“Well, I suppose…” I falter for a moment, trying to remember the scholarly goals I outlined when I began. “I suppose I’m hoping to find out whether canine-human communication is possible.”
Matthew shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I mean, what are you hoping to learn about Lexy?”
I look away. I’ve never mentioned to Matthew that my project has anything to do with Lexy. I hadn’t realized my motives were so transparent.
“I mean, that’s it, isn’t it, Paul?” Matthew asks when I don’t say anything. “You’re hoping to find out something about Lexy?”
I nod. “After she died,” I begin. “There were some incongruities.”
“What do you mean, ‘incongruities’?”
I tell him about what I found, the steak bone and the frying pan, the reconfiguration of books on the shelf. “Even the fact that she was in the tree,” I say. “That’s an incongruity. What was she doing up there?”
“You think Lexy may have killed herself,” he says.
I look away and try to concentrate on a painting hanging on the opposite wall. I don’t like hearing the words spoken out loud.
“And you think Lorelei can help you find out the truth?”
I look at Matthew. I look him square in the eyes. “She’s a witness,” I say. “Don’t you see? She’s the only one who knows for sure.”
He nods slowly. “You know, Paul,” he says, “the loss of a spouse is a very difficult thing to deal with. Have you thought, maybe, about talking to someone? A professional? Someone who could offer you some help?”
I try to smile. “I have all the help I need,” I say. “I have Lorelei.”
Matthew sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He pauses. “Well, you know you’re always welcome back at work. It might do you good to come back. Even half-time.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I have my hands full.”
“All right,” he says. “Well, think about it, anyway.”
We sit silent for a few moments. Lorelei wakes abruptly from her sleep and turns to gnaw at a sudden itch near the base of her tail.
“Have you heard about this dognapping case?” Matthew asks. “That dog, Hero?”
I nod. “Dog J,” I say.
“Right.” He laughs awkwardly. “I have to admit,” he says, “that I was half afraid I’d come here and find out you were the one hiding that dog.”
“Well, I certainly wish I’d thought of it first.” Matthew gives me a searching look. “I’m kidding,” I say. “I haven’t turned criminal just yet.”
“No, of course not.” He leans forward to pick up a brownie. “What a lunatic, eh? The guy who did that to that dog.”
I look around guiltily. My letter from Wendell Hollis was on the coffee table when Matthew and Eleanor arrived, but it appears that Eleanor has cleared it away with everything else.
“Insane,” I say. “It’s a terrible case. But you can’t argue with his results.”
Matthew looks at me warily.
“I mean, there you have it,” I say. “There’s the proof that I’m not crazy. A real live talking dog.”
“If that’s really what he is.”
“What do you mean? People have heard him talk. A whole courtroom heard him talk.”
He shrugs. “Parlor tricks,” he says. “Or wishful thinking. Whole courtrooms in Salem were convinced they’d seen witchcraft performed.” I must look stricken, because he softens. “Well, who knows?” he says. “Anything’s possible. Maybe it’s all true.”
“It is,” I say. “It has to be.”
We sit and talk for a while longer, with Matthew filling me in on the latest department gossip. By the time Eleanor’s done cleaning, the house gleams. She’s washed the floors and polished the bathroom fixtures, cleaned out the refrigerator and remade my bed with fresh sheets. She’s gathered up the clothes from my bedroom floor and turned them into neat piles of fluffy, clean laundry. The house smells like lemons and pine.
“Thank you,” I say, kissing her cheek. “Thank you so much.”
“Any time,” she says. “All you have to do is ask.”
“Keep in touch,” Matthew says. “Take care of yourself.”
I stand in the doorway and wave as they drive off. Then I turn and go back inside my shining house.
“Come on, Lorelei,” I say. “Time to practice our typing.”
THIRTY
I don’t have to wait long to hear from Hollis’s friend Remo. Five days after Hollis’s letter arrives, I find a note in my mailbox. It hasn’t been mailed; apparently this man I’ve never met, this man who’s been referred to me by a psychopath, has been to my house. The note is handwritten on lined notebook paper. It reads as follows:
Dear Paul,
I’ve done some checking up on you, and it doesn’t appear that you’re a cop or anything, so I decided to trust Wendell’s recommendation and get in touch with you. We’re always glad to get new members. We’re having our monthly meeting on Saturday night at 7 o’clock. Come a little early, say around 6—that way, I can show you around the facility. Hope to see you then.
P.S. And bring your dog. We want to see what she can do.
I read the letter with some uneasiness. What is this “facility” he’s talking about? Am I getting myself into something I might not want to be involved in? And what do they want with Lorelei? Will I be putting her in danger if I bring her? Underneath these fears, another concern begins to take shape, a concern that has more to do with my own vanity than Lorelei’s safety: If I bring her with me, what will I be able to show them, for all my months of hard work? Lorelei poking at random keys on a keyboard? Lorelei picking out the wrong flash card from the three I offer? If I tell my pathetic story about the time she almost said wa, what will they think of me? I could fake it, I suppose, rub meat on the keys I want her to push. But what would I gain from that?
There’s a map enclosed with the note, with directions to the building where the meeting will be held. It looks to me as though the “facility” is an ordinary house in a neighborhood not far from where I live. I get in my car and take a drive past. It’s a small brick house with a neatly trimmed lawn. It doesn’t look like the kind of place that might contain a basement laboratory or a soundproofed shed where unspeakable experiments might be conducted. We never know, do we, what our neighbors might be doing behind their fences, what love affairs and bloody rituals might be taking place right next door? The world is a more interesting place than we ever think.
But back to the question at hand: Should I go to this meeting? Will they hit me over the head, spike my drink, take my dog away from me? Or will it be like any other meeting—speakers, perhaps, a group discussion, someone jotting down the minutes, coffee and refreshments to follow? The truth is, of course—and I suppose you knew this already—the truth is that I want to go. I’m curious. An underground society of canine linguists right in my very hometown? So close to my house that I could actually walk to their meetings? How can I resist? And the prospect of conversation with other people, people who won’t look at me as if I’ve lost my mind when I speak of what I’ve been working on, well, it fills me with excitement. It seems to me just now that I might find I have more in common with these people than I do with any of my so-called colleagues at the university.
And so it is that on this balmy Saturday night I’ve showered and shaved, clipped Lorelei’s leash to her collar, and set off to join the Cerberus Society.
When Lorelei and I reach Remo’s house, I can see that the driveway is full and the street is packed with cars. It certainly looks like somebody’s having a party. I find a parking space and let Lorelei out of the car. She trots happily along next to me until I start to lead her up the front walk; then something strange happens. She stops and refuses to go any farther. I pull and pull, but she resists.