It was a masterwork. But it was not what Jennifer’s parents were hoping for. As far as I can remember, this was the only time that Lexy’s clients refused the mask she offered them. It made them angry to see it, she told me. Jennifer’s mother cried, and Jennifer’s father actually yelled at Lexy. “This is not my daughter,” he told her.
She agreed to make a replacement mask. The new mask was very pretty but not particularly substantive. It showed a swarm of butterflies taking flight. There was a feeling of lightness about it, of being freed from the gravity of the earth. There were bright colors and fluffy clouds. It was just what the parents wanted.
Lexy kept the first mask. She hung it on the wall above her worktable, and sometimes when I went downstairs to see what she was doing or to say hello, I would find her sitting on the couch, staring at the mask of the smiling girl.
TWENTY-NINE
In a strange coincidence, the day after I receive Wendell Hollis’s letter, Hollis’s name is in the news again. It seems that Dog J has disappeared.
After the trial, after Wendell Hollis went to prison, Dog J was adopted by one of the policemen who rescued him in the raid on Hollis’s apartment. The policeman received many offers to show off Dog J (or Hero, as he was now known) on talk shows and at state fairs, but he declined them all. “This dog has been exploited enough,” he said. “I just want to give him a quiet life.”
But now Hero has vanished from the man’s Brooklyn apartment. The police officer had gone to work as usual, leaving Hero asleep on the couch, and when he returned home on his lunch hour to walk him, the front door was wide open and the dog was gone. The door showed signs of forced entry, and the policeman’s TV and stereo were missing as well. As far as anyone can tell, the dog must have slipped out the door while the intruder was carrying out the stolen goods. An enormous search effort is in progress, but so far there has been no luck. All over the city, signs have been posted, asking people to be on the lookout for a four-year-old yellow Lab with the power of speech. “At least,” the grief-struck police officer was quoted as saying, “at least he’ll be able to ask for help.”
It’s on the day this news story breaks that Matthew Rice and his wife, Eleanor, come knocking at my door. I’m lying on the couch when I hear the knock, watching TV and hoping for more news on Dog J, and I almost don’t answer the door. It’s early afternoon, and I’m still in my pajamas and robe. But when I stand up to peek out through the closed blinds and see who it is, I stumble over a pile of books on the floor and let out an involuntary oath so loud that I figure I can’t possibly pretend I’m not home.
I open the door to find Matthew and Eleanor standing there, smiling brightly. Matthew is carrying a stack of Tupperware containers and baking pans covered in foil, and Eleanor is holding a large bucket filled with cleaning supplies. I wonder for a moment if I’m expecting them, if they called and said they were coming, and I’ve somehow forgotten.
“Hello,” I say tentatively.
“Hi, Paul,” says Eleanor warmly. “I hope you’ll forgive our barging in on you like this, but we haven’t had much luck reaching you by phone.” It’s true that I haven’t been answering the phone lately. I’ve gotten a little bit sick of my mother and my sister calling, expressing their well-meaning concern. I’ve been letting the machine pick up, and it’s been a while since I’ve listened to my messages.
“Oh,” I say. “No problem.” Just then, Lorelei comes trotting to the door to see what’s going on. She pushes past me and begins to sniff first at Eleanor’s legs, then at Matthew’s, looking for the source of the food aromas that are emanating from the containers in Matthew’s arms. I grab her collar and pull her back.
“Down, girl,” I say. “Do you want me to put her in the back? You’re allergic, aren’t you?” I ask Eleanor.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, setting down her bucket and stooping to pet the dog. “I took a pill. I’ll be fine.”
“So what brings you by?” I ask. I’m aware that I should invite them in, but I’m embarrassed to let them see the state of the house.
“Well, we talked to Maura after she came by,” Matthew says. “It sounded like you could use some help.”
“Help?” I say, stiffening.
“Oh, just a little friendly help around the house,” Eleanor says quickly. “I’ve brought you some food to stick in your freezer. There’s a lasagne and some chili and a pot of navy bean soup.”
“And macaroni and cheese,” Matthew adds. “With ham in it, like Eleanor made for the Christmas potluck the year before last. I remember you said you liked it.”
The list of food makes my stomach ache with hunger. It’s been weeks since I’ve been to the grocery store. I’ve been eating mostly crackers and dry cereal. There have been days when I’ve thought about snacking on handfuls of dog food from the economy-size bag in the garage.
Eleanor continues talking. “And I’m going to roll up my sleeves and do a little cleaning while you and Matthew have a nice visit.”
“Well, that’s awfully kind of you,” I say, “but I’m not sure this is the best time… .”
Eleanor smiles at me and reaches out to touch my cheek, my rough, stubble-ridden cheek. “Let us in, Paul,” she says. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” The gentleness of her touch nearly brings tears to my eyes. “I made you a pan of those peppermint brownies you like.”
I look at the floor and nod. I feel humbled, I feel like a small child. “All right,” I say, and I step aside for them to pass.
If they feel any revulsion on entering, they don’t let on. “Good,” Eleanor says. “Now why don’t you go shower and get dressed, while I heat up some soup for you.”
“I don’t know if there are any clean pots,” I say. “Or bowls.”
“I’ll take care of it,” she says.
By the time I emerge from my bedroom, clean and dressed, the house already looks better. Eleanor has opened all the curtains, and the rooms are filled with light. She’s cleared the dirty dishes off the kitchen table and set a place for me. I sit down and she sets before me a bowl of steaming soup and a plate of buttered toast. I eat ravenously.
Afterward, Matthew and I sit on the living room couch with mugs of fresh coffee and a plate of brownies in front of us. Eleanor has vacuumed the rug, and she’s cleared away the piles of clutter from the table and the floor. She’s opened a window, and the room feels fresh, airy.
“So how’s your work going?” Matthew asks me. He even manages to meet my eyes as he says it.
“It’s great,” I begin, then stop. “Well, it’s okay. Honestly, it’s hard to say if I’m making any progress.” I tell him about Lorelei’s adventures in typing.
He nods thoughtfully. “That’s an interesting approach,” he says. “You know, I read once that Thomas Mann’s daughter tried something similar. She had her dog composing poetry on a typewriter.”
“Really?” I say. “Anything good?”
Matthew shrugs. “About what you’d expect, I think. Or what I’d expect, anyway.” He smiles. “I think eventually the dog rebelled and wouldn’t go anywhere near the typewriter.”
“Yeah,” I say. “They don’t much like typing. It’s hard on the nose.”
We’re quiet for a moment, both of us looking at Lorelei, snoring on the carpet in front of us. From the other room, I hear the washing machine click on.
“You know, Paul,” Matthew says, “I’m not quite sure I’ve ever fully understood this project of yours. I guess I’m not exactly clear on what you’re hoping to learn.”