I’m beginning to know how I want the place to look. Empty and serene. Beautiful rugs on the floors. Simple furniture in a pale wood. If I never see another ball and claw-foot I will be grateful. Bring on the Shaker life! I’ll have the rooms repainted to take the indoors outside, or bring the outdoors in. The number of colors I can see from any window is more than enough to paint each of these rooms differently. The hawkweed alone—wouldn’t it make a beautiful room to paint it orange, yellow, green, and black? I am in a grand experiment, El. At the beginning of a new life. Forty years old, forty years spent in waiting, living as a tight bud. It’s time, don’t you think, for me to become a flower?
I moved into Daddy’s bedroom. Every morning the sun shines straight into the windows. Light beams across the room, bouncing off the glass on the pictures. I moved a small writing desk up to the window that faces the sea, and I am writing to you from here. I am both changing and settling in, and it is glorious! Why did I think the fall would be quiet?
Now I have news, and a further report on Mr. Reed. You hoped so, didn’t you?
A few days ago I drove to Augusta to do some errands. Art supplies were on the top of the list. I want to try my hand at doing some decorative painting.
On the way home I took a new route. I looked at the map and memorized the gist of it, but as happens with new routes, unfamiliarity magnified its length, and I wondered if I’d taken a wrong turn. The scenery was beautiful, though, and I reminded myself that I couldn’t really be lost, and there were houses to stop at if need be. So I tootled along. Then, on a stretch of nothing but woods on both sides, I passed a man holding a small dog and a sign I couldn’t quite read. I drove on. Yet a glance in the rearview mirror provoked a clarity I hadn’t had when first confronted with the anomalous proposition he created in the middle of nowhere, and I realized what was going on. I think you were behind that illuminating glint in my rearview glass, weren’t you, Elspeth? You rubbed the scales from my eyes. I turned around in the driveway of a church and got out of the car a few feet away from the man.
“How old is your dog?” I asked.
“He’s just a pup.”
The animal was small, his hair scruffy. But a ribbon had been tied around his neck, which made my heart pinch, as it always does in the presence of the innocent efforts of humans to bridge the divide between indifference and a sale.
“Is he going to be big?”
“Nope.”
“Does he bite?”
“Nope.”
“How much do you want for him?”
“Seventy-five cents.”
A sad amount.
“May I hold him?”
He stretched the dog away from his body, and I pulled him close to mine. The animal looked up at me with a mixture of wariness and something like hope, though that would be sentimentalizing the encounter. A silent plea to be unharmed was probably more like it. His fur masked his ribs, but I felt them as soon as I touched him. I thought I’d better buy him and take him to a shelter, if there was such a place around. I didn’t know. Shouldn’t I know? I feel so saturated with Maine, but am so separate from its people. That will change, now.
Or I’d give him to Robert Circumstance, with an allowance for care.
“Wait,” I said nonsensically, as if the man were going somewhere. “I’m going to get my wallet.” The dog whimpered as I placed him in the front seat. I looked through my wallet—several bills, including a five, but I pulled out a ten.
“This is all I have.”
The man stared at the bill. “I can’t make change.”
“No? Let me think.” I pretended to struggle with this problem, so as not to embarrass him. “All right, look. I want the dog, so I’ll just have to give you the ten.”
He looked at me carefully. I made my face blank. I am not tooting my own horn here, Elspeth, and I wouldn’t describe this bit of charity to anyone but you. It does feel good, though, to give. Why is that?
“So do we have a deal?” I said.
I thought of telling him it was good he made certain of what became of the dog rather than abandoning him to starve. But my opinion seemed superfluous, which is likely true far more often than I care to believe.
“He’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
“He’s called Star,” the man said. “My girl named him.”
Well. My poker face took some doing, knowing a child had lost her dog.
“He’ll be okay,” I said, nodding my assurance. “Is there somewhere I could call you? I’ll let your daughter know where he ended up.”
“Nope.” He turned away.
“Tell her he’ll have a good life!” Possibly better than the girl, I thought. The problem with going out into the world is that the world is not under my control.
I settled Star next to me on the front seat. He was too exhausted to even look around. Driving away, I railed at the unfairness of life. Elspeth, we were at the top of the world’s heap. By dumb luck. At least we knew it, and that was lucky, too, for we had a mother who believed that her good fortune was her due.
I got back on Route 3 and rolled down my window, keeping a hand on Star and stroking him gently. The girl must have petted him often, because he accepted touch. I didn’t know where the animal shelter was, so I guessed I’d have to go home with him first and make some calls to find it. And I couldn’t very well drop him off so dirty and matted, I’d have to bathe him, and what did he eat? Maybe Mrs. Circumstance would have a tidbit. You see where these thoughts are heading, but I was sure I was following a plan. By the time I turned down Point Path, my head was so full of next steps that I didn’t see little Nan until I nearly killed her. She was just at the lip of the road before the dip down toward the Point, alone again, in only a T-shirt on an afternoon when I was glad to be wearing a sweater. Oh, for God’s sake! I jammed on the brakes in time to avoid her—obviously—otherwise I wouldn’t have the equanimity to write this. What choice did I have but to take her home, too? My car had become an ambulance.
“Come on.” I beckoned to her. She stared. “Come on, Nan.” I got out, walked around, and lifted her in. Her eyes widened when she saw the dog.
“That’s Star,” I said. “Star.” Oh boy. Why was I teaching her his name? I realized my mistake. “He’s not mine.” As if that meant anything to her. She continued to stare at him, and what could I do but show her how to touch him? Otherwise she might have poked out his eye.
We crunched down the drive. I’d left the house for paints and I returned with a child and a dog—and some paints. I hardly know who I am anymore.
The three of us climbed the back steps and found Mrs. Circumstance in the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” I said to her, “I am arriving with a mess.”
She assessed the situation, no questions asked, in much the way Polly does. Mothering nerves of steel.
“I’ll boil some water. Hot chocolate and cookies is the ticket.” She looked at Nan’s thin shirt. “That man,” she muttered. “He has a hole in his head.”
“You said it. You don’t have a small sweater in your house, do you?”
“I’m sure I have a pile of them.” She put the kettle on and headed over to get proper clothes. I beckoned Nan to follow me to the pantry. I filled the sink with warm suds, and when I was certain the temperature and depth were right, I lowered Star. He was so floppy I had to hold my hand under his chest to keep his head above water. I worked my other hand through his coat, an inch at a time, removing the mud. Nan strained, tipping her head to either side curiously, and I explained to her how I got Star and what I was doing. Mrs. Circumstance came back just as the kettle began to whistle. She took hold of Nan. “I’m giving this one a bath upstairs.” She picked her up and balanced her on one hip.