“Thank you, Seymour,” she gushed. “I really owe you. He must have run all the way here,” she said incredulously. “It’s nine miles.”
“Or maybe he came with your little girl,” Seymour suggested. “And the grandma in the Chrysler? Like they did a couple of months back?”
“Wait,” said Elizabeth, looking up sharply. “What?”
* * *
—
“I can explain,” Walter said, holding up his hands as if to ward off a possible attack.
Elizabeth had long ago made it clear that Madeline was never to come to the studio. He had no idea why; Amanda came all the time. But whenever Elizabeth brought it up, he nodded as if he understood and agreed even though he had no clue and couldn’t care less.
“It was a homework assignment,” he lied. “Watch Your Parent at Work Day.” He had no idea why he felt a sudden urge to make up an alibi for Harriet Sloane, but it felt right. “You’re busy,” he said. “You probably just forgot.”
Elizabeth jolted. Maybe she had. Hadn’t Mason pointed out exactly the same thing that very morning? “It’s just that I don’t want my daughter to think of me as a television personality,” she explained, rolling up one sleeve. “I don’t want her to think that I’m—you know—performing.” She pictured her father, her face hardening like cement.
“Don’t worry,” Walter said dryly. “No one will ever mistake what you do for performance.”
She leaned forward in earnest. “Thank you.”
His secretary came in, carrying a large stack of mail. “I put the things needing immediate attention on top, Mr. Pine,” she said. “And I’m not sure you’re aware, but there’s a big dog in the hallway.”
“A what—？”
“He’s mine,” Elizabeth said quickly. “It’s Six-Thirty. He’s how I found out about Mad’s ‘Watch Your Parent at Work Day’ visit. Seymour told me—”
Hearing his name, Six-Thirty got up and entered the office, sniffing the air. Walter Pine. Suffers from low self-esteem.
Eyes wide, Walter pressed himself back in his chair. The dog was huge. He took a short breath in, then turned his attention to his stack of mail, only half listening as Elizabeth droned on and on about what the thing could do—sit, stay, fetch, probably, god only knows. Dog people were always so relentlessly braggy, so ridiculously proud when it came to their dog’s minor accomplishments. But her never-ending discourse gave him the time he needed to ponder how soon he could call Harriet Sloane and get her in on the lie so she could support the story from her end.
“What do you think? You’ve been wanting to try something new,” Elizabeth was saying. “Would it work?”
“Why not?” he said agreeably, having no idea what he’d just agreed to.
“Fantastic,” she said. “Then we’ll start tomorrow?”
“Sounds great!” he said.
* * *
—
“Hello,” Elizabeth said the very next day. “My name is Elizabeth Zott and this is Supper at Six. I’d like to introduce you to my dog, Six-Thirty. Say hello to everyone, Six-Thirty.” Six-Thirty cocked his head to the side and the audience laughed and clapped, and Walter, who’d only been informed ten minutes ago that not only was a dog in the building again, but that the hairdresser had trimmed his bangs in preparation for his close-up, sank down in his producer’s chair and vowed to stop telling lies.
* * *
—
After Six-Thirty had been part of the show for a month, it seemed almost inconceivable that he hadn’t been there from the start. Everyone loved him. He’d even started getting his own fan mail.
The only person who still didn’t seem thrilled by his presence was Walter. He assumed this was because Walter wasn’t a “dog person”— a concept he struggled to understand.
“Thirty seconds before the doors open, Zott,” he heard the cameraman say as he positioned himself stage right, thinking of new ways to win Walter over. Last week he’d dropped a ball at Walter’s feet, inviting him to play. He didn’t like playing fetch himself, found the game pointless. As it turned out, so did Walter.
“All right, let ’em in,” someone finally called as the doors opened and grateful viewers, oohing and aahing, found their seats, some pointing at the large clock, its hands still permanently set in the six o’clock position in the same way tourists might point at Mount Rushmore. “There it is,” they’d say. “There’s the clock.”