Элизабет Чандлер - The Back Door of Midnight

I shook my head. “Neither she nor Uncle Will had children.

My birth mother was their only niece, and I’m my mother’s only child.”

“Where is your adoptive mother?”

“In Massachusetts with my younger brother and sisters. I don’t want to interrupt Mom’s vacation. We didn’t take one last year, and she’ll have the kids all by herself when I go to college. She needs a break. I can handle this.”

Marcy studied me as carefully as she did the little elves, but rather than discarding me as flawed, she smiled. “I knew I hired the right girl.”

That evening I planned to check out the “burial plot” behind Uncle Will’s den and begin a careful search of his office for anything that might be helpful for me to know. Finding the makeshift grave wasn’t hard. An old shovel had been left propped against the wall, close to an area of soft, upturned earth. The sandy dirt had a black handle sticking out of it, which I pulled: a butcher knife.

A long, sharp knife wasn’t what I would have chosen to mark a place where I wanted someone to rest in peace. On the other hand, the site wasn’t far from the kitchen and a knife would slide into the earth easily. So which was it, convenience or symbolism? And was anything other than a jar of cinders buried here?

I glanced toward the window of Aunt Iris’s office. She had said she’d be working there tonight, so this probably wasn’t a good time to dig up Uncle Will. And if she heard me searching his den, the room next to hers, she’d accuse me of scheming with his ghost to get rid of her. I put back the knife. My tasks would have to wait.

Heading toward the water, I heard a jingling of metal tags.

The gate between the Flemings’ house and ours had been left ajar. A dog pushed his nose through, then came bounding toward me, ears flying, tail bobbing. He looked like a beagle, a very friendly one — my knees and then my chin got a good washing.

Kneeling in the grass, I reached for his tag. HI. I’M CLYDE, it said, and gave a phone number.

“Hello, Clyde.”

He sniffed me all over, then gave me a kiss on the ear.

A shrill whistle split the air. “Clyde!”

I looked toward the gate. “Your master calls.”

But Clyde wasn’t all that obedient. He wagged his tail at me as if to say, Ignore him. I want to play with you.

I heard Zack call again.

“Come on, buddy.” I walked the dog back to the gate.

Zack was sitting on the patio — or maybe, when a flagstone area is bigger than my backyard at home, has glass-topped tables, black iron chairs, lanterns, and footed urns of flowers, you are supposed to call it a “terrace.”

Anyway, he was sitting there with a spiral pad open on his lap. When he saw me, he smiled. “Good dog! Nice fetch!”

“He wasn’t fetching.”

“Bring her here, boy. Good job!”

The dog looked from Zack to me.

“I’ve been training him,” Zack said. “Up till now he’s brought home only dead rabbits, but I guess he’s finally getting the hang of it.”

“Great.” I turned my back to leave.

Zack jumped up. “Anna! I was kidding, just kidding. I was.

. flirting. Badly, apparently.”

It wasn’t the joke or the flirting, it was last night’s dream that made me turn my back. Get a grip, Anna, I told myself.

You can’t blame someone for what he did in your dream.

Zack picked up the sketchpad and pencil that had fallen off his lap. “Stay.”

“Are you talking to me or Clyde?”

He laughed. “Clyde. And you. Would you like a soda? Or some iced tea?” he offered. “Water with a slice of lime?”

That’s what he was drinking.

“No thanks. You look busy.” One of the patio tables was covered with photos.

“Just sketching. Stick around. Clyde will be disappointed if you don’t. How’s Iris?” he asked.

“The same. How’s Erika?” I replied, testing to see if the name in my dream was correct.

“Okay. How was work today?”

“It was interesting. I like Marcy.”

“I’m glad. Do you like to stand when you talk to neighbors?”

I looked behind me, backed up to a chair, and sat. Zack laughed.

“Whatever I do seems to amuse you,” I said.

“It’s just that sometimes you’re kind of fierce, and other times you’re. . very shy. I think that you are actually very shy.”

“Maybe.” I turned toward the water, but when I looked at it, all I saw was the color of Zack’s eyes. “Can I take Clyde down to the creek?”

“Sure,” he said. “Take him for a boat ride if you want.”

“I can take the boat out, just Clyde and me?”

“That’s what you’d prefer, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to lift him in. Otherwise, he’ll try to jump down to the boat and capsize it. Like someone else we know,” Zack added slyly. “Put on a life jacket,” he called as I headed toward the boat. “And avoid ducks.”

Clyde stood patiently on the dock as I eased into the boat. He allowed me to lift him down, then settled in the center of the boat while I cast off.

I practiced rowing and felt good about my progress. I was finally getting the hang of it. After a while I slid down to the bottom of the boat next to Clyde, resting my back against the seat, drifting along, gazing at the streaky rose and violet sky. Clyde relaxed against my side, his tail lightly thumping against my thigh.

Suddenly, I felt him tense. I felt an upward surge of muscle, and short, strong legs pushing against me. The sound he made was one I’d never heard before, but I knew immediately it could summon people in red jackets on horseback. I grabbed him. The next moment the boat tipped, and Clyde and I and some very excited ducks were splashing around in the creek.

“Clyde, no! No, Clyde! Shoo, shoo!” I said to the ducks.

They flew up from the water, quacking their opinion of the dog and me. Clyde answered, baying for them to come back and play. Finally, he gave up and doggy-paddled toward shore.

I watched him all the way into the beach, then I swam toward the boat. I knew Zack had heard Clyde’s baying, but I kept my eyes on the rowboat, hoping that Zack would stay focused on his artwork.

Reaching the rowboat, I discovered that the little maneuver I had seen yesterday — Zack pulling himself up and over the side of the boat — required more arm strength than I had. After three tries, I considered swimming and towing the boat to the dock. But I wanted to get in the way a real boater would. I gave it one more try, propelling myself from the water, kicking till I got my body halfway over the bow, and flopping into the boat like an oversize flounder.

Hoping that Zack had not been watching, I moved onto the seat, pushed wet hair out of my eyes, and considered rowing around for a while as if nothing had happened. But I was exhausted and eager to get my feet on dry land. I rowed to the dock, where Zack was waiting with Clyde, the dog cheerfully wagging his little beagle tail.

Zack smiled but perhaps knew better than to crack a joke or act concerned. I silently looped the boat rope around the piling.

“Want a hand up?” he asked.

“Okay.”

He reached down.

“Thank you.” I stood on the dock, staring down at the boat.

“There’s water in it.”

“Not much,” he said in an easygoing way. “I’ll clean up later.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you want to keep this?” he asked, and I felt his touch on my shoulder. I was wearing a slimy river weed.

“No, it doesn’t look as good on land.”

He smiled down at me, then tossed it into the water.

“When you said ‘Avoid ducks,’ I thought you meant don’t hit the ducks — you know, like ‘Avoid pedestrians.’” He exploded with pent-up laughter. “Sorry. I understand. I should have been more specific,” he said. “Come on, we keep towels just inside the terrace door.” I walked beside him up the hill, accompanied by Clyde, who kept trying to lick the water off my legs.