The Sixth Sense

by Jessie Haas

  Shadow. Nancy. She’s come through the gate and stands before us, looking at Tony. She gives a little sigh. For the moment her serenity goes deeper than a glaze. Like me, her heart is stilled.

  “My mother is coming tonight,” I tell her.

  She looks up with calm, clear eyes, like Tony’s. She sees more, of course. I don’t know what Tony sees looking at me, but I think Nancy sees this whole day.

  “Are you afraid?” I can ask her anything with Tony here.

  Nancy shakes her head, a beautiful calm, sure motion. She stretches one of her long, strong potter’s hands to Tony, who swallows her cud and sniffs politely. Then she withdraws her big Roman nose and presses deeper against my leg.

  “I appreciate your telling me,” says Nancy. “It’s nicer not to be surprised. But …” Her eyes sharpen on my face. She wonders whether, standing here by quiet Tony, I want to talk. I do. I do. I do.

  “Your parents are fine people,” Nancy says. “Your father has said nothing but good to me about your mother. But … about their marriage, they weren’t very smart. I myself am not blameless …” Her lovely cheeks redden as she says this. I see a wounded look in her eyes.

  “But,” she says, “whether this pleases you or not, I assure you that I will not make the same mistakes your mother and father did. It’s not that I’m a better person, but I know how to make things.”

  I don’t understand.

  “When you are making something,” says Nancy, “you give your attention just as long as it’s required. There is never a moment when you can look away, until it’s done. A human relationship is never done.”

  I want to reply, so this will be a conversation, but the most I can manage is a nod. But I meet Nancy’s sapphire gaze and let her know I understand. Into the Tony-stillness of my heart comes a deeper stillness, of human certainty. Nancy. Nancy.

  “Girls!” my father calls. “I think we’d better get moving.”

  I break free of Nancy’s gaze to look down at Tony, dark gray goat. She lifts her nose to me again, puffs her sweet breath on my face. Tony, Tony, what have you done for me?

  She lets me hug her. She stands, quiet and accepting. With my ear pressed against her barrel, I hear tremendous digestive processes going on.

  Now I run to the cellar bedroom, to yank my dress off the hanger and pull it on.

  The auditorium is filled with well-dressed people and a hum of chatter. People stand, knowing they’ll have to sit a long time. They scan the crowd for acquaintances, clustering in knots and skeins.

  Nancy has told my father. He stands with hands in pockets, subdued. Nancy carries on the conversations with people who have come up to us. I crane my neck, looking all around. I check out all the bright dresses.

  She’s closer than I think, though. When I see her, she’s almost here. She wears a yellow silk dress. Beside her is a handsome man in a dark suit. He looks like an advertisement or a doll. He’s no one she’s serious about; I see that at a glance.

  She’s searching, pretending not to, chattering, but all the while her eyes hunt through the suits and dresses. It’s hard for me to believe she can’t spot my father instantly.

  I see the moment when the yellow dress stops moving, when my mother’s eyes fix on us. She stands very still, looking. The man doesn’t see.

  Now, slowly, almost stiffly, she comes toward us. She moves through the people without seeing them, never seeming to touch, not noticing when someone addresses her. The man loses her, finds her again, follows.

  At last she stands before us. My father has seen her now, and so has Nancy. The man they were talking to melts away. The chatter of people around us seems to recede, as if we are standing within a bubble. The handsome man is left outside.

  We all look at one another.

  We are helpless in our looking. We are all trapped in pain, caught by old mistakes that can’t be undone. We thought we had something to say, but now we see the hopelessness. Words are only words.

  I’m wondering how it can be so, because we’re all smart people, cultured and unaccustomed to traps. And this is a strange trap, made of love; almost a beautiful trap.

  Nancy. In Nancy’s face I see again serenity. Not a glaze; it goes straight through. She doesn’t pretend that none of this hurts, but she accepts the hurt with a creaturely calm that makes me think of Tony. More complex; I see that she is sympathetic to my mother, curious, respectful, wary. But, like Tony, she’s just looking, just being.

  My mother sighs, stirring the front of the yellow silk dress. Her shoulders drop from their high, tense position. Her eyes become softer, tired. All right, I hear her saying as she does at last when the stubborn world has refused to rearrange itself for her. All right.

  I look at my father, watching us all. I think there are tears in his eyes. But he is also smiling, as if impossible love and joy are hurting in his chest.

  I’m beginning to hear the people again, and behind them, the almost-music of the orchestra tuning up, getting ready to play something good.

  WINNING

  I WAS HALFWAY DOWN the hill before I remembered that Dad wasn’t even home now. He was golfing and wouldn’t be back till supper. I stopped at the end of the path, trying to decide.

  Mum was home, and I could go tackle her. It would be like dynamiting a cream puff; but it might be wisest to have her neutralized before the big blowup with Dad.

  But from here, taking the back way and cutting across the athletic field, it was a mere twenty-minute walk to Aunt Mil’s. I didn’t need my courage fired up; I needed my brain cooled and sharpened. I should go to Aunt Mil’s.

  Only in crossing the athletic field did I truly begin to see and think about the dog. Normally I don’t like to walk. It seems slow and laborious, compared to riding a bike. But now I had so much nervous energy that walking was effortless. My head felt a mile above my feet, and my hair flapped out with every stride, the little ends quivering in the breeze. The dog kept pace, in a marvelously slow, springy trot, so arrestingly beautiful that I was forced to drop my own concerns and look at her.

  She ought to be nervous, I thought. That was the stereotype for racing animals. This dog was … well, perhaps she was nervous. I could see it in her expression and the way she held her tail. But she was self-contained and dignified, like the kind of person who gets ulcers but never uses the wrong fork at dinner.

  I clucked my tongue at her. She looked up and I saw deep in her eyes a grave smile. Her tail waved once.

  A smile? Ridiculous! Worse—anthropomorphic! If an animal seems to smile, it is only because the human observer is fooling herself, or doesn’t know what else to call it.

  On the other hand, what is a smile, and what is laughter? The people who study these things give no clear answer. Smiling is said to be related to fear and appeasement, a conclusion based on studies of the grimaces and hoots of the great apes when threatened.

  Others claim laughter as one of the great distinctions between man and animal.

  To me it’s obvious that these are but two strands of the truth, frayed and broken by our culture’s sharp-edged definitions. Someday I’d like to be the person who twists the two ends back together.

  Boys were playing at the farthest end of the field, kicking a soccer ball around. I’d have to walk by them to get through the fence, which ends there against the oak-covered knoll. I’m not afraid of boys. Most of them are stupid, and living with Greg has taught me how to punch. But touching the high neck of the greyhound, on a level with my hip, I understood why fearful people keep dogs.

  One of the boys was Greg—the most graceful and elegant dribbler, the one with the precise, powerful kick. Soccer is what Greg is best at, and he deserves a better team than ours. Even on a really good team, he might be a star. I don’t like him, but I stopped to watch as he feinted and dodged through three opposing players, controlling the ball perfectly, right up to the minute when he drove it slanting through the goalposts.

  Someone said bad-natured things to him i
n a good-natured voice, and then I heard the word sister. Greg turned to look.

  A second later he was striding across the grass toward me, and his face looked exactly like Dad’s. “Kris!” he thundered, “what the hell—” His voice sliced off abruptly. He stared, goggle-eyed, at the greyhound.

  I glanced down and saw that she was staring back at him. She was perfectly quiet, perfectly polite, only her upper lip curled back to show a set of nice white teeth.

  “This is my new dog, Greg,” I said.

  Greg gave me a look of complete dislike and turned away. “Okay,” he called. “Who’s having spaghetti for supper tonight? That’s the house I’m goin’ to.”

  I smoothed my hand down the dog’s beautiful neck, and we slipped away through the oak trees.

  Aunt Mil was in the garden under a shady straw hat, picking cherry tomatoes into the basket on her arm. From a distance she looked straight and light, as a daughter, had she had one, might look today. It was only as she approached the fence that the creased, tired skin showed.

  “What’s this?” she asked and, standing there on the opposite side of the fence, listened to the greyhound’s story. The dog meanwhile pressed close to my leg, giving Aunt Mil an occasional reserved glance. Aunt Mil appeared to share the reserve. When I had finished, she only stood there with her lips folded, as if she wanted to consider carefully before she spoke her mind.

  “I’ll bring tea and gingersnaps out to the picnic table,” she finally said.

  I led my dog out back and tied her to the table leg. She only stood there, waiting. So many things had happened to her today, one after another. She must be expecting some new change at any moment.

  “Come here,” I said, sitting on the end of the bench and holding out my hand. She pushed her nose under it once, but then stood looking away as I stroked her. I thought the situation might be easier if she were a more demonstrative animal, if she showed the stress of this extraordinary day with a whine or a shiver. Then I could lose myself in sympathy and maybe even work my father up to a sense of pity. The coming fight was uppermost in my mind, but for a second I wondered if I really was going to like this dog.

  Aunt Mil came out with the tray. She set it down and, still standing, poured herself a tall glassful of iced tea. She took four thirsty gulps and stood studying the dog.

  “One doesn’t think of them as being so muscular,” she said. Instantly I noticed, for the first time, the smooth roundness of her haunches.

  “She’s very beautiful,” said Aunt Mil. She drained her glass and set it down. “I’m proud of Phillip. Sometimes I think his troubles have nearly crushed him, but … when you push him, you find that his back is already against the wall, and he won’t go any farther. I think he’ll be all right.”

  I remembered how weird Phillip seemed, up by the cliff, but didn’t say anything. Anyway, he was a lot better by the time I left.

  “But you, Kris,” said Aunt Mil. “I’m afraid you may have gone too far.”

  That was exactly what I feared, which left me not much to say.

  “Well,” I said finally, “it’s not as if he has any good reason for not having animals.”

  “He has all the reason he needs,” said Aunt Mil. “He doesn’t like them, and it’s his house.”

  “It’s my house too!”

  Aunt Mil only smiled at me with narrowed eyes. “Well, it is! At least—it’s Mum’s house!”

  Her expression didn’t change.

  “It’s going to be my house, or I won’t stay!”

  “Is that the truth, Kris, or bravado?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. The truth, I guess.”

  “You have a place here, of course, though I’d prefer not to risk my cats.”

  “I wonder how she’ll be with them? Where’s Pish?” Pish was the new tricolored kitten.

  “In the living room,” said Aunt Mil. “She broke my oldest vase and spilled the Canterbury Bells all over the carpet. Yes, why don’t you see if the dog will eat her?”

  I was glad to walk away from the two of them, old lady and solemn dog, and step into the cool, quiet house.

  What if I have to come live here?

  I don’t like my home, but I guess I’m used to it. Somehow the idea of leaving, even separate from the idea of the fight that must lead up to it, made me uncomfortable. Also, I thought I didn’t want to strain my friendship with Aunt Mil. I thought we could stand a good deal of pressure—I was pretty sure—but better not to test.

  Pish was on the couch, a brilliant spot of color in the dark room. Aunt Mil actively likes brown, unlike some sad people who can see no other color. She chooses rich or spicy hues in a variety of textures, and usually I enjoy the effect. Some days, though, it’s just brown.

  The kitten pushed her front paws straight out in the extremist possible stretch and yawned, all teeth and slanting eyes. I scooped her up before she could flit. She struggled a little but purred, too, and I held her to my ear a second to hear the soothing vibrations. After all, I would rather have a cat.

  Coming out the back door, I saw the scene at the table afresh. Aunt Mil sat straight-backed and high-headed, looking gravely at the dog. The greyhound lay nose on paws, and her troubled eyes gazed off at scenes I couldn’t see.

  As I came near she sat up, and her thin tail briefly stirred the grass. I put the struggling Pish into Aunt Mil’s hands and took my dog by the collar. With a very severe expression Aunt Mil brought the kitten down to her level.

  The greyhound stretched her nose forward to sniff. As nose touched fur, dog and kitten froze. I could feel the dog’s great excitement, in the stiffness of her neck and the way her sniffing rocked her. She nudged the kitten in the stomach, and I couldn’t tell if it was a motherly gesture or the preliminary nudge a canine gives its prey before the feast.

  Pish was offended, and at a second nudge she tapped the greyhound’s nose smartly, squirmed free, and scooted under the porch. The greyhound rose to her feet, hindquarters quivering.

  Aunt Mil looked grim. “They let them chase and kill rabbits,” she said, “training them to race.”

  “It’s only natural for a dog to chase something that runs.”

  “I know. She’d need to be tied, or have a kennel.” Already Aunt Mil was looking around the yard for a suitable spot, as if it were decided.

  “Our house is really the best place for her,” I said. “There’s nothing she can hurt.”

  “Other than the family structure, no.” Aunt Mil smiled one of her downturned, sour smiles. “Oh, Kris,” she said, and cuffed her hard old hand lightly across the top of my head. “But she is lovely, and I’m sure she’ll be a good dog to you.”

  “Oh, I forgot …” I told her about the little incident with Greg. She enjoyed that. She doesn’t get along with Greg any better than she gets along with my father.

  “But I can’t keep calling her ‘the dog.’ Let’s give her a name before I take her home.”

  We sat a long time there in the shade, drinking tea and looking at the dog, who looked back occasionally with that lurking smile. She politely refused all offers of gingersnaps.

  “Sirius—because she’s such a serious dog.”

  “Too serious for such a punning name.”

  “Beauty?”

  Aunt Mil shook her head. “I know it’s a name people give dogs, but I hate to hear it made so common.”

  We sat and thought some more. I was getting distracted. The coming fight was like far-off thunder in my mind, and the present, peaceful moment seemed quite temporary.

  “Call her Diana,” said Aunt Mil, after a long silence. “Diana the Huntress.”

  Diana, I repeated to myself, Diana. It is a classical name, though one forgets that. “Diana,” I said, and probably because I spoke directly to her, looking straight into her face, the dog responded, flattening her ears and sweeping her tail through the grass.

  “Okay. Diana.”

  She was panting, and it occurred to me as I took a sip of iced
tea that she, too, must be thirsty. Though I’m always thinking about animals, I’m not used to being responsible for them yet.

  I got her a bowl of water, which she drank, and then it was time to go. The dark August shadows were stretching long, and a cooling breeze stirred. Dad would be coming home, and I should be there before him.

  “Do you want a ride?” asked Aunt Mil.

  “No. You shouldn’t be involved in this.”

  She smiled tartly. “I’ll take you halfway.”

  Diana sat proud and fearful in the backseat of the VW and committed no transgressions. In the close confines of the car, she smelled distinctly doggy.

  The distance was short by car, and in a very few minutes Aunt Mil pulled over to the curbside and switched off the engine. We sat silent, not willing to part. We were both fearful of impending change and tickled at the idea. I’d already made a mental list of things to bring and things to leave behind.

  “I don’t know why, but this seems like the time to tell you,” Aunt Mil said abruptly. “That house is yours when I die.”

  I looked at her.

  “Well, it has to happen, and the odds are it has to happen pretty soon. You know that, of course.”

  I try never to think about it, because it’s so obviously true.

  “Thought you should know,” Aunt Mil said brusquely. “Ace up your sleeve, so to speak. Sell it to pay for your schooling—and that makes you independent, if you want to be.” She looked out the side window and changed the subject.

  “Try not to involve your mother any more than you can help.”

  “That’ll be easy!”

  She shrugged. “Well, Kris, you can’t have it both ways. Just keep it between you and your father, all right? It could make things a good deal easier for me, later on.”

  “Okay.” I got out of the car, and Diana followed as quickly as the seat was folded forward for her. “She doesn’t think VWs are dignified,” I told Aunt Mil. “If we come to live with you, you’ll have to get a Mercedes.”

  Snort!

  “I’d better not call you tonight,” I said. “Unless I have to.”

  “No, I agree. Come early tomorrow, then. I’ll be anxious.”