single-mindedly.

“I think I'll go for a walk,” she said.

“Oh.” Hooper was concerned. “Are you okay? Do you want to go home?”

“No, I'm fine. I'll be back.” She gave a wave and walked off.

Hooper didn't say anything, but Maria guessed something was up. She took a mischievous delight in thinking there might be friction between them. This could be the stuff of daytime TV, which fascinated her. Betrayals, greed, jealousy, lust—all right there in soap operas and talk shows. What was up between Hooper and Tillie? Money problems? Sex? Housework? Although she raised her eyebrows as an invitation to talk, he didn't bite.

But he was indeed irritated by what he considered Tillie's rudeness. He felt like she was giving him some message—I'm bored, you're a jerk—but hell if he knew what it was. Maria could be a somewhat annoying know-it-all, but surely Tillie could handle that. She got in these moods, sometimes, that he still couldn't fathom: she seemed to shut down, and wouldn't explain why. He couldn't help but feel that she was simply dismissing him as too selfish or obtuse—too male, even—to understand. He watched her wander over to the dance building nearby.

Tillie entered the small grassy courtyard, which was bordered by offices and studios. She sat on the cement, shaded by an overhang, her back against the brick. She suspected she was being petty and hoped she hadn't offended, but she just couldn't take another conversation where she had nothing to say. Or where even if she did, she'd be interrupted. The last time those two got together, they'd talked about baseball and local politics, neither of which she knew anything about, in excruciating detail for nearly an hour. She'd felt both ignorant and utterly exasperated.

Maybe a little jealous, too. She wondered if she could talk about anything with such authority. She had a liberal knowledge of art history and a rudimentary grasp of book binding techniques. She knew how to lay out a palette, how to solder two pieces of metal, cut hair, ride the Boston T. If that was how she measured herself, her character seemed slight and insignificant. She knew that was hardly fair—she wouldn't judge others that way—but she didn't know where else to start. She felt as though she were missing something, as though she were a cipher defined by its emptiness, by not knowing; she felt as though she were continually drafting herself from scratch.

Across the courtyard, the door to a dance studio was ajar and jazz music blared. An instructor was shouting out instructions and clapping her hands for emphasis. The music was turned off and the woman went over the same routine. Tillie heard feet thudding and sliding on wood; she imagined strong bodies kicking and bending, sweating from exertion. The same steps again. Closing her eyes, she was soothed by the repetition, the sound of bones and muscles working, the composition of movement.

She got up shortly and returned to the field. If they asked where she'd gone, she would say to the drinking fountain. She found them with the dogs over by the parkway, where they'd found a water spigot at the base of a palm tree. Each dog had its turn for a drink, and then Gula flopped down in the puddle that had formed. Maria was laughing.

“She's a true-blue water dog,” she said.

“She should be jumping into lakes somewhere,” Hooper agreed.

“Yes, but she's a desert dog now.” Maria rubbed Gula's belly with her foot.

As they said good-bye to Maria and started to walk home, Hooper asked, “Is there some reason you ran off like that?”

“I just wanted a little walk.” She would have left it at that, but she knew he wouldn't be satisfied. “I didn't mean to be rude, but I really wasn't interested in talking about Peter Pan. I didn't think you'd miss me.”

“We could have talked about other things.” He didn't conceal his impatience. “We weren't trying to leave you out.”

“I know.” She considered pointing out that they didn't make much effort to include her, either. “But it's hard for me to keep up with you two. You both have these perfectly formed opinions and you can put together whole theses on the spur of the moment. I admire that, but I can't keep up, that's all.”

“You have plenty of interesting things to say!” He was annoyed that she gave up so easily. Moreover, he was unwilling to be cast as the ogre who wouldn't let her say anything, who didn't notice that she was unhappy. “I get tired of your thinking you're not smart enough.”

She struggled to come up with a response that wouldn't provoke more anger. Why was it such a big deal to him that she didn't want to join the conversation? Hooper was so adept at talking that he could scarcely understand what it meant to be often at a loss for words. And when he said he was tired of her way of thinking, it sounded as though he were growing tired of her, so she would rather just drop it.

“If you don't want to say anything,” he went on, “that's fine, or if you don't want to be here, then next time don't come. I won't feel bad. But don't just hide behind a lie that you are stupid, because you're not, and I don't like to hear it.”

“Okay, all right.” At this point she was feeling bullied, and they were getting nowhere. She should have just said she went to the water fountain.

Hooper fumed silently, wishing for a different response. He wasn't sure what he wanted from her, but she seemed perversely determined to leave things unresolved. Arriving home, they found things to do in different rooms.

***

Even though she was happy to have Cosmo around, Tillie was still a little surprised to be living with this animal, who came when her name was called, cocked her head when questioned, and curled up so readily at her masters' feet. Although her family had had cats and fish when she was a kid, dogs were out of the question for her dad, because they left poop and fur all over and had to be walked. Her brother was upset by this, but as far as she was concerned dogs were not to be trusted; she had scars of two dog bites as proof. The neighbors' dog bit her face when she was three because, at least as she recalled, she simply stooped to pet it. When she was ten her friend's dog, Gigi—a skulking cocker spaniel whose glowering black eyes were barely distinguishable from its black fur—sank its teeth into her ankle as she kicked a tennis ball out from under its nose. Gigi wouldn't let go and hung on like a vicious leech for what seemed like minutes. Tillie thought dogs were just beasts with sharp teeth and inscrutable motives. But this beast was so different. She followed Hooper out to inspect the garden and solemnly attended her masters in the bathroom, as though she didn't want them to be alone for a minute. She trotted after Tillie when she went out to the front yard to check the mail.

In June it was very hot, near or over a hundred degrees every day. They took the dog for a walk at six in the morning, and even then the sky was bright enough to make one squint. By mid-July, the heat was oppressive.

White clouds hunkered over the mountains in the morning and by mid-afternoon they were bunched across the sky like bursting cattail fluff. The possibility of rain was only a tease, for that relief wouldn't come until the monsoon season, still a few weeks away. With this added humidity, the evaporative cooler didn't work as well, and Tillie was thankful that she worked in an air-conditioned building. Hooper was glad not much work was coming in.

Cosmo spent the mornings lying under the pomegranate in the backyard, where they watered the dirt and she dug a depression. Hooper let her in before noon, and she lay in the corner of the kitchen, where the cooler's blast was most direct. After sunset they took her out for another walk, usually over to the university where, if they were lucky, the sprinklers were watering the big lawn by the tennis courts. Hooper liked to sit Cosmo down at one end of the field, and then have Tillie run to the other end before the dog was released. She'd run as fast as she could, ears flapping, her mouth open wide in an air-sucking grin.

One night they sat on a retaining wall while Cosmo wandered and rolled on the wet lawn.

“It's funny to love a dog so much,” said Hooper. “I don't think I cared this much for the dog we had when I was a kid.”

“A few months ago this dog didn't exist for us,” said Tillie, “and now I can't imagine not having her around.”

“I know.” He suddenly felt very happy, complete.

The air smelled like freshly cut grass, and the moon was a crisp thin crescent. “Does this mean a kid is next?”

Tillie looked at him. All these years together, and sometimes she still wasn't sure whether he was joking. Something in his eyes made her guess not. It was like him, she thought, to create a whole scenario in his mind and spring it forth fully grown.

“That's quite a leap.”

“Well, you know. Another creature to care for, to have fun with. Someone to love a whole lot. Who loves you.”

“I see,” she said, considering. “I don't know, Hoop. Creating a life. It's such a huge responsibility. More than that. I mean, you're creating a consciousness where none existed before. Maybe even a soul.”

“I know.” Relief spurred his courage, excitement his imagination. They were talking about having a child. The idea filled him with a sense of awe and power, as though he were part of the first space flights. Would it happen some day? When would they feel ready?

“I just wanted to float the idea. See how it felt.”

“Sure.” She thought back to a couple months ago, when she thought she might be pregnant. She hadn't mentioned it to him, wanting to wait and see. Then the opportunity had passed, although she still harbored that glimmering sensation of possibility.

“I'm not sure how I'd be as a mother.”

“You'd be wonderful. A kid would be lucky to have you for a mom.”

“And you for a dad. Look how you are with the dog.” Hooper scratched her head.

Cosmo wandered over to them and sat at their feet.

“But still,” he said. “A kid's not a dog. The dog we can leave out in the yard when we go to the movies.”

She laughed. “And we only feed her once a day, from a bowl on the floor.”

“You can train a dog to sit and stay.”

“Plus, having a child would mean we'd need a bigger house,” she teased.

“And it would mean we should get married.”

“I suppose so.” Another surprising turn; she had to pause, reminding herself he was serious. “Is that a proposal?”

“I'm asking what you think.”

Caught off-guard, she had no ready answer. She could feel him tense up, perhaps impatient with or distressed by her uncertainty.

“I love you, Hooper,” she hastened to say. “It's not the idea of commitment; it's the institution of marriage that I have a problem with. The idea that people will think of me as Mrs. Hooper Green. You have a lovely name, but I've been a Perkins for so long, it feels like my skin. And Mrs. sounds so strange to me, like an afterthought, or a shadow. Like a... like a wife.”

“I know. Like ownership. But you can keep your name.”

“That's true.”

“I think marriage scares me because it seems so conventional. So ordinary. And that's not how I feel about us.”

“I don't think marriage necessarily means we're done...” she couldn't find the right word. “Becoming. That we can't still change or grow.”

He felt encouraged; marriage could be whatever they wanted. But his anxieties were not entirely eased. “What about a wedding, though? I'm not sure if I would want one because I want one, or because I'm supposed to. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“When you have a wedding you're on display the whole time,” he went on. “It's like some weird initiation rite. I don't know if I'm up to that. You have to register for dishes and all that. I don't want to register for dishes, do you? I like our thrift store dishes.”

“So do I.” She laughed: he got so caught up in details. “You don't have to register for dishes.”

“I just want to do the right thing.” He was beginning to feel disheartened already, wondering where they would go from here. He wasn't sure if they were both too fearful to make the decision, or too smart.

Tillie put her arm around him. “Some women plan their wedding since they were little girls, but truly, it never really interested me. Wearing a ridiculously expensive dress and worrying about bridesmaids and nut cups. Throwing the bouquet to women who are supposed to be in a frenzy about it. Shoving cake in each others' mouths. When my brother got married his wife was a wreck for months. And then at the reception someone spilled coffee on her dress. She nearly lost it.”

“I bet.”

“Besides, I'd want a wedding to be meaningful. Where would we have it? Portsmouth? None of our friends are there anymore. My mother's house? I left when I was nineteen. In our dusty back yard? I don't know what place is significant for us.”

“I'm sorry, Tillie.” It sounded to him like she was talking herself out of the idea. “Should we move back to New Hampshire?”

She sighed. Even a year ago, if he'd said that, she would have jumped at the offer.

“No. I don't know. Things wouldn't be the same anyway.”

“You're probably right. But we can if you want.”

“You're sweet.”

“Maybe.”

“Hey,” she said. “If we got married you could share my benefits from work.”

“You're awfully practical.” He laughed half-heartedly, thinking, Shouldn't they be kissing madly? Giggling? Something? Maybe he should have been a romantic about it, bought a ring, made it an actual offer.

“Sorry. Here.” She leaned over and kissed him deeply, nearly knocking him off balance. “Shall we consider it, then?”

“Let's do that.” He had to wait a moment. “C'mon, Dog. Let's go home.”

***

That summer, Hooper's garden was bountiful. In their whiskey barrel planters, the tomatoes grew fat and red, the peppers crowded together in waxen green profusion, and the basil and rosemary perfumed the air. Poppies bloomed, even though Hooper had not planted any, and the sunflowers shot up, soon lolling their heavy heads. Hummingbirds sipped at the bougainvillea and Inca doves cooed. Lizards ate bugs. Cicadas sang their metallic buzz. Hooper felt like a king.



<-     -c-     ->    

In Rome the lares, gods that protected the home, had a dog for companion, or were represented as clad in dogskins.

—Encyclopedia of Religion
edited by Mircea Eliade, 1987



<-     -c-     ->    

On a Saturday afternoon in late May, Tillie grabbed her straw hat, preparing for a walk. She didn't mind walking by herself—she really preferred it—but today she realized that even if she wanted to invite a friend along, she wouldn't know whom to call. So many of their acquaintances were people Hooper met through work or the theater; in over three years, she had not stumbled upon any women she felt she could connect with. The thought was depressing. In college she'd had a tight circle of friends who always hung out together. They worked in the print room or painted together, dyed each others' hair, went out on the dance floor as a pack. Here she had spent more time searching for a job than a friend, and the reward was not nearly as satisfying.

As she opened the door, she squinted in the bright sun, dreading the coming summer, their fourth in Tucson. The next three or four months would be unbearably hot, and the heat would drag on until the very end of October, with only a slight relief in the evenings as fall approached. These summers bore no resemblance to the ones she remembered as a kid, when she'd run around outside all day, roller-skating, playing at the park, swimming at the public pool. Later, in college, she'd ride her bike around Newcastle Island, stop at the beach for a quick cold swim or at the Ice House for an ice cream cone. It felt good to be in the sun, to wear shorts for a few glorious months, to sit in the shade of a leafy green tree.

You have to let go, she told herself. You're not there anymore.

She didn't trust anyone who told her they liked the heat, except for maybe Hooper, and she swore that preparing for an outing in the sun (sunscreen, sunglasses, sun hat, more sunscreen) was as much of a chore as bundling for the snow. She couldn't bear to wear long sleeves and long pants, as did Hooper, although on the other hand she cringed at the thought of the sun's harsh rays seeking to damage her skin.

Closing the door, she saw a man standing at the curb—or rather, not at the mailbox, and not just standing there but pulling open the hatch, and he wasn't the mail man, either. He had wavy brown hair, a thick mustache, and a Hawaiian shirt. An old bicycle leaned against him. When he saw Tillie, he slammed the box shut, got on the bike, and rode away.

She called out and made an effort to follow him, but he rode quickly, and she watched as he sped down the alley and just barely made the light at Campbell. Returning to the mailbox, she saw the mail had come already. Another cable TV offer, a newsletter from the art museum, the gas bill—and an envelope addressed to “Cosmo's Friends.” No stamp or return address. Did that man leave it there? Or was he after a possible check or credit card information? Whatever, it was creepy. Tempted as she was to open the letter, she decided to wait until Hooper got home.

A small boy raced into the yard. “Where's Cosmo?” he demanded.

“Hey, Joey,” she greeted him. “Cosmo's with Hooper. Does your mom know you're here?”

Joey shrugged. “Guess what? Dinosaur means 'terrible lizard.' Lizard! Rarrrr!” he roared, running from one end of the yard to another and back again.

“Joey!” His mother called from next door.

“He's here, Donna!” Tillie yelled back. “See, Joey, you have to tell your mom when you come over here.”

Donna came out of the house. “Joey, don't go running off like that!” she scolded, but without conviction, and gave him a hug as he ran into her. “Sorry if he was bugging you, Tillie.”

“Not at all. I think he was doing his T-Rex imitation.”

“Yeah, that's his thing now.” Tillie hardly knew Donna, whose aunt lived next door, but she liked her, her easy way with four-year-old Joey, her confidence. It was hard to guess how old she was. She was tall and almost gangly, with bobbed hair dyed a deep black, her full lips painted bright red, and a ring in her nose. She could pass for twenty, Tillie thought, but when Donna was watching Joey her smile revealed lines around her eyes that made her seem ten years older. To her dismay, Tillie usually felt shy around her, mousey and ordinary, but today she was suddenly moved to invite her in for coffee.

“Or iced tea, maybe? I've got some crayons, if Joey likes to color.”

“Thanks, but I told Aunt Ellen I'd drive her to the beauty parlor. Her car's busted. Some other time, maybe.” Donna was feeling anxious; Ellen liked to be early to her appointment, and they were already running late. Joey spilled grape juice all over himself and the kitchen floor, and after Donna had cleaned it all up and changed his clothes, he refused to put his shoes on. Another battle. And now, finally shod, he'd run out of the house.

“You know,” said Tillie, getting half an idea, “I used to cut hair for a living. I wonder if your aunt would be interested in having me do it for her? I mean, next time I could do it in her own home for cheaper than the salon.”

“Really! Thanks, I'll ask her.” Donna clapped her hands. “Joey! Time to go.” Joey roared and ran into the house.

“Listen,” Donna said, wanting to repay Tillie's kindness, “my band's playing tonight at Club Congress. I mean, we're not that great, but, you know, if you feel like getting out.”

“Thanks. What kind of music?”

Donna was walking backwards now. “Sort of folk-punk.”

Tillie wasn't even sure what that meant; it had been so long since she and Hooper had heard live music. “What's your band's name?”

“Bauhaus. “After the style of art?” she asked hopefully. “No, we just liked the sound of it.” Donna waved and hurried into the house. When she got home from her walk, Tillie rummaged in a drawer for a sketchpad and tried to recapture the face of the man at the mailbox. She was definitely out of practice; it turned into a cartoon man with a huge nose and forehead, a broom of a mustache. His hair splayed out like Medusa's and the more she played with it, the worse it got. When Hooper and Cosmo came in the door, she set it aside.

“Here.” He handed her a full plastic sack. “What's this?”

“Open it.” She looked inside. “Paints.” She pulled out small tubes of crimson and ultramarine blue. There were a half-dozen more.

He watched her face for a sign she was pleased. He'd stopped at the art supply store on a whim, wanting to surprise her with a small gift, maybe a sketchpad or colored pencils, but once he saw the rows of paints and canvases on sale he got more and more enthusiastic. He couldn't just buy one or two things; he didn't want her to feel she was lacking any materials. He'd been so proud of himself, but now, suddenly, he wasn't sure he'd done the right thing. She might just take it as a reminder that she wasn't painting.

“Some brushes, too.” He gave her a narrow paper sack. “And some stuff that's probably toxic but the guy said you'd need. I've got canvases out in the truck. Sort of a re-starter set.” He waited for her reaction.

“That's very sweet of you, Hoop. Thanks so much. This is all good quality stuff.” She was touched by his thoughtfulness and knew he just wanted to make her happy, but that wasn't why she was close to tears. What was she to do with all this? She felt like an elderly aunt who has opened yet another bottle of gardenia-scented perfume, or a bright floral scarf, or some other useless gift, and wonders when people will stop giving her what they think she needs.

“You're welcome.” He was relieved. “That art supply store is a lot of fun.”

“Isn't it?” Tillie agreed. “Is something wrong?” Tillie told him about the man at the mailbox. “I even tried to draw a picture of him, but look how weird it turned out.”

“Did he really have horns?” He laughed. “Horns!” She reached for the sketch. “That's his hair.” Hooper opened the mystery envelope and took out a newspaper clipping. “'Scientists Discover Cosmos' Missing Mass,'” he read aloud. “What the hell is this?”

“That's it? No note or anything?”

“No.” He read from the article. “'Scientists at Los Alamos National Laboratory have produced strong evidence that neutrinos, particles so slight they have long been thought to have no mass at all, may be more abundant and substantial than all ordinary matter in planets, stars, and galaxies. These may constitute a major component of an invisible, missing mass of the universe and could dictate its fate.'” He looked at her. “This is weird.”

“I'll say. Especially that it's addressed to 'Cosmo's Friends.' That means somebody has been watching us.”

“It could be from somebody who knows us. Just a little joke.”

“Maybe,” she said, unconvinced. “But who was that guy? And what's the point? Neutrinos? I don't get it.”

“Me, neither.”

At that moment, Cosmo started to wag her tail as if she'd just discovered it.

“And if the dog understands,” he said, “she's not telling.”

***

Mrs. Driver, Donna's aunt, did indeed want Tillie to do her hair, and rang her door one evening to tell her so. Tillie agreed but was annoyed with herself. Why in the world had she offered to do the woman's hair and spoil her Saturday morning? Because, she realized, she liked Donna. She had wanted to make some overture of friendship, and this was all she could come up with. She'd been as foolish as an infatuated adolescent, and now she was stuck.

Tillie scarcely knew Mrs. Driver, who waved indifferently when they met outside but rarely stopped to talk. When she and Hooper first moved in, Tillie had invited her neighbor over for coffee. Mrs. Driver accepted reluctantly and left after one cup, which she drank black. She had introduced herself as Mrs. Driver, and Mrs. Driver she remained.

At eight-thirty on Saturday Tillie was at her doorstep, but the door opened before she could knock.

“Come in,” said Mrs. Driver, cigarette in hand. Her hair was damp: as Tillie had suggested, she'd already washed it herself. “We'll go into the kitchen.”

Tillie followed her through a cloud of smoke. This was the first time she had been in her home and she took a quick peek at the living room as they walked by. The shades were drawn and the room was dark, but she could dimly perceive a number of framed pictures on the walls.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Driver,” she said, suppressing a cough, “but do you think you could not smoke while I do this? I'm just not used to it.”

Mrs. Driver grumbled a response and snuffed out the cigarette.

The kitchen walls and cabinets were painted an unhealthy yellow—or perhaps just stained from years of smoke—and the high-backed kitchen chairs were covered in daisy-print vinyl. Stacks of women's magazines and newspapers covered the table, and a radio was blasting out a country music song. Tillie thought that Mrs. Driver would turn it down, but she simply pulled out a chair and said, “This okay?”

Tillie nodded, her nerves on edge. She couldn't bear to withstand forty minutes of this music, whether or not she seemed rude.

“Would you mind if we turned this down a little?” She had to speak loudly.

Mrs. Driver switched the radio off. There was sudden silence, except for a clock ticking.

Resolving to get this done as quickly as possible, Tillie pulled her equipment out of a tote bag and listened as Mrs. Driver explained how she wanted her hair. She draped a plastic cape around her shoulders, dampened her hair again with a spray bottle, and combed the water through. Her hair was coarse and dyed a conventional brown, but the roots showed dark gray with strands of silver. She was a small woman, so Tillie found it easy to work with her in the chair. When she asked her to tip her head forward, she barely complied, as though she were too stiff in her neck and shoulders.

On the refrigerator was taped a crayon drawing of a blue and orange sunflower, created by Joey. Donna must have written, in purple, “I love you Aunt Ellen.”

“Joey's a great little boy,” said Tillie. “So full of energy.”

“More than Donna can handle on her own, sometimes.”

“Oh, really. I wouldn't have guessed.” She had the impression that Donna could handle anything, but hesitated to contradict her client directly. She combed and clipped, glancing around the kitchen for some other topic of conversation. She saw a few small cacti on the windowsill, a bowl of grapefruit on the counter, and a drainer full of clean dishes. A pot of coffee, with half a cup left in it, was still sitting on the coffee maker and smelled burnt.

Mrs. Driver cleared her throat, and Tillie held off cutting, expecting a smoker's prolonged coughing.

“You got a nice dog there,” Mrs. Driver said.

“Thank you. She's really a sweetheart.”

“Your husband buy him at the kennel?

Oh, no, she was a stray.” Tillie let the husband remark slide, as well as the dog's gender.

“Certainly seems well behaved. Doesn't bark, does he?”

“Sometimes she does. If someone's walking through the alley or knocks on the door.” She removed the towel, shook off the clippings, and started to massage in a little setting gel.

“I used to have a dog. Little corgi. Smart as a whip, that dog.”

“Don't they need a lot of exercise?” Tillie was proud that her dog knowledge had expanded quite a bit in the last year.

“Yes, well. We had a lot of room in those days. My husband and I lived on a hundred acres in Vermont, years ago.”

“Really!” Tillie couldn't picture this woman in such a healthy environment.

“Oh, yes. We had a hay field that needed to be cut and baled twice a summer. I had a lovely herb garden.”

“I grew up in New England.” Tillie started in with the rollers. “Near Hartford.”

“There are those who wouldn't consider Connecticut a part of New England.”

“I suppose.” Standing behind, Tillie rolled her eyes. “Were you farmers, then?”

“My husband was a painter.”

“How wonderful.” That would explain the pictures in the living room. She wished she could turn on the light and go look.

“He was quite good. Did portraits, mostly. Traveled to Peru and the Amish country, too, to paint the people. But we had to come out here for my asthma some twenty years ago. He taught some classes. Died ten years ago now.”

“I'm so sorry.” Tillie was silent as she finished rolling the curlers. She felt almost callous as she plugged in the hair dryer and blew hot air on this poor widow's head, but the noise was a rather welcome distraction for a few minutes. Then she unrolled the curlers, brushed out the curls and trimmed the odd hairs sticking out. Standing in front of Mrs. Driver, she studied the height and evenness of the set.

“How's this?” Tillie gave her a hand mirror. “Be honest. I'm happy to change it if you don't like it.”

Mrs. Driver took the mirror in one hand and touched her hair with the other. She was scowling slightly. “Well, that's just fine. Looks nice.”

“I'm glad you like it. I think it looks nice, myself.”

Tillie removed the cape and shook it out while Mrs. Driver stood up and took her wallet out of her purse. She handed Tillie some bills. “That what we agreed on?”

“Thank you, yes. It's been a pleasure, Mrs. Driver.” She packed her bag quickly.

Mrs. Driver showed her to the door. “You take care of that dog, now,” she said from the doorstep, pulling a cigarette out of a pack.



<-     -c-     ->    

Heading north on Campbell, Hooper decided he would make a quick stop for a cup of iced coffee at Cafe Joe. He was on his way to a new landscaping job, this one thanks to Rick, who often recommended Hooper to wealthy clients. When Hooper first arrived in town, he had quickly identified Rick's nursery as the best place to buy native plants; then he offered to help out for a month without pay just to get acquainted with the strange new vegetation. Eventually Rick was paying him a decent wage for part-time work while Hooper got his own business going, and by the end of the first year, he was on his own. Hooper recommended the nursery to anyone who would listen, and gave Rick free advertising on the Stone Soup's photocopied playbills.

“Hey, Sally. Peter.” He greeted the two employees behind the counter. Both were in their twenties, and Peter, over six feet tall, towered over Sally, whose scruffy short hair was white-blond today—a change from the orange last week.

“Hey, Hoop, check it out,” said Peter. He stopped slicing tomatoes and gestured with his large knife. “I just saw a big box full of junk out in the alley. Might be a few props there for you.”

“Thanks, Peter, I'll take a look.” He paid for his drink and thanked Sally, who had filled up his plastic travel mug without having to ask what he wanted.

Hooper went out to his truck, an '83 Dodge with a large lined bed that could carry all he needed for his jobs. Since most residences he dealt with had xeriscaped yards, he didn't often need his power mower—so different from his jobs back east, where he had often used a riding a mower on large, lush lawns. He had lock boxes for his pruning tools, hooks for his shovels and rakes, and a system of bungee cords for securing potted cacti and other plants. Though old, the truck was solid, without a trace of rust. He had retrofitted it for air conditioning and spruced it up with a respectable paint job, creamy white, with his business logo, “Terra Firma,” stenciled on the door. Having invested a fair amount of money, thought, and hope into this truck, he had developed an unconscious habit of giving the logo a pat for luck when he climbed into the cab.

In the passenger seat, Cosmo greeted him by panting. He rubbed her ears, drove around to the alley, and parked with the motor running. Peeking in a box next to the dumpster, he found an old colander, some mason jars, and an ugly ceramic lamp. He threw a crumpled lampshade in the dumpster and revealed a few books, a dishcloth. Although he doubted he could use any of this, he didn't have time now to sort through it. He tossed the box in the truck bed and drove off.

It was early June. A month ago, the palo verde trees had dusted the foothills with bright yellow, but now nothing much was in bloom. Some white flowers still perched on the top of the saguaros but would soon give way to pods of purple fruit; red flags still waved from the skinny arms of the ocotillo; and yellow and orange petals clung to the prickly pear. The weather was getter hotter and Hooper knew this would be the last morning he could bring Cosmo on a job. Very soon the temperature would be one hundred something, and she would be camped out in front of the cooler or in the shady spots in the yard.

“You'll have to take it easy this summer,” Hooper said to the dog. “Do you remember last year, how hot it was? Maybe we can go up to Mt. Lemmon for some hikes in the pine trees. Last time we went up there, there was snow on the ground. That was fun, wasn't it?” He laughed at the memory of Cosmo flopping in the snow, rolling around in it, and diving after sticks her masters tossed. He promised her they would do that more often this year.

He slowed down as the road climbed. The street signs up here were tucked away or non-existent, emphasizing the exclusivity of the neighborhood. Turning off onto Calle Campesino, he laughed at Cosmo, who squirmed and trilled in anticipation of a new place to explore. Slowing considerably for some sharp curves, he turned onto a dirt road, crossed the rocky dip of an arroyo, and pulled into the driveway of the second house on the left. Trailing a cloud of dust, he parked in a small bit of shade under a palo verde.

“You stay here until I get things squared away. This woman said it was okay to bring you, but let's make sure.” Aside from the palo verde, the yard was practically barren of vegetation. A few straggly prickly pear cacti lined the drive, and a cluster of fishhook cacti huddled near the front door. The house was brick, one-level, square, and unremarkable; but the woman who stepped out the door was striking. Statuesque, dressed in a silky, eggplant-purple pantsuit, she wore her steel gray hair in a stylish chignon.

“You're rather late,” she said.

“I'm sorry.” Five minutes, by his watch. “I'm Margaret, Margaret Mopp.” It was only then he realized why that name had sounded familiar on the phone; she was Margaret of Margaret's Place, the most exclusive dress store in town. No wonder she dropped the last name: it sounded more like a doll's name than a businesswoman's.

“I'm Hooper Green. Pleased to meet you.” He held out his hand, which she shook in that indifferent, limp way he hated.

“Hooper. That's an unusual name.”

Most people waited to know him before they mentioned it. “It's a childhood nick-name. My friends used to tease me about my laugh—sort of a whoop, I guess. Hooper just stuck.”

“I see. Let me show you around.” She turned with a wave of her hand. “My husband and I just bought this place. It is an absolute disgrace—but it has a fabulous view. At any rate, I wasn't interested in one of these ready-made monstrosities they're building in subdivisions, so close together. And this house appealed to me.” As she led him around to the back of the house, he saw that his first impression of a small house was false: it actually rambled on and included a separate guest home off to one side that looked nearly as large as his own.

“We have a nice courtyard on the other side,” she said, “but that's taken care of.” They reached the rear of the house, where a large, lattice-shaded deck afforded an unobstructed view of both the Catalina mountains to the north and, to the south, the city and valley.

“We just built the deck, so we need something of interest here and around the spa. I'm looking for an artistic touch. Dramatic, but not showy.”

“I think I see what you mean. Something to give color and variety, a nice mix of flowering desert plants. But the view is the thing, isn't it? You don't need to upstage it.”

“That's right.” She considered him carefully for a moment and then said bluntly, “Well, are you interested?”

“Yes, this has a lot of possibilities. I think I could do some nice things for you.” Something about her patrician tone brought out the rascal in him, and he considered putting in a spiny hedge, a jumping cholla that would branch out onto her patio, or something like an ornamental cherry, which made a big mess.

“I'd like to look around to get a sense of the space and get down some ideas, if that's okay. Then I can work out a plan and give you a free estimate in the next day or two. You can decide then if it's what you'd like.”

Margaret still did not seem wholly convinced. “All right. That's fine. By the way, I have an appointment I didn't know about when we scheduled, so you'll have to excuse me. You may stay and look around, however, if you need to.”

“Thank you. By the way, would you mind if I bring my dog out of the car? I'll make sure to pick up any mess.”

“Oh, your dog! Why didn't you say so?” She walked quickly to the front of the house and leaned her face in the open window of the cab. “Oh, dook at de sweetums! Is dis de widdle binkie woos?” Cosmo flicked out her tongue but Margaret backed off. “No licking, pookies, you'll muss my makeup.”

“You've made a friend,” Hooper said. “Does you want to come out of that trucky?”

“I'm afraid she's shedding like crazy right now. You don't want to get that blond fur on your nice outfit.”

“She's marvelous,” said Margaret with a simpering smile. “What kind is she?”

“Golden mix. I think she must be a lot of different dogs.”

“Well, she could be a fashion model. Does she heel?”

“Yes,” Hooper said, perplexed. “Lovely.” Margaret turned back to him, businesslike again. “Look around, then, and let me know as soon as possible.” She shook his hand, more firmly this time, and disappeared into the house. Hooper let the dog out and they wandered back to the deck. He heard her car pull out.

“Widdle Binkie Woos. Is that what you like to be called?” Cosmo wagged her tail at him. “You're shameless, my dog, absolutely shameless.” He sat down on the deck and motioned for her to sit down next to him. “Did you fall for that line? You think you could be in a fashion show, trotting down the runway? You'd run away with her in a minute, wouldn't you?”

Cosmo licked his face mightily. “No, I didn't think so. You're my dog, Cosmo, you big fur-ball. You and me and Tillie, pal: we're a team. Don't you forget.” Hooper scratched her head thoroughly, considered the view for a few moments, and then went to work.

***

Maria hadn't met anyone since Nick had moved out nine months ago. She'd dated now and then, with no great luck or interest. She went out once with a rabbi whose lecture she attended at the Unitarian church; he took her to a Star Trek movie, during which he had held her hand. He may have thought that quaint but she thought it seemed needy. She dated a handsome bartender, but the only stories he could tell involved sports or his more pathetic patrons. A man she met while hiking was charming, but had a slight allergic reaction to her dogs; however, she suspected that the real reason he stopped calling was that he just wasn't interested. Other men she talked to seemed literally to back away when she told them she had a Ph.D. in anthropology.

Tonight she was not going to mention that. If anyone asked, she'd simply say she worked in an office on campus; at any rate, she'd done her best not to look unapproachable. She was wearing a silk black blouse, with two buttons undone, and tight black jeans that brought attention to her hips. She'd done her hair in a braid to show off eight of her best turquoise and silver earrings.

As she crossed the lobby of the Hotel Congress, she noticed she attracted a few glances. Striding confidently into the nightclub, she ordered a rum and coke at the bar, then turned to survey the scene. The opening band, Bauhaus, was just starting their set, an hour later than advertised. The room was filling up ready for the headliner band, and she already had her eye on a few interesting-looking men. Among them was a tall, sandy-haired man with a full mustache, who caught her eye and moved toward her.

“Hi,” she said. “Hi,” he said loudly, over the music. “Nice earrings.”

“Thanks.

Hey, I think I found my dog,” he said.

She laughed. Good strategy, she thought. Presuming an acquaintance. This was a line she hadn't heard before.

“Yeah, she's been hiding out for over a year, but I finally found her.”

“Okay,” said Maria, playing along. “And why would your dog be hiding out?”

“I don't know, exactly. For the experience. Or to teach me a lesson.”

“About...?”

He shrugged. “Patience. Vulnerability. The inequities of a relationship based on ownership.”

Maria still wasn't sure whether or not he was joking. “Maybe she's a Trickster.”

“What's that?”

“The trickster is a prominent figure in Native America folklore. Usually he's Coyote. He's a kind of Everyman who plays tricks on others, but he's so self-important and gullible he ends up—”

“Oh, no. That's not Lucy. She's no fool.”

She would give him two more minutes. “So have you learned your lesson?”

“Not really.” He smiled. Beautiful teeth. “I miss her, and she's mine, so I'm going to get her back.” He took a drink from his glass and spit out a wedge of lime. “I found out where she lives, and now she knows I know.”

“You told her?”

“I'm not an brute. I'm not just going to drag her out of there. I want her to come home of her own accord.” Maria looked at his glass as though to say, You've had too much to drink. “Club soda,” he said with a grin. “So long,” she said, smiling back, and squeezed her way into the crowd.

***

For Bauhaus, the evening was fairly disastrous, even by their standards. They were used to dealing with an incompetent sound crew—the club boys would have trouble setting up tapes for a third grade dance class—but the crowd was clearly anxious for The Dregs to start. Usually Bauhaus played for community college kids and a small set of groupies, but tonight the concertgoers were louder and rougher. Donna noticed a lot of seriously dyed hair, black and silver eye make-up, and young men who greeted each other by pounding each other's fist above their heads. During the sound check Crash broke a string and was jeered.

Once the band started playing, they were all out of sync, trying too hard. Crash got the set mixed up and started with the wrong beat. A drunk guy, arguing with the bartender, briefly diverted people's attention, so they scarcely noticed when the song ended. Walt was singing off-key and Donna, who was lead vocal on most of the songs, heard her voice strain and reach because of a mild head cold. And although she was usually quite focused, all these distractions made her aware of a man in the crowd who seemed to be staring at her. It was not a friendly stare, but intense, and he had a mustache. She didn't trust men with mustaches. She knew this was entirely irrational, but she would forever associate them with the first cop who gave her a ticket. She noticed him leaving as they finished the last bars of their last song; she couldn't wait to get out of there herself.

***

That same night, Barry was at one of his favorite spots in the Rincons. The trail was close to town but hardly anyone went there. The first part of the trail was long and rocky, with very little shade or interesting plants, so it wasn't too appealing to most people. He had several places he liked to camp and, as the shadows grew longer, he settled on one that was nestled in a canyon, on the west side so the sun would hit him early. A patch of flat ground was good enough for him to throw down his hard foam pad and lightweight sleeping bag, eat his crackers, peaches, cheese, and a cold can of beans. As the sky darkened, he listened to the coyotes' lullaby and savored a joint.

It had been a hot day, but the evening was pleasant. He lay on his back for a long time, adrift, staring up at the sky. The night was so clear he could see the Milky Way. He'd learned a Cherokee story about the galaxy from an old girlfriend, a former camp counselor. As he recalled it, when the people found some of their ground corn missing one morning, they decided to lie in wait for the culprit, and that night they found a dog eating their corn. They chased him away and he ran north, but he had stepped in the meal and left a trail behind him, the Milky Way: In the Cherokee language, Where the Dog Ran.

Dogs could be sneaky, he thought sleepily, but humans probably think that only because we're so insecure. He remembered being on the schoolyard, in second grade or so, and finding a bee on the clover. Thinking it was hurt, he picked it up to take it to the teacher—or the nurse, even; who knows what was in his seven-year-old head?—but of course the bee stung him. He'd felt first betrayed and then angry, as though the bee had acted maliciously, and it wasn't until high school biology that he started to realize that living creatures must be true to themselves, must act according to their nature, and for that he admired them greatly.

Waking early to a pale and cool light, he cocked his ear for animal sounds. The Inca doves cooed, a cardinal whistled. He had learned to unfocus his eyes to pick up movement and sometimes spotted peccary or mule deer foraging for food. A few jackrabbits bounded along, flashing their white rumps. Then came a family of scurrying quail, chattering and bobbing their head plumes. A little one passed right by Barry's foot, so that he almost missed, out of the corner of his eye, a flash of golden fur down in the canyon.

His back stiffened and his heart raced. A mountain lion? That would be a rare sight. But then he caught a glimpse of a coyote lower in the canyon, and knew it wouldn't be so cavalier with a mountain lion nearby. Even though he hadn't seen the animal completely, he felt a sudden, strange sense of recognition—almost like deja vu. An unexpected flush of well-being flowed through him like an electrical impulse. Sitting cross-legged, he felt as though his tailbone were snaking toward the center of the earth, so firmly was he grounded in place. His mind was whirring like a hummingbird's wings and he seemed to hear a faint crackling as the sun's ray first rays spilled over the top of the ridge. The flora was animated by a multitude of creatures with wings, hoofs, fur, scales, tails, carapace, and antennae; they scrambled and darted, stalked and burrowed, hopped, flew, and slithered.

Breathing deeply, he had no more thoughts for some time.

***

That same morning Hooper said to Tillie, “Let's go!” and she happily jumped in the truck with him, not knowing their destination but enjoying the surprise. He took her to Target, which meant an infrequent buying adventure.

“I thought we'd look for a lamp,” Hooper said on their way in the store. They had been talking about getting a better reading light for the living room. When he picked out a pole lamp with three moveable shades, however, Tillie involuntarily made a face.

“You don't like it,” he said. “Not really. It has plastic shades.”

“Yeah, but it's this cool sort of retro blue color.” How could she not like this lamp? He knew he had a talent for decorating; he knew it would perk up the living room.

“It just looks kind of cheap. If we're going to get one, I think we should buy one that will last.”

“All right,” he said grudgingly. “Then let's go spend a bunch of money at the department store.”

“We don't need to spend a lot of money.” She was annoyed by his melodramatic tone; he had his feelings hurt so easily. “Maybe we could look around, that's all.” She bit her tongue as soon as she'd said that: Hooper hated looking around. “Can we at least see what else is here?”

He wandered half-heartedly up the aisle, but nothing appealed to him. Anyway, the moment was spoiled. “Let's go.”

Tillie hadn't seen anything she liked, either, but she was willing to take anything if he would cheer up. “Why don't we get the blue one?”

“No, let's go home,” he said. “We need a lamp.”

“You don't like it.”

“It's fine,” she said.

“No, forget it.” He was sorry they'd come. “You're not showing any enthusiasm.”

She nearly turned on her heels and walked out, but she resisted, swallowing her resentment. “But you like it.”

He hesitated. He really did like it. “Are you sure?” he said.

She could live with it. Maybe it would break soon. “Yes, it's very cool.”

When they left the store it was even hotter than when they went in. On the drive home the sun reflected blindingly off the cars in front of them, and Hooper swore, having forgotten his sunglasses at home. He swore at a driver who changed lanes in front of him. They were stopping at nearly every traffic light and Tillie felt a trickle of sweat slide down her chest. She turned on the air conditioning.

“How are you?” he asked, miffed that she was fiddling with his truck's gadgets.

“Fine.” It was too hard to say anything else.

“You seem frustrated.” Why did she make him to try to guess what she was feeling?

“I'm hot.” She switched the radio station.

He tried a different tactic. “What are your plans today?”

“I don't know. Laundry.”

He gritted his teeth. “If you don't want to do laundry, then don't do it.”

“It needs to be done.”

“I'll do it.” Anything, Hooper thought, if you'll just stop being so damn grouchy.

Once home, Hooper went outside to look for Cosmo. Tillie heard him call, then shout the dog's name. This was unusual: Cosmo should either be under the pomegranate or behind the oleanders. Tillie stepped outside and watched Hooper check the gates: both were secure. He looked in the sliding glass window of Barry's house, but there was no sign. Tillie suddenly feared that he would say, “Our dog is gone.”

And then he did.

***

It didn't take long for them to break the stunning spell. Hooper brought the bike out from the extra bedroom and Tillie grabbed her car keys. It is only a matter of time, she thought. This was a kind of trial, something they would talk about in the future, saying, “That was scary; we thought we'd lost her.” They would just have to go through the routine of searching for her, and then they would have her back.

Hooper rode up one block to Speedway, scanning along the gutters and the middle of the street. He was sure he'd find a bloody mass of yellow fur, ignobly marked with tire tracks, and that would be it. He'd have to figure out how to get her body home. He could carry her if he had to. Crossing Campbell, he barely missed being hit by a right-turner, but he didn't yell at the driver and throw up his hand as he usually did.

He rode along the route they walked to the university, along the grassy mall. There were a few dogs on campus, but not his dog. Even at a far distance he could see none was his dog. He rode all around the buildings, calling her name, imagining her fate. Fraternity boys might have picked her up and taken her home. They would turn her into a dog claimed by everyone and owned by no one. They'd let her roam the neighborhood, give her Cheetos and other crap in return for a bit of affection. Or perhaps an administrator coming in for a few extra Saturday hours thought the dog would make a good companion for the teenage daughter who rarely talked with her parents anymore. He cursed himself for not putting her collar back on after he'd brushed her fur the night before. It was hopeless. But he kept riding, asking anyone he passed if they had seen a yellow dog, a blond dog, a golden retrieverish dog about so big.

Meanwhile, Tillie cruised the neighborhood in the car, tracing the route they sometimes took through the neighborhood and to the empty lot by the Episcopal Church. She looked down driveways, in bushes, any place where a sniffing dog on holiday would pause. Then she circled by the park, got out of the car and walked around. She began to realize how big a search this could be. The dog could be anywhere.

After an hour she went home. She would walk to the church again later, or she and Hooper could switch the bike and car. She was dripping sweat; it must be a hundred already, before noon. She wondered if Cosmo were thirsty and thought, where would a dog in a fur coat go on a day like this?

After an hour Hooper went home. Maybe Barry took her out for a walk, he thought. He allowed himself one crumb of hope that the dog would be waiting in the back yard, wagging her tail and laughing at him. She was not. Barry was home, and he hadn't seen her. Hooper poured two glasses of water from the jug in the fridge, gave one to Tillie and gulped the other, then filled it and drained it again.

Fetching a blank piece of paper and a felt tip pen, he handed them to Tillie.

“Would you write this out, please? Your writing is nicer. Leave room for a photograph, okay? and then say, 'Lost dog, retriever mix, reward.' With our phone number. Do we have any pictures of her?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out the latest photo album, where he had dozens to choose from.

She wondered about the reward but wrote out the information. Hooper snatched the paper as soon as she was done.

“I'm going to get a bunch copied off and put them up around town.”

We'll find her.” She tried to sound reassuring. “She's probably at the travel agent's, booking a flight to Alaska or the Pacific Northwest. Someplace cool.”

“Yeah.” He did not smile but drove off in his truck.

She turned on the cooler and sat at the kitchen table with her glass of ice water. “Shit,” she said aloud. Damn that dog. What was Cosmo thinking? How did she even get out? Why would she want to? Hooper will be devastated, she thought, and for his sake especially she offered a heart-felt, agnostic prayer that Cosmo would come home soon. Of course she would come home. Why wouldn't she? Yet all over town you saw Lost Dog flyers stapled to telephone poles, taped to light standards and tacked up on the co-op bulletin board, and they always bore a pall of desperation and despair. The papers grew brittle and torn, and you had to wonder if the owners ever found their Brandy or their Buttons, or if they were still living with emptiness and a mystery.

***

As soon as he heard that Cosmo was missing, Barry sprang into action with the zeal of an eco-warrior. Hopping on his bike when he was done with teaching and his own labs, he rode around for a couple hours every day that week. He rode around the apartment complexes where a lot of students lived and approached them in the parking lot or laundry room. Flashing a copy of the flyer, he asked, “Have you seen this dog?” He rode down alleys and through parking lots, behind restaurants. Not many people ventured out on the baking sidewalks, but he'd stop to ask anyone he saw getting into a car or checking the mail at the curb. He got hot and sweaty and always drank the two quart jugs of water he carried with him. At night he fell asleep immediately, without even thinking about Anita.

He had an idea. It was a long shot, so he would not mention it to Hooper and Tillie right away, but it was an idea.



<-     -c-     ->    

A lot of people Hooper met said they loved the heat, that they would never move back to the snowy winters and humid summers of the Midwest, but he knew that these were the same people who stayed inside all summer with the air conditioner running. The desert sun in the summer was not to be underestimated. Hooper always wore long-sleeve cotton shirts, loose khaki pants and a full-brimmed hat when he worked outside, so his skin was protected from the full power of the sun. He brought a gallon jug of water in the trucks with him on his jobs, and sometimes drank it all. The intensity of the sun made him more aware of his movements and the need for efficiency. He became ascetically absorbed in his work, content simply to make his body move, to harden calluses, negotiate respectfully with cacti, stay hydrated, observe lizards and birds.

Cosmo had been gone a week. Hooper and Tillie had put up fifty flyers, checked the animal shelters every day, and cruised a different neighborhood every morning and evening. He asked everyone he knew, including clients, the homeless guys that hung out at the park, the people at Cafe Joe, Rick at the nursery, the neighbors across the street, anyone, to keep an eye out. He realized they might never find her, but he had to try.

Margaret's place was just about done. He had planted honeysuckle along the edge of the deck, where it could snake its way up the latticework that shaded the area. A swath of reddish rocks created a transition from deck to desert. Just beyond that, he had filled in some barren areas with some aromatic bushes, creosote and snakeweed, and, as a personal preference, two small ocotillos. He was working now on the area around the spa, putting in more delicate plants, some salvia, penstemon and desert milkweed to attract hummingbirds. All he had left to do was bring in some containers with plants like fairy duster, feather dealea, and verbena. If he and Tillie could afford such a place, he thought, this was how he might fix it up.

It was noon: he could faintly hear a clock inside the house chime the hour. Time to pack it up. Margaret was never around while he worked; they were communicating via the phone machine. As long as he got paid, he didn't mind. His tools and empty plant buckets stowed, he climbed in his truck and wended his way back to Campbell Avenue.

Margaret's clock had reminded him of his brother, Tom, who had a passion for mechanisms. Their parents' house in Buffalo had had an abundance of clocks, one in every room, sometimes two. He never understood how they had acquired so many. Clocks that ticked nervously or grrrd with an electric hum, clocks that glowed green on the microwave and VCR or that chimed every quarter hour. None, however, were in synchrony, which had comforted Hooper and annoyed Tom, who was constantly fiddling with the minute hands or digits.

As a kid, Tom had taken apart countless clocks, radios, toasters, and ballpoint pens, to see how they worked—and then he put them back together. He had such a sure, delicate hand with tweezers and other small tools, such patience finding the right piece of the puzzle or waiting for glue to dry thoroughly, that Hooper joked the two of them could not possibly be related. When Tom was fifteen or so he put together a scale model of the U.S.S. Constitution, complete with intricate rigging, lifeboats and miniature sailors on the deck. He tied tiny knots; looped thin halyards around little winches; threaded tackles small as the clasp of a necklace; and meticulously dabbed on accent paint. He repeatedly pored over the instruction sheets. Although Hooper could admire Tom's skills now, at the time the project was much too fastidious, too painstaking for him to bear, and he could only watch Tom work a short time before he had to stretch his muscles and get some fresh air.

Stopping at a red light, Hooper took a long drink from a warm water bottle. The brothers had been so different as children: Tom methodical and reserved, Hooper undisciplined and outgoing. Hooper had memorized poetry in high school, Tom the periodic table. Hooper had always preferred to be outside, even in winter, building a snow fort or a snowman, sledding, or cross-country skiing. In summer he'd pedal his bike around the park, or he'd ride the skateboard up and down the sidewalks until he could no longer stand the jarring his body took. As for projects, he liked to help his dad puttering around the house. They would go to the hardware store together for some supplies, and his father initiated him early to the treasure trove that was his workshop: a dozen different sizes of nails in dusty mason jars; a pegboard wall of hammers, screwdrivers, saws, wrenches; shelves of wires and string, electrical parts, broken gadgets, extension cords. His dad never threw anything away; in fact, he often brought home things other people had put out for the garbage, like an old shovel or a handful of half-inch dowels. “These might come in handy someday,” he'd say, ignoring his wife's grumble.

When their parents died, together in a car accident, Hooper was twenty-six, Tom twenty-four. They spent a week after the funeral going through their parents' effects, working through each room together. Emptying clothes out of the bedroom closet, they rediscovered Dad's leisure suits and Mom's Sunday hats. They dumped shoes in a box for charity without pausing to look at them, lest they notice the worn heels and cushions that once supported feet. They managed a laugh over some Halloween costumes, a fringed flapper's dress, a German lederhosen. In the kitchen they found a whole set of dishes they'd never seen before, which they gave to Dad's sister. They worked methodically for long days without much of a break, finally getting some pizza or Chinese for a late dinner, sitting wearily at the kitchen table, drinking Guinness or some other thick dark beer. They discussed as little as possible what to do with things; it was as though they both feared what would happen if they paused to reflect. Most of the boxes went to the Goodwill, some few items went to other relatives, and, finally, they threw out much more than they would have imagined.

Hooper asked Tom if he might take some of Dad's better tools. He asked for some photographs and a corner shelf he particularly liked—and their grandmother's house in Tucson. Hoping to retire eventually to the Southwest, their parents had been renting the house through an agency for eight or so years. With two dwellings left in the estate, Hooper had a simple proposition: Tom could have the Buffalo house and everything in it, and Hooper would have the Tucson home, to live in or sell as he liked. Tom was satisfied with the arrangement, but he wanted Hooper to take more of their parents' belongings—at least some luggage or an end table, some of Dad's books. But when Hooper assured him that he didn't want any of his parents things—not his mother's aprons or some dusty Christmas ornaments—he could see that something besides grief had made his brother silent and he finally coaxed it out of him.

“I don't know why you even came,” Tom said bitterly. “None of this means anything to you.”

Exhausted from so many days' physical and emotional exertion, Hooper was staggered. He tried to explain that he wasn't rejecting the past. His family, alive and dead, was vital to him; he thought about them every day, but his memories, his connection to his loved ones, didn't necessarily reside in these objects.

“How can I say this, Tom.” Hooper scratched the week's growth on his chin. “Grandma's house represents a fresh start for me. Something to look forward to. It's the coward's way out, really. It takes more strength of character to stay here.”

“Strength of character? Is that what you call it. I thought it was just a pathetic means of clinging to the past. Or having nowhere else to go.”

Hooper did his best to talk his way out of this misunderstanding. They were both mourning and distressed, he said; it was no time to make judgments, and too soon to think clearly. Each of them had to do what seemed best, just to get through.

“Listen. I'm relieved that you'll be living in this house. It gives us both a small sense of continuity.”

Tom eventually seemed mollified, but Hooper still was pained that he had hurt his brother's feelings. Maybe he was heartless for not wanting mementos. In looking through his parents' belongings, though, he had felt the utter uselessness of clinging to someone else's junk. It was nice junk, some of it; but it was not his junk, and he did not want to be weighed down by its dross. He couldn't begin to separate the meaningful from the unremarkable. That little frog knick-knack his Mom got on a vacation at the Cape? The cracked vase she sometimes put her peonies in? He couldn't bear to be nostalgic about every teacup or lamp or deck of cards; he marveled that Tom was willing to live with such reminders. The tools, at least, were of practical value.

He drove slowly. He told himself he did so to soak up some air conditioning, but he also knew he did not want to go home, where Cosmo would not greet him, would not search madly for something to pick up in her mouth, would not do her going-in-circles happy dance. He thought that her absence would weigh on them for years, every time they found dog hair on the vacuum cleaner hose, behind the bookshelves, or drifting among weeds in the yard, every time they said the word, “Ready?” He missed their bedtime routine, where they would both get a drink; then Cosmo would give Tillie a slurpy kiss and settle down by Hooper's side of the bed with a sigh.

***

When he got home, Tillie handed him a letter. It was a familiar hand, with a date stamp from Buffalo: Tom. Hooper was astonished at the coincidence, and yet somehow it seemed fitting. He sat at the kitchen table and ripped open the envelope with some misgiving. A letter from Tom was rare. They sent Christmas cards and gave each other a call on their birthdays, but that was about all the contact they had.

He read the first paragraph to himself, then looked up at Tillie, his hand over his mouth.

“What is it?” she asked. “Can I read you some?”

“Please.”

“Okay. 'I bet you're surprised to get a letter from me. Maybe as surprised as I am to write one. To be honest, I'm writing on the advice of my therapist, whom I've been seeing since Jenny and I separated last spring.'”

“Oh, no.” Tillie sat down next to him.

He read on. Tom and Jenny had decided to divorce. He thought Hooper would want to know, although he said it was too complicated, too confusing to explain. He felt like a failure, “'still wondering what I did wrong, though Jenny says not to blame myself.'”

“Poor man,” Tillie said. “It was good of him to write.”

“Yeah, it was.” Hooper scanned the first page again, as though looking for something he missed. “This seems so strange. I feel like I hardly know him. That's my fault. I haven't written or called in a long time.”

“He's your brother, though. It's not too late.”

“I suppose.” He scrutinized her face. “Isn't it funny?”

“What?”

“That I live with you. That you live with me.”

“Very funny.”

“I mean, out of all the people in the whole big world ricocheting around like pinballs, we bump into each other and stick like glue.”

“We're lucky.”

“Yeah. I can't imagine living with anyone else but you. Everybody else bugs me.”

“I bug you.” She laughed. “But it's different. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She paused. “Maybe you should give him a call.”

“Good idea.”

“This is changing the subject, but what's in that box in the office? I just noticed it today.”

“Oh, I forgot about that. I haven't really looked at it, but I thought there might be some stuff for props.”

“Well, it's stinky. Sort of musty smelling.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I'll sort through it right now.” They both went to take a look. It did smell, like old gym socks; he hadn't noticed that at first. He pulled out a strainer, some water-damaged paperback books, a dishtowel, and a ball of orange yarn, and said it would all go in the garbage. “Why did I even bring this home?” Under the towel, however, was a small black lacquered box, cracked and peeling. Inside it was a piece of red satin, and inside that was a dog tag on a long chain made of little metal beads. Hooper turned it over. Both sides were blank.

“That's odd,” Tillie said. “Those are meant to be written on.”

“Yeah. Well, this is all junk. I'll just get rid of it.” He put everything back in the cardboard box and was about to take it outside to the trash, but as Tillie left the room he pocketed the necklace, without knowing why.



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Seeing a cardinal in a tree outside her living room window, Donna remembered a story from her childhood called “How the Finch Got Her Feathers.” She used to make her father read it over and over, even after she had it memorized, even after she could read it for herself. When he came to town on business—he had moved to Phoenix with his new wife—she asked him if he remembered that story. Laughing, he recited the first line. He took her and Joey out to Denny's for dinner, and after he dropped them off she called her mother. They didn't talk very often. Donna had stopped calling because she was tired of hearing her mom criticize her about being a waitress, playing with the band, or the way she was raising Joey. Her mom stopped calling when she remarried and had to deal with her husband's teenagers. However, this was important.

“Mom, do you still have those old Story Time books? The tall green ones I used to read all the time, with the old-fashioned illustrations?”

“I remember those,” her mother said. But she didn't know where they were. “They might be in the garage, or at your sister's. Why don't you call her?”

Donna was disappointed but not surprised—so many of her old books and toys had been lost in the shuffle of her parents' divorce. She and her sister often shared memories about their childhood, to confirm they were dreaming things up. In any case, she knew the story well enough to tell it to Joey.

Tucking him into bed that night, she said, “Ready for a story?”

Sheets up to his chin, he nodded.

“This is about a little bird and how she came to be the most colorful bird of all.” Once upon a time, she went on, all birds were brown, until Eagle, who was the leader of the birds, decided he would pass colors out to everybody. So the birds came from all over to get their share. They shoved and pecked and shouted. The parrot squawked, “Green!” and the canary sang, “Yellow!” All the birds got their colors, but at the back of all these noisy birds was Finch, who was very politely waiting her turn, hoping for something nice. The other birds were all preening and admiring their new feathers, when Finch finally spoke up.

“I'd like a color, please,” Donna said in a squeaky voice. Eagle almost didn't hear her, she spoke so softly. He told her there were no more colors left and that made Finch very sad, because she would be a little brown bird after all.

Joey was playing with his ear, a sign that he was sleepy.

“Almost done,” Donna said. Finch tried to be nice and admire the other birds' new feathers. But she started to cry and was just about to fly away when Eagle stopped her. He realized that she had been patient while the others were greedy, and he called back all the birds. He told them they must each give her one of their feathers. The birds complained but finally they all shared, and soon Finch was adorned with a bit of all the colors. She was the most beautiful bird around.

“And that is how Finch got her colors.” She looked at her sweet-faced boy, whose eyes were drooping. “Did you like that story?”

He nodded. She laughed and kissed him on the forehead.

“Good-night, my sweetheart. Darling boy.”

“'Night, Mommy.” She turned out the light and left the door open a crack. Hearing that story aloud again, she wondered now why she had liked it so much. Its message was insidious: if you are meek and stay at the back of the line, you'll be rewarded. In effect, it was a good story for keeping people—women and girls, that is, like the Finch—dependent on male authority. Having been on welfare after Joey's birth, and continuing on food stamps, she knew something about dependence. It was not pleasant, to feel always on the edge, to dole out your coupons at the grocery store like a child with play money. If it weren't for Aunt Ellen's generosity, she didn't know how she would get by.

From the coat closet she pulled out two cardboard boxes, which held her second job: stuffing envelopes. This time it was for a company that sold tapes and workbooks designed to help children read better. She felt a little guilty for doing it, for she felt there must be some scam involved, making parents feel anxious about their kids' development. She also felt resentful because it didn't pay very well, but the extra change still came in handy.

Listening to a CD of Native American drums and flutes, she arranged the materials in piles on the floor. Introductory letter, two pieces of advertisement, return envelope. Her method was to do one step at a time: fold the letters, collate them with the three other glossy pieces of information, stack them up in a big pile, and tuck them in the envelopes, all as quickly as she could yet without getting paper cuts. This is the kind of job the Finch would get stuck with, she thought. Cleaning toilets, slicing cold cuts, serving french fries—whatever no one else wanted.

She paused in her collating. That wasn't the Finch she'd envisioned as a girl, though. That story had made such an impression on her, and it wasn't because she pitied the Finch or wanted to avoid her fate. It was, she realized, slapping together another set of papers, because the Finch became the most colorful, the most provocative and outrageous bird around. It was a fashion thing, then; Donna hadn't really looked for a moral as a kid. She supposed you were supposed to understand that the Finch stayed true to herself, that by being patient she got more than she'd ever hoped for. Sometimes things work out in ways you don't expect, Donna thought. Sometimes what seems like a setback turns out to be a benefit. She didn't really believe that, though.

She'd rather not have to rely on anyone, but she wouldn't mind if someone would take her under a wing and look out for her. She wouldn't mind a little surprise or a treat, like being able to sleep until eleven o'clock one Saturday, like she used to do before Joey, or to strap her roller blades on and cruise around town for hours, just for the hell of it. She would like to go out at night during the week to hear some bands, or hang out with the newspaper at a coffee shop and not once look at her watch or think about what she and Joey needed at the grocery store.

She moved on to folding, thinking that if she couldn't get a break, she could at least use some direction. Some people found their calling in the strangest ways. There was the old guy, for example, who wrote about his childhood on a ranch; people liked the book so much he opened a bookstore and stocked only copies of that one book. Or the 59-year-old insurance salesman who became a cop and loved it. The woman who became a fitness guru after a spiritual experience near Mt. Denali. What triggered that kind of passion? All through high school, through two years of community college, Donna thought that something would hit her, a flash of awareness: Yes, this is me. She couldn't bear the thought of working in an office or selling retail, as so many of her fellow students did, but she didn't know what else was possible for someone like her, with little education. How do you find out what you want to do? she wondered. How the hell do you get started?

Considering all the boring jobs there were in the world, though, Donna had to admit she liked being a waitress. She liked talking with people and eavesdropping on their conversations, enjoying most those snippets of soap opera-like situations. (“So he really wants you to move to North Dakota?” was one she hovered around. “I think that Jill's finally going to tell her family she's gay,” was another). She was good at remembering who ordered what, at keeping coffee refilled and pushing the expensive desserts; sometimes all she had to do was mention the brownie pie and raise her eyebrows to get a patron to order. The restaurant owners let her wear what she wanted, striped tights or tie-dyed shirts or mid-drift that exposed her pierced belly button, and they gave her a big breakfast or lunch for free.

She arranged a handful of finished envelopes so that the gummed flaps were lined up and exposed. Dabbing her damp sponge over them, she then pressed down on the flaps. When she'd done fifty, she slipped a rubber band around the bundle, stacked it with others in the box, and wondered how many other mothers had to resort to such mindless work, just to get by. Much as she loved her Joe and would do anything for him, the last four years had been a struggle, both financially and emotionally. She was twenty-six, not exactly a kid, but she'd been too proud to ask her mom for help, either with money, advice, or child care. Her mother might have forgiven her for getting pregnant, but she was offended that Donna never told her who the father was. How could Donna explain? Some guy I met in the alley, she could say—which was true. She had been about ready to tell her mom the whole story once, but then her mom got all bent out of shape, insisting that they make this man pay, questioning her daughter's judgment, and wondering what her bridge friends would think. So Donna kept quiet.

She was not ashamed about how Joey was conceived, but nevertheless she had told no one. When Joey was older, she might explain it to him; until then, she didn't want him to hear it from anyone else. At the time, she was working two waitressing jobs in an effort to make enough money for university tuition; but with no time to study she ended up failing her classes at community college. Moreover, she was just dumped by a guy she'd been with for over a year, and her parents were in the middle of a nasty divorce. The one thing that pulled her through was playing with the band. She played the violin—and was happy now that her parents had insisted on lessons in junior high—the bass guitar, and sometimes a toy xylophone, which was a carry-over from elementary school, as was her friendship with Crash, the lead singer. He was known as Robby then; now his head was shaved and he had a tattoo of a lizard crawling up his neck, which made her mom freak. The two of them had started the band a year out of high school because, simply, they were bored. They wrote some goofy songs together and got their friend Walt to play percussion. They played anything as an instrument, pots and pans with a wooden spoon, a coffee can full of rice, Tibetan prayer bells. In one song they incorporated an old alarm clock just for fun. They started getting small gigs at parties and coffee houses, and after a couple years they were playing night clubs around town, albeit scroungy ones—even up in Phoenix. They had a loyal following of people who danced and sang along. Donna got a kick out of it. She started to play the part by wearing sunglasses and black lipstick onstage, sometimes a feather boa or tiara.

At one of the band's first decent engagements downtown—that is, a place where the bathrooms didn't reek and the patrons were generally attentive—she was taking a break outside the back door, breathing in some fresh air and drinking a bottle of water, when a man came up to her. In a ridiculously pure and lilting Irish voice, he said, “You play the violin like an angel, you know.” He had blue eyes and dark hair, a combination that sent her spinning, and she was so flustered—a rare state for her—she burst into tears, and he gave her a big gentle hug. When the band finished the second set and packed up, he was waiting. “Come on,” he said. “Come on, I'll walk you home,” without even asking if she was driving or headed somewhere else. His name was Sean. He came home with her, made love with her, and said he was leaving the next day for Ireland. He wrote down his address, and she wrote to him once but the letter came back as undeliverable. At first she felt utterly foolish; she didn't sleep with just anyone. For all she knew, he was born in Austin and worked as a mechanic on the east side of town, and if you woke him up in the middle of the night he'd be no more Irish than she was a leprechaun. When she realized she was pregnant with Joey, she thought about abortion, briefly, but couldn't bring herself to do it. As she grew big with this new life in her body, she started hearing Sean's soothing voice as she drifted off to sleep. She thought of his kind embrace when she was crying for no apparent reason.

She had expected a daughter. She was certain she would have a girl, because she loved and admired women. She liked men, but they were never as interesting or complex as the most interesting women she knew. During her pregnancy she had envisioned a daughter who would grow up to be colorful and surprising, proud of herself, confident. In birthing the baby, she had visualized a lusty, healthy female, so when the midwife said she had a boy, the word was foreign and disorienting. Dazed, she took him on her belly, and then to her breast. Crying piteously at first, he seemed stunned by the unfamiliar world he was in, but it was from her, that same body he had known so intimately, that he sought comfort. As she watched him suckle and calm down, she understood absolutely that he was his own person, defying expectations, compelling her to accept him as he was. From that moment, she felt that he was not so much the result of her tryst but the reason for it. Naked, nestled against her body, he was an exquisite animal, a whole and lovely consciousness.

One night before bed Joey wanted to know where Cosmo went, because he had heard Tillie say they missed her. Donna had to think. It was not unlike the questions he sometimes asked about his father, where he went and whether he was coming back. Her response was consistent: his father was someone she used to know, and now he lived far away.

“She's on vacation, honey.” She was surprised to hear herself lie. “Someplace cool and green, I think. Maybe Ireland.” He was satisfied. She kissed him goodnight.

***

Two weeks had gone by since Cosmo's disappearance. Hooper felt as though he had been robbed of his very substance, because his shadow was missing. When he and Tillie took their walk after dinner, he still said “Heel” and looked down to his left, nearly tripping as he stepped off curbs. Once they got to the grassy field at school, it was as though they had arrived at a party on the wrong night: there was nothing to do but sit for awhile on the brick retaining wall, watch the sprinklers come on, then go home. One evening when Hooper was late getting home, Tillie finally threw out the bag of dog food in the pantry cupboard, suspecting that cockroaches were feasting on it.

In Sunday's paper, Tillie came across a short article about a fashion show that benefited the SPCA. The accompanying photograph showed a model strolling down the runway with a leash in her hand—and a dog at her side. A dog, Tillie thought, that looked a lot like Cosmo. When she showed it to Hooper, he grabbed the paper and held it up to his nose.

The show had been sponsored by Margaret's Place. “Widdle pookums, my ass,” he grumbled to himself. He called Margaret's house immediately, but he only got the answering machine. He tried ten more times that day, and again on Monday morning. At ten o'clock sharp he called her shop.

Margaret wasn't in. The saleswoman seemed not in the least inclined to help him, but he pressed her for more information about the dog at the fashion show.

“We work with Madison Models,” she finally told him. “Maybe they can help you.” She hung up before Hooper could say thank you.

He pulled out the phone book to look up Madison. The receptionist said she would transfer him to Antonio. Expecting to be disconnected, or at the very most to reach only the voice mail, he was surprised to hear a man's voice say, “Yeah, Tony.”

Hooper explained why he was calling.

“Oh, yeah, the dog. Belongs to an actor who does some work for us. But I can't give out the name.”

“Sure, I understand; but could I leave my name and have him call me?”

“Wouldn't do much good. He just started a TV thing today out at Old Tucson, so we won't hear from him for a while.”

“It's really important I talk to him. Maybe you could call—”

“Sorry. Like I said.”

“Okay. Thanks a lot.” Hooper hung up thoughtfully. He had hoped he could live in Tucson without ever going to the tourist attraction at Old Tucson, but he had no choice. Fortunately his work was slow in July, and he had a free day. On his way out the door, he grabbed his gardening hat and headed west, out to the open land beyond Gate's Pass.

As it was a weekday, there was no line. Hooper grudgingly handed over his money, stepped through the wooden gates, and entered the Old West town. The streets were dusty dirt, the sidewalks made of planks, and the signs were crudely hand-painted. He passed men wearing chaps, gun belts, and broad-brimmed hats; there were only a few women, and they wore long skirts and bonnets. A couple of cowboys sauntering down the street stopped for a long drink at a drinking fountain, above which was a sign saying, “Watering Hole.”

As he passed the General Store, Hooper caught a glimpse of the merchandise through the open doors: a rack of postcards, a shelf of hats, a display of beaded belts. As a kid he would have begged his parents to let him go inside for a look, would have loved getting his hands on the plastic guns, View Master slides, rocks and gemstones, licorice whips, oversize pencils with a tassel hanging from the eraser—but today he had other things on his mind. He wandered down the main street, past saloons advertising such acts as “Miss Libby and the Soda Fountain Singers,” past the blacksmith, an ice cream parlor, the boot maker. A small group of tourists, looking hot and bedraggled, were gathered around a covered wagon, where a fast-talking salesman was delivering his spiel for a miracle elixir.

Hooper continued on. At the far end of town, a “shoot-out” was already in progress. Unable to resist a performance after all, he took a seat on a metal riser. He wasn't sure just how the bad guys had wronged the good, but the actors must have been nearing the grand finale, because guns were popping and bodies were falling. One gunslinger was dragging a leg while shooting some poor guy off the top of the roof. One body already lay motionless in the dirt, and a man in a crumpled brown hat, with a long-barreled gun tucked under his arm, was arriving on a horse. The final blaze of gunfire made one boy in the audience start to cry. When it was over, the music started; the dead leapt up, and took a bow to tepid applause. Hooper clapped loudly and whistled, out of sympathy, but the audience could not be roused.

He went behind the facade of buildings and asked one of the actors if he knew where the TV show might be filming.

“Well, there's a crew over in Chinatown.” The man who had fallen from the roof took off his hat and wiped his sweaty brow. “They usually break for lunch. Canteen's over on the east side, past the train station. You might catch him there.”

It was nearly noon. He looked on his map, headed roughly east, and found the train depot. Passing several men in shorts and tee shirts who were all heading the same way, he followed them toward the scent of meat cooking on a grill. They arrived at a low, plain building. At a covered patio with three or four picnic tables, a small group of men dressed in cowboy gear was just sitting down with their lunch trays. They took off their hats and tossed them onto a nearby table.

“Damn, it's hot,” said one. “What the hell we sitting out here for?” He got no reply but a few grunts.

Hooper was just about to approach the men when something in a stand of palo verde trees next to the patio caught his eye: a long-haired tail, blond and white. He held his breath. Could it be? What other dog had a tail like that? How would he convince the men she was his dog? Maybe she could do a few tricks for him. He waited to see what she would do.

One of the men called to it: “C'mere here, boy.”

Hooper fumed. Why did so many people assume all dogs are male? The man held out a bite of a sandwich, and the dog snatched it and gulped it down.

“Don't feed my dog that crap!” Hooper said under his breath. He started forward.

Then the dog trotted over to a tree, lifted his leg, and let go an obviously masculine stream. Hooper laughed ruefully at himself and backed away. He should have known. That dog was a few pounds overweight and his head was too small to hold much of a brain. Since he was already approaching the men, Hooper greeted them and chatted about dogs and acting. Then he promptly went home.

***

In addition to cataloging, at which she was getting better, Tillie also had the job of mending damaged books. They came to her with broken spines, torn pages, and covers that had been bent, coffee-stained, and gouged with Exacto-blades. Once she was given a book whose pages were stuck together with strawberry jam. Some of the damage was simply due to use and old age, but a lot of it was intentional. Bound journals were missing articles because students were too lazy or cheap to make a photocopy. Encyclopedias had whole sections razored out. Other libraries supplied photocopied replacement pages, which Tillie tipped into the volume. Sometimes students tore out color reproductions of artists' work, an act of sabotage that she took personally. A picture in a book was dull enough compared to the original, but how could you appreciate an article on Matisse, for example, if all you got was a black and white photocopy? How could anyone be so malicious as to take that experience away from someone else? It was distressing to see books treated this way; still, she took some pleasure in restoring them to working condition. The work was tactile and absorbing, and she liked being surrounded with the tools of her trade, the different colored binding tapes, book glue, brushes, boards and thread.

She was allowed a break and always took one. She couldn't stand not to see the sky for more than a few hours at a time. Sometimes she would dash over to the union for a cup of coffee, iced or hot, but today she thought she would first browse the fiction section for something to read in the evenings. She could still take a few minutes to wander outside.

The university was in between summer sessions, so the library was eerily quiet. She paused on the fourth floor landing and decided instead to look in the N's, the art section. She seldom ventured into this area. The last time she did, she'd ended up sitting in the aisle surrounded by stacks of books, flipping through one after the other, gorging on images as though they were chocolates. Abstract expressionists, primitive portraits, color fields, fauvist landscapes. Finally she felt a headache coming on and realized with a start that she'd taken an hour and a half for lunch. Guiltily, she fled from the pile of books as Cinderella did the ball, overwhelmed by beauty and riches, all beyond her limitations. Tillie couldn't help but compare herself to the artists she'd seen, and of course found herself greatly lacking in talent and vision. How could she ever muster the courage to paint her own measly pictures?

This time, she thought, she would restrict her scope. Ducking into the section on American art, she went no farther than the A's and chose two books on Milton Avery, an artist whose cheerfully odd use of color and skewed landscapes—like the yellow cow in a pink and green field—she found charming. She was going to leave immediately, but in passing a half-empty shelving truck, she thought about Frank. She hadn't seen him very much since he'd moved from Serials to be supervisor of the shelvers. Sometimes he came downstairs to chat with her, but it wasn't the same. He didn't miss his old job, he said; the new one suited him much better. When he went into the stacks to check the students' work, he could roam around, discovering new and weird books to read.

She peered down the stacks and heard a light snore. Probably a student, but she thought she'd just make sure. Following the sound to the edge of the stacks, she found Frank ensconced in an overstuffed orange chair. Dressed in a yellow tee shirt and bathed in warm sunlight from a small window, he looked practically beatific. He was sprawled out with his feet on a blue ottoman, one hand clutching a book at his chest, the other flung out theatrically. He opened one eye, as though the scent of library employee had infiltrated his dreaming.

“Hey, Tillie.” He opened both eyes and smiled. “What's up?”

“I came to see what all the noise was about.” She pushed his feet aside so she could sit down. “The windows were rattling. I thought, That must be Frank snoring away, when he should be working.”

“Get outta here. I was just thinking about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I saw that flyer for your dog in the staff room.”

“Oh, that.”

“No luck finding her, huh?”

“No. It's been three weeks now.” Struck anew by sadness, she could say no more.

“Well, she'll turn back up,” he said. “Dogs are amazing creatures. All kinds of stories of how they travel for miles and miles just to get back to their master. They disappear for months or even years and then one day there they are, and nobody knows where they've been.”

“Hmm.”

“These are true stories,” he said earnestly. “Anyway, I believe things happen for a reason, and you can always learn something if you let yourself stay open.”

“I suppose so.” She didn't agree with all of that, but it was nice of him to try.

“Here, like this.” He held up the book he'd been reading. “I was just checking the students' shelf-reading—which is piss-poor, by the way; it's unbelievable—and this book practically jumped into my hands. Now this is more than coincidence. It's about Mount Shasta—you know, in northern California? And I went there last summer; in fact, I was just thinking about it. My buddies and I climbed to the summit. It was so cool. Ex-traor-di-nary.” He emphasized the word. “We went in late May, when there was still an ice pack at the top. You have to use crampons—it's the only way to get up the rock face.”

“Really.” Impressed, she imagined him, strong and confident, climbing a steep and snowy mountain. “That sounds exciting.”

“It was. So cool. Anyway, this book talks about a legend that when Atlantis disappeared, some surviving colonists actually started a new community on Mount Shasta. People say their descendants still hang out there. They communicate through telepathy.”

She couldn't help but smile.

“Hey, it might be true. They say it's one of those power centers, you know? It's got this mystical aura.”

“It must be beautiful.” She yawned hugely and apologized. “I'm suddenly so tired.”

“It's this place. It casts a sleeping spell. I can't get anyone to believe me.”

“I believe you. I have to get some fresh air before I go back to work.”

“Yeah, I should get back, too.”

She gave him her hand, and as he struggled up from the cushions his warm face came close to hers. Their eyes met—his were big and brown, his eyelashes long—and she had a startling urge to kiss him. Once on his feet, he let their grasp linger and she almost thought he leaned in closer, as if he had the same impulse; but she stepped back and released her hand. She looked away. With a hasty good-bye she walked quickly through the stacks and downstairs to check out her books.

She went outside and sat on a low wall in the shade. Students and staff trickled in and out of the library. It was a sleepy summer day, but her heart was racing as though she'd escaped from danger. And perhaps she had; she'd very nearly made a fool of herself. How could she presume that Frank was attracted to her? Just because he was friendly and seemed happy to see her didn't mean he would want to kiss her. How embarrassing that she, a woman committed to the same partner for nearly six years, melted like a schoolgirl in his presence.

And yet; and yet. Though fleeting, it had been such a nice moment. She closed her eyes and his face was close to hers. She kept thinking of his full lips, his warm eyes, his hand in hers. The word “extraordinary” tumbled around in her head, as did the vision of a snowy mountain against a pure blue sky. Such a nice moment. If it ever came again, she thought, she might not walk away.

The monsoon clouds were building. She could see them bunched low on the horizon. It meant for some humidity, but the sky was still so bright and strange, intensely blue but with a hint of green, that it seemed to belong to a Maxfield Parrish painting. The carillon in the union tower rang, and she knew it was time to back down to the basement, but she sat another moment, wondering whether the world held true mystery, as Frank believed, or simply unexpected coincidence.



<-     -c-     ->    

Barry couldn't stop sniffling, and every time he did Lisa turned around and glared at him. He dug a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and cleared his nose as quietly as he could.

“Would you be quiet?” Lisa whispered with a snarl. “And don't leave that thing behind.”

He was too nervous to feel chastised. His palms were sweating from fear and his head was foggy from the cold pills he'd taken. He couldn't see very well with this ski mask on, but he stayed close behind Lisa, who glanced back often, distrusting him. Climbing the stairs, they followed Richard, a tall man with a mustache, whom Barry had met only briefly before they donned ski masks. Richard stopped at each landing to peer through the window on the fire doors, looking for a security guard. Seeing none, he continued on and opened the door to the fourth floor. Barry had expected everything to be dark, but the corridor was dimly lit and the green exit signs glowed. Plaques next to the doors indicated these were research labs. They tiptoed down the corridor, which smelled faintly of chemicals. Barry's new Keds squeaked slightly. Hearing a distant rumble, they stopped—but it was only thunder. Richard motioned them to a door and placed a key in the lock. Barry and Lisa served as lookouts while Richard cracked open the door. They filed through.

Barry was triumphant. They were in. He didn't know how in the world Richard had obtained a key, but it wasn't his place to ask. People in his department made jokes about the secretive and macabre experiments going on at the medical center, but no one really knew for sure what sort of animals underwent what sort of tests. Rabbits? Cats? Nobody was cruel enough to use chimps any more, were they? Barry had heard stories of household pets being kidnapped and sold to such labs; he had supposed they were urban legends, but you never knew. It was worth a look, anyway, and he had a chance of being a hero. He felt as though he should be wearing a silk cape and a Zorro-like mask, rather than this itchy knit thing on his head and plain white tee shirt and jeans.

It hadn't been easy convincing Lisa, a fellow graduate student, to bring him along. She and her co-conspirators wanted to keep the operation small to lessen the risk of exposure, but he had guessed at pieces of their plan, enough to make her wary. He merely used his common sense, put a few things together. He knew that Animal Cruelty Awareness Week was coming up, and that Lisa's activist group had been organizing protests outside the hospital. He also knew that Lisa was a monkey-wrencher: she had been arrested for vandalizing some equipment on Mt. Graham when a road was being built for the observatory. Suspecting she might make another bold move, he read some literature, worked up some indignant rants in her presence, and pretended he knew more about her plan than he did. It wasn't exactly blackmail: he just pestered her like a kid until she reluctantly agreed to bring him along.

The room stirred to life as they entered. Rats skittered in their cages and rabbits blinked. A dog barked; another whined. The noise was nerve-wracking. Barry hadn't expected such activity; had he thought they would all be sleeping? Richard went quickly to work with bolt cutters on the locked cages of the larger animals, while Lisa and Barry unlatched those of the rabbits and gerbils. Soon the room was a flurry of anxious animals. Several dogs were sniffing and pacing; some cats jumped to the tops of tables or shelves, others bristled and backed into a corner of their cage. Observing Richard closely as he opened the dog cages, Barry nearly stepped on a hamster. When the last lock snapped to release the black mutt inside, he started to worry.

Their work took but a couple minutes, and in seconds they became aware of sirens from emergency vehicles outside.

“Silent alarm,” Lisa said. “Let's get out of here.”

“But the animals,” said Barry. The room was in pandemonium, and he was incredulous. What was the point? These animals might have been unhappy in the cages, but they were panicked out of them. He suddenly realized how serious this crime was, and for little apparent result.

“Leave them. We've had our say.”

When they opened the door, three rabbits hopped out. The sirens were less audible in the hallway, and the relative silence made Barry feel even more vulnerable.

“Split up!” hissed Lisa. She raced to one end of the corridor, Richard to the other. Barry froze in the middle. Lisa turned and waved her arm wildly, and he finally hopped to, his sneakers pounding and squeaking down the hall. They tore off their masks so they could see as they flew down the stairs. (What was the point of the masks anyway? Barry wondered. Had they been videotaped?) At the outside exit, Lisa stopped abruptly and Barry bumped into her.

Listening, she put her finger to her lips. The sirens had stopped. Would there be a battery of police cars waiting outside? Barry wondered. Lisa grabbed his mask and tossed it in a corner. Opening the door, she peeked out, then jerked her head for him to follow her.

They were at the back of the building; poor Richard would be on the side facing the busy street. Lisa walked quickly towards the parking garage. Voices behind them behind made their backs feel large and exposed, but they made it to the garage without being accosted.

“Now what?” Barry realized that the sickly yellow light of the garage offered no real hiding place.

“We split up again.” She looked around cautiously. “I'll go this way; you head toward the alley. If anyone questions you, just play it cool. Do not resist arrest; do not admit to anything or implicate us; do not come to my rescue if I'm stopped. We're on our own, got it?” And with that she left him.

He did as told. He could see a blue glow from the flashing lights of the police cars on the other side of the building and wondered if Richard got away. He pulled out his hanky and finally wiped his runny nose. On the other side of the garage, he entered the alley and headed toward the street. At three in the morning, he would look suspicious to any patrol car or security agent, but there was nothing to do except go home. A ferocious clap of thunder made him jump, but when he saw the sky split with a lightning bolt a few seconds later, he relaxed. He loved these monsoons, the pure streaks of lightning, the deluge of glorious water, the release of the tarry smell of creosote.

He arrived home without incident, just as the first raindrops were falling. The little guesthouse, humming with the noise of the cooler, felt a safe haven. He took off his clothes but for his shorts and sat in his desk chair, swiveling side to side. That had been a close call. And they had accomplished nothing, really, but petty vandalism. The animals would be rounded up and used for experiments as before. And the one animal he had been looking for was not there. A bust, completely.

And yet he allowed himself to grin and then break into a laugh. It had been fun. Fun! It was illegal and dangerous and stupid, and he wouldn't do something like that again, but he, Barry Bishop, had participated in guerrilla warfare, had put himself on the line for a worthy purpose and acquitted himself quite nicely. He doubted Lisa would be at all friendly toward him after this, but he didn't mind. He just wished they didn't have to be so secretive about it; he'd love to tell someone.

***

Now Tillie had two clients. Ellen Driver liked the idea of home hair service so well, she gave Tillie's name to a friend of hers, Mrs. Rivera. Tillie was going to decline, but evidently Mrs. Rivera had hurt her foot, and it was hard for her to get to the beauty parlor. Would Tillie do it just this once?

She agreed, but told Hooper, “I can't believe I'm back in the hairdo business.”

As soon as she walked into Mrs. Rivera's house, she was reminded of her grandmother's house. The bright white walls, the smell of coffee and cedar and something else peculiar to old people's homes—Ponds cold cream or moth balls—all evoked a nugget of her childhood, when she used to go with her dad to his mother's house on Saturdays. While he mowed the lawn, Tillie would edge and sweep up the sidewalks. Gran always had lunch ready: salami or ham sandwiches, most often, with hot peppers and briny olives on the side. Tillie loved the sharp tastes, so different from her usual peanut butter and jelly. She'd have milk, Dad and Gran a small glass of red wine. Gran was pretty deaf, so they didn't talk much, but it seemed enough just to sit in the sunny kitchen nook and share a meal. They finished off with plain cookies—biscuits, Gran called them. They were pretty tasteless but Tillie loved them nevertheless, because Dad would put a splash of coffee in her milk and she soaked the cookies until they nearly disintegrated.

Mrs. Rivera was nothing like Gran. Where her Gran was tall and thin, Mrs. Rivera was short and round. Gran had worn simple cotton dresses and only her wedding ring for adornment; Mrs. Rivera wore a bright pink jumpsuit and gold costume jewelry on her neck, wrists, fingers, and ears.

And Mrs. Rivera talked. As soon as she opened the door and had greeted Tillie, she was describing her injury, how difficult it was to get around with a cane, and how kind Ellen Driver was to recommend a hairdresser. As Tillie set down her bag of supplies, she managed to squeeze in a question about how Mrs. Rivera liked her hair done, but from then on Mrs. Rivera did all the talking. She talked about the tasteless fish and chicken in the supermarkets; she talked about teaching herself English by reading labels and billboards and watching soap operas; she talked about the recent burglaries on her street.

Absorbed in combing and snipping, lulled by Mrs. Rivera's voice, Tillie listened with half an ear. She had been glad to give up her life as a hairdresser, the long hours on her feet, the insidious chemicals, the yakking customers. But the truth was she rather missed it. She had to admit she took sensuous pleasure in putting her hands in someone else's hair; there was satisfaction in working small transformations. Women were happy when they left her chair, more confident, relaxed, and renewed.

After Tillie finished with the curlers, Mrs. Rivera made a pot of coffee and set out little floral teacups, a sugar bowl and a plate of Nilla wafers.

“Is strong okay with you?” She poured the thick dark brew. “I make it strong, it's the way I know how.”

“Strong is fine,” said Tillie. “But do you happen to have any milk or cream?”

“Oh, sure,” said Mrs. Rivera with a sigh. “I can get it, Mrs. Rivera.”

“Angela. Call me Angela, dear. No, no, sit down, sit down, you're standing all the time.” Angela limped to the refrigerator, poured milk in a little ceramic pitcher with a rooster painted on it, and sat down. Then she put a hand—with three big gold rings on it—to her ear.

“Hear that?”

Tillie could faintly hear drums, a guitar, a voice singing.

“My grandson Robert. He plays in a band. They call themselves the Bow-wows or something.” She waved her hand dismissively, but it was clear she was proud. “He lives back in the guest house. He asked me if the band could practice there twice a week—such a racket! Oh well, it makes them happy... But I told them no drugs. None of that. They're good kids. Robert, he looks so like his grandfather, tall man, sleepy eyes, mouth like a movie star. Named for him, too. My Roberto, poor man.” She launched into a tale about how they came to New York from Puerto Rico, nearly destitute, until her husband found work driving a tour bus.

“But his health. The winters were so bad there. When you're used to a sunny climate, you know? And his brother was in Tucson, so we decide to come here. We moved with two children, crossed the country on the train. Such a long trip! Roberto got a job driving the trolley. Yes, there was once a trolley here! He loved it so, and the children loved him. He'd ring the bell for them, sometimes wouldn't take their fare, told them to save it for ice cream. But it finally killed him.”

“I'm sorry,” Tillie said, a slight question in her voice. She'd lost the trail of connections. What had killed him? Ice cream?

“They shut the trolley down and he lost his job. He was so dejected. Got hit by a car a month later—he just wasn't watching.”

“I'm so sorry,” Tillie said again, more sincerely this time.

“It happens, it happens. You married? No, you got no ring. Do you live with somebody, then, as they say?”

“Yes, my partner and—”

“Marriage,” Angela said, leaning forward as though to tell a secret, “will keep you sane. I know.” She wagged her finger. “After Roberto, I got married twice more. Yes, altogether, three! All happy marriages, too. They all died, God rest their souls, but all happy unions. A woman finds balance, you'll see. Marriage is an anchor.”

“That's wonderful.” Tillie was a little annoyed. “But not all marriages are as happy as yours, I'm afraid.”

“True, true,” said Angela with a sigh. “Well, then, I speak for myself. A partner, then, eh? Is that what you call him?” She looked skeptical, then shrugged. “Well, everybody needs companionship. But a ring—all the better, I say. More coffee? Then let's take these curlers out, eh?”

Tillie used the hair dryer, then started to remove the curlers.

“What do you know about dogs?” said Angela. Tillie was taken aback. “Dogs?” “Robert—my grandson Robert—he brought home a dog. I said, No dog! But he promised he'd keep it out of the garden, said it'd make a good watchdog. I don't know—I always thought watchdogs were big and scary looking. I don't think this dog could scare anybody away.”

“What does it look like?”

“Little honey-colored thing. Long fur. Big bark, but not much bite, I bet. Oh, well. So long as I'm not stepping in merda out in the garden, I said okay. Robert seems to like it.”

Tillie combed Angela's thick gray hair repeatedly. She gave her a hand-mirror and held up another so she could see the back of her head as well.

“It's nice, eh?” Angela said, gently patting the curls, evidently pleased. “That's just fine. Here, let me pay you.” From a fat leather wallet stuffed with photos and cards she pulled out a number of bills and counted them out.

Tillie thanked her. “I believe I know someone who plays in the band with your grandson. Ellen Driver's niece, Donna.”

“Oh, yes, Donna. Sure! Sweet girl. She has a son.”

“Yes, that's right. I'd like to go say hello to her, if I may.”

“Of course, go say hello. She's a sweet girl, isn't she? She's got that ring in her nose—it's what kids are doing. I don't understand it, do you? Pretty face like that. But otherwise I think she's smart, eh? Come back this way.” Tillie tried to discourage her from walking, but she waved her off, grabbed the cane, and led Tillie out the back door and across the bricked patio. She banged on the door of the small house until the music stopped and someone opened the door.

“My grandson Roberto.” She rolled the 'r' as she introduced the tall, dark-haired young man. “This is Tillie, Roberto. Here to see your friend.” With a wave good-bye, she limped back into the house.

Tillie shook hands with Robert and suddenly felt very awkward as she stepped inside the house.

“Tillie, hi!” Donna said with a big smile. Tillie was grateful to be welcomed. “What are you doing here? I mean—”

“I was just styling Angela's hair, like I do for your aunt. She said you were practicing back here, so I thought I'd say hi. Maybe listen to you play? If you don't mind.”

“Sure, that'd be great! Uh, this is Crash, actually,” she said, pointing to Robert, “and this is Walt.” The bongo player jerked his goateed chin in salute.

Crash tossed a pile of clothes and newspapers off a brown plaid couch and invited Tillie to sit down. The room's walls were bare, save for a bulletin board that was plastered with phone numbers on bits of paper and colored flyers announcing various bands. The lampshade was torn and the carpet littered with chip bags and beer cans, piles of CD's, magazines and pizza boxes. Two Martin guitar cases leaned against the wall. As Tillie sank into the shapeless cushions, she realized that her thirty-three years were a long way from twenty-three, when she might have found such a place inviting, or at least interesting. Now she just felt intrusive. What had gotten into her? Asking to listen in, as though she were a teen-aged groupie.

“Okay,” said Crash. “Shall we try 'Upside-Down And Backwards' again?”

Walt started to tap on his bongos, Donna picked up the beat on her acoustic guitar and Crash plowed enthusiastically into his.

.
I know this T-shirt had a pocket on it
I know I shouldn't get a bee in my bonnet
But I'm really rather flummoxed since I lost it
Doggone it
Don't tell me now it's riding on my back
.

Tillie was reminded of one summer—she must have been about eight—when she and her friends pretended they were the Beatles. They turned a hassock on its side for a drum, borrowed their brothers' cheap guitars and lip-synched to the songs—even the never-ending “Hey Jude.” Over and over they practiced, feeling so grown-up and talented. Even now something in her wanted to grab a guitar and jam—even though she couldn't play a lick. It was the lure of being purely physical, allowing your body and not simply your mind create something. It was the desire to draw others into sharing your pleasure.

Her friends and she also created a circus, complete with acrobats, a dancing bear, and a magician. They invited parents, did cartwheels, formed a human pyramid. Did they ever ask themselves whether they could do it or not? When she was even younger, she and her friend Becky would sneak around behind the playhouse and run the hose in the dirt to make a rich, mucky ooze, the perfect consistency to plop into old pie tins and decorate with leaves and twigs. Her mom used to get so mad about that, but mud was an irresistible, lovely thing. How delicious to get your hands in that gloppy stuff, the color and consistency of fudge, and to feel it squish between your fingers and toes. When she took pottery classes in high school, she had felt the same primal response, and quickly, intuitively learned to center the clay on the wheel. She had never taken a mud bath, but it must be a wonderfully sensuous experience, she thought. That's why pigs lie in wallows.

.
Tried to tie the leash up to your doggy's back end
With underwear upon my head I'm starting a new trend
I'm stirring soup with knives
But I'm not going 'round the bend
Just waiting for my lover to come home
.

They were decent musicians, Donna clearly the most accomplished. As they went on to rehearse other songs, Donna played some complicated violin parts or sang with a clear, rich voice. Walt played percussion with rice in a coffee can and wooden spoons on a block of wood; Crash played lead guitar and sang loudly, if not always in tune. They flubbed their way through theme songs to Gilligan's Island and the Patty Duke Show, singing them at double-time or with a reggae beat. They were having fun, Tillie realized. If other people liked it, all the better.

The group stopped to discuss a rough spot. Donna smiled at Tillie and rolled her eyes, making fun of herself and the band for being so serious. Smiling in return, Tillie wished that they could become friends, but told herself that Donna wouldn't have the time or interest. She was just being nice; she must have many friends already. From the next room a yellow dog ambled in, interrupting Tillie's musing. It was a scrawny little dog with a wispy tail and pointy snout.

“Hey, Sid,” Crash said. “How're ya doin', buddy?”

The dog came over to Tillie and sniffed her feet, then snuffled around the pizza boxes and lay down with a sigh. Nearly overwhelmed with disappointment and embarrassment, Tillie waited for a break in their playing, then struggled up from the saggy cushions. She didn't belong there. She wasn't a musician or a groupie, or even a friend.

“Thanks for letting me sit in. It was fun.” As they bade her good-bye, Tillie gave a quick wave and headed out the door. Carrying her bag of hair-styling supplies with her, she went through the back gate, got into her car, and went home, scarcely paying attention to the route.

Before she went in the house she checked the mail. Only a couple bills and—her heart hopped—an envelope marked “Cosmo's Friends.” Hooper wasn't home, but this time she didn't wait for him to open it. At the kitchen table she read the note, which had been written on a computer.

.
I could discern clearly,
even at that early age,
the essential difference
between people who are
kind to dogs and people
who really love them.
.
—Frances P. Cobbe
The Confessions of a Lost Dog, 1867
.

She was dumbfounded. She read it over and over. What could this mean? Somebody knew something about Cosmo; much as she struggled to make sense of it, that was all she could conclude. What did they want?

When Hooper got home, she thought, they could talk this out. But then, reconsidering, she decided it would do him no good to know about this. It wasn't a ransom note or a clue to a mystery; it offered no directions or explanations. If it had been written by a crank, it was simply mean-spirited. Hooper would be upset and brood for days, and he would still have no focus for his anger and hurt, no opportunity to take action. She read the note one more time, replaced it in its envelope, and tucked it away in her underwear drawer.

***

Maria lay on the rug next to her dog Gula, who was old and arthritic. In the last few months Gula had taken a turn for the worse: her breathing was labored and she didn't want to budge from her soft bed. At fifteen she had already lived longer than average for Labrador retrievers, and at their last visit to the vet, the doctor had told Maria to be prepared to say good-bye. “What do you mean?” Maria asked. “Will she just give out, or will I have to put her down eventually?” The vet couldn't be sure, saying, “You'll know when it's time.”

He had greater faith in her instincts than she did. That's what people said about falling in love: You'll know when it's right. She wanted to believe that—and she had believed it, with Luis, Stuart, and Kenny—but she could trust herself no more. Nick had felt more right than anyone, and now he was gone, too.

She'd last seen him in the grocery store a couple weeks ago. Although she might have passed by before he noticed, she couldn't help but stop and gaze at his face. He wasn't exactly handsome—his scraggly beard covered a chin scarred by teenage acne—but there was something so attractive about him, a kind of grittiness, an intelligence that didn't take any shit. He was in the cereal aisle, studying a row of sugary kid stuff, and his cart was full of frozen dinners, chips, and soda. She couldn't stand it. He looked up.

“Sweetheart.” She refused to pretend that they meant nothing to each other. “Why do you eat that crap? You have to treat your body better than that.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, Maria.” He tossed some Count Chocula into his cart. “You don't give up, do you?”

She smiled. Without him all these months, she had pined to see those fishtail lines skidding out of the corners of his blue eyes.

“I know a good thing when I see it,” she said.

“Well.” He bit his lip as if in regret and turned his cart. “I need to get going. So long, Maria.”

She was stunned. What the hell? He turned and rolled his cart down the aisle, leaving her to grip her cart, staring numbly into space. Slowly, she pushed forward, moving up and down the aisles, aimlessly dumping bags of rice and beans, cans of corn, and then chocolate chips and cookies into her cart. She wasn't sure if she was more furious or humiliated. She looked for him in the dairy, the checkout line, and the parking lot, but he had disappeared.

She hadn't seen him since. Had he been shopping at another store all this time, and just happened into Safeway that day? Had he been avoiding their old coffee shops, their bars, their tamale vendors outside of Walgreens? He was not so cowardly; he was better than that. Or so she would have thought.

She was tired of looking for a new love. She had gone to new bars and even a few churches. She volunteered at 10K races and hiked near resorts, but she hadn't found anyone who had both a brain and a heart. Of all the men she now considered, only Hooper was interesting to her. She knew he was devoted to Tillie, though; in fact, his affection was part of what made him attractive. Maria couldn't quite understand what he saw in her. She seemed a little dull, but you never knew what drew people together. In any case, Maria wasn't the type to break up a couple; instead, she said a little prayer for their happiness. If those two could stay together, maybe there was hope for women like her.

She got ready for bed, gave Tasha a pat on the head and, heaving Gula on the bed, climbed in next to her.

***

In the middle of the night, Hooper woke up and was aware of Tillie's breathing. It was the sound of night to him, soft and rhythmic. He could see only the suggestion of her in the dim light, but his arms knew the shape they would take as he held her; his hands knew the persuasion of her skin. They shared a bed, breakfast, bodies; he knew her smells, what made her laugh, how it felt to run his hand down the curve of her back. His mind skipped over past images of her. Tillie in a big black coat, her faced upturned, mouth open to catch drifting snowflakes. Tillie wearing a deep blue cocktail dress and excited about her senior show, her hair—longer then—piled on top of her head. And Tillie running into the surf, exclaiming at the shock of the cold water.

Such indulgent thoughts nearly lulled him back to sleep; but then he blinked, resisting. He didn't want to be complacent, to take her for granted. In their first years together, his heart would skip just to throw a soft snowball at her, or hear her boots clomp on the front porch when she came home, or watch her undress for bed. He didn't want them to just get along; he wanted the happy arrogance that love can inspire, the confidence that one is capable of taking other risks as well. And he wondered if that was sliding away.

Earlier that evening, after dinner, he had turned on a baseball game in the living room and by the third inning he realized he didn't know where she was. He looked in the kitchen, the bedroom, the office, but she wasn't in the house. He finally saw her out the window in the back yard, where she was sitting without a book or anything to occupy her.

He debated whether or not to go out and see how she was doing. Maybe she wanted to be alone. Then again, maybe she was upset about something, and if that were the case, he should try to talk to her.

He stepped outside and sat down with her. “What's up?” he asked. “Nothing. I just wanted to sit outside for a while.” He nodded, uncertain whether she was irritated with him. She wasn't crying, but something about her body posture seemed guarded. He jokingly invited her to come watch baseball.

“You go ahead.” At least she smiled.

He'd gone back inside and, even though he wasn't that interested, watched the rest of the game, which went into extra innings. Tillie went to bed before him, and now, lying beside her, he started to wonder about his reaction to that little scene. He'd been angry. Not compassionate or even tolerant, but frustratingly, selfishly angry. She was just sitting outside by herself; why should he resent that? Why did it unnerve him so? Because once again, he thought, she had shut him out. Once again she had excluded him from her more intimate self. Part of him was tired of trying to draw her out or cheer her up—if indeed that's what she needed. He was tired of fishing around for information about her interior life. Didn't she trust him? If not, why were they together? Anger was perhaps not the most constructive emotion, he acknowledged, but she gave him nothing else to work with.

That's how it was with her art: silence and evasion. He knew he shouldn't take it personally, but he did. She had given up something that had been an integral part of who she was. He couldn't help but wonder: would she someday give up on him as well? In a way, he felt she already had, by ignoring his encouragement, dismissing his praise. She used to enjoy sharing her work-in-progress with him, but now he felt as though he'd lost a job. He wanted his presence to be motivating, his opinion to be valued. If he were honest with himself—and he could be, here with his own thoughts—he knew that his anger was fueled by insecurity. Even after all these years, he wrestled with the fear that she would get tired of him and realize he was a hindrance. That she would leave.

He knew how easy it was to lose your way; he knew that her self-doubts were too much like his own. On a good day, he would call himself a hard worker, a decent actor, a capable director—and yet he still thought it possible that the whole enterprise could come crashing down around him any time. His business and the theater, a jumble of stupid mistakes and misguided hopes. He would reveal his true sorry self, exposing his inadequacies. As long as he was absorbed in his work, he was confident and focused, but in the idle summer season he had time to reflect and question. She reminded him that one's balance could feel very wobbly and tenuous.

What was one to believe in? Although he would call himself an atheist, he still prayed, perhaps as a superstitious holdover from a Catholic childhood, or because some unknown part of him actually drew comfort from it. His sense of the divine was vague at best. He didn't feel a spiritual self resonate in his bones, nor could he believe that death resulted in anything more than one's taking up an embalmed space in otherwise useful soil. But here in the dim light, beside him in bed, lying on her belly and perhaps drooling slightly, perhaps dreaming, was a bright and shining soul whom he loved. He was beyond explaining why; he didn't care to. He wished she were happier, but he couldn't simply will that to happen; he couldn't perform the magic that was needed to resurrect her creative being. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't just bang on nails or haul away rubble to fix things for her.

Tillie awoke also and for a few moments she was safely snuggled in her childhood bed. Soon her mother, with coffee on her breath, would come in to give her a kiss and tell her to get up for school. She would put on the clothes laid out the night before, eat a bowl of Cocoa Krispies for breakfast, gather her coat and lunch sack. The sound of the whirring floor fan was out of place, however, and brought her back to the desert. She slowly realized that she was herself, but an adult, and that the presence next to her was Hooper.

He was quiet. Since she was asleep when he came to bed, they hadn't spooned as they usually did, her back to his belly, talking idly before making love or rolling over to sleep. The omission had made her sleep seem disjointed and rough-edged, all the more so because she had sensed his uneasiness when he came outside to see her. She had intended to talk to him later, but first she needed some time to think. He didn't understand that; his mind was so quicksilver he didn't always give her the space she needed.

She would have told him about an incident at work that had seemed insignificant but took on more weight as she mused about it. Working at her cataloguing station, she had been terribly moved by a book about Angela Grauerholz. It was full of rich, sepia-toned photographs that seemed snatched not only from a moment, but from the stuff of dreams; glimpses of scenes that evoked strange longing, portent, or spiritual calm; fragments of ordinary instants made luscious. She showed her co-workers, Susan and Maureen, one that she particularly liked: a photograph of a blurry table with two empty glasses on it, and the hint of a figure in the obscure light. Their responses were mild. “Interesting.”

“It looks out of focus.”

She wanted a girlfriend.

That was her main heartache, she thought, even more so than an inability to paint: she was lonely. Hooper was her friend and lover and perhaps even a soul mate; but he couldn't be everything. And because she'd had good friends in the past, she knew what she was missing. There was Kim, who'd sit at the potter's wheel next to her and chat about food, men, and mothers; Andrea, who took her canoeing on the river for long lazy days; Becca, whom she trusted to look at her work and tell her kindly that it sucked; and Debbie, who shared beer and magazines as they worked on collages just for fun on Sunday afternoons. In her mind she cast about for the various friends who had come in and out of her life. Knowing they were scattered around the east coast, from Portland to New York, and even in Key West, she pulled them in close to her, as though she'd snatched them in a net, and held them. Then she let the net go. Pulling in, she was desirous; letting go, she was generous. Out and in, like the drawing of her breath or the surge of water, like waves tumbling forward and tugging back.

She thought of the waves on the wide sandy beach at Ogunquit, and now she imagined herself strolling along Marginal Way. She clambered down the bluff and out to the rocks where she and Hooper used to sit, the surf crashing at their feet. Another beach called to her, a late autumn afternoon at Kittery Point, where they watched as the sun set and the moon rose. It was a harvest moon, fat on the horizon; the sun was a molten orange. With their arms around each other—her cheek against his gray wool coat, his against her head—they each looked in a different direction. They turned one way, then the other, so they both could look at the eastern and western skies.

Beside her in bed, he didn't move. She couldn't hear him breathe. The longer she listened, the more she felt a black hole of dread sucking her in. If Cosmo could disappear like that, so could Hooper. A drunk or witless driver could mow him down any time. He could even be murdered leaving the theater some late night—it wasn't all that safe downtown. He could have a heart attack at 65, or even 45, and she might have to face another 15 or 40 years alone after that. He could have a malingering disease that slowly but inevitably deflated his essence, like a sad old balloon after a party. The scenarios that his demise could take were endless; the prospect of a life without him, however, was consistently bleak. He wouldn't be there to share breakfast, a glass of wine, a funny story. He wouldn't be there to point out a cardinal in the tree, name the desert flower, or introduce her to his new acquaintances. Only in the emptiness of the night did she have an inkling of what his absence would mean, and she felt as though she were suffocating.

He scratched his nose; she sighed in relief. Sensing that each other was awake, and in spite of the heat and the sweat immediately forming where their skin touched, they clung fast to each other, belly to belly, arms and legs entwined. Gradually they sought each other's lips for a grasping kiss, and finally, throwing off the sheet, they made love without a word. Relinquishing their hold, they lay side by side and were quickly cooled by the blowing fan. He pulled up the sheet. Now they could say goodnight, with a sense of closure that wasn't there before, but still he felt strangely unsettled. Reaching out to touch her shoulder, he was unaware of her tears slipping onto the pillow.



<-     -c-     ->    

Once long ago the dogs in the world prayed to God to improve their lot. They sent one of their number as ambassador to heaven with the petition that they not be whipped any more by their masters. So God wrote out a great document, putting a stop to the whippings and providing also that the dogs be fed.

The ambassador locked the document under his tail and started for home. But he lost it swimming across a river and was afraid to go home without it. He never did go back.

Ever since that time every dog examines every other under the tail, for until the document is found dogs will continue to be whipped and go hungry.

—Early American folk tale from
God Had a Dog



<-     -c-     ->    

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?



<-     -c-     ->    

Barry's mom once told him that she was a Queen.

He had been crying, probably because of a mean friend, or a stubbed toe, which he used to get all the time as a kid running around barefoot in the summer. He shut up immediately; he loved her stories.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Queen of Halcyon. It's an island in the South Pacific. Remember I showed you on the globe where that is?”

He nodded, wide-eyed.

“It was a lovely place. There were white sand beaches, palm trees and blue skies. The water was always warm, and it smelled like vanilla, so it was like wading in cookies just to get your feet wet.” She tickled his foot. “When I was Queen, I used to drink fruit punch from a coconut. I lived in a tree house with pillows everywhere and every kind of instrument you can name. I had a pet monkey and a parrot that could sing 'Take Me Out To The Ball Game.'”

Barry laughed again and then, more serious, said, “Why aren't you Queen now?”

“Oh, the people weren't silly enough. They were always afraid. You name it, they were afraid of it. Thunderstorms, bats, pointy-nosed monsters. Even new kinds of food—like s'mores, can you believe it?—they were too scared to try. It was hard to find anyone to play with me.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, when your father came by on a big sailboat with colored flags flying, I decided to go along with him. Aren't you glad?”

Barry nodded.

“Me, too. Now, come on.” She dropped him off her lap, took his hand and led him to the bathroom, where she pulled a new roll of toilet paper out of the cupboard. “Go make your sister a mummy. Tell her the Queen said so.”

***

The following Saturday found Tillie driving toward South Tucson, a part of town she wasn't familiar with. Stopping at a red light, she studied her scribbled directions several times. She was on her way to talk with Roscoe Fernandez, the Pet Search man, whom she had called from work the day before. She hadn't told Hooper, who was out doing errands. He didn't like to ask other people for help, and besides, he would think it strange that Roscoe had asked her to bring a photo of the dog and something that had belonged to her. Roscoe didn't explain why. It wasn't until the end of the conversation that he invited her out to his house, and she felt that she couldn't back out at that point.

She turned down his street and drove slowly until she came to the right address, a modest white adobe. Although the neighbors' yards were laced with scruffy brown bermuda grass, Fernandez's yard was graced by a single ocotillo ringed by smooth river stones. She felt oddly reassured to notice that the dirt in the yard had been carefully raked in circular patterns. Even so, she was rehearsing a request to hold their conference on the front steps and wished she had told someone where she was going.

The screen door opened before she even approached the house, and a thin man with dark hair came out.

“Tillie,” he said genially. “I'm Roscoe Fernandez. Welcome.”

Grasping her hand firmly, he held it a beat longer than she expected and looked intently in her face. His own was dark-complected and slightly lined; he had a sparse mustache.

“Come around to the back,” he said. “We'll sit on the porch, if it's not too hot for you.”

“No—no, that's fine.” So much for her speech, but at least they'd be outside.

He led her to back of the house, and they passed from barren dirt to lush garden. Tillie exclaimed appreciatively.

“Thank you. I've got beans, corn, squash, stuff like that. All native plants, except for the lemon tree, but that was here when I moved in. I made lemonade. Would you like some?”

“Yes, thank you.” She was parched.

He invited her to sit at a small table that was shaded by a wooden awning. He went inside the back door. Tillie sat and watched a lizard scuttle across the cement floor; then her eye fell on a brown hound dog stretched out next to the other chair. wag.

“Hey, doggy,” she said quietly, and his tail gave one wag.

Roscoe appeared carrying a tray laden with a green glass pitcher and two glasses filled with ice.

“This is Regalo,” he introduced the dog. “Friend of mine found him on the reservation. He was real skinny.” Regalo wagged his tail twice without raising his big head.

He poured the lemonade and they sat for a full two minutes without saying anything. Tillie didn't mind. Unexpectedly, she could feel herself relaxing.

“Okay,” he said finally. “So your dog is missing, huh?”

“She's been gone a while. Since May, three months.” Handing him a photo of Cosmo, which he studied closely, she quickly explained the circumstances and described how thoroughly they had looked for her, how they still occasionally patrolled the school and adjacent areas.

“Uh-huh.” He was contemplating his garden. Tillie noticed a small shrine in the corner of the yard: a blue-robed Madonna in a peach-colored niche, surrounded by an arch of dried roses. She waited for him to respond.

“Did you bring something that belonged to the dog?” he asked finally.

She pulled a dog brush from her purse and gave it to him. Gently picking out some light-colored fur from the metal bristles, he cupped it in his palm.

“Tillie, here's what I usually do. I visit the shelter every day, look at the caged dogs and the records of the ones found DOA. I read the 'found' ads in the newspaper—even back issues. Sometimes it takes a while, but you'd be surprised at how often animals turn up.”

She thought: I told you; we've done all that.

“But.” He held the brush between his hands as though praying. “Sometimes I get a feeling about things. This dog... Tell me. Have you ever dreamt about things that don't seem to be part of your own consciousness? That are completely incongruous, like a billboard on a country road?”

“Hmm. No, I haven't.”

“You know, the dog has a long history of being domesticated. That's why there's so much diversity among breeds. Native peoples for years used them as pack animals. Some tribes treated dogs better than others, but universally they recognized that this animal had certain... qualities.”

Tillie met his gaze. This hot August day, the tart, cold lemonade, the green garden and shrine, the sound of his voice, slightly accented: all made her feel as though she were in a foreign film, slow-paced and lush.

“For instance. People all over the world—in Europe, the Americas, India—believe that the dog is spirit-sighted. They think dogs can see ghosts, spirits, fairies, angels, things not of our world. That they howl when they see the angel of death, if you want to call it that, or when the forces of good and evil are struggling for a soul. Powerful stuff, huh?” He smiled, flashing strong, crooked white teeth. “It's interesting. I've known a lot of dogs, see, and some people say they're just dumb animals, but I really believe they have a depth, a spiritual quality we don't appreciate.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“So what I'm saying is, I get these feelings sometimes about certain dogs. People, too, actually. It's like I know something, but I don't know how I know it.”

Tillie sipped her lemonade. “Do you know something about Cosmo?”

“Well, yes and no. Nothing definite.” He paused. “I'll tell you about this recurring dream. It started a few months ago—maybe May or June—and I get it every once in a while. I dream a dog is licking my face, making me laugh. That's all. But holding this brush, I can tell it was this dog. I mean your dog was in my dream. It may sound silly, but it's true.”

“I see,” she said, struggling to make sense. “Some information comes in images.”

“Something like that. So I can't say for sure your dog is fine, but—well, I know she is.”

She nodded.

“If she visits my dreams again, Tillie, I'll try to ask her where she is, what she needs. Sometimes that works. I'm not sure what else I can do for you at this time, but, please trust me, the wheels are in motion.”

“Thank you.” She felt more grateful than she would have imagined.

“More lemonade?”

“No, thanks. I should go.” When she stood and reached for the brush, he took her hand again.

“Thank you for your time,” she said sincerely. “And the lemonade.”

“My pleasure. Please don't give up hope. These things have a way of working out.” He escorted her back to her car. “I'll see you.”

She knew he meant it. In her rear-view mirror she could see him standing on the sidewalk, watching her, until she turned the corner at the end of the block.

***

That same Saturday, Hooper stopped in at Cafe Joe as he was doing errands around town.

“Sally not in?” he asked Peter. He had wanted to ask her about the flyer in the mailbox last week.

“No,” said Peter. “She begged for the day off, but I don't know why. Hope it's not that bad-news boyfriend of hers.”

“Ah.” Hooper knew nothing about Sally and her love life, but bad news was bad news.

“Hey,” said Peter. “You running auditions any time soon?”

“Not until the start of October. The season starts in a few weeks, but we have a couple things lined up to take us to November.”

“Let me know, okay? I'm thinking of a new career.” Peter made some vogue dance moves with his hands and turned his head in profile. “What do you think?”

“Very nice. You'd make a fine Attendant Lord.”

“It's all I ask.” Peter handed Hooper his iced tea to go.

He stopped at the bank, the nursery, and the hardware store before returning home. Tillie's car was gone and he wondered where she was. He ate a sandwich, left her a note and walked over to the university library. He liked to go there in the summer, when fewer students were around and he could soak up some free air conditioning. His favorite spot was on the third floor, by the large windows facing north, where he could look out on the Catalina mountains. He never got tired of them. Early in the mornings and at sunset, the shadows were deep and the outcrops tinged pink or orange; during a storm they hunkered down and flattened out. Now at midday, they were a burlap brown, washed out under a clear blue sky.

He set before him a stack of original scripts and proposals for performance pieces. He and his co-director Nancy had already pared the choices to about twenty, so he needed to choose six or eight contenders. Tomorrow they would confer and determined the schedule for the season. Normally they would have settled this weeks ago, but they both seemed too busy lately. Or rather, Nancy was busy, traveling and moving into a new house. He had just been too befuddled and lazy.

The Time I Won a Prize was the one on top. Jumping Room after that.

He became aware of a faint snoring. Some researcher drooping over his reading, probably. Hooper didn't blame him. It was just after lunch, siesta time. He himself yawned.

Auction House. In the Dumps. If You Say So. Good grief. Where to start?

He let his gaze drift to the scene out the window. How different the desert mountains were from the flat farm lands outside of Buffalo, the city where he grew up. It was the joke of the rest of the nation, but actually not a bad place to grow up. There were some wonderful old buildings downtown, places to ski and hike not too far away. The summers were pleasant, warm but not too humid. You could go swimming in a nearby lake or river, ride your bike after months of keeping it in the basement. He remembered how shady the streets were, trees so thick and tall you had to stand in the middle of the street and look straight up to see the sky.

One summer he and Tom helped their dad build a tree house in the back yard. It had a roof camouflaged with tree trimmings, so they were protected from occasional rainstorms and possible enemies. They had walkie-talkies, which they shared with a few select friends, a password, and a rope system for hauling up the lunch their mother made. That must have been one of the last summers they still played together; he was about ten, Tom eight.

They both had read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory—Hooper twice. He knew all the Oompa-Loompa chants by heart. The tree house became the chocolate factory; Tom was Charlie and Hooper Mr. Wonka. He loved the role. Wearing a cardboard top hat his parents kept from a Halloween costume, he strutted like an antic vaudevillian.

Then the kid up the street, Ronny, started coming over to play more often and he wanted to be Charlie. And since Hooper wanted to be Ronny's friend, he made Tom be all the other characters, from Augustus Gloop to Veruca Lake. Tom was mad about that—and rightly so. Who'd want to play all the dopes? In the scene where Veruca gets sent to the dumpster with all the other bad nuts, Tom finally revolted. “No!” he shouted. “I'm not going into the trash.”

“Not going into the trash?” Hooper repeated, still in character as Willie Wonka. “Not going?” His voice grew louder and he started to hop around the tree house, brandishing his cane—part of an old broomstick. “Dear little girl, you're a very bad nut, and bad nuts go down the garbage chute! Tut, tut! Bad nut!” He was very proud of his ad-libbing, but he was too rambunctious for that small space, and the next thing he knew, Tom was on the ground.

Hooper and Ronny stared down at him in horror; Tom stared back in disbelief. He held out his arm, which was jagging out at a frightening angle, and suddenly burst into a scream that would have rivaled Veruca Lake's. Mom came ripping out of the house, Ronny was sent home, and Hooper, riding in the back seat of the car to the hospital, had to listen to his brother wail all the way. Tom spent the rest of the summer with his arm in a cast, and their tree house play was never quite so intense. Hooper apologized up and down, but Tom seemed to keep a distance, as though he were never quite sure when Willie was going to go on a rampage again.

Under Covers. Walking in Heels.

He laughed to himself. Tut, tut! God, what had gotten into him? He was the real nut. His smile grew rueful as he thought about Tom's letter and how, once again, Tom had been shoved out of the house.

Well, to the job at hand. He had read these scripts once, at the beginning of summer, and had meant to review them carefully before making final decisions, but his heart wasn't in it. Flipping through the scripts, he knew he was giving too little attention to them, the way he might read a Chinese menu when he was so hungry he could eat bamboo shoots out of the can, but it had to be done. He read the synopses and samples of the dialogue. An hour passed, then two. He set the ones he was interested in on the top of the pile and got up to leave. The snoring had stopped, and a young man with a ponytail and orange shirt was now standing in the stacks with a clipboard in hand, staring at the books as though waiting for a sign. He glanced up at Hooper, gave him a sheepish smile and a thumbs-up, and returned to his contemplative pose. Hooper felt unreasonably vindicated for his own half-assed endeavor.

He glanced out the window one more time. He much preferred the long desert views to the claustrophobic trees of the East. A horizon, a sky, a way to orient yourself. It opened his head, directed his attention outward.

Leaving the comfortable climate of the library for the bright oven world, he walked home. Le Mariage de Figaro was blaring when he walked in the house; he turned it down and Tillie came out of the kitchen.

“How's it going?” she said. “Another winning season?”

“We'll see.” He flopped onto the couch and set his feet on the coffee table. “Where were you this morning?”

Still excited about her visit with Roscoe, she sat on the armchair and told him about it. When she started to describe the yard, he interrupted her.

“Wait a minute. You went to his house? By yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“That doesn't sound like a good idea.” He refrained from saying it was idiotic, but he wanted to.

“He was written up in the Weekly. Barry gave me the article. He's got a legitimate service. And we sat outside.”

“You should have told me where you were going.”

“Okay, you're right,” she said, irritated. “Can I tell you my story now?”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

When she finished, he was skeptical, as she should have expected.

“What's he going to do that we haven't done?” he asked.

“He says he has a great success rate. The article says so.”

“And what's he charge?” he said. Tillie was much too trusting.

“Nothing. Not everybody needs to scrounge for money,” she said—and immediately regretted it. Hooper was more selective now, but there was a time he would take any gardening job that was offered. And she well knew that he scavenged shamelessly for both funding and props for the theater.

“Anyway, Roscoe says he actually dreams about Cosmo. Our dog is special.”

“Dog psychics seem a little suspect, don't you think?” he said, stung by her dig. “Right up there with cat psychologists and horse whisperers. But if you think he can help, great.”

She hated that dismissive tone. Another time she might have let it go, but she wanted him to understand. She'd taken a risk and been rewarded: her visit with Roscoe had genuinely moved her.

“You think it's stupid,” she said.

“I didn't say that! Please don't put words in my mouth.”

“It's not your words, it's your attitude. Your tone of voice. Sometimes I feel as though you're the one making the right decisions, that you know best, and when I try to do something it's all wrong.”

“Damn it, I didn't say that!”

“I didn't say you said that. That's how I feel.” They glared at each other. “All right,” he said, trying to keep his voice level. His head and temples started to pinch, a headache coming on. “Then please let me tell you how I feel. I feel like it was—”

She bit her tongue to keep from saying, “stupid.”

“—unwise to go off by yourself to a stranger's house without telling me. To trust some guy you've only just met.”

Okay, I admit it, she thought, maybe you're right. So why did she want to scream? Walk out the door without another word?

“You're not my dad.” She knew she sounded childish and resentful, and it made her furious—at herself. How could she be mad at Hooper, when he was right and reasonable, when he was only concerned for her safety? She unconsciously put a hand on her stomach, sensing it twist up. Something had gone wrong with this conversation. What were they talking about, finally? She didn't know which issue to address: her lack of good judgment, her inability to explain her actions, his unwillingness to share her enthusiasm, his desire to keep track of her—what?

“Tillie,” he said. “I love you, okay? I want you to be safe. I'm not trying to tell you what to do.”

“It sure seems like it.” Here came the tears, betraying her. “I was trying to help.”

“I'm sorry, then.” He wanted to be sympathetic to her crying, but it set his teeth on edge. How could he talk with her when she melted like that? Couldn't they flat-out argue sometimes, get things out in the open? Or just be adults and discuss things? He gathered his scripts.

“I'm going to run over to Nancy's and go over these scripts with her.” Their appointment was for tomorrow, but maybe Nancy was free now. “Can I do something for you first?”

She shook her head, a tissue to her nose. She couldn't help but think about Roscoe, his calm manner and his psychic dreams, his shrine and icy lemonade. She was not at all sorry to have gone.



<-     -c-     ->    

Hooper was waiting for Nancy to show up at the theater. They were about to conduct a casting call for a play called Hover, due to open at the end of November. It was about a shoe salesman who falls in love with a tap-dancer. To impress her he teaches himself to levitate, but in the process scares her away. The play was a bit surreal; the characters were just a little creepy and unbalanced. They tried very hard to connect but never quite could, and so it was, Nancy had said, “weird but, ah, too true.”

Was any relationship made to last? Hooper wondered. Readying for the audition, he set up some folding chairs on the stage. He knew couples that seemed perfectly happy together—and then were perfectly miserable. Maybe they started to know each other too well, or had different hopes for the future, or felt tied down, or bored. Tom and Jenny. Maria and Nick. Others, too. What, then, would happen between him and Tillie? He hated squabbling; it seemed beneath them. It was nothing really, that business with the pet finder, but doubt was a wayward weed that could take over a garden, even upset an entire ecosystem. One disagreement and he worried that they wouldn't find a way to talk with each other again. That was silly, he knew. He believed that they could grow old together, their lives still interesting, their hearts still loving. Was he kidding himself? Was he supremely arrogant to think that his love for Tillie was something elemental and lasting?

But it was. It was.

So why didn't they get married? He supposed that was the logical question. But logic and love, he argued with himself, pacing up and down the aisle, weren't necessarily compatible. He paused to straighten some folding chairs. Marriage would require a conscious decision to change the status quo, and what was there to bring on such a move? There were plenty of reasons not to do so. He didn't want to be like everybody else, to do what was expected of him. He didn't want to share in jokes about husbands who were congenitally inept housekeepers, or wives who had to be pacified with chocolate on Valentines Day. He didn't want to be an old shoe. And, too, he was painfully aware that as a male, he had some responsibility for a long history of women being oppressed. He wanted to do the right thing for Tillie and himself, but it was hard to know what that was.

He went up to the catbird seat and played absently with the lights. He and Nancy had an ongoing debate about whether to keep the house lights up or down during auditions, and both of them changed their mind every other time. Was it easier for the actors to ignore the directors with a dark house, or did it feel more relaxed to have it bright? It could go either way. In any case, it wasn't as though this was Broadway. He fudged and dimmed the lights slightly.

And then—he continued his musing—more practically, there was the matter of a wedding, which made him cringe. His college roommate, Jim, had gotten married right after graduation, and the man's senior year was consumed by decisions about the guest list, music, readings, on and on. His grades suffered. Jim suffered, unable to sleep at night unless he drank a couple shots of whiskey. He and his fiancee, Sandy, argued all the time because she wanted things fancy and he didn't see the point. “What am I doing, Hoop?” he would moan. Hooper didn't have high hopes for them.

But one day their other roommate, Dave, answered the phone when she called. “Sandy,” he said. “Stop calling, will you? You don't have to ask Jim about every damn thing. It's killing him. Just do what you want and he'll show up.” It worked, too. The wedding was fun and as far as Hooper knew they were still married. That was the appeal of Vegas, he supposed: you waltz into a ready-made set, give your lines, and walk off. Done.

He lowered and then raised the worn red curtain to make sure it worked. The truth was, he loved Tillie, and he was no longer satisfied with living together. It was too much like having a roommate—and he wanted more. Maybe he had grown up a little. He might be ready to decide that this was home, that life with Tillie was what he wanted.

Before he met Tillie, he once prepared a simple piece to perform in a public place, but he didn't know just when or where he would do it. He knew why: to scare himself. To put himself in a outrageous situation and see how he would handle it, to shock his system. He considered the laundromat, the grocery store, a parking lot. The opportunity came when the bus from school stopped to catch up on its timetable. He hopped up before he could think about it. His mouth opened, his hands moved, his body took over, and the piece worked. Or rather, he thought, his instinct worked. And that was the greatest thrill of all.

So he was waiting for instinct to clue him in again to the right time and place, when he could say, “Let's go for a walk,” and then empty his pockets, magician-like, of oranges, a ukulele, Christmas lights, a puppy, whatever. That would be his proposal. Not a proposal, rather, but a set and props, a mise-en-scene.

And what then would she do?

A handful of would-be actors trickled in and soon Nancy arrived, wearing a leopard-skin caftan, a scarlet scarf in her bleach-blond hair, black knit pants and bells. Bells? He teased her about her loud outfit and she pulled up her pant legs to show him her jingling anklets. She was a large woman, with a booming laugh and a voice that could project clear out to the street. Her generous nature put people at ease, and as she chatted, their self-conscious silence relaxed into conversation. As a few more arrived, Hooper handed each of them some photocopied pages from the play. Passing around a bag of chocolate chip cookies, he described the play briefly. There were six parts altogether; tonight they would read from a scene between the shoe salesman and the tap dancer.

“Don't worry, the tap dancer only needs to learn a couple basic steps,” he said. “The salesman, however, will have to work on his levitation skills.”

There was uncertain laughter as he assured them it was a joke. He explained that they would be paired up at random, and even if there were two women reading, that was fine.

“You're not reading for a specific part. We just want to get a sense of you onstage,” Nancy added. “We'll have call-backs in a couple days, if we need to, and start rehearsing as soon as we can.”

She wrote out lottery numbers on slips of paper while Hooper answered a few questions. Each person drew a number from a black top hat.

“We have five pairs, and one lone person,” said Nancy, jotting down names and numbers. “Cindy, you can read with Hooper. We'll give you five minutes or so to look over the lines.” She sat down next to Hooper and winked.

“Hey, Hooper!” someone called from the back of the theater. It was Peter, from Cafe Joe, bounding down the aisle.

“Hi, Peter.”

“How's it going? Hope I'm not too late.”

“No, we're just starting. Have a seat.” Hooper handed him a script and the bag of cookies. Peter, who was so tall he seemed to spill out of the chair, dived into the script and the cookies with equal intensity.

“You'll be reading with Cindy,” Nancy told him. “She's drawn a number already.”

“So what'd we get?” Peter asked Cindy. “We're first.” She looked nervous. He gave her a big smile. “We'll be great!” After five minutes, Hooper stood up. “Shall we get started? Peter and Cindy onstage, the rest of you back in the wings.” He made sure there were enough folding chairs for everyone, placed two chairs center stage, and joined Nancy in the audience.

Cindy rubbed a palm on her thigh and clutched the pages tightly. Peter was grinning as though he'd been given a new toy.

“Okay. Peter, you're Sam; Cindy, Clarissa. You may begin whenever you're ready.”

Peter cleared his throat delicately and paused.

“You have the most fabulous feet I've ever seen!” he cried suddenly, flinging out his arm and leaping from his chair, which toppled over with a bang. Cindy jumped. “Such beauty and grace, such talent!”

Cindy looked from Peter to Hooper and Nancy. Her mouth slightly open, she seemed unable to say her line.

“Uh, Peter? Excuse me,” Hooper called out. “We're doing this as a reading, okay? So you can keep your seat. You're not reading for any specific part, remember; we're just getting a sense of voice and persona, so don't even think of it as acting. Let's try it from the top.”

“Okay.” Peter sat down, looked up with a grin, and ran his hand through his floppy hair. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” Hooper stifled a laugh. “Whenever you're ready.”

“Yee-ha,” Nancy whispered to Hooper. “Hang onto your seat, partner. Looks like a wild ride tonight.”

***

Looking forward to an evening by herself, Tillie chose a comic opera, The Barber of Seville, and turned up the volume. Since Hooper had had a late lunch, he wasn't ready for dinner before he left for the theater. She planned on having some soup, or a baked potato and cheese, nothing special; for dessert she'd bought herself a large dark chocolate bar, which she would break off sparingly, a square at a time, and allow to melt slowly, rich and bittersweet, in her mouth. Earlier that day, when she stopped into the Circle K to buy it, she tossed an issue of Elle on the counter as well, not to read, but to cut up, as she used to do a long time ago, making collages and cards to send to friends. She had felt then it was therapeutic and safe: work for her hands, but no challenge to her mind.

Scrubbing a potato, she felt happier than she had in some time. Work was going well; she was enjoying cataloguing and had come across some interesting books, and her supervisor in Acquisitions has praised her work. A new pair of purple high-tops gave her a different stomp to her step. And she was also happy, she had to admit, because she'd had lunch with Frank that day, along with Susan and Pat. She'd scarcely seen him since that day in the N's, and at lunch she could scarcely take her eyes off him. She got him talking about his studies and the more remarkable books he came across in the shelving department; when she told him she missed seeing his toys and sharing his zucchini bread, he promised he'd bring her some of each.

The doorbell rang. Peeking out the peephole, Tillie was surprised to see Donna, whom she hadn't seen in weeks. She threw open the door.

Donna greeted her with a big smile. She was wearing, Tillie noticed, a shiny green print blouse with a white Peter Pan collar, black capri pants, and clunky black shoes.

“You won't believe this, but I'm here to borrow a cup of sugar.” She held up a glass measuring cup as proof of her sincerity.

“No one has ever asked me that before. Come in.”

“Ellen promised Joey they could make cookies after dinner.” Donna followed Tillie into the kitchen. “Then we discovered she doesn't have any white sugar, but a four-year old with cookies on his brain will not be dissuaded. We're both too pooped to go to the store, so you're doing us a huge favor.”

“I'm happy to.” Tillie took the sugar bag out of the pantry. “Do you have time for a glass of wine or something? Or do you have to deliver it right away?”

“That sounds good, actually. They're both still watching some Disney film Ellen has on video. Joey'll be singing about ferrets or teapots or God-knows-what for days.”

Tillie brought out a half-full bottle of merlot and poured some into wine glasses.

Donna was humming along to Count Almaviva's aria.

“You know this?” Tillie asked.

“Barber of Seville, right? I used to listen to opera on the radio Saturday afternoons. You know, the 'Live From The Met' broadcast, or whatever it was—just to be a major irritant to my brother.” She laughed. “Then I actually started to like some of it, and I bought some CDs. He still hates me for it. He'll probably never hear opera again without turning purple.”

Tillie handed her the wine.

“Thanks. Here's to—” Donna paused. “Neighbors who have sugar.”

“And neighbors who need it,” Tillie said, clinking her glass.

There was a knock at the back door: it had to be Barry. Tillie considered ignoring him, but of course she would not. She just hoped he wouldn't linger.

“Hi.” He held a jar in his hands. “I put up some olives a long time ago, and they're finally ready to eat. I thought you might like to try some. I picked them myself, from a friend's tree.”

“How nice.” Tillie took the jar but didn't move out of the doorway. “Thank you.”

Barry didn't budge. He had noticed Donna and was smiling like a jack-o-lantern.

“Do you want to come in for a minute?” Tillie asked. There was no getting around it.

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Do you know Donna? Mrs. Driver next door is her aunt. Donna, Barry Bishop.”

“Hi,” said Barry. “Hey,” said Donna. Tillie emptied the wine bottle in a glass and the three of them sat at the table. The silence was awkward, at least for Tillie, who rummaged around in vain for a topic of conversation. Staring absently at the cupboards, Donna seemed wholly absorbed in the music; Barry had his eyes on Donna.

“Well, why don't we try these?” Tillie took down a dish from the cupboard, opened the jar, and spooned out some olives. He prepared them himself. Could you do that? She'd thought preparing olives was a more obscure process. She arranged some crackers and cheese on another plate, thinking that the olives must be bitter, perhaps inedible. Before she delivered them to the table, she tentatively took a bite, allowing the morsel to sit on her tongue before she chewed.

It was delicious. Crisp, garlicky, with a touch of lemon.

“This is wonderful!”

“Let me try.” Donna popped one in her mouth. “Yeah, really good. Mm, hmm.”

“Great olives, Barry,” said Tillie. Barry beamed.

***

It was less than a wild night after all. After Peter and Cindy came a string of wooden readers, some in their teens, some with gray hair, none quite enlivening the parts. It was time to go home.

As Hooper gave a tremendous yawn, one last couple walked out on stage. He snapped his mouth shut. Here was Sally, from Cafe Joe. Her hair was a glossy red tonight and longer than he'd last seen it. When did she come in? She hadn't been with the group at the beginning of the evening. He looked at Nancy, who shrugged.

“Beats me,” she said. “What do you want to do?”

“Let them read, I guess. Got a few more minutes?”

“Sure. Just my cats waiting for me. Sally stalked out to the chair and sat down hard, crossing her arms and clutching the script. She glared at her partner, a tall man with curly hair and full mustache, in his mid-to-late thirties—too old for Sally, Hooper thought—and he smiled at her smugly.

“Hi, Sally,” Hooper said. “How's it going?”

“Fine.” And you are—?” “Richard!” the man said loudly, still looking at Sally.

“Richard M., that's me!”

“Okay,” said Hooper, not really interested in what 'M' stood for. “I see you have the pages of script you need.” He explained the scene, and they began.

“You have the most exquisite feet.” Richard was appropriately smarmy as the shoe salesman. “I've never seen anyone dance like you.”

“Sir, you're getting in my way,” said Sally as Clarissa.

“I'm not going to hurt you. If you'd just give me a chance, I'd do anything for you. Ride a bronco. Climb Mt. Everest. I'll learn to fly.”

“Please step back.” Her voice was more insistent. “Before I call for help.”

“You'd call for help, would you?” he said mockingly. “You think you need protection?”

“Listen, I don't need help from anyone, including you. I just need a little more space, okay?”

Hooper reached over for the full script on the seat beside him. These last lines were not familiar. Had they gotten hold of some rogue photocopies?

“I expected more from you.”

“God, would you give it up?” said Sally. “I talked to the guy for two minutes. It was nothing. Let it go.”

“I can't do that.”

Nancy put her hand on Hooper's. “You won't find it there.”

“What should we do?” he asked. Nancy smiled rather wickedly. “Watch and see.” Sally rolled her script into a tube and looked up at the proscenium. “This isn't working.” Richard gave a low, unpleasant chuckle. “You're not trying hard enough.”

“I have tried. It's not working, okay? I think we should give it up.”

“You want out, do you?” he shouted, startling all three listeners. “Fine! Get out! Get the hell out!”

“Richard, please,” said Sally. Hooper stood up. “Richard.” Richard grabbed Sally's wrist. “Listen. I don't need this bullshit.”

“Hey! Knock it off.” Hooper started toward the stage. Sally wrenched her arm away. “You son of a—. Oh, forget it. I don't know why I even agreed to come here tonight.”

“Don't you remember?” said Richard. “It was your idea in the first place! You thought it might be fun! Isn't it fun?”

Hooper climbed up on the stage.

Sally threw down her script in disgust. “You're crazy,” she said. “I don't know why I ever thought we could work on this relationship. We can't even have a normal conversation, because you are so—! Aargh!” Turning abruptly, she bumped full force into Hooper.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” Running up the aisle to the exit at the back of the house, she ignored Hooper's call for her to wait.

Richard jumped off the stage. “Ah, Sally. If only you weren't so charming.” He walked unhurriedly toward the exit.

“I better see her to her car,” Hooper said to Nancy as he followed Richard up the aisle.

***

Maria couldn't believe her luck: Hooper's truck was in the driveway, and Tillie's car was gone. Walking a little unsteadily, she paused at the door and tried to regain her composure. She'd been at Cap'n Bob's for a few drinks and finally realized that the men around her were more interested in the game on TV than in talking with her, so she left, feeling reckless. What the hell. She would drive on over to Hooper's—even though she probably shouldn't even be driving. At the liquor store she picked up a bottle of red wine and now, clutching it behind her back, brushed back her hair—unbraided tonight—and rang the bell.

When Tillie answered the door, Maria stared at her. “Hi. Tillie. Uh, the truck...” she stammered. Tillie looked puzzled for a split second, then smiled.

So she understood. Maria dipped her face in her hand, embarrassed beyond measure. In spite of herself, she started to laugh, nearly out of control but hugely relieved that Tillie wasn't going to cause a scene. She turned to go.

Tillie stepped back, holding the door open.

“Hooper took my car tonight. Come in. I'll introduce you to our neighbors.”

Maria followed her in, greeted Barry and Donna, and offered her bottle to Tillie.

“How nice. We just finished off what was left.” She opened the bottle, gave Maria a glass, and refilled the others.

Grateful for the distraction, Maria tasted an olive and insisted Barry explain, step by step, what he'd done with them, because she'd love to try it; she had preserved lemons before—she described the process—and used them in cooking, and was it anything like that?

Tillie listened with half an ear. She knew Maria liked Hooper, but she hadn't realized how much. Maria had clearly been drinking, so it wasn't fair to hold her foolishness against her; and she could tell by Maria's mortified look and her utter lack of subterfuge that she'd acted on a whim. Although Tillie supposed she should be offended, she only felt a greater empathy with Maria. They had something in common after all. Besides, wine on an empty stomach had given her a sleepy buzz, which usually made her want to curl up like a cat, preferably against Hooper. She felt so content at this moment that even though she didn't enter the conversation, she didn't feel at all left out.

Her mind drifted. Hooper would be sitting in the theater now, observing the actors with a careful, compassionate eye. He'd do the same with this collection of characters at the kitchen table; he would appreciate particular moments, as when silence fell suddenly and they all grinned, when Donna and Barry's hands touched briefly as they both reached for a cracker, and when Maria flipped her full sweep of hair off her shoulder. How would he have responded to Maria at the door? she wondered—then decided it didn't matter. In fact, she might not even tell him. Hooper would be flattered, but he might feel awkward around Maria; and Maria, more sober, might regret what she'd done.

“Who's hungry?” Maria asked. “Have y'all eaten?”

No one had, and they were enthusiastic about Maria's suggestion for pizza. Donna suddenly realized she was to have dinner with her aunt and son next door, but Barry and Maria convinced her to invite them as well.

“Is that okay with you, Tillie?” Donna asked. “Here we are planning a party, and it's your house.”

“Of course,” Tillie said. “That'd be great.”

“We weren't going to have much,” said Donna. “I can bring a salad; it's all ready.”

“I have some pickles,” Barry offered.

“I think you've made your contribution, thanks,” Tillie assured him, but he was out the door anyway to see what else he could bring. She put on different music, added a leaf in the kitchen table, and got out all her mismatched plates and some paper napkins. Maria made the phone call to order the pizza. Barry returned with pickles and a bag of frosted animal cookies, and soon Donna arrived with a big bowl of lettuce and vegetables. Joey ran in waving two trucks and chanting, “Pizza, pizza, daddy-o!”

Ellen Driver followed behind them.

“I'm so glad you came!” Tillie greeted her. “And you brought wine. Thank you.”

“We had to twist her arm,” Donna said. “Joey said he wouldn't eat anything if she didn't come.”

“He's a master of persuasion,” said Tillie.

“More like blackmail,” said Ellen.

“It's because he loves you, Aunt Ellen,” said Donna, with a wink at Tillie. “We both wanted you to come.”

Ellen put on a dour expression.

Wine glasses were filled and extra chairs fetched from other rooms; the pizza arrived, plates were filled. “To happy surprises,” Tillie said, raising her glass.

“And good olives,” added Donna as they drank. “Let's eat,” said Maria and Joey at once.

***

Returning to the theater, Hooper was glad Nancy had turned on the house lights. He sat down with her. “I didn't know what to do,” he said. “She drove away and he just stood there grinning at me. I wanted to punch him, except that I know he could beat the shit out of me.”

“There's nothing you could have done.” Nancy was matter-of-fact. “She's a grown woman.”

“She's probably all of twenty-two.”

“A grown woman. We don't know what the situation is, Hoop, and therefore it's none of our business.”

“I guess you're right.” He still wasn't sure. Nancy tapped the clipboard on her lap. “Shall we?”

“Right. Who do you think would work for Fred?

Maybe Peter? We don't have much to go on.”

“Sure we do. Richard and Sally, for one.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I'm serious. They read well, don't you think? I mean, as far as they read.”

“Nancy, I'm sorry, but that's ridiculous. The tension was palpable. Why in the world would they agree to work together on a play? Why would we want to be around them?”

“Plenty of actors hate each other. It makes for great chemistry.”

“It makes for a great pain in the ass. I don't want to have to tiptoe around them for fear they'll blow up like eggs in the microwave. Besides, he gives me the creeps. Doesn't he give you the creeps?”

“No more so than most of the guys I meet. Present company excepted, of course.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think those two could really spice up the play. It's your call, hon, but think about it.”

Hooper did think about it. He lay awake that night thinking about it, and drove around the next day thinking. Nancy's idea was crazy, but when he considered the lack of talent they had to draw from, then again, she might be right. He managed to catch Sally at Cafe Joe that afternoon.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Would it work?”

Sally shuddered. “Richard would probably love it. He thinks he's the center of the universe as it is. But I'm afraid I couldn't handle it. Thanks anyway.”

“I know it's none of my business, but do you need any help? I mean, is he abusive in any way?”

“It's nice of you to ask.” Sally forced a smile. “I'm okay. He's never hurt me or threatened me. But I'd think twice about casting him, I really would.” She paused for a moment, as if unsure how much to tell him.

“Look, he was really sweet when I first knew him. I met him last May at the Shack and he was just—nice. But he started getting kinda weird awhile back. He started following dogs around.”

“What?”

“Yeah, like, he'd see this stray dog on the street and he'd slam on the brakes and tear around the corner to see where it went. Now he says that his new dog, a little black dog, tells him things. Like what store has beer on sale. Or where to find his car keys.”

Hooper waited while she frothed milk for someone's cappuccino.

“I thought at first it was just a joke,” she went on, “but then one time we were going to eat at this restaurant, in South Tucson? Only Richard drives to a different restaurant, because he said Myra told him to. Well, later that night, we were watching the news? And there was a drive-by shooting outside a restaurant in South Tucson, and it was the same place Richard decided not to go.”

“That's pretty weird, all right.”

“I know.” Sally looked pained. “Listen, I have to tell you: when you came in here once, a few months ago, Richard was sitting over there and he asked me who you were. He wanted to know your last name and everything. I didn't even know your last name, so I asked Peter. I'm really sorry—I didn't know then how freaky he could be, or I wouldn't have told him, really. I hope he didn't do anything, like, weird, did he?”

“Well, no,” said Hooper, but he wasn't sure.

“And then when our band had those flyers made up for The Shack, Richard insisted I put one in your mailbox.” She was becoming more distraught, talking more quickly. “He said he was sure you'd want to know about it. I didn't want to do it; I told him I'd see you at the Cafe and would give you one here, but he practically forced me in the car and drove me to your house. He parked around the corner. That's why I ran off that day.”

“I did wonder about that.”

“I'm really sorry, it must have seemed so bizarre.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“So anyway,” said Sally, “I don't know what came over me at the audition. I've never even acted before, but I heard Peter talking about it, and it sounded fun and, I don't know, safe, and I thought, maybe we could try one more time to make it work. Isn't that so stupid? It's like he's got this—weird hold on me or something. And when I mentioned it he seemed really interested, and I thought we could, but then—well, it was just weird, wasn't it.”

Yes, you could say that.”

“So I'm really sorry.”

“Sally, stop apologizing. It's okay.”

“I'm sorry. Oh!” She squeezed her eyes shut. “It's really nice of you to even consider me for a part. Maybe some other time, okay?”

“You bet,” he said. “But listen, Sally, if I can do anything—”

“Thanks.” She took a deep breath, recovering her usual inscrutable composure. “Really, I'm fine, thanks. Here.” She grabbed his plastic mug, filled it with coffee, and glanced around for the manager. “On the house.”

Hooper thanked her and left a big tip in the jar, but before he could reiterate his offer to help, she had turned to wait on another customer. He went back out to his truck, pulled out, and cruised through the alley. Ever since he found the box with the dog tag, he made it an occasional detour. Nothing this time but pigeons and a broken chair.

“Very weird,” he said aloud, thinking of Sally.

He said it again, telling Tillie the whole story when he got home.

“You know what?” he said. “I have this incredible urge to beat the crap out of him. Maybe tie him up to a cactus and let him bake in the sun for a while, and explain very carefully that you can't treat people the way he treats Sally.” He took a long drink of water. “I know that sounds stupid. It's probably a typically male way to deal with things, but that's what I want to do. You understand what I mean?”

“Not really.” Tillie was in fact taken aback at his violent fantasy. “Is there something else, though?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Who is this guy, anyway? And why does he know where we live? Why does he show up in Sally's life about the same time our dog disappears?”

“I'm not sure there's any connection,” said Tillie gently.

“Maybe not. But God damn it. She's been gone for over five months now. I guess she's really gone. I still keep expecting to see this furry head and pointy nose waiting for me in the truck window. Or you know how she used to put her head on the bed in the morning? Like a 1930s film starlet, sort of languishing.”

“Yeah.”

“I still talk to her when I'm driving around. And the other day I nearly crashed because I saw a dog that looked like her.”

“But it wasn't her.”

“No.” He put his arms around her. “Don't you disappear, okay? It's such a crazy world. Please be careful.”

“I'll try.”

“No, that's not good enough. You have to promise. Be careful.”

“Okay. I promise.” It was easy enough to promise, thought Tillie, giving him a kiss, but being careful didn't mean nothing bad would happen.

Later that night Hooper turned the TV on to a show about elephants on the Skeleton Coast in Zaire. They watched a herd running in single file and struggling up over barren sand dunes toward a watering hole. Their ears flapped, translucent in the morning sun, and it seemed as though a trace of an eager smile peeked out from under their swinging trunks. At the watering hole they wallowed, frolicked, and munched on the sparse vegetation.

“Does that remind you of someone?” he said. “Yes.”

“I bet Cosmo was an elephant in a former life. She had that same sort of loping trot, that sweet determination. The pack instinct.”

“The joy of play.”

The narrator explained that the elephants and the British couple documenting their movements stayed all day at the watering hole. Finally, when the elephants had had their fill, they left that watering hole for another one some fifty kilometers off, as their instinct led them. The couple went up in their handmade plane and recorded the elephants' trek from the air, until dusk became imminent and the man and woman had to get back to camp. The elephants—so awkward and yet graceful, so otherworldly with their prehensile, expressive trunks—diminished in the distance and the growing dark.



<-     -c-     ->    

One Saturday morning Tillie took her old wooden easel out to the back yard, under the pomegranate tree, which was beginning to lose its fruit. She had tried eating some of the seeds, but the tree hadn't been watered enough to make them juicy. The ground was littered with broken shells from previous years, the color of dried blood, the insides pocked from their former bounty.

The easel carried like a suitcase. Unfolding its long legs, which had been left compact for years, Tillie felt as though she were releasing a yogi from a meditative pose. She raised the framework that supported the canvas and slid open the drawer where her old tubes of paint were nestled. These would still be perfectly good; however, she thought she'd use the paints Hooper had given her. It was the least she could do. He'd bought her a new palette as well, but the clean surface was too austere. Rooting about in the office closet, she found her old one, mottled and bumpy around the edges from countless smearings of old paint, and a little dusty. One of her professors, she remembered, had once told the class not to worry about thoroughly cleaning their palettes, not to scrape all the paint off after every session. “Let it build up layers, like an archaeological site. It will take on a life of its own.”

Hooper would be at rehearsal for another couple hours. She set up her palette as she had been taught years ago. From the eight small tubes, she gently squeezed out paint in dollops across the top and down the side of the board. The colors gleamed, thick and rich like pudding, like blobs of colored mud. She was intentionally more generous than she needed to be. Hooper had bought her a little bottle of linseed oil, which she poured into a metal cup that clipped onto the palette. The gumtine, which smelled interestingly of astringent orange, went into another cup. The ritual unfolded more easily than she had expected.

She was going to work from a photograph. Her professors would have discouraged that: photos flattened contours and reduced the potentiality of movement and the sense of texture. However, the composition of this one appealed to her. Cosmo lay on top of her doghouse, the roof of which was slightly pitched, so that her back end was raised up and her haunches and legs were splayed at odd angles. The dog filled the frame. Studying the photo for several minutes, Tillie noted the way her fur fell in a part along her back, the whorls on her chest, the fine puppy hair on her ears that shone in the sun.

With a thinned ocher she made a sketch. Planning to make this a gift to Hooper, she envisioned a kind of cartoon dog, something that might make him laugh. She squeezed out two big blobs of cadmium yellow, light and medium, because she knew already she would call this Yellow Dog. Cosmo wasn't yellow, of course. She was sort of a strawberry blond, more auburn in some spots and whiter in others. Someone once called her taffy, which seemed fitting, an old-fashioned color. Nancy Drew, Tillie recalled, was a titian blond, a refined sort of color. But here Cosmo would be explicitly yellow, as yellow as a Goofy's floppy shirt or Dick Tracy's coat, maybe with bluish shadows for definition around the head and haunches.

She finished the sketch and stepped back. Loosely defined, the dog floated before her, the color of earth. Something about it was off, but she couldn't identify what. She dabbled some more. Against her better judgment—for she knew she should start with the background—she dipped a brush into the cad yellow and slapped it on the dog's chest. More along the dog's back. Random dabs on the face, the ears: it was flailing nonsense. Suddenly panicked, she tossed her brush on the easel. She had no idea how to do this.

She heard Barry's back door slide open. As he stepped outside and pulled a blue tee shirt on over his head, she picked up a rag and wiped the yellow off her canvas. He hadn't noticed her yet. He stretched with his full body, arching backward; then he put his hands on his hips and watched a noisy mockingbird in the fig tree.

Quickly, Tillie took a clean filbert brush and dunked it in gumtine, then marine blue. With this thin mixture she made a gesture drawing of Barry, in simple, flowing lines that blended from blue to olive green. He stood quietly for several moments, as though listening, then abruptly turned on his heel, went into his house, and re-emerged.

She was wary, expecting him to stop and talk, but he strode past her with a cheery, “Hi Tillie!” Waving a letter in his hand, he left by the front gate.

***

Donna pulled up to her aunt's house and her heart sank. Purse in hand, Ellen was just opening the door of her old Monte Carlo; apparently she had forgotten Joey was coming over today. Joey leaped out of Donna's car called out a greeting. His Grandma stopped short, and in that moment of slight hesitation Donna read annoyance.

“Hi, Aunt El. You're not trying to ditch us, are you?”

“Of course not,” Ellen said gruffly. “It just slipped my mind that you were coming.”

“I'm sorry; I should have reminded you. It's just that another waitress asked me to cover for her at lunch today so she can go to a wedding.”

Ellen shut her car door. “Yes, I remember now. I did promise.”

“Where were you off to?”

“Angela just called me. She seemed in a state.”

“About what?”

“She wouldn't tell me. You know Angela, she loves a crisis.”

“Well, if it's serious, then you should go,” said Donna.

“And what about Joey? No, I'll call her. She's probably over whatever it was by now anyway.” She went into the house.

Donna hated to come between her aunt and her friend Angela, but who else would look after Joe? Crash was too irresponsible, Walt would be off with his girlfriend, Beth was out of town, and Joey didn't know her other friends well enough. She couldn't ask her mother, who would see this as proof of Donna's irresponsibility. There was Tillie next door... but she couldn't impose.

“Is she mad?” asked Joey. “I don't know, honey. Maybe.”

“Can I come to work with you? Donna squatted and gave him a hug.

Just then the gate on the other side of Tillie and Hooper's yard opened and Barry appeared. His hair was disheveled; he must have just gotten up. Or maybe he'd been up a while and was busy writing the letter he slipped into the mailbox. He raised the red flag and greeted them.

“Here to see your aunt, Joey?”

“Yeah, but she wants to go someplace.”

“She was on her way to see a friend,” said Donna. “But she's supposed to look after me,” Joey said. “She just forgot, Joey. She doesn't usually.”

“Do you need a sitter?” Barry asked. Donna was caught off-guard. “No, Ellen said she'd stay.”

“I can look after him.”

“Oh, no. I couldn't.”

“Sure, why not? I'm not doing anything today. What do you say, Joey?”

“Yeah!” Joey said. “Okay, Mom?”

“Oh, my God, Barry, you'd be doing us such a big favor. I hate to impose on Aunt El all the time, and I really do need to get to work. Oh, but—no, I couldn't. Never mind.”

“I'd like to. We'll have fun.”

“Are you sure? Absolutely?”

“Absolutely.”

“He'll want lunch, though, in an hour or so.”

“Peanut butter sandwich okay?”

Joey shouted his agreement and Donna tried once more to give Barry a chance to back out, but he insisted.

“Okay, then,” Donna said. “I'll go tell Ellen. She shouldn't be more than a couple hours, so when she gets home you can bring Joey over. I'll tell her that. I'll be back around four.” She could have kissed him, but instead thanked him effusively, admonished Joey to be good, and ran into the house.

“Well, buddy,” said Barry. “You and me. Wanna play some whiffle ball out back?”

“I don't know how.”

“I'll show you.” They started walking back together. “Hold on a sec, Joey.” Barry went back to the mailbox, lowered the flag, and pulled out his mother's letter, which he'd received just yesterday. He was so happy he started to skip, and Joey skipped along, too.

***

Daydreaming during the rehearsal, Hooper was thinking about his first performance in elementary school, as a snowflake in the Christmas show. How exciting it had been to look out into the dark auditorium, cavernous and murmuring with adult voices; how beautiful to be on a stage full of papery snowflakes who whispered and shuffled their feet, without any music to guide them for a few moments; and how sublime, finally, to be a small pool of light in the galaxy. Even though that was their only performance, he wanted to do it again and again. When he said so to his mother, she smiled and said, “I know.”

He wondered if his parents had been happy. They had seemed fond of each other, but because they had died seven years ago, it was getting harder to picture how they had been as a couple. As a kid—even as a teenager—he had been fairly oblivious that his parents were autonomous beings with personal histories, a woman and man who loved each other. When he thought about his mother, what first came to mind was that she sighed a lot. It was hardly a charitable memory, but it stuck. If he asked what was wrong, she would simply say, “Oh, nothing,” as though unaware she'd made any noise at all.

She didn't seem to know how to relax, but had to be doing something useful like cleaning the kitchen, folding clothes, or paying the bills. She would say things like, “I just cleaned the house and now it's dirty already,” or, “I just did laundry and now the hamper's full again,” but if anyone offered to help her she would refuse. At dinner she'd scarcely sit down before she popped up again to fetch a carton of milk or more napkins. Trying to please her, Hooper completed his chores and even did extra work, but although she was appreciative, he never felt like it was enough.

He wanted to remember another side of his mom, though, the one who would take him with her to the garden shop in the spring. Here she was lively and chatty, exclaiming over the flowers, naming them all. Spring in Buffalo came late; it was more like early summer before things started warming up. As soon as she could, she'd putter around outside, wearing, as Hooper used to tease her, an eccentric lady's outfit: a pair of chinos that were baggy and too short, one of Dad's old shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and a tattered straw hat. Living in the city, they didn't have much space to work with, so she squeezed impatiens, ageratum, and stock among the daffodils and tulips in the front yard, and carefully trained some climbing roses over a trellis at the side of the house. Around back was a hedge of lilac bushes, white peonies with shaggy, old-fashioned blossoms, and a forsythia that burst into brilliant yellow. She also tended a flotilla of whiskey barrels, full of tomatoes, squash, marigolds, and herbs; she got Dad to wheel them into the middle of the yard for the best sun. There wasn't much room for the boys to play—thus the tree house in the elm.

This was the mother Hooper had thought he took after: she who loved plants and working with the earth. But lately he caught himself sighing for no particular reason, and he wondered if it was a genetic propensity. More likely, he was working too hard. Tillie had said so, too. He had a couple new clients for yard maintenance—nothing challenging, but the extra driving around in traffic sucked up a lot of his time. He should think about hiring a college kid to help out. That wouldn't solve everything, however. He'd always thrived on hard work, and the cooler fall weather usually energized him, but lately he felt lethargic, as though he had some disease for which lazing on the couch were the only remedy. One day, while trimming someone's mesquite, he sat down and stared up at the branches for a long time, like an old man who wonders why they keep serving him reconstituted potatoes for dinner, and forgets what fresh food is like.

When one of the actors asked him a question, he had to repeat it under his breath three times to understand what it meant and where he was.

***

Tillie wiped away her oil sketch. The rag was smeared with yellow, green and blue, and now her hands were, too. What a waste. A friend of hers had once remarked that he avoided getting discouraged by planning to paint enough bad paintings to fill up a football field. “I just say, Well, there's another one for the football field.” Tillie wasn't yet so charitable with herself. All that unused paint on her palette. Grabbing another rag, she wiped the board off so it wouldn't harden to unworkable blobs. She quickly cleaned her hands and brushes in the kitchen, then tucked the palette and canvas away in the shed to dry before storing them again in the closet.

As she closed up the easel, she noticed a piece of lined yellow paper on the ground, the kind she used for notes in college. It must have fallen out of the drawer. Taking it into the house, she unfolded it and met with her own handwriting. It was an excerpt from an interview with the painter Richard Diebenkorn; she recognized it immediately, for she used to read it over and over.

Of course you can't paint. Nobody can paint.
I can't paint. You just go ahead and do it anyway.
It is the marvel of the enterprise that you
set out to do something utterly impossible...
You stand there putting it on and scraping it off
until you achieve the impossible. That's how it works.

She'd copied that out of a journal—who knew how long ago? Years. Eons. Another life. It had been inspiring and romantic to her then, when the attempt to do the impossible had seemed like an adventure, an ethic, a choice. Now, she thought, letting herself succumb to tears in the bedroom, the impossible was only that—impossible—and for her it meant failure. Her sorrow was that it was so mundane.

Hooper sat listlessly through rehearsal, letting the actors stumble along without his usual prodding and teasing. It all seemed so tedious. He didn't hang around afterward to chat, even though a few of them invited him out for a beer. On the drive home, he looked forward to being with Tillie, reaching out to embrace her, settling into her reassuring presence. He thought he might talk about trifling things, like how Dad used to take him for a hot dog at Louie's, or how his mother bought him batteries for his flashlight so he could read under the covers at night, even though he wasn't supposed to. He might even seek her encouragement to call his brother.

When he walked in the kitchen, though, he saw that her eyes were red. He asked what was wrong, and she said, “Nothing.”

He sighed. “Tell me.”

She balked at his peremptory tone. “I'm just tired, I guess.”

He wasn't up to this right now. She might give him a clue if he pressed her, but he hadn't the will. Tillie asked about rehearsal; he answered briefly. He didn't give a crap about rehearsal or the theater either. Leaning against the counter, arms across his chest, he watched as she assembled a pan of lasagna for dinner.

“Can I help?” he asked.

“No, thanks.” At last she moved to give him a hug. They both lingered, needing contact, then released each other and turned away.

At odds, he turned on a football game and put his feet up on the couch. There was nothing he liked about football. All that thwarted shoving back and forth, the grotesquely bulky bodies, the potential for maiming. Tom had played football in high school, which was antithetical to his otherwise calm, reserved character. He played quarterback, no less, and Hooper had witnessed him making some amazingly graceful plays. The football on the TV gradually metamorphosed into a telephone that the players passed, fumbled, and kicked, and he resolved to call Tom if someone made a touchdown. But the game was soon over. Turning off the TV with the remote, he lay back on the couch, opened the newspaper, and dozed off.

***

After work, Donna stopped first at her aunt's house and was surprised that Barry had not returned Joey. Ellen said she had been home since twelve-thirty.

Donna felt her gut lurch. How stupid she was to abandon Joey like that. She hardly knew Barry: how could she have trusted him with her one beautiful boy? After the lunch rush, she'd thought about calling to check on them, but she hadn't asked Barry for his number and couldn't remember his last name, if she ever knew it. And then she just forgot. Her impulse now was to tear out the door, but she didn't want her aunt to know how anxious she was.

“How's Angela?” she asked. “Still in crisis?”

Ellen shook her head. “She's too much. Sometimes I wonder why we're even friends.”

“What'd she do?”

“Oh, she's got these plans for tonight, but she wouldn't tell me what. Just that she had to look nice and needed something new to wear. She wanted to go shopping at Margaret's Place for something fancy, but I talked her out of it because I know she has a closet full of nice things. So I sat there with her while she tried on every outfit she owns, I swear.”

Donna laughed, but her aunt was still annoyed.

“Seemed like hours. She was digging into clothes way at the back of her closet, things that fit her twenty years ago. Then she started on the cedar chest, and I'd had enough. I said, Call me when you've decided something.”

“Good move.”

“Well, she makes me crazy. Acting like a schoolgirl with no sense. It's got to be her brother-in-law. One of her former husband's brothers. She told me she ran into him.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, he's all right, I suppose. But I'm afraid she's going to do something foolish and regret it.”

“Love's a funny thing,” said Donna. Ellen answered with a kind of grunt. “Well, I'm going to go pick up Joey now. Shall we come for dinner tomorrow?”

“If you don't mind a casserole.”

“That'd be great. I'll bring a salad.” Donna kissed her on the cheek and left. She couldn't open Tillie's gate fast enough. Racing across the yard to Barry's house, she stood for a moment outside the sliding glass door and peered in. One adult, one small person. Now she could breathe.

“Hi, Mom!” Joey shouted as she knocked on the door and slid it open.

“What's going on?” She tried to sound nonchalant, but when she picked him up, she hugged so tightly he squirmed.

“We're making tracks!” he said as she set him down. “Come on, Mom! You do it.”

The floor of the living room (which, Donna could tell, also served as a bedroom, the couch being a futon) was covered with sheets of blank newsprint, and on the paper were small blue footprints and big wide orange footprints. Joey's bare feet, cheeks and clothes were splashed with paint.

“He got some paint on your skirt, I'm afraid,” Barry pointed out.

“It's okay. This is so great, really.” Her relief burst out as enthusiasm. “How'd you come up with this?”

“My mom and sister and I used to do it on snowy days in Minnesota. Where I grew up. Well, of course it's not snowing today, but—”

“Take your shoes and socks off, Mom! See, you step in there.” Joey pointed to a couple of aluminum pans with a thin layer of paint in them. “Then you walk around like this. You can do hands, too.”

“I see. Where'd you get all this paper?”

“They're end rolls from the newspaper. You can go down to the Star and pick them up. I use them in labs sometimes, for students to illustrate their experiments or do graphs or whatever.”

Donna kicked off her thick-soled shoes and hitched up her skirt to remove her black stockings.

“Let me pour some more paint,” Barry said. “I'm afraid I only have two pans, though, so blue and orange are it.”

“Let's mix them!” Joey said.

“Joey, when you mix blue and orange, I think you get brown,” she said, but he had already planted a foot in one pan and then dipped it in the other. He stepped on the paper.

“Neat.” He crouched down to look closely. “It's all...” Not having the words, he wiggled his body and snaked his arms back and forth.

“Swirly?” she said. “Squiggly?”

“Yeah. Come look. Look, Barry.” All three squatted like anthropologists on a dig. The footprint—so small a foot, Donna thought, to be carrying around such a creature—was marbled and rippled in orange, blue, and, when they looked closely, brown.

“It's beautiful.” She glanced up to see that Barry's face was not six inches from hers, and he was grinning a shy goofy grin.



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In South America the Chibcas... regarded the dog as the “daughter of the moon” and the complement to man, whom they believed to be the “son of the sun.” They imaged the dog as possessing all the virtues which man was sent into the world to learn and minus all the vices by which man was disfigured. Thus the dog was the ideal of the perfect human.

—M.O. Howey
The Cults of the Dog
Essex, England: C.W. Daniel, 1972



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In late October the weather changed noticeably. The days were cooling off, and the evenings and mornings bore a chill that made Hooper nostalgic for the east coast, for the smell of chimney smoke in the neighborhood and the brilliant explosion of gold, crimson, and pumpkin-colored leaves before the earth settled into its grays and white.

He used to like raking leaves. He liked the dry, scratchy noise it made, and the way that you gathered the leaves toward you rather than pushing them away. His mother had a compost pile, a pretty elaborate one, especially for city folk, with three sections for consecutive stages of decomposition, and since the mulch would eventually nurture the summer garden, dumping the leaves made him feel as though he were giving back to the earth. He didn't really mind shoveling snow, either, but he couldn't say he missed it. So many people neglected to shovel that it made even walking down the sidewalk, not to mention parking your car, a test of patience and skill.

The changing seasons were less obvious in the desert, but nevertheless they had a certain understated drama. One year it snowed in town, and he and Tillie drove out to the desert in the early morning to walk among the saguaro and ocotillo elegantly outlined in white. Spring had its parade of colors: in March the citrus trees blossomed, scenting whole streets; in April purple lupine and orange poppies covered Pacheco Peak; and by May the palo verde trees were loaded with clouds of bright yellow flowers.

Hooper had begun to appreciate that summer in the desert and winter in the snow belt had certain qualities in common. Both demanded that you pay attention to the maintenance of your house's furnace or cooler, to your body's risk of heatstroke or hypothermia and, not least of all, to beauty: the ice as it froze on twigs, encasing them in a skin of glass; ice as it froze over puddles, making them white-hard or clear or cracked, trapping air pockets and leaves. Desert creatures had their own coarse beauty, like lizards performing delicate push-ups in the back yard, fig beetles cloaked in metallic green iridescence, cicadas buzzing like band saws, mockingbirds dragging a wing in the dirt. In both climes, you moved differently, more slowly, whether in deference to the heat or the depth of the snow and the layers of clothes you were wearing. You understood that the world had extremes and challenges, but that they were not unbearable, not insurmountable. You were reminded, in fact, that you are alive.

Since the death of his parents, Hooper was often struck by such reminders. He was away at school in New Hampshire at the time, and when Tom called to tell him about the car accident, he was alone. All his housemates were out at a party, but he had stayed home to study for an exam in O. Chem, which he was close to failing. Taking a break from the books, he'd been dancing in the kitchen to the B52's, as though nothing was so important as being from Planet Claire, when the phone rang. He'd heard that some people have a delayed reaction to bad news, that it doesn't register with them for days, months, or even longer, but when he heard the whimper in Tom's voice he toppled like a sabot in a hurricane. He sat in the middle of the kitchen floor with both hands on the phone and cried, tears and snot dripping on his hand. At the other end Tom cried until he got hiccups, and they cried together for a long time without even saying anything. When they finally hung up, Hooper packed a bag, wrote a note to his friends, and drove all night on the New York Thruway.

So he missed a week of school. It seemed somehow pathetic, absurd even, that his parents had been killed and his world hardly skipped a beat. It was a wonder that this newly formed black hole didn't just suck him inside out, that his entire past, including school records and medical history, didn't just spontaneously disintegrate or burst into flames. He did fail his lab class, which was actually a kind of relief; at least he had that to show. He didn't want to return to school right away, but Tom persuaded him to go, saying that Mom and Dad would have wanted him to. It made sense—he had only a few weeks to finish up the semester—but he still wasn't sure. What he wanted to do was curl up in a little ball in his parents house and sleep for a week in his old twin bed with the blue-and-green-checked spread, but, numb as a jaw under Novocain, he wrote his papers, took his exams, and spent a miserable June with Tom and their aunts and uncles in Buffalo. After a month he had to get away; he went back to Portsmouth and picked up some odd jobs painting and mowing lawns, and felt like a ghost without a house to haunt. The following fall, though, he met Tillie, and even in his grief he recognized that he felt silly around her, that he planned jokes to tell her so he could hear her laugh—and that these were good signs.

Maria once told him about her niece who, when she was a toddler, ran around the house naked, shouting, “I'm lucky! I'm lucky!” He knew he was lucky. He had a good life: enough money and a charming house; good health; and above all Tillie for a partner. He should be turning cartwheels as he got out of bed, singing while he ate his breakfast. Should. Lately, though, his body simply filled up space while his mind drifted. He felt like a fraud, walking around in a human skin but not feeling much of anything, hope or pleasure, anger or confidence. It was as though his very shadow had disappeared. But indeed it had: with Cosmo. Is that what this was about, this monstrous funk, a dog lost five months ago? A dog. He would almost say, Just a dog, except that she was more than that. He'd certainly been a better person when she was around. He was ashamed for being so sad. He felt as though he'd let Cosmo down; hadn't he learned anything from her? He apologized to Tillie, but he couldn't explain himself and he couldn't shake it. Tillie didn't laugh as much as she used to, and he felt it was his fault. Sadness would descend and he'd sweep it away, but more came and he couldn't keep up.

Then he received another letter from Tom, inviting him to Buffalo for Thanksgiving. And he remembered how they used to fight over who got the last Coke or choose the TV show, and how Tom would try to steal the cookies out of his lunch sack, and he felt a great nostalgia for a time when he was happy and affectionate enough to rub Tom's face in the snow.

***

Nancy had been very persuasive about casting Richard, even after Hooper told her about his talk with Sally. He trusted Nancy's instincts, however; she had a keen eye for an actor's potential, whereas he would have been happy to give the major roles to some homeless people, the mayor, and a bunch of third graders if they expressed an interest. In fact, someday he'd do just that. At any rate, Richard had turned out to be one of the better actors they had cast in any production, in spite of his lack of experience.

Still, Hooper had misgivings. During rehearsals Richard had created some friction by turning that smug, derisive grin on the other actors, who complained in private to Hooper. When Hooper politely confronted him about it, Richard said he was just keeping in character. He had also shown up to rehearsals wearing clothes that matched Cindy's, the same color shirt and pants—not just once but three times. Another actor, Ben, quietly told Hooper that Richard had asked about his daughter, who was in high school, but whom Ben had never mentioned at rehearsals. Once Hooper could swear that Richard read his lines wrong just to tweak him, saying things like “My dog” instead of “My God.” Hooper stewed about it for days.

Finally he admitted to Tillie that he had the blues. This wasn't news to her. For weeks he had been dragging around like a snake with a gopher in its belly, and she didn't know what to do. She'd tried massaging his shoulders and scratching his head, leaving him alone, and making him laugh, but her efforts fell flat.

Finally, she asked, “Is something wrong?”

“I'm not sure.” He played with his half-eaten cereal. “No reason in particular. Everything. A paper cut. The front-page news. It all makes me crazy.”

“I know the feeling. It's hard to get over sometimes.” She wasn't sure what to say. When she felt down, he would nag her to cheer up or list the many reasons she shouldn't feel that way. It rarely helped, so she couldn't bring herself to say the same. “You've been down for a while.”

He shrugged in agreement. “Maybe you should go talk to someone.”

“What, like a therapist? I don't think so.” He was so dismissive that she bristled. “Why not?”

“It's just not my thing. I tried it once, you know, right after my folks died. I didn't like talking about myself, especially to a stranger. I couldn't see the benefit.”

“I didn't know that. You never told me.” She didn't mean to sound accusing, but she was so surprised. Why would he keep something like that from her?

“Oh. Well, I guess I don't tell you everything. Not everything is about you, you know.”

Tillie felt as though she'd been thumped. She held her breath and no rational thought came, no angry words or even a mild defense. Without realizing it, she had been holding her toast, and now she squeezed it in her fist, lightly at first and then so hard that peanut butter and apricot jam oozed between her fingers.

“That's just what I'm talking about.” He was appalled by her reaction. “You know, I can't even talk about things because you start crying or you won't talk; you suck in all the energy and attention—”

She shoved her chair back and went to the sink to wash her hands. She was shaking.

“I'm sorry you feel that way. I didn't know.” She had nothing more to say. All those times he had comforted her, soothed her tears—was he just patronizing her? Did he privately resent it? If she was such an emotional drain on him, maybe she shouldn't stick around. Grabbing her purse from the bedroom, she headed for the front door.

“Wait.” He held her elbow. “I'm sorry, that was mean.”

“Yes.” She pulled away. He was always the one to take charge and make peace. And she had always let him, but not this time. “I'm going to work now.”

He wanted to call her back or chase after her, but she was so determined that he wavered. He shut the door. A fine way to start the day, he thought. Clearing the table, he dumped his cereal and her toast down the disposal. He had planned to make a lunch and go about his business, but instead he sank to the kitchen floor, his back sliding down the cupboard door, his head in his hands.

Tillie was walking so fast she had plenty of time to get to work, and she went several extra blocks around the neighborhood. When had she ever been so angry? She had thrown tantrums as a kid, bashing her pillow on the bed and kicking stuffed animals around her room. Once she flung a hairbrush and broke a corner of a full-length mirror. Another time she tossed orange juice in her brother's face because he had called her Miss Nosey. And that was true: he was getting old enough to have secrets from her, and it upset her.

Her paced slowed. Maybe Hooper was right; maybe that's why his words hurt so much. She did tend to dissolve into tears whenever she tried to talk about something painful. Sometimes she didn't open up because she couldn't even identify her feelings to herself; it wasn't as though she purposefully kept things from him. She could see that he might hesitate to tell her certain things if he thought she couldn't deal with them in a mature way. She was dragging them down, then, keeping them from being more trusting, more intimate, more honest with each other.

She stopped short on the sidewalk. There you go again, she thought. Maddeningly, he was right. Any problem between them became an excuse for her to blame herself, to think poorly of her talents or her own worth. What had gone wrong this morning? It was not entirely her fault. They'd been trying to talk about him and his problems, and he deflected the discussion, twisting the issue. He said he didn't like talking about himself. What else was he keeping from her?

Crossing the street onto the university mall, she deliberately passed through the lawn sculpture called “Walking A's.” It looked more like a string of inverted V's, tall and skinny, connected as though cut from folded paper. They did seem to be walking, stork-like, as she passed, and their metallic colors shifted subtly through the rainbow. She continued on down the mall, greeted the groundskeeper stacking up the fallen palm fronds, and walked up the brick entryway into the library. Downstairs at her desk she was glad to see a big pile of work to keep her occupied. After a few hours of mindless filing and inputting, she had calmed down enough to call and leave a message. Although she was usually quick to apologize and try to placate, even if she didn't feel in the wrong, this time she merely said, “Hi Hoop. It's me.”

***

By the time Hooper finished the foothills job it was nearly noon. The morning's work of trimming the mesquite, adding new gravel to the drive, and raking the dirt around the saguaros had at least kept his mind off the argument with Tillie. It had also sharpened his hunger, and he decided that he would treat himself at a Mexican restaurant that Maria had recommended. Stopping at home for a clean shirt, he saw the light blinking on the phone machine and chose not to listen until later. The phone gave him an idea, though: he would invite Maria to lunch. Before he could have second thoughts, he looked up the number of the State Museum on campus, where she worked. He called; she was delighted. She would meet him out on the corner shortly.

As he drove up she was waiting, pretty in a cream-colored suit with a short skirt, her dark hair in a braid. He was glad he had taken the time to throw a clean sheet over the bench seat. Climbing in, smiling, she smelled strongly of perfume.

“You look nice.”

“Thanks. Just work clothes.” Settling back on the seat, she told him it felt good to be riding in a truck again, as she used to do with friends back home. Directing him to the restaurant, she chatted about her conflicts with the museum's chief administrator, making him sound more incompetent than he was. Hooper offered sympathy, which she accepted modestly, but with a twinge of self-satisfaction.

The restaurant was nothing much. There were a dozen or so white plastic tables and chairs, and service was at the counter. On the walls were some Mexican blankets and black velvet paintings of bullfighters and folkloric dancers. Maria looked strikingly out of place among the other people there—workers in dirty jeans and baseball caps, two older women with five small children—but she read aloud from the menu with great excitement and said a few words in Spanish to the young man taking her order.

Inspired by her enthusiasm, Hooper ordered far more than he knew he could eat, and insisted on paying. They took their beers, served in iced plastic mugs, to the table; then Hooper went back for chips. With each bite Maria tried to divine another ingredient in the salsa. By the time the food was ready, he had her laughing about a client who was such a Wildcat fan he had painted all the large rocks in his yard red. Red flags up his driveway, red trim around the windows, red trees, a red car. He exaggerated slightly, but it was so nice to hear her laugh; it made him feel more relaxed than he'd been in a long time.

They dug into their food, Maria exclaiming about the fresh cilantro and tomatoes, the ripe avocados. He hummed with pleasure. She especially liked the tamales, she said: they reminded her of the ones her mother and aunts used to make on Christmas Eve.

“Speaking of holidays,” she asked, “what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

Hooper hadn't given it a thought, but said, “I think I'll go visit my brother in Buffalo.”

Maria had a mouthful of beans and so took a moment to respond, wiping her mouth with a napkin. Traveling by himself on a holiday—that sounded odd to her. He and Tillie didn't seem like the types to take separate vacations.

“Isn't Tillie going?” she asked.

“I don't think so. It might not be that fun for her.” He gave as a reason Tom's recent separation and his unsettled circumstances. “I don't know if she could get off from work, either.”

“Have you made reservations?” she asked. “You should talk to the travel agent right away. It's the busiest travel week of the year, you know.”

Smiling, he agreed he'd better get right on it.

***

Barry sat on the edge of his futon, phone in one hand, a wad of tissues in the other. Donna's answering machine came on again. He'd been trying to call her for the last three days to tell her he had been sick, absurdly sick, with vomiting, diarrhea, the whole bit. This was this first time in a week he could even eat solid food, much less consider getting work done. When he thought about the reading and lab work piling up, the scads of freshmen reports he had to grade, he wanted to get back into bed and pull the covers over his head.

Donna would wonder why he hadn't called. After that night, his one evening out with her—an art film at the Loft, a coffee at Bentley's—he wanted madly to talk with her, but could never get her at home. He resisted leaving a message, but after two days of pressing the redial and looking every half hour for her car next door, he finally did. He immediately regretted it, for he sounded bumbling and foolish. And then he got sick. He hoped she hadn't gotten sick, because then she might blame him; she might regret those kisses, the mere thought of which made him feel weak.

Before they went on their date—he didn't like that word, it sounded so formal, but what else to call it?—he'd made sure his little house was clean, just in case, and had some Brazilian jazz ready to play on the stereo. After coffee he invited her to his house, and when she agreed he felt as though champagne were bubbling in his veins. They sat on the futon couch. Smiling, she reached over and took his braid, touching it to his cheek, his forehead, his ear. Hesitant at first, then playful, even passionate, they kissed. Her hands glided behind his neck, down his shoulders, across his thigh. There was the scent of her, something clean like clay or puppies; he caressed her black hair, lightly touched her breasts, and tickled the inside of her forearm.

Not enough. But he couldn't convince her to stay, and so many days had passed he thought he must have dreamed it all in his foggy-headed illness. Finally he left another message, his voice strained from disuse and desire, and fell back exhausted onto the unmade bed.

At the start of November, Nancy took over the direction of Hover, which was to open the same night Hooper left for the east. The opening would be a big occasion for the Stone Soup Theater: for the first time, they would open on a Saturday night. Their landlord, who was going out of town as well, had generously offered them the use of the theater before the Thanksgiving holiday. Ordinarily Hooper would have been thrilled for the greater exposure, but he was merely relieved to have this production off his hands.

He packed his bag a half-hour before he left for the airport and, once there, paced back and forth to the drinking fountain three times. Finally Tillie put her arm around him, as much to keep him still as to show affection.

“You'll be fine,” she said.

“We should have bought you a ticket,” he said. “Why didn't we buy you a ticket?”

Tillie shook her head and laughed: he knew very well why they hadn't. For one thing, she was saving her vacation time for their trip to Colorado in June; and for another, his ticket east had been quite expensive and nearly impossible to get. When he called for reservations, most of the flights were booked, and he had to lengthen his stay just to get a seat.

“Anyway, I wish you were coming.”

“Some other time. I'll miss you, but it will be good for you and Tom to hang out together. You'll be fine. I'll be fine.”

When his flight was called, they said good-bye with a fierce hug and a long kiss. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and shuffled along in line; she watched him hand over his boarding pass and go down the corridor. Waving one last time, he turned the corner and disappeared.

She got back in her car and drove home, feeling as though she had forgotten something. She had her wallet and sunglasses, all she had brought with her; it was only that the seat next to her was empty. At home she started a fresh pot of coffee, sat down while it brewed and stared out the window. Except for the gurgling of the coffee maker, the house was quiet—not unlike other Saturdays, when Hooper had rehearsal or a job, but this time she could not look forward to his coming home by dinnertime or sooner.

She was free for the day, since Ellen and Angela had stopped calling her for Saturday appointments. It was just as well, for they didn't really need her. Angela kept bringing her pictures of celebrities and asking Tillie to conjure up their hairstyles; she must have found someone else who would attempt the magic. Ellen, on the other hand, had decided to keep her hair short in a cut that lasted for a couple months.

She could write some letters, clean house, go to a movie, or wander the thrift stores. She ran through her options half-heartedly and gradually realized that she felt like painting. The desire was distinctly physical, like a craving for chocolate or french fries. Or like the powerful urge she still felt on some summer days to jump in a swimming pool or ocean, to be immersed in another medium.

She hadn't been swimming in years. She remembered the one summer she and Hooper went to the beach at Kittery Point in Maine. It was not her first time in the Atlantic Ocean, but it was her first time so much in love, and although the water was cold she didn't want to get out. Her body was like some other creature, buoyant and blurry, her skin luminous just under the surface of the water. The surf was rough from a recent storm and she dove under again and again, thrilled by the disorienting passage. When she caught her breath and found Hooper, she swam over and kissed him, and he tasted of salt.



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In the late afternoon, Tillie was cleaning off her brushes in the kitchen sink when Hooper called to say that he'd arrived.

“You sound tired,” she said.

“It was a long flight. The only excitement was when first class threatened to riot because they got pate instead of caviar.”

She laughed. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

“It rained a little this afternoon.”

“It's already dark here. And cold.” Tillie almost started to say again, I miss you, just to keep him on the line. “What did you do today?” he asked. Not yet ready to talk about her painting, she mentioned a long walk and puttering around the house. She asked after Tom.

“He's doing well. We're about to have dinner.”

She could hear the stereo playing in the background.

“There's a big bright moon tonight,” he said. “I'll look for it.”

“Good-night.”

“Sleep well.”

A pause before they both hung up.

She finished rinsing her brushes and scrubbed her hands, watching out the window as a hummingbird darted by, pausing a moment at the red blossoms of the bougainvillea. Having skipped lunch, she was famished, but first she went outside to take in the lowering dusk. The afternoon's clouds were breaking up and the uneven light brought contours into higher relief. The narrow green limbs of the ocotillo across the street seemed as animate as a squid's tentacles, and the saguaro was waxen and fat, as if swollen with rain. The air was scented with dust and tarry creosote. As she breathed deeply, the earth sipped moisture almost audibly. With the eastern sky soaked in pinks and oranges, the sun snuggled down in the blankets of clouds, and all finally slipped into the purplish grays and deepest blues of evening.

***

Clearing the coffee table, Tom crunched up the paper plates and napkins. Hooper groaned, a hand on his belly.

“That was great,” he said, “but I'm stuffed to the gills. I forgot how killer that combination is. Wings and pizza. You got your grease, cheese goo, and hot sauce, and if that's not enough, we'll give you celery sticks with blue cheese dressing. It's crazy.”

“Welcome back to Buffalo,” said Tom. “Another beer?”

“I'll blow up.”

Tom went into the kitchen and Hooper looked around the apartment. It depressed him. Tom had moved into this complex a couple months before: it was convenient, he said, readily available, close to a bus line that took him to work, and close to the old house, where his wife was living. It was cheap but decent, and came partially furnished. But it was so ugly, Hooper thought, so square and functional, so boring. The neighbor's apartment would look just like this, and so would the neighbor's on the other side, and so would the other hundred apartments—or five hundred, or however many there were. The only decoration on the walls was a framed print of some art festival six years ago. All the apartments were heated by a central control, so Tom couldn't control the thermostat, and it was so hot they were both in tee shirts.

“So what are you, three hours behind?” Tom asked.

“Just two,” said Hooper. “Arizona doesn't do daylight savings, so part of the year we're on Mountain Time, part on Pacific.”

“Remember how Mom hated Daylight Savings? She absolutely refused to set her watch back. Or was it forward?”

“Whichever.” Hooper laughed. “It was like she thought having to change the time was a government conspiracy.”

Talk of time made him think of the week, seven days and nights, nearly two hundred hours away from Tillie. Why had he decided to stay so long? he kept asking himself. Why was he spending Thanksgiving away from her? Picturing her washing up the dishes or sitting down to read, he wanted to call her back. He'd call again an hour later. Like a neglected dog begging for a walk, dinner, or affection. What are you doing now? Now? And now?

“So what's on the social agenda for the week?” he asked.

“Well.” Tom looked perplexed. “I'm sorry, I've been so distracted, I hadn't even thought. I was just so glad you were even coming. We could go to the art museum, I guess. There's always Niagara Falls.” He laughed tensely, then winced. “But I should have told you, I have an appointment Monday after work with the lawyer and Jenny. And Tuesdays I meet with my therapist—but I can cancel that.”

Tom was so clearly agitated, so close to some emotional edge, he made Hooper nervous.

“Of course not,” he said. “That's important. Don't worry about it. We don't have to do anything but visit.”

“Right. I guess I've been a little stressed lately, Hoop, I'm sorry. This divorce.”

“It's okay.” Hooper thought he should give his brother a hug, but with both of them sitting, it might be awkward. They chatted a little, mostly about Tucson and Buffalo, and Tom went to bed early. In the living room, Hooper kept a light on for another hour and read a book he had started on the plane and wasn't very interested in.

***

Flipping through the Tucson Weekly, Tillie noted a small ad for Hover and then turned to the listings in the arts section. A few galleries had openings tonight, one called “Seen and Unseen” at La Fortuna, featuring a number of local artists. She knew where this gallery was, although she'd never been to it. It would be a simple thing to drive downtown and wander in; she used to go to openings all the time. She knew as well as anyone how to dress in black, roam around the paintings, eat some crackers and cheese, and drink cheap wine out of a plastic cup. Even so, she felt her stomach knotting up at the prospect.

A boy she knew in high school once told her, “When in doubt, do the unsafe thing.” When she asked him why—since he was always getting hurt on his skateboard or snowboard or bike, and scraping himself up like a like a second-grader—he grinned slyly, shook his head as if to say she didn't get it, and planted a big kiss on her forehead. But she did get it, and often thought about his advice. She thought about it now as she pulled a plain black tunic over her head. The unsafe thing was whatever made you afraid. Did practice help you get over the fear? She wasn't sure, but at least this time she wouldn't disappoint herself by doing nothing.

When she arrived, the room was crowded. One woman caught her eye immediately: with magnificent dreadlocks and a kente-cloth dress, she would have stood out even if she hadn't been close to six feet tall. Several groups of people laughed and sipped pink wine from plastic glasses, and a cluster of teenagers, all with multiple piercings and baggy pants, stayed close together as though magnetized. Tillie could pick out the artists: they were the ones smiling giddily, if a little self-consciously; they wore black dresses and plain button-down shirts, nice jeans. She looked down at her black leggings, which she hadn't worn since March, and noticed for the first time that strands of blond dog hair still clung to them.

Easing her way into the room, she brushed past bits of conversation and artwork. A handful of photographs that experimented with desert scenes in neon colors were interesting, but she was more impressed with several paintings that looked as though someone's Harley had liquefied on the canvas. Another set garishly exploited scenes of a family at the dinner table, their faces distorted and the planes of the table and kitchen cupboards pitched at dizzying angles. Feeling a bit unsteady herself, she stopped at the refreshments table and poured a cup of sparkling water so as to hold onto something.

Having made her way along one side of the gallery, she came to a triptych of six-foot canvases. They were big-boned figures, two women and a man, reminiscent of WPA murals depicting farmers, factory workers, and city dwellers. Their faces expressed dignity, with eyes that met the viewer's. One woman was rolling up a sleeve and the other placed her hands on wide hips. The man was thoughtfully stroking his chin. From a distance, they seemed like good, honest people; but up close they were unnerving. The texture of the paint was scratchy and fuzzy, like tiny spikes of ice; their eyes seemed not to focus on anything; and they seemed trapped in their tight frames.

“Do you like these, Tillie?” asked a man near her. She turned to face him.

“Roscoe,” the man said. “Roscoe Fernandez, remember?”

“Of course,” she said, shaking his hand. She nodded at the paintings. “These are nicely done.”

“Yeah, I was lucky to get them.”

“Get them?”

“For the show. The artist didn't even want to show his work. I had to talk him into it. I just happened to pass by this guy's house one night and looked in the window, and there these were leaning up against a wall. I was blown away. I knocked on the door and he damn near slammed it in my face, but eventually I convinced him that I was for real.”

“Really. Tillie was still confused.

“I'd introduce you to him, but he's not here. Well, no great loss, you know; he's not the nicest guy I ever met.”

“I see.”

“Oh,” he said, showing his crooked-tooth smile. “Tillie, this is my gallery, didn't you know?”

“I had no idea.” She laughed along with him. “It's wonderful.” She asked him how he came to open the gallery, whether he was an artist himself.

“No, I just enjoy it,” he said. “I have a pretty good eye. But you, I think, are an artist.”

Tillie shook her head. “I used to paint, but I haven't for a long time.”

“I knew it. So you must bring some work to show me, okay?”

“That's kind of you, but—”

“Good. Listen, I have to make the rounds, okay? Do the host thing. Nice to see you. Bring me your work.” He touched her arm and left her.

“Look who's here!” someone behind her exclaimed. “Hey, Tillie.”

She turned. “Frank. Hi.” Her heart skipped at the sight of him.

“Cool show, isn't it?”

“Yeah, it's great.”

“Hey, this is Sabrina.” As he put his arm around the shoulder of a young woman and brought her forward, Tillie tried to maintain her composure. Of course he's with a woman, she told herself.

“Bri, this is Tillie.”

“Hi.” Sabrina leaned against him, bored. She was dressed in a tight black knit dress with a faux leopard-skin collar; her beige hair was long and hung in her face. She looked nineteen.

“Hello.” Tillie found her voice. She felt a fool.

“Did you see these photos over here?” said Frank. “They're my favorites. Come on.” He led the two women around a partition to a section Tillie had passed by before. There were a series of black and white photographs of cats and dogs, all captured in a moment of flight. The dogs were probably poised to catch a milk bone or ball, the cats leaping off a table or window sill, but the camera had been set at such a fast speed that there was no sense of motion.

“These are like, so cool,” said Frank. “Don't you think? I mean, they're sort of otherworldly, just floating in space like that. Don't they look like some mystical creatures, or aliens without spaceships?” He nodded his head, agreeing with himself.

“Really cool,” Sabrina said.

Tillie made a vague comment. She didn't care for these at all. The photographer was talented, she thought, and probably worked hard, but these were clever studio pictures and nothing more. They had no compositional challenge or personal vision, no surprise. She chided herself for being a snob, but a second viewing didn't persuade her to like them any better.

Sabrina slumped against Frank and pulled his arm as though to say, Let's go.

“What are you doing after this?” he asked Tillie. “Bri and I are heading over to the Verona. Wanna come?”

“No, thanks.”

“It's only like a three-dollar cover before nine. Some band from Phoenix. Bauhaus is opening for them.”

The name gave her a start. “Oh, maybe I will.”

“Great. You want to look around any more?”

“No, I'm ready.” As they approached the door, there entered a short, middle-aged woman, wearing a too-tight sweater adorned with multi-colored sequins. It was Angela Rivera. She looked searchingly around the gallery, an eager smile tweaking her lips. She didn't notice Tillie, who observed that her gray hair was now more brunette and newly coiffed. Before Tillie could discover the object of her attention, however, Frank was holding the door and ushering her out. Brushing past his suede jacket, she caught a whiff of patchouli and thought again how handsome he was. She wondered once more how it would be just to kiss him. Then Sabrina gave her a look, and Tillie reminded herself to not be an idiot.

***

Hooper was dreaming.

He and Tillie were running down the beach, laughing good-naturedly at the guy who waved a metal detector over the sand, oblivious to the majesty of the ocean just behind him. Then Tillie tripped, fell, and disappeared.

The man with the metal detector was now carrying a broom and a dust pan. He swept up some sand where she had fallen.

“Where did she go?” Hooper asked, bewildered. “What are you doing?”

“I'm the garbage collector,” the man said. “Keeping the beach clean.”

“But you can't! That was Tillie!”

“Sorry, pal. You should have taken better care.” Hooper was so furious he wanted to pound this man, but he was limp-limbed and powerless. “How dare you!” he screamed, but a seagull drowned his cry. “Give her back, give her back!” He was a child throwing a tantrum, socking his fists in the air, stamping his feet. Suddenly he was doused with water; he thought at first the man had dumped a bucket on him, but then he saw the next wave rising menacingly above his head, and before he could catch his breath, it broke on him and towed him under.

It took him a few moments to realize he was sweating, cocooned in a flannel sleeping bag. How he hated these things, the way they bound your legs. The foam futon Tom had bought just for his visit was narrow and thin, and his feet hung off the bottom. His neck was stiff. He was wearing a tee shirt and underwear, which bugged him, but somehow it didn't seem right to sleep naked as he usually did. This was only his first night, and the long week squatted, hulking and motionless, on his chest.

Scraps of the dream littered his mind and his heart still pounded at the terror of losing Tillie. Breathing slowly, he fingered the metal tag on the chain around his neck. A dog tag with nothing on it. He wasn't sure why he was wearing it, but in preparing for the trip he had felt as though he wanted some sort of talisman to take with him. Blank seemed comforting. It asked nothing of him. If he could make his mind as blank as the tag, he thought, if he could let go of those thoughts that were painful, maybe he would be happier. All he could do now was cling to the idea of Tillie, and to grasp at a promise, a hope, an undirected prayer that he could be a better person.

He wanted to be home. He wanted to lie in their cool, airy bedroom and hear Tillie breathing next to him. He wanted to wake up in the morning and see the blue sky, wander out to get the paper and sit at the breakfast nook. He hadn't felt this homesick since he was a kid, sleeping over at Jimmy Clark's house. They'd had to share a twin bed because Jimmy's brother Kenny had the other bed. Hooper remembered being cramped and hot, and Kenny was acting up, being goofy. Their grandma, who lived there, was trying to get them to settle down. She said, “Remember that mean man at the grocery store? Well, he's outside right now and I'll let him in if you don't go to sleep.” Of course Hooper couldn't sleep, not so much because he believed there was a man outside, but because Jimmy's home was so strange. He wanted to be with his own sane family, in his own bed in his own room, and know that Tom was right next door.

Tom was nearby now, but it wasn't enough. He wondered if he'd feel better if Tom were still living in their old house. He missed the front porch, the wooden floors, the big staircase and leaded windows. But Tom's soon-to-be-ex was living there now, and Tom was living in this stale, weary bachelor pad.

He just hoped there would be coffee in the morning.

***

Tillie had always loved this old hotel lobby, with its wooden floor and high ceilings, its bronze and smoked-glass lighting. The walls were a burnt red, and the wainscoting and columns were spirited with Navajo motifs—diamonds, triangles, and zigzags—painted in desert colors like maize yellow, sky blue, violet, burnt orange, and sage green. There were Mimbres animals—a rabbit, a turtle, a lizard—scurrying along the top of the walls, and checkerboard patterns that drew attention to the finials.

She followed Frank and Sabrina through the lobby, where a small crowd of people milled about, and into the nightclub. A small room, it was charged with loud music from the band onstage. Tillie noticed Donna immediately: she was playing bass guitar.

“Want something?” Frank jerked his head toward the bar.

“Club soda,” she shouted back and started to pull out her wallet, but he waved her off. Sabrina tagged along behind, holding onto his belt loop as he made his way through the crowd. Though jostled by people moving around, Tillie was oblivious to anyone else. She took note of Donna's outfit: a sleeveless purple paisley sheath dress, big sunglasses, and a flowered scarf on her head, tied under her chin. Red and white striped stockings. Jumping up a little, she could see Donna's feet and her exquisite Wicked Witch black shoes with long pointy toes. Her voice was lovely, strong and clear.

When Frank put a glass in her hand she scarcely noticed. When someone bumped her, spilling some of her drink, she didn't mind. She had no idea how long the band played, but it wasn't long enough. Donna occasionally played the violin and for a couple songs she changed to acoustic guitar. She seemed the one holding the band together. Crash's voice was loud but not melodic, and he and Walt looked to her for a reminder of what the next song was. As they finished the set and broke down, Tillie felt suddenly adrift. Frank and Sabrina had disappeared. A techno beat buzzed from the amplifiers. She scanned the room full of people—as though she would know anyone there. Time to go.

As she glanced toward the door, she noticed a tall, curly-haired man enter the club. He seemed vaguely familiar, yet at the same time there was something almost grotesque about him: his skin was dull, while his lips were bright and exaggerated, his eyes dark and heavy. The women next to Tillie had seen him, too, and one spoke loudly enough for her to hear.

“Oh God, it's Richard. Look, he's wearing stage make-up. He's in this play now and hes such a creep about it. He has to tell everyone. It's about the first thing he says. 'Hi, I'm Richard, I'm an actor.' He looks like Madame Butterfly or something.” They both laughed.

Where had Tillie seen this man? It could have been anywhere, at the movie theater, the library, the student union. She ran through some more possibilities—dog obedience school, a waiter at some restaurant, a grocery store clerk—but nothing clicked. Friend of a friend? He was an actor, so perhaps Hooper had introduced them at a cast party. Her idle thoughts accelerated to a furious pace as the man unexpectedly caught her eye and seemed to be heading her way.

He was standing in front of her. The pancake makeup on his face was thick and his hair was damp at the temples from sweat.

“Tillie,” he said. “Hello,” she said warily, not sure whether to smile or run.

“You don't know me,” he said, “but I know you.” She stared at him and took a step back. At that moment a feedback screech from the sound crew drowned out his words, and all she heard—or thought she heard—was “Mo.”

“What?”

“Hey, what do you know about her?” Suddenly Donna was right next to Tillie. “Where is she?”

Richard smiled and shrugged. “That's what I want to know,” he said. “What's it to you?”

“I'm a friend.”

Richard laughed loudly. Heads turned in his direction.

“I loved that dog,” he pronounced. As he turned and stalked out of the room, a path opened to accommodate him and then he was gone.

Tillie was utterly baffled, and when Donna grabbed her hand to lead her out through the crowd, she followed without hesitation. The hotel lobby was much more crowded now, full of people standing around drinking, lounging on the leather couches, lining up at the bar by the window. There was no sign of Richard.

Donna pointed her toward the parking lot exit. “You try that way. I'll check Congress Street.”

Once outside, Donna took a deep breath of fresh air and tried to compose herself. She'd noticed Richard when he first entered the club and felt anxious; something about him seemed uncomfortably familiar, and his bizarre make-up repulsed her. When she saw him approach Tillie, she instinctively moved to defend her.

Tillie came out the lobby doors and joined her on the sidewalk.

“Donna,” she said. “What was that all about? Who was that guy?”

“I have no idea, but when he said that about Cosmo—”

“Cosmo! What did he say? I couldn't hear.”

“That she was his dog.”

“His dog! But that's impossible!” Tillie paused. “Isn't it?”

“I don't know, Tillie. She did come as a stray.”

“He said he loved her. How could that be?” Donna shrugged. “He's an asshole, obviously.”

“I wish we could have found him.”

It was nearly eleven, and the street was quiet but for people lingering outside the bars.

“There he is,” said Donna. “Across the street.”

He was leaning up against the darkened doorway of a bookstore, watching them, smoking a cigarette.

“It's like he's baiting us,” said Donna. “Scary guy, huh?”

“Yeah.” Tillie would have turned back inside were it not for Donna. “Well, shall we?”

“Let's go.”

They crossed the street. Tillie started to speak, but he interrupted her. “Come have a cup of coffee.”

He turned abruptly and they followed him like ducklings to a coffee house across the street. At the counter he ordered coffee and told the cashier that others were his treat. When they protested, he waved them off, saying, “Please. It's the least I can do.”

Tillie took her tea and sat at the table next to him. This close, she could again see the pancake makeup, the rouge on his cheeks and lips, but now it looked more tawdry than menacing. Aware of her gaze, he took a napkin and tried to wipe it off, smearing the black around his eyes.

“Forgot I had this stuff on.”

“So what's going on? Donna said impatiently. “What's this little game you're playing?”

His face inscrutable, he considered her for a moment before speaking. Donna did not look away. Tillie was impressed.

“I'll tell you,” he said. “A couple years ago, I had a dog named Lucy. She just showed up on my porch one day, and I took her in. At the time I wasn't doing so well. I didn't have any friends and I was barely scraping by at odd jobs. I was about to pack it in and go back home to Iowa. I even gave notice on my apartment.” He paused for a sip of coffee, watching them over the top of his cup.

“Lucy had other ideas, though. One day she just disappeared. I'd left her in the yard, as usual, but came home to find her gone. I was devastated. I felt betrayed. In fact, I was absolutely furious that she would treat me like that.”

Donna and Tillie exchanged glances.

“I couldn't leave without her, so I changed plans immediately. I managed to keep my apartment and got a job cleaning offices at night, so during the day I could look for her. For months I cruised around different parts of town. Then one day I saw her at the university.”

“With us,” said Tillie.

“Yes, the happy family. It was a simple thing to follow you and find out where you lived.”

“And then you took her!”

Richard rolled his eyes. “Please. I did not take her. I have my pride. Plus, I knew if I forced her, there was the chance she'd run away again. One day I went to go talk to her, but you were with her in the backyard.”

Tillie felt her skin crawl.

“She seemed perfectly content, and I have to admit I was crushed. But I wanted her back. I just had to figure out a way. Then, by coincidence, I found this little news item about the missing mass in the cosmos and left it for you and Hooper.”

For the first time, Tillie realized why Richard looked familiar.

“I was putting things in motion, setting the stage, if you will. I suppose it was a bit theatrical, but I couldn't resist. But just when I was about to make a move—”

“She ran away,” said Tillie. “She didn't want to go with you.” It was an absurd thought, but at the same time it seemed perfectly logical.

Richard shrugged. “Maybe. At first I thought you were hiding her, but eventually I had to accept the fact that I might never find her.” Something in his face softened. “And so I turned to the one thing I knew that could help me redeem myself, and that was to start painting again.”

Donna looked skeptical.

“It might surprise you to know that I trained as an artist, but it had been so long since I touched the stuff. When I moved here three years ago I thought the Southwest would be inspiring, but I felt nothing. Eventually it was as though painting was a completely other life.”

Touching her brow, Tillie felt sweat forming.

“I make pretty good money with this cleaning job,” he went on, “so I went out and bought some supplies. Sometimes I'd just smear paints on the canvas with my hands. Sometimes I'd stare at the blank canvas for days. But I stuck with it. I was in a kind of delirium. I had visions. I'd see whole flocks of cardinals in the trees, or paw prints appearing in gold on the sidewalk. Scared the shit out of me sometimes; I thought I was going crazy. But then, guess what? Another dog shows up on my doorstep, literally on my doorstep. A small black dog with a sweet face and markings like a sun bear. I named her Hecate.”

“The goddess of the crossroads,” Donna said. “That's right.” All three were quiet for a moment. Tillie opened her mouth to ask about the second note, about being a friend to dogs, but he spoke again.

“I look at it this way. If Lucy hadn't left, I wouldn't have stayed in Tucson or started painting. I wouldn't have auditioned for this play—and discovered a talent I never knew I had. I'd have returned to my hometown a defeated man, moved back into my parents' house, and applied for a job at the local gas station or something. Now I can go home because I want to, not because I have no other choice. Lucy did me a big favor.”

Tillie was finally able to speak. “Why did you tell us all this?”

He shrugged. “You wanted to know.” He drained his cup and stood. “So long.”

Donna and Tillie watched him leave. “Quite a story,” Donna said. “Do you believe it?”

“I don't know. Some of it sounds true enough. In a way, though, it doesn't matter. Cosmo is still gone.” They walked back to the club together, where Donna picked up her instruments and said good-bye to Crash and Walt. She had parked nearby and drove Tillie to her car near the gallery.

“Thank you,” Tillie said. “Thank you so much.”

“You bet,” Donna said. “Let's do it again—but without the weirdo next time.”

It was midnight when Tillie got home, but even though she was exhausted she couldn't get to sleep. She got up and went out to the kitchen to drink a glass of wine and read a magazine. Before lying down again she pulled back the curtain so that the room would not be so dark. Finally she drifted off. Just before waking, she had a dream.

She was sitting cross-legged and looking up at the sky. An intense, pure blue bursting with fluffy baroque clouds, it drew her in. Gradually she realized that it was actually a painted ceiling, and that she was in a kind of kiva made of earth. It was a comforting place, protective and still. She was acutely aware of her body, its breathing, its blood and bones; she had the penetrating sense that she inhabited her skin. She felt poised, on the brink of movement. With a slight push then, she floated up and broke through the ceiling. The clay crumbled easily.

She awoke with sunlight on her face.



<-     -c-     ->    

Tom tiptoed past Hooper, who was still asleep on the living room floor, and went into the kitchen. He poured water in the kettle, set it on the small electric stove, and dropped a tea bag in a mug. On the box of Sleepytime tea—bland, uncomplicated chamomile—was a little bear in a nightshirt, a familiar image after many sleepless nights. On the table he set a box of raisin bran flakes, all he had in the house for breakfast. He'd bought a carton of milk at the convenience store for Hooper's visit, but he had no imagination for anything more. Lately he hadn't felt like eating in the mornings, even though he ended up at work with a mid-morning headache, which he tried to cure with too much coffee and a packaged danish or cheese crackers that he kept in his office drawer.

Pathetic, he knew. Jenny used to make big Sunday breakfasts, with omelets or pancakes, sausage, and freshly ground coffee, and afterward they would walk over to church together. People knew them there: they served on committees and occasionally set up the coffee circle. Since their separation, though, he had given it up. Whether Jenny still attended, he didn't know, but regardless he would feel awkward among the people who had known them for so long as a couple. In time he might venture back. He supposed he could look for another congregation, but that would be difficult, because this was the same church he'd been attending since he was a boy, even through college.

The kitchen was quiet. Tom was used to it. In fact, it was odd to know that someone else was in his home. His older brother: the glib one, the confident one, the one who made people laugh. Even though Tom had been quarterback of the football team and a math whiz at school, he had struggled to maintain a sense of his own identity. Hooper had a way of grabbing the spotlight: he organized the neighborhood kids in play; he got awards for the things he made in shop; and he counted as many girls as boys among his friends. Tom had thought he'd outgrown his jealousy, but now with Hooper visiting and the misery of his divorce consuming him, he had fresh occasion to remember. Hooper giving a solo in the school choir, winning a school office, founding an ecology club. He made a big deal about joining the Boy Scouts in middle school, then a bigger deal about quitting. He once announced at the dinner table that he wouldn't be going to church anymore, and their parents let him get away with it. At his graduation, he'd thrown a huge party for friends and relatives, with cake and champagne; when Tom graduated two years later, it was just the four of them out to dinner.

At another time, Tom might have shoved those memories aside, but months of therapy made him pause. Instead he let them tumble out, let them sit in front of him like rocks on a plate. He felt ashamed. He was thirty-two and still nursing hurts from fifteen, twenty years ago. Thirty-two and feeling estranged from the two people who should be the closest to him in the world, his wife and brother. Last week, expressing his anxieties to his therapist, Janie, he'd wondered if he and Hooper would have anything to talk about. She threw the question back to him, as she often did.

“What do you want to talk about?” He couldn't answer her.

He poured his tea before the kettle sang, and soon afterward he could hear Hooper stirring, probably putting on his pants. Stretching and yawning noisily, he came into the kitchen to say good morning. He took one look at the box of bran flakes, at Tom cupping his mug of tea, and declared they would eat out, his treat. Tom didn't argue. He waited for Hooper to shower and dress, then did the same.

Outside the restaurant, Hooper stopped to pet a black dog tied up to the newspaper stand.

“We had a dog, did I ever tell you?” Hooper said as they sat by the window and ordered coffees. “She was a beautiful dog. Golden fur, shaggy tail. She was so happy and smart. She'd smile and you'd want to give her money. Everybody loved her. She was a great dog.” The paltriness of his words embarrassed him. “Here, I have a picture.” He pulled out his wallet and flipped to a photograph of Cosmo in the desert, surrounded by yellow brittlebush.

“Yeah, she's a nice looking dog. What happened to her?”

“She just disappeared one day, last July. She might have run away, but it's not likely. We always had her off leash and she stuck around. The gate was still latched when we got home. We only had her a little over a year, but I still miss her. We tried everything we could to find her.”

“I always wanted a dog, but Jenny was against it. She said we didn't have time to take care of it.”

“Well, now you can.” Hooper was touched by this information; he had been afraid that Tom wouldn't like dogs. He decided they could go to the pound together and choose a dog. He could give him some tips on training, take the dog out while Tom was at work for the next few days.

“Nah. She was right. I don't have time. Besides, I'm not allowed pets in the apartment.”

The waiter brought coffee and took their order, ending that topic. The idea of Tom alone, without even a dog for companionship, made Hooper sad. So did the idea of Jenny. What had happened between them? he wondered. He was just about to ask, trying to phrase the question more delicately in his mind, when Tom said, as though much farther along in that conversation, “Jenny and I have been married for over five years.”

“I'm really sorry things aren't working out.” This might be easier than Hooper thought.

“Everything we had is gone, like that.” Tom's voice was a staccato. “What a goddamn waste. What a fucking idiot I am.” Gripping his coffee spoon tightly with both hands, watching it bend a little, Tom was surprised at himself. He hadn't meant to show such emotion in a public place, but something came over him. It was almost as though he meant to shock Hooper, and it appeared he had. He was about to pour cream from a small pitcher, but he missed his cup.

“You're not an idiot, Tom,” he managed to say, wiping the spill with a napkin. “It happens to the best of people.”

Tom smiled bitterly. “I just expected to stay married. Can you believe that? Who stays married any more? Mom and Dad did—I guess. Who knows what they might have done if they hadn't died?”

Hooper felt short of breath. He couldn't get a good dose of caffeine quickly enough. Having awoken with a headache and missing Tillie keenly, he felt ill equipped to deal with this more grievous barrage of sorrow and cynicism. He wanted to know what was going on with his brother, but did Tom have to be so brutally honest?

“It's like I was living in my own little world,” Tom went on, more calmly. He hadn't planned to divulge so much so soon, but something had opened the floodgates. She says she feels dissatisfied. She says we don't connect any more.”

“I'm sorry.” Hooper felt completely useless.

“We used to have friends over for dinner, you know?” Tom looked at Hooper directly, as though telling his future. “Went for hikes on the weekend, the movies.”

Hooper turned his gaze out the window, where a woman was untying her black dog. Excited to see her, it jumped and spun around, wrapping the leash around her ankles and making her spill her paper cup of coffee. She laughed. The waiter brought them plates of eggs and pancakes.

“I wanted a family, but she said she wasn't ready. So now that hope is gone, too.”

***

The morning was cool, with that clear fall light that brought all objects into sharp focus. Tillie drank her coffee in the backyard, because the metal chair was cold through her jeans and sweater. Soon she went back in the house for a bowl of cereal. But she left the back door open, and that was how the hummingbird came into the kitchen. It fluttered and banged against the bay window like a giant moth against the porch light, its efforts were more frantic and emphatic because of its size.

She had come to a kind of grudging acceptance that cockroaches, crickets, and spiders would creep into the house, but this was different. Its presence was so insistent, its calamity so apparent, its desire so fierce. She and the bird were both bewildered by the confusion of two realms, house and sky, and for a moment she didn't move. Stepping closer to look at it, she could see a patch of violet-purple on its head and iridescent green feathers on its back. That made it a male Costa's, like the ones she'd seen in the bougainvillea.

The door was wide open, so close and easy. But the bird didn't know that, and she couldn't make him see. She thought of batting at him with a magazine, but that seemed cruel, and she doubted she could direct him outside. Before she quite realized what she was about to do, she reached out her hands and caught him.

She almost let him go as quickly, for he rattled in her hands like an alarm clock. Two steps and she was out the door, and the bird burst from her hands, dipped crazily, then darted straight away. Tillie's heart was racing. Her panic had met the pitch of the bird's, but whereas he was probably terrorized, she was now thrilled by the encounter.

It made her eager to start painting. At first her brush, balanced lightly in her hand, felt as though it were buzzing, but as she sank it into the paint and daubed it on the canvas, it regained its plush gravity, its slick resistance. Working all morning, slowly and deliberately, she absorbed herself in one canvas until she felt satisfied, then set it aside for a new one. She put on some music but turned it off, finding it too intrusive. The small fan in the window hummed quietly, drawing out the gumtine fumes, but otherwise she could listen to the scratch and rub of her brushstrokes. She painted most of the day, pausing briefly to have lunch and read the paper. Colors and shapes overlay the words she read. In the afternoon, hours went by before she was aware of it, and she stopped near dusk to clean up.

Walking through the neighborhood to the north, she kept her gaze on the warm brown of the foothills and the meditative, cool blue of the sky. As she passed a woman walking a schnauzer and then a man with a brown wiry-haired mutt, she almost reached out to grasp Hooper's hand, as though he were walking next to her. She hadn't thought of him most of the day, but she suddenly, viscerally realized he was gone.

It was only at that moment that she thought, Why didn't I just open the window and let the hummingbird fly away?

That night she slept poorly, too aware that she was the only living being in the house. Nevertheless, the next morning, Monday, she awoke impatient to get out of bed. For the first time in her working life, she called in sick at the library, making her voice sound pinched and dull. She went to Standard Brands, which, happily, opened at eight o'clock, and bought a large pad of newsprint, four canvases, six tubes of paint, paint thinner, and a couple brushes. The rest of the morning and all that afternoon she drew or painted. She did contour and gesture drawings, and traded off between the two canvases she'd already started. She played music all day, even digging into a box of old tapes, experimenting with different rhythms. On Tuesday she called in sick again, explaining to the voice mail that she doubted she would make it in Wednesday, either. She whipped off several more sketches and started two more canvases.

The work would be piling up on her desk, but she couldn't feel guilty. She was simply grateful and awed enough to give way.

***

Tuesday night Hooper called.

“What are you guys doing?” she asked. It was noisy in the background.

“Not much,” Hooper said. “Actually, I'm calling from the grocery store. I made Tom mad, so I came out to buy ice cream and chocolate sauce.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, it's a long story. I'll tell you when I get home. I just wanted to call to say I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“You having fun?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

“I'm glad. Doing what?”

“It's kind of a long story. Can I tell you when you get home?”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, I think it's going to snow.”

“That's nice. Will you make me a snow angel?”

“I'll make you three angels, a cupcake, and the state of Maine.”

“You're sweet.”

“I wish I were.” He could hardly hear himself speak for the crashing of carts behind him. “Well, I better go. Looks like the shopping cart derby is about to get underway.”

“Thanks for calling. You and Tom will work it out.”

“Yeah.” They both waited a couple seconds, reluctant to hang up. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

After she hung up, it occurred to her that Thanksgiving was in two days, and she hadn't made any plans.

Would it be rude to invite herself to someone's house for dinner? Momentarily disappointed that no one had called her, she ran through the possibilities. Paul and Laurie, with whom they'd shared last year's dinner, were headed to her parents' house in Las Cruces. Jason and his new girlfriend had rented a cabin on Mount Lemmon for a few days. Susan, from work, was going to Phoenix with her family. That was about it. She thought, with renewed determination, I have to make some friends.

She could just buy some Chinese take-out, but she craved contact with someone besides the grocery store clerk. There was Maria... Tillie hesitated, and then called.

“No, I don't have plans, as a matter of fact,” said Maria. The phone had startled her: she'd been reading in her big soft armchair and had closed her eyes to rest.

“Do you want to get together, then?”

She nearly laughed out loud. Ever since their lunch some weeks before, she'd been indulging in thoughts about Hooper, wondering if they could arrange lunch again, imagining what might happen if he were free.

Once in a while she'd try to quash those thoughts, telling herself not to be ridiculous, but they came creeping back. Tillie's call was a reality check.

“Of course,” Maria said.

Tillie offered to roast the turkey and bake potatoes; Maria would bring tamales and a salad.

“I'll get some wine, too,” Tillie said. “Anyone else coming?”

“I don't think so. You're welcome to invite someone.”

“I can't think of anyone. We'll just have to eat a lot.”

As Maria hung up, she wondered about Nick. Would he be eating potpies for Thanksgiving? She yanked open her book again and forced herself to focus, angry that her eyes could still smart at the thought of him.

***

Hooper was pouting. He was disappointed in himself for it, but here he was in Buffalo, left alone for the third day while his brother was at work, and outside was gray and wet. Sleet slid down the window like slug trails. What a dreary city this can be, he thought, looking out from the third floor at the stream of cars heading downtown, their wiper blades flipping back and forth. He remembered how long the winters seemed when he was a kid. Aching to play baseball or soccer outside, he felt persecuted by the weather and groaned when his mom suggested things for him to do inside. Tom, on the other hand, had seemed perfectly happy with the kitchen-science books she bought, doing projects with moldy bread or weather in a jug. Once he created a frothing concoction of vinegar and baking soda, and Hooper said, “I can do that.” He loaded up his toothbrush with toothpaste and scrubbed until foam was pouring from his mouth. His father threatened to make him brush with soap.

He smiled ruefully to think what a pain in the butt he must have been. He wished he could tell his parents now that he was sorry, that he loved them, that he regretted teasing Tom so unmercifully. And he wished his mom were here to tell him what to do. Go play in the attic. Go clean your room. Go put on some music and dance; you're driving me crazy. He wished his parents were there so he could ask them what they'd been like as children. Or what it was like to be old. How not to be scared about things. How to make decisions. He wished he could make them laugh, as he had often done, charming his way out of trouble.

He wanted to revisit his family home. He knew it would be different, filled with Jenny's things, but he would still like to smell the musty basement, tread the squeaky stairs, feel the smooth wood of the banister, and observe the light through the stained glass on the landing. But Jenny was living there now, and that was that. Hooper couldn't quite understand why the family house had fallen into Jenny's hands. When he tried to ask about it the night before, Tom had become quite agitated.

“I love that house as much as you do,” Tom said. “But when we got married, it became joint property. And since I can't afford to buy her another house or set her up in a nicer place than this dump, for the time being that's how things are.”

“What do you mean, buy her another house?” Hooper exclaimed. “Let her get her own house!”

“It doesn't work that way, Hooper. We have to split up everything. And unless we sell the house, that means one of us gets to live in it. Jenny doesn't have a great job and she's nervous about supporting herself. And she's just really stubborn about some things.”

“Well, can't you be stubborn?” Hooper was angry, ready to rush to Tom's defense. “It's your house, Tom.”

“Yeah, it's my house. And you know what? You and I agreed: I get this house, you get Grandma's old house in Tucson. That means this not your business.”

“Okay. You're right.” Hooper felt chastened and yet he was riled at Tom's snippy attitude. “I'm sorry. I just want what's best for you.”

“Thanks,” Tom said grudgingly. “But things aren't that easy right now.”

Hooper paced the apartment, wondering again why the hell he had even come. In the last few days, whenever he'd tried to talk about Jenny and the divorce, he either pissed Tom off or made him quiet. He felt naive and boorish: too fortunate to empathize with what Tom was going through, and too insensitive to comfort him. He'd run out of more benign topics of conversation. He finished the book he'd brought and saw the one movie he was interested in. And after a few forays to art galleries and coffee houses, he'd run out of things to do. Three long days and nights before he could go home.

He needed to get out of this apartment. Thankfully, he had Tom's car keys; Tom had generously been taking the bus to work. Grabbing his coat and an umbrella, he locked the door and jumped the stairs three at a time. First a bank machine, then the mall and the grocery store. The list in his head was growing longer.

***

In the early afternoon, having cleaned her brushes and eaten a banana, Tillie went to the grocery store, along with throngs of harried people who had also left their holiday shopping to the last minute. Their carts were full of frozen pumpkin pies and pale dinner rolls, canned yams and marshmallows, Cool Whip in plastic tubs. In the midst of the traffic jams, cranky kids, and impatient moms, she ran into Barry, who had in his hand-basket a quart of chocolate milk, Cheetos, and two turkey frozen dinners. It was a shock to see a familiar face, she had been so isolated the past few days. She invited him to Thanksgiving dinner.

“Great!” he said with a big smile. “What can I bring?”

“Olives. Cheetos. Nothing. Whatever you want.”

“Olives it is. Do you need dinner rolls? I've got a great recipe from my Mom for Parker House rolls, full of butter.”

“Sounds wonderful,” she said, and Barry headed back to the dairy case.

Starting in the meat section, she waited her turn to pounce on the remaining unfrozen turkeys, then piled other goods on top. Stuffing mix, celery and onion; ten pounds of potatoes, on special; a ready-made pumpkin pie from the deli; a bouquet of flowers; crackers and a chunk of pate. Cream for coffee, and, finally, a chocolate bar with almonds that she wolfed down on the way out to the car. Stopping for quick Chinese take-out on the way home, she nearly swooned from the smell, she was so hungry. At the wine store she bought two bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau.

Pulling into her driveway, she noticed Donna's car was parked next door. As she started to unload the groceries, Ellen Driver stepped out her door.

“This is what I'm reduced to,” she said to Tillie, poking a cigarette in her mouth and clicking her lighter. “Banned from my own home while my grandson is here.” She shrugged, sucked, and blew smoke from pursed lips.

“I'm having some people over for dinner tomorrow,” Tillie said, flush with the excitement of the event. “Would you like to join us?”

“Thank you, but I've made plans with Donna and Joey.”

“They're welcome to come, of course.” That was actually what Tillie had in mind.

“Well, that'd be fine. Donna's a vegetarian, you know, so she's bringing a squash dish. I was going to make an apple pie. How would that be?”

Tillie assured her those sounded wonderful. Lugging as many bags inside as she could carry, she came back out for more. Ellen had disappeared inside her house; the scent of cigarette lingered. Thinking about that house, how depressingly dark it was and permeated with smoke, Tillie wondered whether Donna might not be as lonely as she.

***

While Ellen was smoking out on the front step, Donna went to the back yard, waiting for Joey to finish his video, trying to calm her nerves. She had intended to pick up Joey after work and leave right away, but then she and her aunt got into another tiresome argument about smoking. Surely Ellen knew how damaging second-hand smoke was, especially to children, but she still snuck a cigarette when Joey was around. What a stubborn, insensitive woman, Donna thought. The other day she'd had to explain, again, why she was a vegetarian, and assure Ellen that she did feed Joey meat, although beans and rice was perfectly healthy for him, too.

She blew her nose. This cold made her tired. She should have called in sick to work that day but she needed the money. She'd spent the last five hours doped up on decongestants and smiling like a beauty queen because she didn't want anyone to know she was sick. All she wanted to do was go home and sleep, but she'd promised Joey she'd play construction trucks with him. That was for the best, anyway, she thought ruefully, because anytime she lay down she was deluged with thoughts of Barry. Since their one and only date some weeks ago, she'd had two lousy phone messages from him. In the last one, just the other day, he said he was sorry about not calling, but he'd been sick. He sounded sincere enough, but until he was there, in person, she refused get her hopes up, as she'd done too often before. She thought about calling him back to see if he were really sick, but it was too much of a risk. If he answered in a normal voice, without that stuffiness, she'd be crushed. Better to let him fade out of her life.Too busy with work, the band, and Joey, she hadn't been on a date in a long time. Men she might have been interested in were scared off when they discovered she had a son. But not Barry. During the movie he kept staring at her and she knew it; when she turned to look at him they both laughed. Over coffee they talked about local music and B movies they both liked. He told her about the tricks he used to play on his mom—toy mice in the pantry, live frogs in the bathtub—so she would be ready for Joey's stunts. He told her about his research, on the shrinking habitat of the Ghost-faced Bat. He promised to take her to watch their exodus from the cave one evening.

“It's like this explosion, like a dark wind pouring out of the cave,” he said, gesturing with his arms. “Only it's alive: it's this flapping, squeaking thing. It's terrifying and thrilling at the same time.”

And then back at his place: his kisses, so lovely, tender, and assured. He had touched her consciously, deliberately, regarding her shoulders, hands, and even elbows with a kind of wonder. When she was ready to leave he asked her to stay, but when she said no he didn't press it. He stood and simply held her for a long moment. For days, thinking of him, she kept putting her hands to her mouth, her hips, her hair.

But thank God she hadn't slept with him. She'd wanted to, and nearly did; but she was grateful for her instinct to wait. After his first sweet and rambling message to thank her for the date, she'd called back, only to talk to his phone machine. She'd been much more forward, telling him how wonderful his kisses were, how she looked forward to seeing him again. After two weeks with no response, she knew that this relationship was not to be; but even so her heart leapt when the phone rang, or when the light was blinking on her message machine, or when an old Skylark passed her on the road. It upset her. She didn't want to be so affected. Every time she answered the phone and it wasn't him, she made an effort to remind herself that she was a strong person and would get over this in time. It was only one date, after all.

She tucked her snotty tissue in a pocket, went back inside, and flopped on an easy chair. Joey was lying on the floor watching a noisy video. He looked at her and then, remarkably, turned off the TV and climbed in her lap. Cuddling his body as best she could—he was five now, and his legs were getting longer, his elbows jabbed—she rested her cheek on his soft brown hair and locked her arms around him. Although Ellen was banging around in the kitchen and Joey was usually very chatty, now they were in a momentary island of quiet. Donna was aware of her own breathing and his, now in different rhythms, now together. Slowly she let herself be immersed in a joy so pure it sang.

***

The grocery store, Hooper's last stop, was packed. Retrieving his own cart from the wet parking lot, he pushed past a small throng waiting inside for a clerk to bring in more. He didn't have a list, so his plan was to advance as his mother used to do, snaking up and down every aisle. He used to go with her once in a while as a kid, and she'd send him scurrying around the store after bread or cheese or whatever. Sometimes he'd park himself in the cereal aisle, entertained by the bright colors and Free Inside! offers until she caught up to him.

In the produce section were a few pumpkins left from Halloween, and he chose a lopsided one with a twisted stem. He would get Tom to sit down with him and carve it, just for fun. He loaded the cart with potatoes, a dusky red pepper, romaine lettuce, and carrots. Garlic. Three different kinds of local apples and two big yams. We might be orphans, he thought, but we'll eat like kings.

He looped his way around the store, making good progress. In one congested aisle, waiting for a mother and her young daughter to decide whether to buy white mini marshmallows or colored ones, he caught the eye of a gray-haired man on the other side of the pile-up and they both smiled. Hooper saw himself as an old man shopping, and he hoped he would be buying dinner for himself and Tillie. He would throw in a candy bar or a chunk of Brie to surprise her with at home. He smiled broadly at anybody who looked his way, and most of them smiled back. Finally, he needed only a pint of whipping cream and a pumpkin pie, and he was done.

The sleet had stopped but the clouds were dark and heavy. He turned the car lights on as he left the parking lot. Four o'clock: he didn't have much time to get things ready before his brother came home.

Driving the short hop on the expressway through Delaware Park, he passed by the bronze replica of Michelangelo's David and gave a friendly wave. It was part of Buffalo's charm and ineptitude that such a work of art should be so accessible, he thought, and that an expressway was allowed to cut through one of the most beautiful parks he'd even seen.

He hoped it would snow.

***

Tramping along the rocky trail, Tillie was glad she had decided to drive up to the foothills for a short hike instead of her usual neighborhood walk. With not quite an hour before sunset, she wouldn't go far. One of Hooper's co-workers at the nursery had shown them this place, and they came up every so often. It was a fairly easy trail that dipped across an arroyo, then climbed steadily up the canyon. Five minutes from the trailhead, she was ensconced in desert flora: fat saguaro and skinny ocotillo, jumping cholla, barrel cactus. There were other scruffy bushes, some native and some invaders, whose names she forgot, although Hooper had told her more than once; she'd pay more attention next time. Here and there she caught a glimpse of a scuttling lizard or hopping jackrabbit. As she rounded one turn, she could see Finger Rock high up on the ridge, pointing skyward.

At the next rise was a huge boulder. Sometimes they would see someone sitting and meditating there, but today it was empty. Scrambling up to the top, she remembered how Hooper used to coax Cosmo up with him. The first time, Tillie was aghast that he would even attempt it; but although the dog slipped and stalled she made it with his help, and the both of them sat up there like two kids in the high branches of a tree, brash and exuberant, while Tillie looked up from below.

She took her turn now, sitting cross-legged and looking over the valley. The sprawling, unmindful city distracted her for some moments, but she turned to a more arresting drama, which was the sky. Clouds from yesterday's storm had lingered, their shapes shifting from brilliantly white billows to rippled streaks and faint puffs. As the sun sank lower and shadows accentuated their flat bellies and fat mounds, they took on increasing depth and dimension; The cerulean blue of the sky was intensified as orange seeped into the white; and as the clouds blushed pink, the sky turned almost green. The rock she sat on and the plants around her were bathed in a golden glow, as though the light were immanent, and as the sun nearly dipped below the western mountains, radiant bands splayed out like fingers. Clouds were rimmed with silken fire. Where she sat was very quiet. A single word crept into her mind: home.

She waited and watched a few moments more, then reluctantly climbed down from the boulder so she could get back to her car before dusk settled. But first she had one whim to indulge. Determining that no one was around, she chose a spot hidden from the trail but exposed to the canyon; then she pulled down her pants, squatted, and peed. The small stream splashed on the dry rocks, and when the drips subsided, she stood and zipped up. Laughing at herself, she trotted back down the trail.

***

The vegetables were all cut and the pasta water hot, though not yet boiling. Everything was ready for the primavera, but still no Tom. Hooper grated some parmesan and looked out at the street again—as though that would tell him anything. He was hungry and getting worried. Here it was six-thirty, dark outside, and Tom wasn't home yet. Hooper had even called him at work, but all he got was the voice mail. Well, Tom had a right to do what he wanted. Maybe he went to happy hour with co-workers, or was at an emergency meeting. He might have had errands to run, or stopped at the library, any number of things.

Hooper had dashed up and down the stairs three times when he got home, bringing in his purchases. He stuffed groceries into the fridge and eagerly dumped out his other bags, strewing boxes and plastic packaging all over the living room. He strung white Christmas lights in the front window, arranged four colorful pillows on the couch, placed candles on the table, and set up the new floor lamp. New sponges, new bathroom rug, even a toothbrush, and the piece de resistance: a big silver art-deco style clock for the kitchen. He found a place for everything, turned on the new lamp, turned on the radio, and rolled up his sleeves to start chopping vegetables.

By seven o'clock, Tom had still not arrived. Hooper ate a few peanut-butter crackers and was tempted to dig into the cheesecake he'd bought for dessert. What should he do? He was trying not to be mad at Tom, who surely had a good reason for being late. Tom didn't know Hooper was going to all this trouble. But goddamn it, he thought, he better not have gotten run over by the bus or something.

Fifteen minutes later, Hooper couldn't stand it any longer. He would get in the car and drive around the streets. It would a futile effort, but something. He wrote a note, locked the apartment, and started down the stairs.

Where he ran into Tom and Jenny.

“Hello, Hooper,” Jenny said warmly. She gave him a quick hug. “So nice to see you!”

“You, too.” He'd forgotten how pretty she was, tall and blond. “I wasn't sure I'd see you this trip.”

Tom and Jenny looked at each other. “Let's go in,” said Tom. As Tom unlocked the door, entered, and stepped aside for Jenny, Hooper watched for his reaction. Tom looked around the room and then at Hooper, but his expression was neutral.

“Have you had dinner?” Hooper was still struggling to control his anger and anxiety, which had been building for nearly two hours. But there was no sense making Tom look bad right now. A couple more niceties and he'd get past it.

“Just a cookie.” Jenny laughed. “We went for coffee after work.”

“Jenny saw me waiting for the bus and picked me up,” Tom explained. “We had a couple things we wanted to talk about.”

“I hope we didn't make you worried,” Jenny said. “Tom didn't tell me right away that you were here. We would have called.”

“No problem. I'm making a pasta primavera. Will you join us?”

Jenny glanced at Tom. “Please,” he said. “I'd like to.” She set her purse down by the couch and handed her coat to Tom. “It looks really nice in here. The Christmas lights and all. Festive.”

“Tom's got a good eye for that kind of thing,” Hooper said, sliding him a wink. “You know, simple, but effective.”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Tom.

“I'll have dinner ready in no time. Let's open a bottle of wine.”

As they went into the kitchen, Hooper turned up the heat under the pasta pot. Jenny exclaimed over the amount of food on the counter.

“We'll have a feast tonight and tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow?” Hooper feared what was coming. “Jen has invited us for Thanksgiving,” Tom said. “That is, if it's okay with you.” Hooper made his head nod before he could say anything. “Sure. Sure, that'd be great. What else can we bring?”

“Oh, I have everything,” said Jenny. “My sister and her husband were going to come from Albany, but they just called yesterday to say they can't make it.”

“She makes this great spiced fruit,” Tom said.

“Great.” Hooper smiled stiffly. He told himself a soup kitchen would be happy to take his groceries.

“Okay.” Jenny sounded happy. “It's settled, then.”

“Here's some wine.” Hooper uncorked a bottle and filled three of the four glasses he'd just bought and washed. “And here's to you.”



<-     -c-     ->    

Everyone was congregated in the kitchen, including, at one point, Maria's two dogs, but she ordered them out along with their ringleader, Joey. Wine, beer and soda bottles were set out on the counter, and the table was laden with bowls of chips, bean dip, radishes, olives, crackers, pate and Joey's contribution, solid red Jell-O squares. Other dishes were in the oven. The turkey sat on a platter while Barry sharpened a knife.

Donna had taken a chair in a corner and wasn't saying much. At first Tillie was disappointed: she thought Donna might be annoyed about being dragged into the encounter the other night with Richard. But when Barry tried to speak to Donna a couple times and got a very cool response, it wasn't hard to guess that there must be something between them. Tillie asked her to put on some music—and then regretted doing so. Donna went out to her car and came back with a tape of screaming lyrics, jangling guitars, and a frenetic beat.

When the gravy was hot, the cranberry sauce dished up, and the turkey carved, Tillie proclaimed, “We're ready!” She almost turned the music off because it was getting on her nerves but, not wanting to offend Donna, turned it down instead.

They heard a car door slam, then another. They looked out the window. The car was parked next door. Walking up Ellen's driveway were Angela Rivera and a dark-haired, mustached man.

“Oh, for the love of—!” Ellen exclaimed. “What's she doing here?” Donna said.

“She said something weeks ago about our getting together for Thanksgiving dinner,” Ellen said. “But we never made any plans. She's just here to show off her new beau. Really, she is just too much.”

Tillie, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, peeked over their shoulders. “Oh my God,” she said. It's—”

“Angela,” said Donna. “No, but—”

“And her former brother-in-law,” Ellen added.

“Roscoe.” The two were on Ellen's doorstep and ringing the bell.

“Excuse me,” she said “I'll go shoo them away.”

“Wait,” said Tillie. This was a very strange turn, and something either perverse or magnanimous in her wanted to see where it would lead. “Let's invite them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, if you want their company,” said Tillie. “I'm happy to have them. They even brought a dish.”

Ellen pursed her lips. “It is Thanksgiving, I suppose. A time to share.”

Angela turned and saw them at the window. She gave a big wave.

Tillie opened the door and invited them in. Angela was brimming with thanks.

“So wonderful!” she said. “All these wonderful people and lovely food. So kind of you, Tillie.”

“I'm glad you could be here.”

“But you must meet Roscoe.” She introduced him around. Shaking hands, he gave Tillie a wink.

“We were just about to eat,” said Tillie.

Donna went to fetch Joey, and Maria followed to make sure that the dogs stayed out of the house. Then it was quiet enough for everyone to hear a very loud, clear voice shout, “No! Put that down!” And then Joey wailing. They all ran outside. Joey was clinging to Donna, who glared at Maria, who was shepherding her dogs to a corner of the yard and commanding them to lie down.

“What's going on?” Ellen demanded.

Donna shook her head in disbelief. “Joey was just going to give the dog a cracker. He about jumped out of his skin when Maria yelled at him.”

“I'm sorry,” said Maria, “but I don't let my dogs eat people food. I was yelling at Tasha, not you, Joey. I didn't mean to scare you, honey. I should have asked you earlier not to feed them.”

Joey sniffled; Donna stroked his head.

“Well, what's the big deal about a dog eating a cracker?” said Angela indignantly. “Let the boy play with the dog.”

“It's not good for the dog,” said Maria firmly. “They eat only dog food, and feeding them outside of meal time just teaches them to beg.”

Angela appealed to Roscoe, who shrugged his shoulders.

“She's right,” he said simply.

“I see! Everybody's an expert! Angela stalked back to the house.

“I can't see that one cracker—” said Ellen.

“Speaking of eating,” said Tillie, “shall we? Things are getting cold.”

They all trooped back to the kitchen. As they piled their plates with food and found a place to sit in the living room, a few of them made an attempt at good cheer. Tillie sat in a folding chair and took a big swallow of wine. She was exhausted. She hadn't been sleeping well for several nights. Even though she felt good about her painting and her hike, when she lay down her mind started racing with anxieties about this dinner. She worried about getting the turkey done right, rehearsed over and over the order in which she would do the cleaning, cooking, and setting up. She worried that without Hooper to play the charming host, things would fall flat. It was almost the same group of people who had shared an impromptu pizza party a month or so before, but this time, she had worked hard to make it a success and so set herself up for failure. Still groggy when she woke up, she nevertheless had risen early, took a long walk, chopped onions and cried over them, stuffed a turkey, sauced cranberries, peeled yams, scrubbed the bathroom and dusted the hardwood floors. Sitting down to relax for the first time that day, she looked at her food and for some moments didn't have the heart to even raise her fork.

On the one side of her was Angela, who, seemingly over her snit, was busily engaging Roscoe's attention, inviting him to try some of her eggplant dish. On the other side was Barry, morosely watching Donna across the room as she helped Joey with his food. Maria, sitting next to Ellen on the couch, was gamely trying to make small talk, but Ellen was not cooperating. Tillie, for her part, would have liked to talk with Roscoe, but Angela's square shoulder prevented that. The dynamics of the group were evolving as awkwardly as she had feared.

Roscoe complimented her on the turkey. Angela remarked that it was a little dry.

Maria caught Tillie's eye and winked. “I think everything is great. Especially the Jell-O squares.”

“Too bad the dogs can't have any,” Angela said, almost under her breath. Maria rolled her eyes.

“More for us,” said Roscoe.

Seeing Donna needed a napkin, Barry jumped up from his seat and handed her one.

“Can I get you something else?” he asked. “Another roll? More turkey?”

“No, thanks.” Donna wiped a spill on Joey's shirt.

Barry went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine. He refilled Maria's and Roscoe's glasses, then offered some to Donna.

“No, really, I'm fine,” she insisted, but he started to pour anyway. “Barry, don't.” She grabbed at her cup, spilling the wine.

“Uh-oh,” said Joey.

Barry stepped back as though bitten. “I'm sorry. Did I get any on you? I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay.” Her tone softened, but she still sounded exasperated. “It won't show on my tights. But the rug.”

“Don't worry about it.” With a wet sponge and some paper towels, Tillie got on her knees and started scrubbing while the others watched quietly. The area rug was multi-colored, so it wouldn't show a stain badly, but Tillie was discouraged. All her good intentions, and the evening had been reduced to an irritable uneasiness among the guests, a kitchen full of dirty dishes, and more uneaten food than would fit in the fridge. She wondered why she ever thought she could pull this off.

“What is this music?” Ellen demanded. “It's mine,” said Donna curtly. Back in the kitchen Tillie drew a deep breath. There was nothing to do but see this through and hope they would all leave soon. She would try to hurry dessert along.

She heard the music stop, and a moment later the overture from La Traviata began. Joining her in the kitchen, Donna touched her shoulder and thanked her for dinner. Together they cleared the table, emptied leftovers into plastic tubs, and started loading the dishwasher. Donna whipped the cream. Already Tillie's mood was lighter. While she ground the coffee beans, measured water, and started the coffee brewing, “Sempre Libero” filled the house. As always, the waltz brought to her mind a grand ballroom and carefree society, women in frothy gowns dancing with gallant men.

Returning to the living room, they found Maria trying to teach Joey to waltz.

“Stand on my feet.” She held his hands and shuffled her feet. “One-two-three, one-two-three,” she chanted, but Joey was giggling too much to follow.

“Who wants pie?” Tillie asked. Everyone did.

***

Hooper could scarcely refrain from skipping. It had snowed the night before and he loved it. The crunch under his feet, the new white on the ground and trees and roofs, the feeling of holiday, all reminded him of what fun winter could be. His belly was full of turkey dinner and he anticipated pie and coffee when he and Tom returned after their walk. The only thing missing was Tillie.

Jenny had prepared a fine meal with all the trimmings, even though there were just the three of them. The house looked nice, Hooper thought: comfortable antiques, artwork on the walls. Jenny had good taste. It wasn't the house Hooper and Tom grew up in—more refined, less cluttered—but he found he didn't mind someone else's touch. Filled with the smells of dinner and warmed by a fire in the fireplace, the place was homey and welcoming. Starting early in the afternoon, they went through two bottles of Beaujolais nouveau, stuffed themselves, laughed, teased each other. Finally full, they pushed themselves away from the table and plopped themselves in the living room.

Tom suggested they go for a walk while it was still light, and Jenny said she would stay behind to clean up. They protested; she insisted. She'd had her exercise earlier, she said. Hooper was torn, remembering how his mother had always spent the holidays in the kitchen, but he was dying to go outside and play before it got dark. Finally, Jenny agreed to save some dishes for the men to clean up later, and so they put on coats and scarves and headed for the park.

“Dinner was fun,” Hooper said. “I'm having a good time.”

“Me, too,” said Tom. “So what do you think will happen?”

“Who knows.” Tom thought for a moment. “She seems happier lately. To tell you the truth, it's kind of thrown me off.”

“You don't think it'll last?”

Tom shrugged. “We talked last night. She wants to slow things down. With the divorce, I mean.”

“Do you want to?”

“I don't know. I don't know how I feel about anything right now.”

Reaching the park, they were greeted by three dogs who raced up to them, sniffed their pant legs, then charged off. Among the trees they could see groups of people, their coats and hats bright patches of color. Tramping along the snowy path, they circled the soccer field and descended a small hill to the lake. They stood for a few moments and took in the scene. A small flock of sea gulls, resting on thin patches of ice, appeared to be standing on the water. The elms across the lake were bare limbs, blurred like a pencil smudge. Just beyond, cars on the expressway hummed; otherwise, it was a peaceful place.

They turned and climbed the steps behind the old casino. Topping the rise, they were greeted by chaos on the hillside: children sledding, screaming, and laughing in the snow. Flying down the hill with abandon, their saucers turning sideways and backwards, they nearly crashed into each other countless times. Parents cradled toddlers on plastic toboggans and whooped as they completed the run, and small figures bundled in snowsuits struggled to tow their sleds back to the top. It wasn't a very big hill, but that was in fact its charm: little kids were safe on it, and bigger kids could run back up endlessly, until they either collapsed from exhaustion or were dragged away by cold-toed parents.

“Shakespeare Hill,” said Hooper. “I used to spend a lot of time here in the summers, do you remember? I crewed for the Shakespeare festival. I even did some bit parts for the Green Show.” Although he had already told Tom a bit about the Stone Soup Theater, he went on about on the hard-working people involved and the pleasure he took in directing. Although he'd been tired of it when he left, from this perspective he found he could take pride in what he'd done.

Listening to Hooper's boasting, Tom felt the old jealousy welling up in him. Now he would not even be able to visit Shakespeare Hill without thinking that his brother laid claim to that, too.

“I guess you're a natural,” he said. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you're good at directing things, setting up a scene the way you want it. Like you did my apartment.”

“Oh.” Hooper mulled that over. “I thought you liked that. I was just trying to—”

“I know, you were trying to be nice.” Tom faced his brother. “So was I, when I thanked you for it. But, to be honest? It felt like you were telling me I was too incompetent to do it on my own. Like you had to step in and fix at least part of my life.”

“No, I never meant—”

“I'm sure you didn't. I'm just telling you, I'm not a complete screw-up, even if it looks that way.”

“I never thought that,” Hooper insisted. He kicked at the wet snow, resisting the urge to shake Tom instead. So much for his good mood all afternoon, the hope that they might finally connect. But if Tom wanted to have it out, then goddamn it, he would.

“You know, Tom, I'm not sure what you were hoping for this week, but I feel like I've been as welcome as a leg cramp. I'd like to be able to talk with you without pissing you off, but I don't seem to be able to. I thought I could help you out, but obviously I've done a crappy job.”

“Do you think that's why I invited you, because I need help?” Tom snapped.

“No, I don't think that. I don't know why you invited me.” Hooper threw up his hands. “Why don't you tell me?”

Staring off at the sledders, Tom bit his lip. “I don't know, either.”

Keeping his curses to himself, Hooper reflected that this week must mark the death of their relationship. The divide between them had deepened irreparably, and he knew he was somehow to blame. The only thing he could do now was to pour out apologies, however useless they might be, sometime before he left. For being insensitive, overbearing, nosy—whatever. For being an older brother. Being himself.

Tom fished a tissue out of his pocket. Wiping his numb, runny nose, he was convinced that he would never learn to feel at ease in his skin, never understand what it meant to love someone. It was too hard to express his feelings; wanting to sound firm and confident, he was merely petty and defensive. Better to just give up.

“I don't know who I'm kidding,” he said slowly. “I do need help; I am a loser. I'm so hopeless, Hoop. I can't do a goddamn thing right.”

“You know that's not true.” Hooper put his arm across his shoulders, gave him a hug. He felt a huge relief: he still had a chance to do right. “And by the way, I do know why you invited me.”

Tom waited.

“Because you knew it was the right thing to do,” said Hooper. “Because you love your family. And because you're a brave man. It's not easy, trying to get along with me.”

Blowing his nose, Tom didn't try to hide his tears.

“And you're right about one thing,” Hooper went on. “I have been an egotistical pain in the ass. All my life. Trying to grab all the attention, ignoring the talents of other people. I thought I was special.” He had to pause, swamped by regret.

“I'm sorry I butted into your life, Tom. I really came to hang out with you, and that should have been enough.”

Tom attempted a smile. “Well. I'm sorry I don't show it, but I'm glad you came.”

“Me, too.” Hooper stamped his feet; it was getting cold. “We should get back. But there's one thing I want to do first.”

“What's that?”

Hooper had trotted a few steps away and was already forming a snowball.

“Oh, no, you don't.” Tom was quicker, landing one on Hooper's shoulder; Hooper got Tom in the chest. Bursting with sudden energy, Tom tackled his brother and they both landed in the snow. Hooper yelped.

“I'm sorry: are you hurt?”

“No, I'm okay.” Hooper pushed himself up on his knees. Scooping up some more snow, he pitched it at Tom, who pelted him with another handful. Hooper gathered up more, hesitated, and dumped it on his own head. The ice slid down his temples and behind his ears. Taking off his wet glasses, he shook his head vigorously.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, as though surfacing from a sudden cold plunge.

Tom offered his hand and pulled him up.

“Shall we go home?” He handed Hooper a clean tissue for his glasses. “There's still pie to eat.”

***

Ellen, who stayed to help clean up, was the last to leave. Tillie poured herself another glass of wine, started La Traviata over again, and sat down in the office. The room was subtly fragrant with oil and turpentine. Illuminated only by the ambient city light through the windows, her paintings seemed vaguely animated. A number of sketches on paper were scattered on the floor, while three canvases, all still rough and evolving, were sitting on newsprint and leaning against the windows. One perched on the easel.

The largest canvas depicted a scene borrowed once again from a photo, but this attempt was more successful than the last. Hooper had taken the shot on a camping trip in the Mogollon Wilderness, during the one summer they had the dog. In Tillie's version, a female figure lay in the grass, a book beside her, a stream beyond, and a dog by her head. At one point, she had become discouraged trying to render a serene look on the woman's face and wiped off the features in disgust; and then, dissatisfied with the stiff pose of the dog, she brushed yellow paint around the figures' heads as though to point arrows at the problem. Setting it aside, she saw that a beatific glow radiated from the two. The dog's tense posture suggested greater vigilance, and the woman without features was more peaceful than the one with closed eyes, so Tillie let them be.

The second painting was unlike anything she'd ever done: it was simply a collage of hands in various poses, some in shades of brown and black, some copper and silver. She didn't much like the results, but the execution had been a pleasure, since she'd used her fingers and even the heel of her hand to smudge in the paint. Before she set it aside she had rubbed her hands together, thoroughly coating her fingers and palms with the dark, oily stuff.

Another painting, strangely enough, was influenced by Richard's work at the gallery. Tillie had noticed that his full-length portraits, those robust and imposing figures, did not have shadows. The effect was disconcerting, perhaps intentionally so; it was as though these people existed in a world without context, as though they didn't walk on the ground. Perhaps, she thought wryly, they were meant to be angels. She had the idea—hardly an idea, more of an instinct—to provide them shadows to have in reserve, like spare tires. Setting up her articulated wooden model in front of a bright light, she studied the shadow and scratched the shape onto a canvas; then she changed the pose twice more and added those shadows to the same composition. She'd painted the ground a Dijon yellow, and tomorrow she would paint the shadows in charcoal grays flecked with other, more lively colors. It was more of an exercise than painting, but she wanted to follow it through.

The inspiration for the last painting was a mystery to her. Although her little wooden figure, which was not much bigger than a Barbie doll, posed for her willingly, she longed for a live model. No matter how often she drew from life in her classes, she had found it a thrill. To stare at flesh and know it was unique to that person; to realize this woman was baring her very private self to you; to see this man's chest rise with each breath and his cheek twitch with fatigue: it gave a spark to one's own movement with pencil on paper. The day before, sketching idly, she had contrived something nonsensical but remarkable: a figure whose arms were uplifted and whose head was detached, hovering over the body. It made her laugh, but at the same time she found it so compelling an idea that she unscrewed the full-length mirror from the closet door and brought it into the office. Then she took off her clothes. This figure had to be a woman, and she ought to be drawn from life, she reasoned; and after a couple hours of posing and painting she had to put on her warmest sweater and drink some hot tea. The result was worth the chill, however. Against a nondescript background suggesting a red rock desert, she'd described a woman in quick, sure strokes, with her arms outstretched ecstatically, her head flying off toward the edge of the canvas, a secret smile on her face. Tillie stared at it a long time, uncertain what sort of emotion it stirred in her.

She looked out the window into the yard. It wasn't a very interesting yard when they first moved in, mostly dirt, but Hooper had made some improvements recently. He'd laid out a small brick patio and bought a table and chairs; he rented a Rototiller and dug up the soil, effacing the square scars where he had attempted garden plots in the past. This past summer he had bought a number of whiskey barrels and planted tomatoes, peppers, herbs, and marigolds. He'd also planted a grapefruit tree last spring, in hopes that they would see some fruit in a couple years. She smiled, thinking of the origin of that tree. The morning after he planted it, he made her pancakes for breakfast and insisted they eat outside, where she drank coffee and ate grapefruit and finally noticed that the little tree was laden with huge yellow globes of the fruit, and oranges and lemons as well.

“It's a miracle,” he said matter-of-factly. Congratulating him on his green thumb, she admired the tree from a distance, although she could still see strings tied around the fruit.

A movement from Barry's house caught her eye, and she saw him step out of the sliding glass door into the shadows. He was naked, perfectly naked, and yet she wasn't surprised. All she could think was that it must be cold out there. He stared for a moment up at the sky, at the stars and maybe the moon, then stretched up his arms and wiggled his fingers as though tickling some big belly. He turned and disappeared inside.

What Tillie didn't know was that his phone was ringing, and when he picked it up he heard Donna's voice.



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Stepping out of the house, Tillie headed north, as usual, toward the Catalinas. Except for an occasional glance at the sidewalk, she kept her eyes on the mountains, which seemed even more elemental with a recent dusting of snow on their rough shoulders. Without a hat or sunglasses, her view on the world was unobstructed, and she walked quickly, buttoning her coat against a chilly wind. The weather had turned markedly colder the day Hooper got back from the east, two weeks ago. At night when she snuggled against him, he exclaimed about her cold skin but nevertheless held her tightly until she warmed up, and then they luxuriated in caresses and kisses so immediate and engulfing that she abandoned all desire for lucid thought. Only her body was intelligent enough to respond, to be a hawk or hummingbird or indolent snake, and at times their lovemaking ended with her in uncontrolled laughter that was born from some unknown well-spring in her belly. She settled into a pattern of sleep so deep and restful that the mornings came as a gentle surprise, like first light stealing over the desert.

When he asked her about her week alone, she took him by the hand and bid him close his eyes. She'd been excited about showing him her paintings but now, pushing the office door open, she felt a sudden alarm, as though she were revealing a sacred shrine. She hesitated a bit before allowing him to see. He blinked and stepped back; then he reached out and held her. His silence moved her more than she would have imagined.

He had a surprise for her, too, which he revealed over pasta and a bottle of Rioja that evening. He was going to take a break from directing at the Stone Soup, he said, so that he could try out for parts with other companies.

She thought it was a joke, to make her think he'd gone through a sea change in Buffalo.

“Do you have so many friends,” she asked, “that you don't mind pissing off Nancy?”

He'd already talked to her about it, he said, even before he left. Nancy had given him her blessing; in fact, she was thrilled to be running the shows on her own for a while.

So he was serious. “For how long?” she asked, perplexed.

He shrugged. “Until I learn a few things,” he said cryptically.

Hands in her pockets, she played with her key ring. House key, car key, office key, and a new one: the key to her studio. Not exactly a studio, but perhaps even better: a partitioned space in a warehouse near downtown. Roscoe had told her about this place, which a group of artists had bought and renovated with the help of grant money. They formed a co-op, and for a small fee each month, she was allowed access to the building all day, any day, until eleven at night, when a security guard came to close it down. The lighting and ventilation were decent, the industrial sinks more than adequate, and as long as she followed the co-op's rules for safety and courtesy, she was free to throw pots, throw paint, even weld. And although she dared not hope too much, she might be able meet other artists, share in their work. All she had to do was show up. She had already spent three evenings and a Saturday there, but she knew it would have to be a continual, conscious commitment. Just to show up. That was all she required of herself right now, and if she managed to scribble pencil on paper, or put paint on canvas, all the better. Hooper helped her move her drafting table and some of her supplies there after work one evening, but thankfully he hadn't bought her anything more. He found a nail in the wall and hung up his dog tag (“To remind you to follow your nose,” he said) then took her out for tamales and beer to celebrate.

And that night as they lay in bed, he started talking. He spoke calmly, and without pause for a long time, so that he nearly lulled her to sleep, but she heard every word as though it were in her own thoughts, about how he loved her, how he wanted her to feel loved enough to take risks. He talked about his brother's desperate sorrow over his failed marriage, and his own regrets for being so self-centered as a kid and teenager; he thought he had outgrown that, but Tom reminded him he still had a long way to go. He wanted to be a better person; he wanted to listen to her more carefully; he wanted to encourage her without stepping on her spirit.

“You can help keep me honest,” he said. “How do I do that?”

“Be honest yourself.” She felt so strange, so drowsy that she could feel every part of her body drift heavily downward, as though she were lying on the hard ground instead of a soft bed; and yet her mind was buoyed and refreshed. She felt as though she were in a different kind of space, as in a church or a meadow, and so she told him what she thought she couldn't tell him: that she still hurt from the day he accused her of needing all the emotional attention in their relationship. She had accepted his apology and a bouquet of sunflowers, but—if she could be honest—they seemed a superficial response. And she wondered whether he still felt that way; and if so, how could she feel free to show any sadness or frustration?

She knew the answer, but was glad to hear it anyway. Of course he didn't feel she monopolized their relationship; if anything, it was her more subtle sensibility that kept its spirit alive. She had asked him about therapy that day, he remembered, and it hurt, because he'd given it up and felt like a failure.

They were quiet a few moments. “Is there anything else?” he asked.

She told him more: she was lonely. Not during the week he was gone, although she missed him; but every day, with each task she undertook at the library, with each lunch she ate with colleagues who talked about TV shows and office politics. She was lonely for friends who would inspire and challenge her, so lonely that she felt her soul growing stale and dry. She'd told him this before, although perhaps not so emphatically, for it seemed to find new resonance in him.

“I don't want to try and fix things for you,” he said the next day, “and this is just a small step, but why don't we have some people over?”

So she asked Barry and Donna, who, as she knew from an encounter at the mailbox with an exultant Barry, were now seeing each other. They would be over that evening, and Hooper was home preparing dinner—hummus and vegetables, a big loaf of crusty bread, and a spicy Thai soup. For Joey she had a can of chicken noodle soup, a box of crayons, and a big pad of newsprint.

She turned a corner and walked past a row of her favorite houses. One was painted a conservative beige, while the underside of the porch and the trim were a brazen display of burnt orange, fiery pink, and hot purple, with canary yellow planters on the porch. Another house, terra cotta and sage green, had a healthy array of plants out front, a couple of fat barrel cacti, an ocotillo, and a saguaro that today had a garland of small colored lights.

A movement at the side of this house caught her eye and made her heart skip. She'd scarcely seen anything, but it registered as something familiar, like the white flag of a dog's tail. As she passed, she looked carefully but saw nothing. She glanced around and moved on, telling herself that her good mood had tricked her eyes. A plastic bag blowing in the wind, probably.

Some houses had chili lights in the windows and some walkways were lined with luminaria. She and Hooper had already bought a tree, and although the scent of pine evoked pleasant memories of holidays in Connecticut, of snow, candlelight, and fireplaces, a pine tree was too anomalous here in the desert, too wasteful of life to be enjoyed. Next year, she was thinking, she would design a tree made of tin. She had in mind a graceful, minimalist tree with tubing for arms, and hammered sconces to reflect the lights. With some good tip snips, a drill, a soldering iron, and some ingenuity, she and Hooper would devise one that could also be taken apart to store for future use.

They'd brought the tree home Sunday, and as they were about to pull it out of the truck Joey came bursting out of Ellen's house. “Christmas is coming!” he shouted, and threw his arms around Tillie's legs. She was so touched by his joy that she bent down to hug him and kiss his cheek, which tasted of peanut butter and inexplicably made her want to cry. With Ellen's okay, she invited him into their house for cookies and hot chocolate. Hooper put on a moth-eaten red vest and a CD of hokey Christmas carols, with which he sang along noisily. Tillie decided that they needed to decorate, so she emptied some eggs out of their cardboard carton and cut it up into pieces. “Let's make bells,” she suggested, and set Joey up at the table with paint, glue, glitter, cotton balls, rickrack, and other odds and ends from one of her dusty boxes in the closet. While Hooper set up the tree, Joey described at great length what he wanted from Santa. They hung their paper bells and glass balls, and, as Joey left, Hooper made him promise to come by on Christmas and show them his presents.

After she'd walked about a mile, she rounded the corner and turned toward home. The way was slightly uphill, and the extra exertion made her realize how hungry she was. She looked out to the east and saw a nearly full moon above the horizon, and then further up the street, she saw a dog. This time it was not just the tail of a dog, or a piece of trash blowing, but clearly a golden dog. She felt such a jolt of recognition that she started to jog, and even though she was telling herself all the way up the block that golden retrievers must be common in this neighborhood, she didn't slow down until she reached the place she thought she'd seen it. She walked a few steps up a driveway and scoured the bushes. There was no sign, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was involved in a game of hide and seek. The world was rife with hiding places: now she would be aware of every bush, every car, every fence she passed.

There were things she wanted in this new year. She wanted go to the snow—many times, every Sunday even, since it was only an hour's drive to Mount Lemmon—and be surrounded by white. She wanted to paint a still life of eggs and porcelain teacups on a cream-colored tablecloth. Maybe she would get Donna to bleach her hair. She wanted to spend long Saturdays in the warehouse and emerge blinking at the brilliant sunshine, and sometimes invite Hooper in to see what she was working on. She wanted plans and she wanted to let go, to stay open to the unpredictable, to let what would happen, happen.

When she saw it again, that dog, a few blocks from home, she didn't chase after it. She was thinking about having company for dinner, about the food that her lover was preparing and the wine the four of them would drink. She was thinking about the serendipitous gifts of routine and the element of surprise in a good design. Something she recognized was enticing her along, drawing her in, and spinning her out; there was change and kindness, even fecundity in it. And she was thinking that there was no need to hurry, because if this was indeed her dog, they were both heading for the same place.



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we hope you enjoyed
“where the dog used to be”
by michele hanson.