I fished the bike lock out of my pack, thought about lifting the Schwinn over to the house side, then said screw it and just locked it to the gate. I took a step back and almost tripped over Radar. She yelped and scrambled away.
“Sorry, girl, sorry.” I knelt and held out my hand. After a moment or two she came to it, sniffed, and gave it a little lick. So much for Cujo the Terrible.
I went around back with her right behind me, and that’s when I noticed the outbuilding. I figured it for a toolshed; no way was it big enough for a car. I thought about putting the downed ladder inside and decided not to bother, since it didn’t look like rain. As I discovered later, I would have toted it the forty yards or so to no avail, because there was a huge padlock on the door, and Mr. Bowditch had taken the rest of his keys.
I let us in, found an old-fashioned light switch, the kind that turns, and walked down the Hall of Old Reading Matter to the kitchen. The light there was provided by an overhead frosted glass fixture that looked like part of the set dressing in one of those old TCM movies Dad liked. The kitchen table was covered with checked oilcloth, faded but clean. I decided everything in the kitchen looked like set dressing from an old movie. I could almost imagine Mr. Chips strolling in, wearing his gown and mortarboard. Or maybe Barbara Stanwyck telling Dick Powell he was just in time for a drink. I sat down at the table. Radar went under it and settled with a small ladylike grunt. I told her she was a good girl and she thumped her tail.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon.” Maybe, I thought.
I spread out my books, did some math problems, then put in my EarPods and played the next day’s French assignment, a pop song called “Rien Qu’une Fois,” which means something like “Just Once.” Not exactly my cup of tea, I’m more of a classic rock guy, but it was one of those songs you like more every time you hear it. Until it turns into an earworm, that is, and then you hate it. I played it through three times, then sang along, as we’d be required to do in class:
“Je suis s?r que tu es celle que j’ai toujours attendue…”
One verse in I happened to look under the table and saw Radar looking at me with her ears laid back and an expression that looked suspiciously like pity. It made me laugh. “Better not quit my day job, right?”
A thump of the tail.
“Don’t blame me, it’s an assignment. Want to hear it one more time? No? Me either.”
I spied four matching cannisters set up in a line on the counter to the left of the stove, marked SUGAR, FLOUR, COFFEE, and COOKIES. I was pretty damn hungry. At home I would have checked the fridge and gobbled half the contents, but of course I wasn’t at home and wouldn’t be for—I checked my watch—another hour. I decided to investigate the cookie jar, which surely wouldn’t count as snooping. It was filled to the top with a mixture of pecan sandies and those chocolate-covered marshmallow jobbies. I decided that since I was dog-sitting, Mr. Bowditch wouldn’t miss one. Or two. Even four. I made myself stop there, but it was hard. Those sandies were certainly delicious.
I looked at the flour cannister and thought of Mr. Bowditch saying there was money in there. Then his eyes had changed—sharpened. Belay that. Flour cannister’s empty. I forgot. I almost peeked, and there was a time not so long ago when I would have, but those days were gone. I sat back down and opened my World History book.
I plowed through some heavy stuff about the Treaty of Versailles and German reparations, and when I looked at my watch again （there was a clock over the sink but it was stopped）， I saw it was quarter to six. I decided that was close enough for government work and decided to feed Radar.
I figured the door next to the fridge had to be the pantry, and I figured right. It had that good pantry smell. I pulled down the dangling cord to turn on the light and for a moment forgot all about feeding Radar. The little room was canned goods and dry goods from top to bottom and side to side. There was Spam and baked beans and sardines and Saltines and Campbell’s Soup; pasta and pasta sauce, bottles of grape and cranberry juice, jars of jelly and jam, cans of veggies by the dozens and maybe hundreds. Mr. Bowditch was all set for the apocalypse.
Radar gave a don’t forget the dog whine. I looked behind the door and there was her plastic food cannister. It had to hold ten or twelve gallons full, but the bottom was barely covered. If Bowditch was in the hospital for a few days—or even a week—I would have to buy more.
The cup measure was in the cannister. I filled it and poured the kibble into the dish with her name on it. Radar went at it with a will, tail wagging slowly from side to side. She was old but still happy to eat. I guessed that was good.