The Dogs of Babel

by Carolyn Parkhurst

  After we come back inside, I go into the living room and pick up the phone. I dial the number I’ve written down. It rings once and picks up. There’s some tinny, mysterious-sounding music, then a recorded voice. “You have reached the Psychic Helpline, your gateway to psychic adventure. You must be over eighteen to enjoy our services. Our rates are four dollars ninety-nine cents per minute. The Psychic Helpline is for entertainment purposes only. Please hold for your personal psychic adviser.”

  The extension rings, and a woman answers. She sounds young, Midwestern.

  “Thank you for calling our Psychic Helpline. This is Caitlin, extension 79642. I’m going to do a tarot card reading for you today. Let me begin by getting your name, birth date, and address.”

  “Um, actually, I’m not looking for a reading. I’d like to speak with Lady Arabelle.”

  “Lady Arabelle’s not available right now. Why don’t you let me help you?”

  “Well, maybe you could put me on hold. It’s very important that I speak to Lady Arabelle directly. I’m willing to wait until she’s free.”

  “No, I’m afraid Lady Arabelle’s not here right now. Tell me, are you a Pisces? I’m getting a strong vibe here —”

  “Maybe I could leave a message for you to give to her. Or maybe you could tell me when she’ll be there, and I can call back then?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible. But I assure you, I’m a qualified professional psychic, and I’ll be more than happy to help you. I’m sensing you’ve had some trouble in your life lately —”

  “Listen,” I interrupt. “This is very important. It’s a matter of life and death.” Well, it is, in a manner of speaking. “You’ve got to tell me how to reach Lady Arabelle. I’m sure you’re not allowed to give me her home number, but maybe if I explain why I need to speak to her —”

  Caitlin sighs. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any idea how to reach her.” She’s dropped the ethereal quality she’s been trying to inject into her voice.

  “What do you mean? She does exist, doesn’t she? I’ve seen her on TV.”

  “Well, I’m sure she exists, but the thing is, there are hundreds of psychics who work for this network, and when you call, they just connect you to whoever’s available. You don’t get to pick who you get to talk to.”

  “Well, even so, you all work together. There must be some way you can leave a note or something.”

  “No, it doesn’t work that way. See, right now, I’m sitting here in my apartment in Dayton, Ohio, and for all I know, this Lady Arabelle, who I’m sorry but I’ve never heard of, could be in California or Texas or anywhere. It’s not like we’re all sitting around in some big psychic room or something, looking into crystal balls. We don’t all even work for the same company. There are, like, a hundred little companies, and they all sign up with this other company that runs a big central computer in Florida or someplace, and when someone calls, the computer checks to see who’s logged on, and then the phone rings right here in my living room, and I pick it up. You could call a hundred times and never get the same person twice.”

  “I see,” I say. I feel deflated. “But there must be some phone number I can call to talk to someone who’s in charge. Whoever runs the big computer in Florida, I guess.”

  “Well, if there is, I don’t know it.” Her voice softens a little. “But, listen, if you tell me a little more about this life-or-death situation, maybe I can help you find some answers. Come on, honey, tell me your birthday.”

  It’s the “honey” that does it. Even in that thin, young voice of hers, the word makes my chest ache. Do I crave kindness and tenderness that much?

  “September twentieth,” I say. I press the phone to my ear, ready to hear whatever she has to tell me.

  TWENTY-TWO

  When I was a child, one of my favorite games on long car trips and rainy afternoons was to write a word, any word, at the top of a piece of paper and list beneath it all the words that could be made from its letters. The point wasn’t so much to count the number of words that I found, it was more to see what those words revealed about the word they came from. It was like magic to me, like a secret code to crack. Break apart family, and you find both yam, homey as Thanksgiving, and lam, the inevitable flight from the nest. Is it any accident that loser contains the letters to form sore?

  I liked the surprise of the images this game conjured up and the way that the pictures it painted were often so right. I broke down father, and I saw the way my own father was like a raft, bobbing along, holding us all up. I broke down mother, and I saw the way my mother hovered around us like a moth.

  I find myself playing the same game now, writing down names and seeing what they can tell me. Look inside Lorelei and you find roll and lie, two very doggy verbs, two things she does very well. But look further and you’ll see she carries within her a story to tell (see, there it is—lore) and a role she herself plays in that story.

  Break open Lexy Ransome and you find omen and sexy and soar.Lost and rose.Yearn and near and anymore. See how it works? It doesn’t bear thinking about. It couldn’t be clearer. Only one letter away from remorse, and one letter away from answer.

  My own name, Paul Iverson, holds a wealth of words within it. Many of them, disconcertingly, have to do with the life of the body. Look and you’ll see that I am made up of veins and liver and pores, nape and penis, loins and pulse. Try as I might, I cannot escape this body of mine that breathes and beats and lives, that still sweats in the sun and craves water to drink. That passes urine like any living thing. I am tangible as the earth. I am soil; I am vapor. But look again: I am more than my body, I am more than my living self. Look again and you’ll find soul and reason, prose and salve and lover. I am nervous and son and naive. I’m as human as you can get. I snore and I pine. (One letter away from passion. One letter away from reveal.)

  These are the notes I made during my talk with Caitlin, and they tell me more than anything she said. She told me I had faced great sadness in my life. (And who, I wanted to ask her, who hasn’t? Who, at least among those willing to pay three hundred dollars an hour for advice, hasn’t faced some misery they don’t know how to bear?) She told me things would get better. She told me she saw a woman in my future, and when I balked, when I told her I couldn’t imagine such a thing ever again, she told me she saw a man. Granted, I didn’t give her much to work with. I told her my real birthday and my real name, but when she asked if I was married, I said only, “Not anymore,” and I left her to draw her own conclusions. I resisted her attempts to draw my story out of me; if she’s being paid to be a psychic, I thought, then let her figure it out. Part of me, I admit, wanted her to tell me something true; part of me wanted her powers to be real. It’s a strange role they play, these “psychics,” part priest-confessor, part therapist, and I was half hoping she would tell me something that would make everything make sense. I was half hoping that somehow she would save me. But in the end, she was just some woman from Ohio sitting in her living room, talking to a stranger in the middle of the night. And me, I was just some schmuck paying for a phone call he couldn’t afford.

  Now, outside, the dawn is breaking. It’s been a very long night. I feel empty now, too tired to think anymore about Lexy and her call to Lady Arabelle and what it all means. When I go into the bedroom, I find Lorelei sleeping across the foot of the bed, and I decide not to shoo her off. I crawl between the sheets, curling myself into a ball so as not to kick her, and almost immediately, I am asleep.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I run into Maura today. The ex-wife. Or, well, when I say I run into her, I mean I run into her on my front porch. I open the door to get the newspaper and there she is. It’s quite a surprise. She hasn’t knocked. She has a note in her hand, and I guess she’s trying to decide whether to leave it. She jumps when I open the door.

  “Hi,” I say. I’m a little taken aback to see her there.

  “Oh, Paul,” she says. “I didn’t know you were home.”

/>   “Well, here I am.”

  She smiles and goes into a kind of artificial sympathy mode. “I just heard about Lexy,” she says. “Paul, I’m so sorry.”

  I nod and smile sadly and look at my feet and mumble my thanks. I’m still not very good at accepting condolences from people, especially people who didn’t know Lexy.

  “Well, would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” I ask finally. It’s strange to see Maura standing on my porch smiling at me. We didn’t part on very good terms, as I think I’ve mentioned. But it’s kind of nice to see her. I realize I haven’t spoken to an actual human being in two days.

  “That would be nice,” she says.

  Don’t worry. This isn’t headed where you might think.

  As she comes in, I look around the house and see it as she must see it. It’s a mess. There are dishes everywhere, and stacks of books piled precariously high. I’m sure I look rumpled as well. I am certainly unshaven.

  It’s not until Maura is already inside the house that Lorelei comes barreling in, barking. She must be losing her watchdog touch, I think. There was a time when she would’ve known Maura was standing on the porch before I even opened the door. It occurs to me for the first time that Lorelei is getting older—she must be eight years old by now—and that I may not have unlimited time to conduct my research. Or to enjoy the quiet pleasure of her company. I will lose her someday, that much is certain, and it makes me ache to think of it. But, as all dog owners must, I put the thought quickly out of my mind.

  Maura backs away and shrinks against the wall when Lorelei comes into view. She never was a dog person.

  “Down, girl,” I say in my most commanding voice. “It’s okay.” To Maura I say, “Let her sniff your hand. Don’t worry, she won’t bite.”

  Maura holds her hand out uncertainly. Lorelei sniffs it avidly and thoroughly and gives it a tentative lick. Satisfied, I guess, that the situation is under control, she turns and walks away.

  “So,” Maura says. “I guess that’s Lorelei.”

  “How do you know her name?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Paul. Matthew Rice called me.” She brightens for a moment. “He told me he’s head of the department now. That’s great. Good for him.” Then she puts her concerned face back on. “He’s worried about you, Paul. He thought maybe I should talk to you.”

  I feel a flash of annoyance at Matthew Rice. He knows how I feel about Maura. And I have work to do. This unexpected visit is quite a disruption.

  “Well, come and sit down then and talk to me,” I say. I’m sure the irritation is clear in my voice.

  I lead her into the living room. She stops to look at a picture on a side table, a photograph of Lexy and me taken on our wedding day.

  “So this is Lexy,” she says. There’s a brittleness to her voice that she doesn’t quite manage to hide. “She was pretty.” She sounds as if she’s accusing me of something.

  “Yes,” I say. “She was.”

  I clear the couch of newspapers and notepads and gesture for Maura to sit down.

  “God, Paul,” she says. “Look how you’re living.”

  “Well, I wasn’t expecting company,” I say shortly. “Did you want some coffee?”

  She eyes a pile of dishes on the table with a kind of horror. “No,” she says. “That’s all right.”

  I sit down in a chair facing her. “So,” I say. “How have you been?”

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  “How’s work?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are you . . . seeing anyone?” The question sounds absurd.

  “No. Not at the moment.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Well, let’s get down to business. What’d you come here to say?”

  “Paul, Matthew thinks you’ve lost your mind. He says you’ve stopped interacting with people, and you didn’t show up for dinner at his house . . .”

  That’s true. It was on a day when I felt I was very close to making some headway with Lorelei—it was the day of the wa breakthrough, as a matter of fact—and I simply forgot I had made plans with Matthew and Eleanor. I called the next day and apologized, and I thought I had explained the situation perfectly well. Matthew himself is extremely single-minded when it comes to research. I thought he, of all people, would understand.

  Maura’s still listing my shortcomings. “And he says you actually think you’re going to teach that dog to talk. I mean, really, Paul, you don’t believe that, do you?”

  “I believe that interspecies communication is an area that has not been fully explored,” I begin. “And I think that we have much to learn —”

  “Jesus Christ,” Maura breaks in. “Paul, do you hear yourself? You need help. Look, I’m sorry Lexy died, that’s a tragedy, but you have to get over it. You’re ruining your life and you’re ruining your career.”

  I stand up. Haven’t I spent enough of my life already listening to this woman? So she thinks I’m crazy. Fine. I’ll give her something to take back to Matthew.

  “Lorelei,” I roar. I’m surprised at the ferocity in my voice.

  Maura looks nervous. “Paul, what are you doing?” she asks.

  “Lorelei,” I yell again. Lorelei appears in the doorway. “Sic!” I say, and point at Maura. Lorelei just looks at me.

  Maura jumps up. “Oh, my God,” she says.

  “Get her, girl!” I shout. Lorelei looks from me to Maura and back again. She lets out a single bark, responding, I suppose, to the loudness of my voice.

  “Are you nuts?” Maura says to me.

  “Apparently,” I say. “Go on, Lorelei! Get her!”

  “I’m leaving,” Maura says. “You’ve really lost it, Paul. Let me out of here.” She grabs her purse and walks quickly to the door, giving Lorelei a wide berth.

  I follow her and stand in the doorway as she retreats down the front path.

  “And stay out!” I yell after her. It’s strangely satisfying. I start to laugh. I watch Maura drive away, and then, laughing, I walk back into my cluttered living room to continue my research.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Lexy and I had been married six or seven months, I think, when she got the call to make the mask of the dead girl. She called me at work.

  “Hi,” she said. “Do you know where Van Buren’s Funeral Home is?”

  “Um, I’m not sure,” I said. “Why, did somebody die?”

  “No. Well, somebody did, but it’s not anyone I know.”

  “What?”

  “I just got this call, out of the blue,” she said. “It was from a woman whose daughter just died, and she wants me to make a mask from the girl’s face.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “And you’re going to do it?”

  “Well, I was a little put off when she first started telling me what she wanted, but the more she explained it, the more sense it made. I guess this girl—she was nineteen, she was in college—it sounds like she had some kind of cancer. Her mother sounded very calm and rational; I think they knew this was coming for a long time. Anyway, this girl was a theater major, and she was kind of quirky, and she wasn’t afraid of death, her mother said. Her parents think she would’ve approved of this. They think it would be a nice way to remember her.”

  “Uck,” I said. “I think it sounds creepy. Don’t you think? It doesn’t sound like a very healthy way to grieve, to keep a mold of your daughter’s dead face around. What are they going to do with it, display it on the coffee table?”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “It’s kind of weird. But there’s something about this that appeals to me. It’s important work, you know? More important than most of the things I take on. I mean, this is the last chance they have to capture their daughter’s face the way it really looks.”

  “The way it looks in death. Don’t they have any pictures of her, pictures of the way she looked when she was alive?”

  Lexy sighed. “Maybe I’m not going to be able to explain it to you,” she said. “But I think I understand. You know, death mask
s have been around for thousands of years. And I read once that back when photography was new, people used to have pictures taken of their loved ones in their coffins. Or mothers would take their dead babies to be photographed. It would be the only thing they’d have to remember them by.”

  “That’s very sad. But I still think it’s a strange request.”

  “I don’t know. I think there’s something sacred about capturing the human face in the moment of death. Think about this—if no one ever wanted to remember the way their loved ones looked after they died, then why would we have open caskets at funerals?”

  “Well, I’m not too crazy about that either,” I said.

  “I think there’s something comforting about it,” she said. “You know, death is this big mystery, and it’s something we’re all afraid of, but when you see someone who’s actually dead, they look peaceful. It doesn’t look so bad. Especially if it’s someone who’s been through a lot of pain and is finally at rest. Maybe that’s what this girl’s parents want to capture.”