Protecting Marie (10 page)

“I'd rather eat wind sauce and air pudding,” said Fanny, staring at the back of her father's head with narrow, narrow eyes.

Ellen, who had been napping most of the way, raised her head and muttered in a groggy voice, “Sometimes you two are so alike it's frightening.” Then she settled down again, slumped against the locked door. She hadn't even bothered to open her eyes.

Fanny could call to mind that day as if it had been yesterday. And obviously Henry remembered it, too.
“I remember more than you think.”
Perhaps he could even recollect Stupid Hunts and Marie, and maybe she'd ask him about them sometime. After all, he had mentioned milk with a red licorice straw. Fanny
always assumed that her father had difficulty drawing back memories of her childhood, as if they were hidden in deep, murky water and required something beyond ordinary human abilities to bring them to the surface.

Henry laughed again, and everything about him that could be imposing fell away. “Catherine Deneuve,” he chuckled.

Watching him, Fanny wished that there was some way to slip into his skin for even a brief amount of time. Just long enough to glimpse her mother and herself from his point of view.

“Finished,” said Henry, pushing his plate aside.

“We have birthday cake,” Fanny said, almost as a question, glancing at her mother.

Ellen nodded. “I'll put coffee on.”

“Mom and I already ate some,” Fanny explained to Henry. “But it still looks nice.”

“Sounds great to me,” said Henry. “We need a fire,” he added, rising from the table. “Let's eat in the living room.”

“I'll be in charge of the cake,” Fanny told them.

Dinner followed Henry out of the kitchen.

After preparing the coffeemaker, Ellen joined Fanny by the counter. Fanny was arranging candles on Henry's cake.

“Need help?” Ellen asked.

“Nah.” Fanny looked up at her mother.

“Hang in there,” said Ellen. “I think he's ready to explain what happened.” She pecked Fanny's forehead. “I'll get a knife and forks and plates. But we don't have to wait for the coffee—that machine is so temperamental. It'll be a while.”

Fanny could hear the plates rattle down the hallway. “Be right there,” she called after her mother.

While the coffeemaker spit and hissed, Fanny worked on the cake. She had begun a border with the candles, but changed her mind when it was halfway completed. She pulled the candles out, smoothed the frosting with her finger. Instead, she wrote the word
HOME
across the cake in capital letters using all the little candles she could find. She was careful not to interfere too badly with the iced letters
that said
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HENRY,
or the dense, sugary roses.

Fanny peered at the cake. Something is missing, she thought.

Just prior to lighting the candles and marching out to her parents, she drew the letters D and G vertically in the frosting with her finger, combining them with the letter O from the word
HOME
to spell the word
DOG.
The words formed a cross. “Dog. Home,” Fanny said out loud.

In the dark room with only the light from the fireplace and the candles, she didn't suppose anyone would notice.

I
t happened the way a sneeze happens. She could feel it creeping up. It was abrupt and swift and involuntary. There were little explosions going off all over inside her. If she hadn't had skin holding everything together, she was certain parts of her would have ended up on the ceiling and under the bookshelf. It happened in a flash, and when it was over, she had fallen completely in love with Dinner.

How could she not?

Dinner stayed beside Fanny throughout the course of the evening, pushing her chin onto Fanny's thigh and keeping it there for long periods of time. Her tail wagged; her eyebrows danced. Dinner's soft, thick, brindled coat was mostly a creamy tan color with
patches of black and brown across her back and on her tail and sides. The hair on her paws was white. Fanny held her hand so that it resembled one of her mother's gardening tools, her fingers rigid and spread out, and raked patterns into the tufts near Dinner's neck—swirls, hearts, figure eights. Fanny didn't seem to notice Dinner's unpleasant breath, or mind that whenever she bent down to kiss Dinner on her head, Dinner reached upward quickly and licked Fanny's face.

It couldn't have been a better scenario if Fanny had written and directed it herself. The living room was shadowed and toasty. Light from the fire flickered on the walls and every place Fanny looked. The walls seemed to converge, drawing in toward the fireplace, the room filled only with good things, the right words. For minutes at a time Fanny felt removed from it all, as though she were watching it from afar and envying the girl she saw sitting with the dog.

When they had finished their cake, the coffee cups were empty, Henry's birthday gifts
had been opened, and the wrapping paper had been balled and flipped into the fire, Henry told the story of Dinner.

“I had known about her for a few weeks,” Henry began. “Diane, the secretary at the art office, told me about her. She belonged to a friend of hers who had recently gone through a divorce. The woman needed to move to a small apartment. She couldn't keep the dog, couldn't afford her anymore.”

“What about the husband?” Fanny asked.

“According to Diane, he's already living in California. Out of the picture,” said Henry. “At first, Diane wanted Dinner herself, but she couldn't persuade her husband to agree to having another pet. Diane was the one who told me what a sweet disposition the dog had; that she was three years old; that she was part German shepherd, part yellow Lab; that she was well trained, easy to be around. ‘The perfect dog,' Diane said.”

Henry paused to shift and readjust himself. He was sitting on the floor with Ellen, their
backs against the couch, their hands clasped, their arms woven together.

Fanny took note that her mother was wearing the brooch from her father.

“Hard floor, eh?” Ellen said, smiling.

“Like a pillow,” said Henry.

“Do you want to move?” Ellen asked.

“No, no,” said Henry. “This is kind of nice. Let's stay put.”

They cuddled.

“Let's get back to Dinner,” Fanny said eagerly.

“Yesterday,” Henry continued, “when I went to the art office to call you”—Henry tipped his head to Ellen, his eyes fleetingly sad—“to say that I wouldn't be coming to the party, I saw a photo of Dinner on the staff bulletin board. The photo was taped to a notice listing all the vital information concerning her adoption. I'm not sure why, but everything seemed wrong to me—turning sixty, the party, my career—everything but the dog in that damned photo.
She
seemed right. So, on impulse, I called the number to say that I was
interested. I went to see her, played with her for a bit, said I'd take her—and did. I think the woman was glad I knew Diane; I think she saw that as a nice connection.” Henry nodded. “I'd never thought about getting an older dog before. Dinner and I got to know each other at the cabin. She's a champ with a tennis ball. Unbelievably tireless.”

Henry went on. “My perspective was all shaken up . . . and there was something so simple and common and striking about that dog . . . something about the whole thing that, like I said—just seemed right.”

“So you already had Dinner with you when you stopped home with the balloons?” Fanny inquired.

“Yes.”

“But what would you have done if we were home?”

Henry cleared his throat. “Actually, I saw you drive away. I had been waiting around the corner, sitting in the car, feeling bad, hoping you'd leave. If you hadn't, I suppose I would have put the note and balloons on the porch . .
. and sneaked off? I don't know.”

The stack of logs in the fireplace collapsed suddenly, emphasizing Henry's words and startling Fanny. Sparks flew up.

“What about her name?” Fanny asked. “Do you know where it comes from?”

“I wondered about that, too,” Henry replied. “The owner simply said that she and her husband couldn't decide on a name for the longest time. Eventually, they realized that the dog only came when they called her for dinner. Hence, her name.” Henry grinned and shrugged. “Dinner.”

Each time Dinner's name was spoken, her eyes jumped with alertness and her ears lifted. Fanny and her parents laughed.

“What a good girl you are,” Fanny told Dinner, petting her. “You are so beautiful. A princess.”

The fire was dying. Henry crept over to the fireplace to poke at the smoldering remains and put a new log on. He nudged Fanny's toes with his elbow.

With a tightened jaw, Fanny asked the
question that had begun to nag at her. “Was the woman sad?” It sounded funny to call her “the woman,” but Fanny didn't know her name; she didn't want to know. She was glad that her father hadn't mentioned it.

“Yes,” Henry said calmly. “Very. But don't worry. She was genuinely relieved to find a new home for Dinner. And don't worry about me, either. This will work.”

“Does she have any kids?”

“She has a son about your age. But she said that neither he nor his father was very attached to Dinner.”

That was difficult for Fanny to believe, but nonetheless her father's comment put her at ease.

When Henry was settled again, he talked in great detail about Dinner's retrieving ability. “I've never seen anything like it. I threw the tennis ball as high as I could, and she'd catch it nearly every time.” The manner in which Henry spoke was round and bright, and if his words could be seen as well as heard, Fanny thought that they would be oranges, tumbling
from his mouth and rolling across the floor in loops. “The best was when I'd lob the ball high and far, and she'd race to catch it on the first bounce. Her legs would lift off the ground, and she'd lunge for the ball with incredible grace. I could see the muscles rippling through her body. It was absolutely amazing to watch.”

They talked—mostly about Dinner—and sat quietly until the fire had died down again and Ellen said, “I'm exhausted.” She yawned and rose.

“Likewise,” said Henry.

“Are you going to bed?” Fanny asked.

“
I
am,” Ellen answered dully, her eyes half-closed. She headed for the staircase.

Henry nodded and rose too, first on one knee, then up slowly with a creak.

Fanny felt strange—a combination of excitement and fatigue, but then it had been an unusual day.
Two
days. Two days in which time seemed to have been measured in a haphazard fashion; two days in which unreal and unpredictable things had become common.
She swallowed a yawn. “May Dinner sleep in my room?” Fanny asked her father.

“If she wants to,” Henry replied. “At the cabin she wandered throughout the night and ended up sleeping by the front door.”

While Henry locked the doors, Fanny gathered some of Dinner's things to take up to her room—a rawhide bone, a rubber snowman, a dilapidated dove-colored afghan with holes as big as quarters—and waited at the foot of the stairs. She could hear Dinner in the kitchen, and she'd forgotten how she loved the sound of a dog drinking:
lap, lap, lap, lap, lup, lup, lup, lup, lip, lip, lip, lip
. . .

Dinner and Henry joined Fanny, and together they ascended the stairs.

Ellen, who was coming out of the bathroom, nearly collided with Fanny. “Night, Fan,” she said.

“Night, Mom.”

“We made it,” Ellen whispered into Fanny's ear. Then she kissed it tenderly.

Henry walked Fanny to her door. “Good night, Dinner,” he said. “And good night, Miss
Fancy, my sweet one-of-a-kind snowflake.”

“Night, Dad.” Fanny wanted to add, “I'm glad you're home,” but she didn't. And she thought that Henry wanted to say something else, too.