The Dogs of Littlefield by Suzanne Berne Page A

stop by before the hearing, and sent him her street address; but he had not e-mailed her back after this invitation. The hearing was scheduled for that evening at seven o’clock. In spite of telling herself that George was not going to stop by—that it wasn’t even a real invitation, her e-mail to George, only something she’d offered because like everyone else she was disturbed by what was happening at the park, and of course he’d probably forgotten—she had made a special trip to Whole Foods to pick up wine and a wedge of cheese, and mixed olives, taking so long to decide between Brie and Camembert that she’d had to hurry home, arriving just before Julia’s bus dropped her at the corner. Had even gone upstairs to brush her hair after slicing an apple for Julia’s afternoon snack, put on eyeliner and lipstick, and changed into her black cashmere sweater.
    So she was surprised, but not as surprised as she pretended to be, when her doorbell rang at six o’clock, sending Binx into paroxysms of barking, and there was George, in jeans, a denim shirt, and a brown tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, and his cowboy boots.
    Now he was sitting on a stool at her kitchen island, eating olives from a blue Andalusian bowl and dropping pits into a smaller matching bowl, a wedding-present set, and sipping a glass of pinot noir.
    â€œThe problem is,” she was saying, running a hand through her hair, “they have no idea how they look to other people.”
    â€œMy boys have given up trick-or-treating,” George said. “Though they’re pretty much in costume every day, baggy pants and baseball caps on sideways. Pretending to be ‘gangstas.’ ”
    Margaret had also sent George an e-mail after reading his novel, Pitch Zone, about a blind yeshiva student in Brooklyn who dreams of being the Yankees’ designated hitter and spends every weekend in a batting cage in Red Hook teaching himself to hear the difference between a ball and a strike coming over the plate. She’d found the novel sad and funny, genuinely moving, if at the end maybe a little predictable, with everything figured out. She had so many questions for George. When you’re writing do you live in two worlds? Have you ever met one of your own characters? She’d always thought of writers as reserved, serious. Possessed by their stories, carrying with them small black notebooks, in which they might suddenly stop to write a few words even in the middle of an ordinary conversation. Were they more or less lonely than other people?
    Not that she put any of this in her e-mail.
    â€œSo, hubby at work?” George was looking now around the kitchen as if Bill might emerge from one of the cabinets.
    â€œYes,” she said, straightening up. “He works downtown.”
    Dr. Vogel had suggested that Bill and Margaret each keep a journal about their feelings and then once a week exchange them. In Margaret’s journal, a blank book with a nineteenth-century painting of swans on the cover, she had written: This is a confusing and difficult time, but in times of emotional intensity there are new possibilities for intimacy . More than ever I realize that marriage is a joint adventure, with its own deep mysteries . Bill had not written much in his journal, which he kept in an old spiral notebook he found in Julia’s room. The first few pages were full of math problems, which he did not bother to tear out.
    I don’t feel anything, he wrote on one page.
    â€œSome kind of money guy?” George was asking.
    â€œInvestment planner.”
    George smiled and sat back, hooking his boot heels on the rungs of his stool. “That can’t be much fun right now.”
    â€œHis office is going through some turmoil, with the new government regulations.”
    â€œAbout time there were some regulations.”
    What an ass, she thought, relieved and disappointed to find that she