Mr. Bowditch rolled his eyes. “That rag. Are you going to do it?”
“My dad wants me to. He said it might help with my college apps.”
“It might, at that. Although… hardly The New York Crimes, is it?”
“The guy asked about a picture of me with Radar. I said I’d ask you, but I figured you wouldn’t want me to do that. Which is okay with me.”
“Hero dog, is that the angle he wants? Or the one you want?”
“I think she should get the credit, that’s all, and she can’t exactly bark for it.”
Mr. Bowditch considered. “All right, but I don’t want him on the property. You stand with her on the walk. He can take his photo from the gate. Outside the gate.” He picked up the pain gadget and gave it a couple of pumps. Then—grudgingly, almost fearfully: “There’s a leash hanging on a hook by the front door. Haven’t used it in a long time. She might like a walk down the hill… on the leash, mind. If she got hit by a car, I’d never forgive you.”
I said I understood that, and I sure did. Mr. Bowditch had no brothers, no sisters, no ex-wife or one who’d passed on, either. Radar was what he had.
“And not too far. Once upon a time she could walk four miles, but those days are gone. You better go. I think I’ll sleep until they bring me a plate of the slop this place calls supper.”
“Okay. Good to see you.” It actually was. I liked him, and I probably don’t need to tell you why, but I will. I liked him because he loved Radar, and I already did, too.
I got up, thought about patting his hand, didn’t, and headed for the door.
“Oh Christ, there’s another thing,” he said. “At least one that I can think of now. If I’m still here on Monday—and I will be—the groceries will come.”
“Delivery from Kroger’s?”
He gave me that are-you-stupid look again. “Tiller and Sons.”
I knew about Tiller, but we didn’t shop there because it was what they call a “gourmet market.” Meaning expensive. I had a vague memory of my mother getting me a birthday cake from there when I was five or six. It had lemon frosting and cream between the layers. I thought it was the best cake in the world.
“The man usually comes in the morning. Can you call them and tell them to postpone the delivery until the afternoon, when you’ll be there? They have the order.”
“Okay.”
He put a hand on his forehead. I wasn’t sure because I was in the doorway, but I thought it was shaking a little. “And you’ll have to pay. Can you also do that?”
“Sure.” I’d have Dad give me a blank check and fill in the amount.
“Tell them to cancel the weekly order after this one until they hear from me. Keep track of your expenses.” He ran his hand slowly down his face, as if to smooth out the lines—a lost cause if there ever was one. “Goddam, I hate being dependent. Why did I ever get up on that ladder? I must have been taking stupid pills.”
“You’ll be fine,” I said, but going down the hall to the elevators, I kept thinking of something he’d said when we were talking about the ladder: Goddam doctors with their goddam bad news. Probably he’d just been talking about how long it would take his goddam leg to goddam heal, and maybe having a goddam physical therapist （probably a goddam snoop in the bargain） in the house.
But I wondered.
4
I called Bill Harriman and told him he could take a picture of me and Radar if he still wanted to. I told him Mr. Bowditch’s conditions, and Harriman said that was fine.
“Kind of a recluse, isn’t he? I can’t find anything about him in our files, or in The Beacon.”
“I wouldn’t know. Does Saturday morning work for you?”
It did, and we agreed on ten o’clock. I got on my bike and headed home, pedaling easy and thinking hard. First about Radar. Leash hanging in the front hall, deeper than I had yet penetrated the big old house. Now that I thought about it, there was no ID tag hanging on Radar’s collar. Which probably meant no dog license certifying her free of rabies or anything else. Had Radar ever been to the vet? I was guessing not.
Mr. Bowditch had his groceries delivered, which struck me as a high-class way to get your beer and skittles, and Tiller and Sons was certainly a high-class place where high-class people with a lot of folding green shopped. Which led me to wonder, as my father had, what Mr. Bowditch had done for a living before he retired. He had an elegant way of talking, almost like a professor, but I didn’t think retired teachers could afford to shop in a market that boasted of having a “step-down wine cellar.” Old TV. No computer （I’d bet on that） and no cell phone. Also no car. I knew his middle name, but not how old he was.