Protecting Marie (12 page)

Ellen moved fluently, sliding from one foot to the other, her hands running downward along her legs, then reaching out, her gloved fingers curling and uncurling. When she turned her head toward Fanny and Henry to smile, she wobbled. She finished and took a bow.

Henry clapped.

“You're good,” said Fanny.

“Not really. But thank you.”

“Better than me.”

“What I am is cold,” said Ellen.

“Home?” said Henry.

“Home,” said Ellen, nodding.

“How about one lap together first?” asked Fanny.

Off they went. Henry hummed a carol. Fanny moved her head up and around and over and down.

Ellen grinned. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Making a figure eight,” Fanny replied, blushing. “Imagining it.”

Ellen took Fanny's elbow and coaxed her into a little dance. “When I was a girl,” said Ellen, “Grandpa John told me that it wasn't figure eights I was forming, but rather the symbol for infinity.”

“The symbol for infinity is the same as an eight?” Fanny asked.

“Not exactly,” Ellen replied. “It's lying down. This way.” Ellen drew it with her finger. “Horizontal.”

“In-fin-i-ty.” Fanny pronounced it slowly. “That's the word Kai had to spell with the pieces of ice in ‘The Snow Queen.'”

“No,” said Henry. “That's eternity.”

Fanny wrinkled her nose. “Oh,” she said. “Don't they mean the same thing?”

“They're similar,” Henry answered, “but they're definitely different.”

Eternity. Infinity. Fanny made a mental note to look them up in the dictionary at home.

A wooden stake sprayed with a runny splotch of fluorescent orange paint marked the halfway point. When they reached it, Henry announced suddenly, “Race to the bench! Last one has to bring in some firewood! Go!”

Fanny took off, her skates clicking and clacking against the ice. She sped ahead with reckless abandon. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see everyone: her father, her mother, her dog. And everything became so alive and heightened and dazzling. Everything stunned and pleased her: The way her father's voice had boomed in the night and still rang in her ears. The way the wind pulled a strand of her mother's hair across her face, dividing it perfectly in half. The way Dinner's tongue hung out of her mouth like a pink sock. The way the
air she breathed through her nose felt icy as it entered her, then burned inside her head. The way the streetlamp turned into a halo when she squinted at it. The way the matted pellets of snow on her new mittens became diamonds. The way her toes were so cold they were hot. The way the big, lone, skeletal elm tree in the distance looked like a giant wineglass.

How could one moment be crammed with so much?

Fanny could barely contain herself. “I love you,” she called gleefully, not thinking of one person or one thing or anything specific.

“Me, too,” said Henry.

“Me, three,” said Ellen.

Dinner barked and won the race.

On Christmas night, Fanny dreamed.

She was waiting at the dining room table. “What's for dinner?” she asked.

“Wind sauce and air pudding!” Henry bellowed.

“I'd rather skate,” said Ellen.

It was snowing inside the house. Flakes as big as milkweed fluff fell gently. Through the whiteness, Dinner emerged. She was standing up on her hind legs, humanlike, carrying a tray. As she came closer, Fanny noticed that she was skating and that the tray held three glasses of milk, each with a red licorice straw. The floor had turned to ice.

Although they were in the dining room, Fanny saw that there were brilliant orange embers in the fireplace and that all four burners of the stove were turned on. Four flaming blue crowns.

“Elm trees without their leaves look like wineglasses,” said Henry.

“Don't lick the snow off the porch railing,” said Ellen. “Your tongue will stick.”

And then Fanny was standing by the front window, rubbing the steam away with her hand. “I'm waiting for someone,” she said.

“Mary?” said Ellen.

“Nellie?” said Henry. “A boy?”

“The Snow Queen,” said Fanny.

“Why do you like her so?” asked Ellen.
“She's evil.”

“I like her, too,” said Henry.

A shadow passed over the house. Dinner came running. And Fanny woke up.

W
ith Mary Dibble in Florida, Fanny spent
the bulk of her time with Dinner. For the most part, they were inseparable. Fanny did, however, sleep at Jessie Bayer's house one night, along with three other girls; and she went sledding the following morning with a passel of classmates. Although Fanny enjoyed herself—especially at the slumber party, where they stayed awake long past midnight, gobbling fudge and watching a videotape of
Sixteen Candles
(which Fanny had already seen seven times)—she missed Dinner. When Fanny returned, Dinner met her with a grand outpouring of affection complete with her rapid-fire tail and a wiggle fit. If Fanny had had a tail of her own, it would have been waggling just as vigorously.

“What am I going to do when winter break is over?” Fanny asked Dinner. “What am I going to do when school starts again in January?”

At least once a day, and usually twice, Fanny walked Dinner on the railroad tracks that ran parallel to her street, one block away. Because you could see into the backyards on
either side of the tracks, Fanny turned her head from side to side, looking, feeling somewhat intrusive. As a little girl, she had wished that the big, slow train chugged through her own backyard and was jealous of the neighborhood kids who were lucky enough to live in these choice houses. After about an eighth of a mile, the houses on the north side of the tracks ended; a scruffy field took their place. At this point, a tangle of trails began. The main trail, narrow and twisty, wound through the field and then through thick brush and old oak trees. It jumped a creek, bordered a cemetery, and eventually looped back to the tracks, forming a lopsided circle segmented by trails even more narrow and twisty than the main one.

The tracks and the trails and the woods were the closest thing to heaven for a dog that Fanny could think of. Dinner seemed supremely happy here. Fanny always let her off her leash to run with other dogs and to chase squirrels. On any given walk, Fanny and Dinner came across several of both—dogs and squirrels.

During the brief period in which she had
owned Nellie, Fanny had brought her to the tracks and trails, but only three or four times. Nellie was overcome with fear at the sight of other dogs—big ones, playful ones—and she would make herself half her size and press herself to the ground, unwilling to go on.

Now, on her outings with Dinner, Fanny couldn't help but think of Nellie, and she wondered if Dinner would have frightened her with her bulk and exuberance. While they walked, Fanny told Dinner about Nellie. “She's kind of like a sister to you,” Fanny explained. “Nellie is. But I don't know if you'll ever meet her.” Fanny frowned at her boots. “She was still a puppy when she left.”

Dinner's angular face tilted, as if to listen more carefully.

“Let's see,” said Fanny, thinking, “what else should I tell you?” She jerked the collar of her coat up around her neck and breathed down inside the slight, furry wall it formed. “I probably should start with Dad . . .”

On and on they meandered, and on and on Fanny talked. Fanny told Dinner all the things
she needed to know, things Fanny needed to say. She realized as it was happening how good it felt to express certain thoughts in this manner. “He's impossible sometimes. And unpredictable. Especially if his painting isn't going well or if he's blocked.
He
made Nellie leave, you know. It was his fault.”

Dinner's tail thumped against Fanny's leg.

“I see,” said Fanny. She tried to lighten her tone. “I'm glad you understand. So always be on your best behavior. Then you won't have anything to worry about.”

It was early Thursday afternoon, their second walk of the day. The snow on the paths was dirty and trampled, but the snow in the distance that was caked to the tree trunks and the snow that enveloped the hill sloping up toward the railroad tracks looked untouched and pure. It sparkled in the sunlight.

There was a circular clearing nearby where Fanny played fetch with Dinner. As they approached it, Fanny dug into her pocket for Dinner's tennis ball. Dinner sensed something at once. Something good. Then she pranced
about, knowing for certain what came next. Fanny threw the ball and Dinner darted after it. One, two, three times Fanny threw the ball. One, two, three times Dinner retrieved it.

Brown, brittle oak leaves poked up through the snow. Fanny made believe that the clearing was a gigantic oak-leaf pie with a crunchy sugar-snow crust. Dinner's paw prints crisscrossed the open area like the slits Ellen made in her pie crusts to let the steam escape while baking.

After each retrieval, Dinner dropped the ball at Fanny's feet. It didn't take long for the ball to become soggy and filthy, but Fanny wasn't put off by it. If Fanny waited an extra few seconds to unwrap a peppermint and pop it into her mouth, or to brush her hair out of her eyes, or to pick a leaf off the ball before throwing it again, Dinner barked.

“My, you're impatient.”

She barked once more.

“My best friend?” said Fanny. “How nice of you to ask. Her name is Mary.”

Rarf.

“Yes, you'll get to meet her.”

Dinner could barely sit still. She lurched forward spasmodically, anticipating the ball. Little tremors shot from her tail to her nose.
Rarf-arf-arf.

Finally, Fanny set her arm in position and tossed the ball. But she kept talking. “We're kind of like sisters, too,” she said, thinking of her telephone conversation with Mary from Florida. “Mary and me. You and Nellie.”

Dinner came back and let the ball fall from her mouth. She was panting so hard her breath came out in bursts that shrouded her face. The hair on her chin and a few of her whiskers were lacy with frost. Instead of barking, Dinner stretched. A single soft groan came from her throat.

“What do I like?” said Fanny, stretching, too. “Oh, thin pizza with just pepperoni . . . and fake snow in old black-and-white movies . . . and making sparks in my hair by pulling my shirt off in the dark really fast.”

Dinner placed her paw on the ball and pulled back. The ball spun.

Fanny laughed. “Okay, I know you want to play. End of conversation.”

Fanny threw the tennis ball a total of fifteen times. Fifteen was her lucky number. She had been born on March fifteenth.

“That's it,” Fanny announced. “We're done.” She put the ball into a plastic bag and stuffed it back inside her pocket. It was becoming routine for Fanny to give Dinner a dog biscuit at this point in their walk, and so she did. Dinner ate it quickly, then licked her snout.

A squirrel skittered by, its tail swaying evenly, brushing wings into the snow. Dinner saw it and was tempted by it, but Fanny clicked her tongue and sternly commanded, “Stay!” She was testing Dinner.

Clearly, Dinner wanted to chase the squirrel—her eyes flicked between the squirrel and Fanny—but she stayed. This gave Fanny great satisfaction. “Good girl!” Fanny said sweetly. She patted Dinner's side, making a hollow sound. “Come on,” said Fanny. And Dinner followed her like her shadow.

On their way back to the railroad tracks, Fanny spotted the red cap for the third time since Christmas. “There he is again,” she said in a tight whisper. It was a boy wearing the red cap, a boy about her age. He had never come close enough for Fanny to tell his age for certain. He had never come close enough for Fanny to know the color of his eyes or hair. All she knew was the red cap.

It appeared among some tall bushes like a rare bird. In the time it took Fanny to glance at Dinner and look back, the cap was gone. This had been the case the other times Fanny had seen the boy. All of a sudden, the cap had been visible between distant trees or at the exact point where the trail curved behind a hill. And then—
blink
—it had disappeared.