The Dogs of Littlefield (25 page)

T
he school guidance counselor had proposed that
Julia quit soccer and oboe lessons until the fall because it would be a good idea for her to have some unscheduled time. Julia saw the guidance counselor every Tuesday and Thursday during lunch. Mr. Gluskin. Mr. Gluskin had a huge jar of jelly beans on his desk and let her take as many as she wanted. He called them his “magic pills,” but otherwise he was okay. Mostly they ate their sandwiches and talked about soccer.

“Did you see Mr. Gluskin today?” her mother would ask, when she got home. “How was it?”

“Fine,” Julia always answered.

One night at the dinner table her mother suggested Julia might want to see an actual therapist, but Julia said only loser freaks went to therapists. Although it meant she
was
a loser freak, if her mother wanted her to see a therapist.

At least she hadn't said “the worry doctor,” like some kids' parents.

Her mother was the one who should see a worry doctor. She walked around the house holding her hands out with her palms up, as if she were catching raindrops, or she stood looking out of the windows. Sometimes she could hear her mother in the hallway, breathing outside her bedroom door. If Julia wanted to walk into the village, her mother wanted to go with her. If she came down to the kitchen for a snack, her mother wanted to fix it.

“How are you?” she asked all the time. “How are you feeling today?” “I love you,” she said, every night at bedtime. “No matter what happens I want you always to remember that. And anything you ever want to tell me, I want you to know that you can. I love you so much.”

Then she would sit on the edge of Julia's bed, looking at her expectantly. Julia always shuddered. The thought of saying
I love you
filled her with a kind of marshy horror, similar to when she opened the pool filter and found floating dead frogs.

“Okay, I do want to tell you something,” she said to her mother one night. “You worry about me too much.”

And her mother said, “It's my way of watching over you, even when I can't be there.”

Three or four times in the evenings, her mother had been in the kitchen, looking out of the window as she made dinner, and then suddenly she'd demanded, “Do you see? I think you do.” But when Julia looked out of the window, nothing was there.

The house was too quiet. Binx had quit barking—ever since he'd had his operation, he lay on the floor whining. He'd stopped growling at people and trying to bite the mailman. Julia tried to make it up to him, patted him and brought him dog bones, but he only looked at her with his penny-brown eyes and then turned his nose to the wall.

Lost his mojo, said her father. “Just a little traumatized,” her mother said. But he was almost catatonic. Even waving toys at him, which usually made him growl and charge like a mad bull, didn't work.

It was boring at home in the afternoons. She was only allowed on Facebook for an hour a day; also she'd dropped her cell phone in the girls' bathroom two weeks ago and someone stepped on it, so no texting, and now she'd read all the
Twilight
books twice. So when Nicholas Orlov's mother asked if she'd like to start coming over on Tuesday afternoons to watch Nicholas, Julia said she would.

Surprisingly, her mother agreed to this plan. “Tuesdays?” she repeated, standing at the kitchen sink holding a dish towel.

“Until five.” Julia finished eating an apple and threw the core at the trash can but missed, then waited for her mother to yell at her to pick it up.

“I've been asked to accompany the middle school chorus on Tuesdays,” her mother said instead. “Naomi recommended me. They lost their usual accompanist. It would be good for me to get out of the house. But I thought you might want me to be here.”

“No,” said Julia. “Why would I?”

Sometimes nasty remarks like that could make her mother cry. But this time her mother only wrung the dish towel, staring at the pie-tin wall clock over the stove as if she were using the clock to figure out a word problem in math.

Mrs. Orlov had been looking for a regular nanny since Mr. Orlov moved out, but so far hadn't found one because Nicholas screamed every time a nanny came to be interviewed. But he liked Julia. At least he didn't scream when she showed up at the front door, though often he screamed later on. Mrs. Orlov paid her five dollars an hour. Hannah got eight dollars at the Saltonstalls'—but that was for two kids. Also those girls got into fights and had to be separated, and insisted on doing dress-up and face painting, which had to be cleaned up afterward. There was only one of Nicholas and he just played with Legos.

Julia had gone to the Orlovs' house for the past two Tuesdays. Her mother had insisted on driving her each time, though it was only five blocks, and Mrs. Orlov dropped her back at home. But today her mother needed to be at chorus rehearsal early, so she had arranged for Mrs. Orlov to come by to pick up Julia.

“I can
walk
,” Julia said, hopelessly, “by
myself
.”

“No,” said her mother.

Binx was lying in the middle of the kitchen floor like a gigantic inkblot, hardly moving. The vet had prescribed some sort of medication for him. The pills were pretty, bright blue, and reminded Julia of Mr. Gluskin's jelly beans, but they hadn't done anything yet for Binx. Her mother had poured them into a little glass dish on the windowsill next to the goldfish bowl, so she wouldn't forget about them. She couldn't remember her own pills, she'd said, much less Prozac for a dog.

“He must be sad,” Julia said, stroking Binx's big head, “that he'll never have children.”

“He'll be all right.” Her mother was looking out of the kitchen window as usual. Above the sink the goldfish circled their ceramic castle as if hypnotized. “He'll get over it.” But she suggested that Julia take Binx along to the Orlovs'.

“He could use getting out of the house, too. I'll call Emily right now and ask.”

Mrs. Orlov said she thought a visit with Binx would be nice for Nicholas, who had been missing Boris.

When the Orlovs arrived at the kitchen door, Julia was alone with Binx. They had walked, Mrs. Orlov explained, because she needed the exercise, but now she was dying of thirst. Inside, Nicholas squatted down to pet Binx and Mrs. Orlov peered at the goldfish.

“I think one of them might be sick,” she said, after finishing her glass of water. “It's not moving.”

“Oh no,” said Julia.

Nicholas wanted to see the sick goldfish and had to be boosted onto the counter by the sink. “What are those?” he said, pointing to the dish of blue pills.

“Magic pills,” Julia told him, “to make Binx happier.”

“You're kidding, right?” Mrs. Orlov put a hand to her forehead.

“He had an operation,” Julia said. “And now he can't have babies. He's depressed.”

“Well, if you're ever interested, this is why Rome fell.
Exactly
why.” Mrs. Orlov sighed grimly. “Okay, kids. I've got to get home to make a call. Leash Mr. Happy and let's get out of here.”

— —

“So what do you want
to do today?” Julia asked after Nicholas's mother had left them in the living room with a pile of Legos. It was just after three. They were sitting cross-legged on the carpet while Nicholas worked on a Lego helicopter. He was wearing yellow shorts and a red T-shirt with a blue stegosaurus on it.

Binx lay next to them on the carpet, farting.

“Why don't you two take Binx into the yard?” his mother called from her study down the hall. “It's so nice outside.”

From the living room windows, Julia could see white sunlight on the slanting roof across the street, interrupted by the shadow of a chimney like a gigantic rectangular black Lego. Beyond were green treetops and the flat blue sky.

“No,” said Nicholas.

Binx farted again.

“Oh, come on,” said Julia. She leaned over and whispered, “We'll go to Siberia.”

Nicholas sighed. “Okay.”

Julia snapped Binx's leash to his collar, then let Nicholas hold the leash. They went into the kitchen, each pausing to grab a handful of chocolate-covered peanuts from a yellow plastic bag left open on the counter while Binx stood watching them. They ate the chocolate-covered peanuts one at a time, trying to toss them into their mouths. Julia insisted they pick up the ones that fell onto the floor.

“Chocolate is bad for dogs,” she told Nicholas. “It can give them a heart attack.”

She was gratified to see him crouch down and pick up each chocolate-covered peanut.

When people asked Nicholas's mother how she was doing, she said, “Life is fine in Siberia.” She had said this to Julia's mother two weeks ago after giving Julia a ride home, Nicholas sitting in his car seat in the back. Julia's mother had been in the driveway with Dr. Watkins, chatting and watering pots of geraniums. She put down the garden hose and came to the car to talk through the driver's window.

“How are you, Emily? How are you holding up?”

“Life is fine in Siberia.”

“Well, it's been pretty cold here, too,” said Julia's mother, though this was not true. It was only May, but twice they'd turned on the air-conditioning.

Last week Nicholas had told Julia that Siberia was in his backyard. He pointed it out now when they opened the kitchen door: between the birdbath and the swings sat a folding metal lawn chair surrounded by cigarette butts and two empty wine bottles. Beneath the chair was splayed a swollen paperback book that had been left out in the rain.

Julia squatted down to look at the soggy cover. A picture of a horse, black and scribbly, like a drawing she could have done in elementary school, and beyond the horse a scribbly snow-covered stable. Stories. She leafed to the first one, careful not to tear the damp pages.

“ ‘To whom shall I tell my grief?' ” she read aloud.

“Drop it!” cried Nicholas, yanking on Binx's leash. But he was only digging at an anthill.

“So what do you want to do?” Julia asked, letting the book fall back onto the grass.

Nicholas shrugged. The downstairs windows were open, and they could hear his mother talking in a low, clogged-sounding voice, though not what she was saying.

“She's speaking Russian,” said Nicholas. “Probably to my grandmother.”

“Is your grandmother Russian?”

“No. She lives in New Jersey. Look at how fast I am.” Nicholas ran back and forth across the yard, yanking Binx along with him.

“Wow,” said Julia. “That's fast.”

They decided to walk into the village with Binx. Julia wasn't sure she and Nicholas were allowed to walk to the village, but she didn't want to ask Mrs. Orlov while she was on the phone. Anyway, it was just two blocks. “Hey, what's up?” Julia would say if she saw someone she knew sitting on the bench in front of the Dairy Barn. “This is Nicholas. I'm his babysitter.”

Trying not to think of what her mother might say, she opened the latch on the gate.

Mica glittered in the pebbles at the edges of people's yards, and for half a block a big orange butterfly floated above its own shadow down the sidewalk ahead of them. Julia insisted on taking Nicholas's hand when they crossed an intersection, and on holding Binx's leash. It was kind of fun being out with Nicholas, pointing to the pebbles and the butterfly. But as soon as they reached the corner of Brooks Street and turned right at the post office to head into the village, Binx started pulling on his leash and making loud gagging noises. Two people coming out of the post office stepped back in alarm.

“Stop,” Julia said to Binx. “Cut it out.”

Binx lunged ahead, dragging them past the post office toward the Dairy Barn, hacking and gagging, toenails scratching the sidewalk. Julia no longer wanted to see anyone from school. She suggested that they go home and finish Nicholas's Lego helicopter.

“Naah,” said Nicholas, letting go of her hand.

Julia glanced down at her sticky palm, puzzled to see a humid blue smear.

“Nicholas? What have you been eating?”

“Magic pills,” he said.

“Oh my god,” she said, her heart leaping. “You
ate
Binx's pills?”

He shrugged.

“Nicholas,
tell
me. Right now. What did you eat?”

“Naah, naaah.”

The little boy danced a few paces away from her, squatted on the sidewalk, and stuck out his tongue. Not blue.

“What did you do with those pills?
Nicholas
?”

He stood up, still sticking out his tongue, and pointed to Binx.

“Nicholas? You fed them to Binx?” For an instant, the relief was stunning. “How many?”

Another shrug.

“Don't you realize,” she said, using her mother's most shocked voice, “that this could be
very serious
? Where are you going? Nicholas, come back here.”

Fortunately, Binx seemed fine. He had stopped lunging and gagging and was sniffing a dropped ice cream cone. They were happy pills, after all. How bad could they be? But something had gotten into Nicholas. Maybe it was the balmy breeze or the sun bouncing off passing car windshields to snatches of radio music. Maybe it was the smell of garlic and vinegar coming from the open door of the Number One Noodle House across the street. Maybe it was only the sound of Julia's mother's voice.

Whatever it was, he began to run in zigzags on the sidewalk, flapping his hands and nearly colliding with people walking down Brooks Street. He ran past the Dairy Barn, past the Forge Café and the Bake Shoppe, while Julia yelled at him to come back, but he kept zigzagging and flapping.

“Are you an airplane, little boy?” asked an old lady in a straw hat and wraparound sunglasses outside of Walgreens. She had long crowded teeth.

“Help! Help!” he shrieked.