Evangeline had never had a dog before, and the discovery of such an uncomplicated, devoted love was more than she would allow herself to believe. Whenever she felt tenderness welling, she’d remind herself the dog was working a con, ensuring his next bowl of food, his warm bed, nothing more than that. Dogs knew how to pull people’s strings. She needed to stay smart. First you trust a dog, and then what? A man? No. She wouldn’t be doing that anytime soon.
Still, she’d never known a creature so good at faking love. She kept remembering one morning a few weeks back. Isaac abandoned his breakfast, stomped to the back door, and yelled at Rufus. The dog had been barking nonstop at a deer, growling at it, generally being an ass. After Rufus trotted inside, Isaac returned to his cereal, ate a few bites, then said, “I’m just glad the old guy is still around.”
When he saw her surprise, he added, “He’s never been that healthy. That nose of his has been running constantly for a decade. Even before Daniel died, he was failing. After . . . I didn’t think he’d make it.”
He must have sensed she wanted to hear more, because he kept talking. Or maybe, though Evangeline doubted this, he needed to talk for his own reasons. “When Daniel went missing, Rufus searched everywhere for him—tried to get upstairs, poked into every nook and cranny on the property. He seemed sad but still himself. He probably thought Daniel would show up eventually.
“But when we got the call from the sheriff, Rufus knew. Right away. Like he smelled it on us. I’d hardly hung up when he crawled to the back of the pantry and curled up under one of the shelves. I couldn’t coax him out except once in the morning and once at night. He’d go outside, take care of business, and crawl back under. I had to bring him water, set it by his mouth, hand-feed him kibble. I was sure I’d be burying him within a few weeks.”
Isaac stood abruptly, dish in hand, turned away clearing his throat. As he walked toward the counter, he said—and she heard his effort to sound offhand—“Then you appeared . . .”
The dog had grieved Daniel. And she knew he still did. Sometimes she found him slumped on his side in the hall, staring with dead eyes at the stairwell door. If a dog’s love were nothing but a con, why would he do such a thing?
Despite her promise to never trust him, whenever Rufus was particularly lively or funny or snuggly, Evangeline would picture him growing thin in a dark corner of the pantry and whisper to the dog or to herself or both, “Then I appeared.”
It was a mantra. A prophecy. The beginning of a new story.
* * *
—
AS FOR THE BOY IN THE PICTURES, a boy laughing, playing Frisbee, braced at a sailboat’s wheel, he wasn’t the boy who had tunneled her into the woods. She would study the pictures and try to see the Daniel she knew, try to hate him or forgive him or feel something, anything, for a boy who had been slaughtered. But all she saw was a pattern on a flat plane, like a paper doll she might cut free and move about as she chose.
Sometimes, before she went to bed, she too would go to the stairwell door. She’d place her cheek against its carved wood, pressing hard, as if to imprint it permanently onto her skin, as if she longed for its ornate patterns to tell the world all she had caused. Rufus would whine and poke the backs of her legs, trying to get her to stop. No matter the drabness of her mood, she’d end up laughing and pulling away.
Still, she would stand there awhile longer, staring at the door, wondering if clues could be found above, some understanding of why a boy like Jonah would butcher a friend. Because, truly, even if Jonah had found out about her and Daniel, how could such violence be explained?
Rufus would sit beside her, ears forward, head tilted, eyes locked on the handle, waiting for it to turn, as if Evangeline knew something he didn’t. But the door never opened, and no answers appeared in the carved wood, and Evangeline and the dog would sigh—often at the same instant—and go on to bed.
* * *
—
ON FRIDAY EVENING, Evangeline was planning dinner when Rufus went nuts at the mudroom door. She opened it to find a small middle-aged woman wearing a man’s wool work shirt bunched at the wrists. Dead leaves swirled around her lug-soled boots as if she’d brought them with her. Everything about her was thin and tightly bound, her mousy brown hair strained taut in a ponytail, the muscles of her face and hands tensed as if in battle. Evangeline thought she was bracing against the cold, then decided no, her condition seemed permanent, as if her fight was with life in general. The woman clutched what Evangeline guessed to be a food offering.
“I’m Lorrie,” she said.
It took a moment for Evangeline to remember. “The neighbor lady Isaac told me about?”
“I suspect, though I suppose there could be another.” She held out the lidded plastic bowl.
“It’s a green salad with other things thrown in. If there’s anything you don’t like, just pick it out. The dressing’s in a small container inside.”
Evangeline wondered if this woman was Quaker too, the way she spoke directly with nothing extra added. She took the container, remembering her manners only when the woman turned to go. “Would you like to come in? It’s cold out there.”
“I’m only just next door. My daughter’s home, so I think I’ll head back.” She was about to leave but stopped and faced Evangeline. “Unless you need something. Do you need anything? You feeling all right?”
So. Isaac had told this stranger about the baby. After he’d promised he wouldn’t. Why else would the woman ask such a thing? This invasion of her privacy annoyed her to no end, but Evangeline collected herself and said, “I’m fine.”
“You sure? Because if you need anything, anything at all, I’m right there, in that blue house off your back field.”
“I’m good.”
The woman nodded, one quick, sharp movement, her eyes darting away modestly—like she’d been thanked and was saying don’t mention it, though nothing had been mentioned. “Well, good-bye then,” she said, and turned away.
“Thanks for this,” Evangeline yelled, lifting the bowl to the retreating back, because probably, when she thought about it, she should have mentioned it.
And there was that nod again, as if to herself this time.
Back in the kitchen, Evangeline pried off the lid. Carrots and cucumbers, celery and cherry tomatoes had been tossed with the greens. She would eat this salad. She’d even eat the tomatoes, fast, mixed in with other things to camouflage their acidy taste and mealy texture. She didn’t mind eating gross things for the baby. She liked it, actually, how it mattered. Who else cared what she did or didn’t do? But the baby had only her to build its little bones and heart and brain.
She dressed the salad, tossing it with a fork, and sat at the table. Her nausea was gone these days, and she was getting her energy back. Something new was happening, though, something worrisome. She’d started to spot blood on her panties. She wondered if she should have mentioned it to the lady. Isaac had said she was some kind of nurse. Lorrie, that was her name, right?
Evangeline took a forkful of salad. The dressing was delicious, citrusy, a tiny bit sweet. As she ate, she mused about school. She’d have to get a tutor for trigonometry. Probably on the sly. Isaac had wanted to put her in algebra or geometry. She’d acted insulted, saying math was super easy for her, made it sound like she was some kind of math genius.