Far-Flung

by Peter Cameron

  Miranda is allergic to dogs, and will not allow them in the house. So I have a secret dog.

  I open the door to the closet without turning on any lights. Dog is sleeping and wakes up when she hears me. I have trained her to sleep all day and never to bark. She is very smart. In fact she is remarkable. I kneel in the hall, and Dog walks over and presses her head into my stomach. I hold it gently. The only sound is Dog’s tail wagging, but it is a very quiet sound, and I know it will not wake Miranda. This is a moment I look forward to all day.

  Dog and I go out to the car. I purposely park down the street so Miranda won’t hear the car start. I tell her I can never find a space in front of the house. She suspects nothing. Once Dog and I are in the car, I feed her. I keep her food in the glove compartment. I keep the glove compartment locked. Dog stands on the front seat next to me and eats her dinner. I stroke her back while she is eating. Every few bites she looks up and smiles at me.

  When she is done eating I start the car. I drive about a mile to an A&P that is open all night. As I drive, Dog stands with her nose out the window. I open the window only a crack because I am afraid Dog might jump out.

  At the A&P we get out. First I take her behind the store to a grassy bank beside the railroad tracks where she can relieve herself. Every few days she does this in the closet, but usually she is very good about waiting till we get out. She hops about the tracks, sniffing and wagging her tail. She is a joy to watch. She squats, and I look the other way.

  Then we go back to the parking lot, which is usually empty. Every now and then a car pulls in and someone jumps out and runs into the A&P. We have plenty of room. This is when I train Dog. I have a book, which I also keep locked in the glove compartment, called How to Train Your Schnauzer. Dog is not a schnauzer, but it seems to be working well. We are on week nine, although we’ve only been working for four weeks. That is how smart Dog is.

  I have to give Dog plenty of exercise so she will sleep all day. We begin running. Dog runs right beside me. We run a mile or two through the deserted streets of the sleeping town and then walk back to the car. Dog trots beside me, panting. Her long pink tongue hangs out one side of her mouth. She stops and sniffs at discarded papers that flutter on the sidewalk.

  We do this every night.

  One night when I come in, there is a light on in the kitchen. This has never happened before. I put Dog in her closet and quietly close the door. I walk slowly up to the kitchen. Miranda is standing by the table in her bathrobe. She is slicing a banana into a bowl of cereal. She won’t look at me. Her hair is loose and hangs down over her face, which is bowed above the banana. I cannot see her face. I sit down and still she will not look at me. Miranda, I often think, looks more beautiful when wakened from sleep than during the day.

  Suddenly the knife slits her finger, but Miranda does not acknowledge this wound. She continues to slice the banana. I realize she is crying.

  “You cut yourself,” I say, quietly. I think I can hear Dog plopping down on the floor in the closet.

  Miranda raises her cut finger to her mouth. She sucks on it, then wraps it in a napkin. She tucks her hair behind her ears and sits down. Then she looks up at me. “Where have you been?” she whispers. There are two pink spots, high on her white cheeks. There is also a little blood on her lips. She has stopped crying. “Where have you been?” she repeats.

  I watch the napkin she wrapped her finger in turn red, slowly. I cannot speak. Miranda stands up. She runs her finger under the faucet, and looks at it. She wraps it in a clean napkin. She is facing away from me, toward the sink. “Who are you seeing?” she says. “Do I know her?”

  It has never occurred to me that Miranda might think I am having an affair. This is a great relief, for if she believes this she must not suspect Dog. “I’m not having an affair,” I say. “I haven’t seen anyone.”

  Miranda looks over at me. “Really?” she says.

  “Yes,” I say. “Really.”

  “Where have you been?” asks Miranda.

  I think for a moment. “I can’t tell you.”

  Miranda looks down at her injured finger. “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “It’s a secret,” I say. “I can’t tell you because it’s a secret. But I’m not having an affair. Do you understand?”

  For a few seconds Miranda says nothing. She glances above my head at her reflection in the window. I, too, turn and watch her in the window. She looks very beautiful. I see her mouth move against the night. “Yes,” she says. “I understand.”

  The next day at work I find I am very tired. I have been sleeping very little since I got Dog. Suddenly I wake up. Joyce, my boss, is standing in front of my desk. She smiles at me. “You’ve been sleeping,” she says. “That isn’t allowed.”

  I sit up straight and open my top desk drawer as if I’m looking for something. Then I close it. I look up at Joyce. She just stands there. “Why are you sleeping?” she asks. “Are you tired?”

  “I’m exhausted,” I say.

  “Why?” asks Joyce.

  “My wife just had a baby,” I lie. “It’s been very sick, and I have to stay up all night with it. That’s why I’m tired.” This is a very bad lie. Miranda and I can’t have a baby.

  “When did Miranda have a baby?” Joyce smiles. She sits down in my customer chair. “I didn’t even know she was pregnant.”

  “A month ago,” I say. “I thought I told you. I guess I’ve been too tired.”

  “How wonderful!” says Joyce. “Lucky you! What is it?”

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  “A boy or a girl?” asks Joyce. She is so nice.

  “It’s a girl.”

  “What’s her name?”

  I think for a second. “Dorothy,” I say.

  “Well,” says Joyce, “congratulations.” She stands up, and winks at me. “Just try to stay awake,” she says. “But I understand.”

  The next night when I get home there is a big bouquet on the kitchen table. Miranda is sitting at the table, smoking. Miranda quit smoking years ago, although sometimes I find a pack beneath the seat of the car. What I do then is take them all out but one. I leave one for her to smoke, and toss the rest.

  Miranda points to the flowers with her cigarette. Then she hands me a little card. A stork flies across the top, carrying a baby wrapped in a diaper. Pink ribbons form the words “Congratulations on the New Arrival!” and underneath that is written “Welcome Dorothy! Love, Joyce.” The o in Joyce contains two little eyes and a big smile.

  Miranda stubs her cigarette in the ashtray. “Who,” she says, “is Dorothy?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “If this is Joyce’s idea of a joke,” cries Miranda, “I think she must be pretty sick.” She stands up and looks at the flowers. They are irises and tulips and a shriveled pink balloon on a stick. Miranda popped the balloon. Maybe she did it with her cigarette. “She must be pretty sick,” Miranda repeats. “Since when do we have a baby? Did you tell Joyce we had a baby?” Miranda looks at me. “Did you?”

  I don’t know what to say. I never thought Joyce would send us flowers. I didn’t think she was that nice. “Yes,” I say, finally.

  “You did?” Miranda is screaming, and it occurs to me that she is probably hysterical. “How could you? Why?”

  “I fell asleep at work,” I say. “It was just an excuse. I told Joyce I had to stay up nights with our baby. With Dorothy. I said Dorothy was very sick and I had to stay up nights with her.”

  “You’re awful,” says Miranda. “You’re a moron. I don’t understand what’s happened to you. What’s happened to you? I bet you are having an affair.”

  “Calm down,” I say. “That’s not true. You know that’s not true. You said you understood. Remember?”

  “But I don’t understand,” says Miranda. “I don’t understand anymore. Where do you go at night?”

  “It’s a secret,” I say. “I told you it was a secret.”

  “You can’t have a
secret like that,” says Miranda. “I can’t—Why can’t you tell me? What could be so bad that you couldn’t tell me?”

  “It isn’t bad,” I say.

  “Then why can’t you tell me?”

  “It’s just private,” I say.

  “But I’m your wife,” says Miranda.

  “I know you’re my wife,” I say. “I love you.”

  “Do you?” asks Miranda.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “And you don’t love someone else?”

  Dog isn’t really a someone. She’s a something. I love something else. I love Dog and I love Miranda. If Miranda weren’t allergic it would all be fine. “No,” I say.

  Miranda stands up. “I’m going to bed,” she says. “I don’t feel well.” She walks past me, toward the door, then she turns around. “Please get rid of the flowers,” she says.

  That night I wait a long time before I go down to Dog. I want to make sure Miranda is fast asleep. Finally I am satisfied. Miranda’s face is turned away from mine on the pillow and her cheeks move in and out a little and the blankets rise and fall across her breasts, but besides that she is perfectly still. The lights from passing cars flit across her face, and she almost looks dead, she is so still.

  I go down to get Dog. It is wonderful to see her. She comes out of the closet and whines a little, very quietly. Then she rubs her head against my chest. I am very sad tonight, and even Dog cannot cheer me up. Patting her, kissing her between her eyes, only makes me sadder. Dog senses this, and lies down close beside me on the car seat.

  At the A&P I almost lose Dog. She runs between two huge trucks that are parked behind the store, and disappears. It is dark back here and quiet. There is no one about. I think I can hear Dog’s tags and collar jingling, but it sounds very far away, on the other side of the tracks. I am afraid to call her, it is so quiet. The moon is out and broken glass glints on the pavement. I whistle softly, and finally Dog comes. I hear her coming across the tracks and back between the trucks. She runs across the parking lot, in and out of the shadows, like a ghost. I put out my hand to touch her, and she is there.

  I go into the A&P to buy dog food. Dog is afraid of the automatic door and shies when it swings open of its own accord. I pick her up.

  “You can’t bring the dog in here,” says the checkout girl. “Unless he’s a Seeing Eye dog. Are you blind?”

  Since I am carrying Dog, I can hardly claim I am blind. “No,” I say. I put Dog down.

  “Well, then he can’t come in. Sorry.”

  I pick up Dog and go back out. Dog is tired; her body is limp and warm in my arms. I carry her like a baby, her head against my shoulder. I put her in the car, lock the door, and go back in the store.

  I walk up and down the aisles enjoying myself. Pet food is always in the middle aisle, regardless of the store. This fact fascinates me. The only other person in the store is in pet food. She’s wearing a long green dress, sandals, and a pink scarf. Her red hair sticks out from under the scarf in all directions. She stares at me as I walk down the aisle. She is waiting to tell me something, I can tell.

  “I read palms,” she whispers, as I reach out for the dog food. “I tell fortunes.”

  I say nothing. I read the box. “Complete as a meal in a can,” it says. “Without any of the mess.”

  “Do me a favor,” the woman says. She reaches out and touches my arm.

  “What?” I say.

  “Escort me up and down the aisles,” she says. “I’ll read your palm when we’re done.”

  “Why?” I say.

  “Why what?” Before I can answer she says, “Why not? I’m lonely. Please.”

  “O.K.,” I say. I hope this won’t take too long.

  We walk toward the front of the store. The woman consults her shopping list. “My name is Jane,” she says, as if this is written on her list. “Just Jane. Soda. Will you do me another favor?” She looks up at me.

  “What?” I say.

  She touches my arm again. “Pretend you’re my husband,” she says. “Pretend we’re married and we’re shopping. Will you do that?”

  “Why?” I ask.

  Once again she looks at her list, as if the answer is there. “Soda,” she mumbles. “What kind of soda do you like?” She hesitates. “Dear.”

  We are in the beverage aisle, and all the bottles gleam around us. “I like Seven-Up,” I say, because that is the first kind I see.

  “The un-cola,” says Jane. “I don’t like it. I like Coke. But we’ll get Seven-Up for you.” She puts a large plastic bottle of Seven-Up in the cart. We proceed.

  “Please don’t get that for me.” I feel very foolish. “If you like Coke, get Coke. I like Coke fine.”

  She stops. “Do you?” she says. “Do you like Coke fine?”

  “Yes.”

  “But which do you like better?”

  “Please get whatever you want,” I say. “This is silly.”

  Jane puts the Seven-Up back on the wrong shelf. “Do you like birch beer?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Fine, then.” Jane reaches for some birch beer. “We’ll get that.”

  We continue through the store like this, disagreeing about yogurt, deodorant, bread, juice, and ice cream. The checkout girl rings up my dog food first. Then she does Jane’s groceries. I help her carry them out to her car. It is the only other one in the parking lot. I can see Dog, with her front paws poised on the dashboard, watching me. “Good night,” I say to Jane. I’m glad this is over.

  “Wait,” says Jane. “I promised to tell your fortune. Give me your palm.”

  I hold out my hand and Jane takes it. Her hand is warm and wet. “Move.” She pushes me back toward my car, under the light. She opens my palm and holds it flat. She wipes it off with her scarf. The light makes it look very white. For a long time she says nothing. I can hear Dog whine in the car.

  When Jane speaks, she addresses my palm and not me. “I see blue lights. I see swimmers. I see rhododendrons. You will live a long time.” She pauses. “You will always feel like this.” She slowly rolls my fingers toward my palm, making a fist. She looks up at me.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  Jane lets go of my hand, and makes a vague gesture with her own, indicating the A&P, the parking lot, my car with Dog in it. “Like this,” she repeats, softly. “You will always feel like this.”

  Joyce is there, standing above me. “Perhaps you should take some sick time,” she says. “You can’t keep falling asleep at work.”

  I feel very tired. I just want to go back to sleep. I don’t know what to say.

  “Do you have any comp time coming?” says Joyce. “Perhaps you should take it now.”

  “I’m tired,” I say. Joyce is a little out of focus, on account of I just woke up.

  “I know you’re tired,” says Joyce. She seems to be talking very loudly. Joyce sent us flowers. She is nice. “You look very tired. That’s why I think you should take some time off. Don’t you think that would be a good idea? Do you understand?”

  “I guess so,” I say.

  “Well, think about it,” says Joyce. “Think about it, and let me know. Things can’t go on like this.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Good,” says Joyce. Then she leaves.

  When I get home that night things are fine. Miranda suggests we go out to dinner, and we do. It is very nice. We drink a lot of wine and eat and eat and then we drive home. We watch the news on TV. It is terrible news; even the local news is terrible. Miranda yawns and goes into the bathroom. I can hear her in there: the water flowing, the toilet flushing. It all sounds so lovely, so safe. I can hear Miranda setting the alarm in the bedroom, and the radio playing softly.

  “Are you coming?” she calls down the hall. “Come to bed.”

  I get in bed with Miranda and pretend to go to sleep. It is windy and cold outside, and the trees rattle against the windows. It is hard to stay awake. My head is spinning with all the wine I drank, and I a
m so tired. But I stay awake until Miranda falls asleep. I get up and go down to Dog.

  When I open the closet, Dog is not there. The closet is empty. I call Dog softly, thinking she has got out somehow. I call and call, in little whispers, but she doesn’t come.

  I stand in the hall for a long while thinking I must have fallen asleep. Maybe I am dreaming. I do not understand what is happening, and I begin to cry a little. I go back upstairs and into the bathroom and close the door. When I stop crying I come out and stand in the bedroom. Moonlight falls through the window and onto the bed; onto the part where I am not sleeping, onto the empty spot beside Miranda, who sleeps against the wall, in shadow. The first time I saw Miranda was in a hotel in Florida. She was coming out of her room with a folding beach chair. She asked me to hold it while she answered the telephone, which was ringing in her room. I stood in the corridor and held the chair for what seemed to be a very long time. I could hear Miranda talking in her room, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  Miranda wakes up. She turns over, into the moonlight, and looks up at me. “What are you doing?” she says, sleepily. “Why aren’t you in bed? Are you crying?”

  I realize I am still crying a little. Miranda sits up in bed, very beautiful, the light pale on her face. “Why are you crying?” she asks.

  I don’t know what to say. The wind blows and the bedroom seems to shake. I can hardly speak. “Where is Dog?” I finally say. “What did you do with Dog?”

  “Dog?” says Miranda. “What dog?” She leans forward, across the bed, toward me.

  THE CAFE HYSTERIA

  A FEW DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS I come home from work to find my friend David sitting on the little red velvet banquette in my mirrored lobby.

  “Hi, Lillian,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  David stands up and kisses me. “Just hanging out,” he says. “No. I came to give you this.” He hands me a Christmas present: a tiny gift-wrapped box.

  “This is for me?” I ask.