The Dogs of Littlefield by Suzanne Berne Page B

wasn’t attracted to George after all. Those cowboy boots were laughable, for instance. So was his puffed-out chest. And yet it had been a distraction, these past few weeks, to have George to think about. She wondered what his wife looked like.
    â€œSo, you were saying your sons are gangsters?”
    â€œWell, no, hard as they try. Just nice boys taking too many AP courses. Though one of their friends got in trouble last week for carrying a plastic pencil sharpener shaped like a pistol into math class. Practically sent the high school into lockdown.”
    â€œWell, people are trying to be careful these days.”
    â€œThere’s careful and there’s crazy.” He ate another olive.
    After their walk in the woods, Margaret had spent considerable time picturing their next encounter as somehow heightened, sympathetic. His warm hand again on her shoulder. Herself explaining that she was in the middle of a difficult and confusing time. But now she realized that George had not been entertaining similar fantasies, had most likely shown up at her house because he did, actually, want to practice his speech before the hearing.
    â€œSpeaking of crazy”—she twisted the top button of her cashmere sweater—“I keep thinking I see your dog.”
    â€œMe too,” said George. “Every time I open the front door.”
    Julia’s oboe squawked from upstairs. Binx was looking hopefully at the olives.
    Margaret stopped twisting the button and cleared her throat. “I mean, I really think I see him. Every so often I’ll be looking out the window or taking a walk, thinking of something else, and then I’ll see something that looks like him.”
    George drummed his oily fingers on the island’s granite surface, leaving small, dark prints.
    Margaret waited another moment. Sighing, she poured herself some wine. Together they stared at the bowl of olive pits. A few low notes sounded again from Julia’s oboe.
    â€œSo,” he said, “an oboe concert.”
    â€œWell, a band concert. Julia’s not very musical,” admitted Margaret. “But I wanted her to play an instrument and she won’t go near my piano. I played all through college. Chamber groups, mostly. Do you play an instrument?”
    â€œAir guitar,” said George.
    Margaret looked at the clock over the stove and saw that it was not even six thirty. She asked if he would like more wine.
    â€œMaybe half a glass. Loosen my tongue for my big speech about striking back against fear and paranoia.”
    â€œDo you have notes?”
    â€œI thought I’d warm the crowd up first with a few jokes. Mention that dogs and humans have a lot in common and we should try for some sort of bipartisan agreement. Reach across the aisle.” George selected a large Greek olive.
    â€œNo, really.” She was smiling at his forehead, which was high and broad, capped by short reddish curls. “How are dogs and humans similar?”
    Instead of answering, he said, “Did you read that study in the Times yesterday? Asking married women if they could cheat one time on their husbands without them ever finding out, would they do it? Seventy-three percent said yes.”
    She felt her face get hot.
    George himself was looking mystified at this turn in the conversation, but he forged ahead. “Even the women who say they love their husbands. Seventy-three percent. If they had one free pass to sleep with someone else, they’d take it.”
    â€œNow why is that?” she asked unwillingly.
    â€œBecause,” he said, “nobody ever has enough of anything.”
    To give herself time to recover from the blush scalding her face, she fetched a package of rosemary crackers and set them out on a plate with the wedge of Brie cheese, which she had left by the sink.
    From their glass bowl on the windowsill the two goldfish floated above their ceramic castle, regarding her emptily, opening and closing