The Dogs of Babel

by Carolyn Parkhurst

  Eventually, she began to advertise herself as a maker of death masks. She liked doing them, she told me; it fulfilled her to see how moved people were by them, the solace it seemed to give. “It’s important work,” she said. “People need this. It helps them. It helps the living.” It is often said that when a loved one passes away, it helps to see the body lying still and dead. It helps make it real. People whose loved ones have disappeared, never to turn up again, they suffer forever. Lexy believed that by fixing her gaze upon the moment of death, she was helping the world’s survivors carry on with the business of living.

  She began leaving her card with funeral directors, and she took out ads in the obituary section of the paper. She visited the dying in hospitals, the ones who knew they were going to die and had reached some acceptance of it. And she did not lack for work.

  The masks she made were beautiful, I have to admit it. She took great care in designing each one. She met with families, listened to their stories, took notes. It did them good, the survivors, to talk. She never said “the deceased” the way the funeral home people did. She said, “Tell me about your mother. Tell me what you remember.” She asked leave to surprise them, to come up with something unexpected. Always with a promise that she’d make a new one if they weren’t pleased. But that only happened once.

  Her goal was to figure out the one image that would forever call to mind the person who had been lost. Not just what that person’s life was, but who he was, summed up in a drawing, an emblem, a single scene. A person’s life written across his face, as personal as a tattoo. Nothing so obvious as golf clubs for a golfer or a caduceus for a physician. Her paintings had the quality of a dream. The dream-life of the dead. She painted shadowy figures, dark against the bright sky. She painted pastoral scenes, trees on hills, birds in nests. A cityscape, a skyline. Constellations and shooting stars. A name in graffiti. There was a joy in what she painted. A nudge to remember the good things. A young girl dancing and spinning across the face of an old woman. For a pilot, middle-aged—dead of a heart attack, not a plane crash—she painted not an airplane but a view of the world from above, with the words Call it Heaven or call it flying written among the stars. For another man, an AIDS activist who had succumbed to the disease, a picture of the virus itself, unfathomably pretty for something so deadly, surrounded by scenes from the man’s life. For an old woman who had been a seamstress, a patchwork design covering the entire face, each square painted in the texture of a fabric from a loved article of clothing—here a wedding gown, there a baby blanket. And always, in every mask, the face hidden beneath the painting, adding its poignant topography.

  Lexy took special care with the suicides. She had two of them. The first was a man in his fifties. He had been depressed for a long time, but his family thought he had recently shown signs of getting better. It was July when he died, but after his death, his family found a closetful of Christmas gifts, wrapped and waiting for them. For this man, Lexy painted a winter scene, peaceful but impenetrable: snowdrifts, bare trees, icicles like shards of glass. A tiny figure stood in the foreground, looking upward; if you followed his gaze, you would see that, off in the distance, just barely visible, there was a tiny cottage with a light in its window. The man had a long road ahead of him—the steep hill he would have to climb looked almost insurmountable—but he could see that light and warmth were not so far away.

  The second suicide was a teenage girl. Her name was Jennifer. Lexy met with her parents, their faces blank with shock. They seemed hardly able to tell Lexy what their daughter was like; each detail, each thing they thought they knew about her, had been called into question, and they wondered now if they had really known her at all. They gave Lexy the girl’s diary to read. Lexy read it in a single night and returned it to the parents in time for them to bury it with their daughter. They didn’t read it themselves. They didn’t want to know what it said.

  I don’t know what Lexy learned from the diary, if anything. She wouldn’t talk to me about it. Usually when Lexy took a job, she would tell me about the person she was working on. She would tell me what she had learned of their lives, and she would discuss her ideas for the design of the mask. But not this one. She seemed to carry this girl’s story inside her. Sometimes, months later, when she seemed sad and I would ask her what was wrong, she would say, “Oh, I was just thinking about Jennifer.”

  For Jennifer, Lexy painted a mask upon a mask. At first glance, it appeared as if she had simply painted Jennifer’s own face, smiling. But when you looked closer, you could see that the smiling face was itself a mask; there was a faint outline, shield shaped, like those happy-and-sad faces used to symbolize the theater, drawn around the painted features, and painted ribbons extended from each side, as if to hold the mask in place. Underneath it all, Jennifer’s own features stood in somber contrast to the bright, bright smile and the wide, happy eyes.

  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.”

  “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.