any kind. They find her down the corridor, inside a supply closet. The shelves are stacked with plastic bins. She has almost managed to close the door. She is sitting in the dark.
5
Iris and the dog lift their faces out of half sleep toward the sound. A door downstairs being opened, pulling her out of the well of a nightmare and back into the bedroom. It’s almost eleven. 3D springs clumsily off the bed, whimpers by the closed bedroom door. She falls back. George as a boy—nine, maybe ten—this is what she is dreaming. A sunny road runs along the ruin of a stone wall, winding the loamy fields as far as she can see. She is following the squirrel from one of her band posters—peepholes for eyes, cherries for guts. They come to a column supply truck overturned in the road, abandoned so long milkweed and goldenrod climb its wheel. Medical supplies spill out the back, glinting metal. The tattered canvas, its faded red cross, flaps in the breeze. George is slumped against the wall, legs splayed in the dry dirt, head bent over his little blade of a chest. The squirrel leaps the wall and pauses behind George’s ear. In the air is the slow play of dandelion. She should stay with George, but the squirrel is continuing up the road in the direction of—a church? A church, though only the facade stands, a jagged mason tooth and a missing eye, light shot through the socket, light in the rubble of the nave behind—tongue gone, gone the interior castle. The mask of a church—not a church. Suddenly she understands. Bombed. The black of planes has already come. If the planes have come once, they will come again. She calls to little George to move, to find cover. She knows the lie! When they draw the maps, they do not include the shadows of the planes. George lifts his head. Come, please come! she cries. He will not stand. She sees his eye is canceled too. He points his chin at her and laughs. I did it, Mama , he says. It was me.
She’s sweated through the sheet. Back in the morning light, unbidden she remembers Carol’s face as it looked in the last days, skull-out, in Oswego. Her dream—what was it? A piece of her grandfather’s story of the Battle for Brittany, maybe, a story Carol relayed only at the end, carried to Iris down a dark hall in the long, translucent hands of dementia.
“Lo? Hello? Iris?”
The jangling of keys, a sound so ordinary it must be real.
She cracks the bedroom door. Victor, here to walk 3D, is letting himself in through the back, the mudroom. He bangs his keys onto the marble kitchen island, stomps his sneakers. 3D barrels down the stairs.
“Mutt-friend,” she hears, “devil-dog, hey!”
Victor bends on one knee by the breakfast counter. The blue leash hangs slack against his leg. From the top of the stairs, she sees he is having a serious conversation with the dog. Her work schedule is still unpredictable; she never knows when she’ll be around for the midmorning walk.
“I don’t believe it. 3D, you are telling me this is happening in the park? Go on. And you went over to them and they—Lhasa apsos? Yes, it is a stupid name. The nerve. To be iced by the likes of them. No wonder you’re feeling low. Now, don’t you take it to heart. Mutts are the very best, and you are the very best of the mutts.” The dog’s muzzle rests in Victor’s open palm.
“Who first,” Victor calls up the stairs, “you or the dog?”
In the mirror she sees the disassembly of sleep.
“3D, please! I’m a mess. I need coffee. You need coffee?”
“Had mine,” he calls, thumping his thermos on the counter. “Come on, dear dog, we’re going for a walk.”
She dresses and puts the coffee on and watches them amble down the sloped back lawn. They stop where the edge of the woods meets the grass, a crooked stick hanging from the mouth of the dog, a tennis ball in the dog walker’s hand. He looks up and catches her at the glass wall and waves. She likes his face: wide-awake eyes set between round
5
Iris and the dog lift their faces out of half sleep toward the sound. A door downstairs being opened, pulling her out of the well of a nightmare and back into the bedroom. It’s almost eleven. 3D springs clumsily off the bed, whimpers by the closed bedroom door. She falls back. George as a boy—nine, maybe ten—this is what she is dreaming. A sunny road runs along the ruin of a stone wall, winding the loamy fields as far as she can see. She is following the squirrel from one of her band posters—peepholes for eyes, cherries for guts. They come to a column supply truck overturned in the road, abandoned so long milkweed and goldenrod climb its wheel. Medical supplies spill out the back, glinting metal. The tattered canvas, its faded red cross, flaps in the breeze. George is slumped against the wall, legs splayed in the dry dirt, head bent over his little blade of a chest. The squirrel leaps the wall and pauses behind George’s ear. In the air is the slow play of dandelion. She should stay with George, but the squirrel is continuing up the road in the direction of—a church? A church, though only the facade stands, a jagged mason tooth and a missing eye, light shot through the socket, light in the rubble of the nave behind—tongue gone, gone the interior castle. The mask of a church—not a church. Suddenly she understands. Bombed. The black of planes has already come. If the planes have come once, they will come again. She calls to little George to move, to find cover. She knows the lie! When they draw the maps, they do not include the shadows of the planes. George lifts his head. Come, please come! she cries. He will not stand. She sees his eye is canceled too. He points his chin at her and laughs. I did it, Mama , he says. It was me.
She’s sweated through the sheet. Back in the morning light, unbidden she remembers Carol’s face as it looked in the last days, skull-out, in Oswego. Her dream—what was it? A piece of her grandfather’s story of the Battle for Brittany, maybe, a story Carol relayed only at the end, carried to Iris down a dark hall in the long, translucent hands of dementia.
“Lo? Hello? Iris?”
The jangling of keys, a sound so ordinary it must be real.
She cracks the bedroom door. Victor, here to walk 3D, is letting himself in through the back, the mudroom. He bangs his keys onto the marble kitchen island, stomps his sneakers. 3D barrels down the stairs.
“Mutt-friend,” she hears, “devil-dog, hey!”
Victor bends on one knee by the breakfast counter. The blue leash hangs slack against his leg. From the top of the stairs, she sees he is having a serious conversation with the dog. Her work schedule is still unpredictable; she never knows when she’ll be around for the midmorning walk.
“I don’t believe it. 3D, you are telling me this is happening in the park? Go on. And you went over to them and they—Lhasa apsos? Yes, it is a stupid name. The nerve. To be iced by the likes of them. No wonder you’re feeling low. Now, don’t you take it to heart. Mutts are the very best, and you are the very best of the mutts.” The dog’s muzzle rests in Victor’s open palm.
“Who first,” Victor calls up the stairs, “you or the dog?”
In the mirror she sees the disassembly of sleep.
“3D, please! I’m a mess. I need coffee. You need coffee?”
“Had mine,” he calls, thumping his thermos on the counter. “Come on, dear dog, we’re going for a walk.”
She dresses and puts the coffee on and watches them amble down the sloped back lawn. They stop where the edge of the woods meets the grass, a crooked stick hanging from the mouth of the dog, a tennis ball in the dog walker’s hand. He looks up and catches her at the glass wall and waves. She likes his face: wide-awake eyes set between round
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