Protecting Marie (16 page)

With one less thing to worry about, Fanny
celebrated. She fixed hot chocolate for herself with three jumbo marshmallows, and she presented Dinner with three dog biscuits. “For you, ma'am,” she said playfully in a silly British accent. Then her voice returned to normal. “Red Cap's not going to take you away,” she told Dinner. “He's just a kid at school.” She closed her eyes and let the truth of her statement sink in.

Because she was so happy, Fanny was eager to see her parents. She didn't plan on telling them about Timothy Hill; she simply wanted her family near. But Ellen was still at work and Henry hadn't come down from his studio. While she waited, Fanny pretended to be a dog.

She dropped to her knees; her hands turned into paws. Clumsily, she padded up to Dinner and they sniffed each other. Fanny tried different things—grooming herself, kicking her leg out, imagining a long, dense, golden tail with beautiful streaks of red. She wiggled her rear and her tail swayed gracefully, collecting dirt and dust from the kitchen floor. Her ears
grew, becoming soft and flexible. Whiskers sprouted beneath her nose and across her cheeks. From someplace low in her chest came a muffled growl. Her nostrils quivered. Then, with her head cocked, she began to pant.

Fanny was still panting when Henry entered the kitchen.

Henry clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Fanny,” he said, “act your age.” He shot her a look that completely diminished her.

A fraction of a second was as long as she could keep her eyes on him. But in that time she noticed one long hair in his eyebrow that had strayed from the rest in a twisty fashion like a bolt of lightning.

A girl again, a daughter, she rose silently and walked away. She fought back tears until she was in her room, flopped on her bed. And then the tears streamed down her face and onto her hands and pillow. Almost immediately, Dinner was beside her. Her nose nudged Fanny's hands from her face, and she licked the tears.

“I love you,” said Fanny.

Dinner nuzzled closer and closer.

“Why do I act so dumb sometimes?”

With her head buried in Dinner's neck, Fanny breathed in Dinner's smell. Combined with her usual doggy smell was a lingering hint of turpentine.

Fanny sat up with a start. “You weren't in his studio, were you?” she asked, alarmed. “Don't ever go in there,” she instructed Dinner. “Ever, ever, ever.”

Their eyes fastened together.

If only you could talk to me, Fanny thought. If only you could tell me what goes on all day.

F
anny had two secrets—internity and Timothy Hill. In the back of her English notebook she wrote a definition for internity, copying the format of a real dictionary:

She hoped that she had divided the word into syllables correctly and that her definition sounded professional. It had taken Fanny days to come up with something that pleased her.
She also doodled knitted caps with earflaps and tassels. Pages and pages of them. Another page in the same notebook was filled from top to bottom and from side to side with Fanny's last name alternating with Timothy's last name. Swann Hill Swann Hill Swann Hill Swann. When she wrote the names, Fanny tried to fashion the capital S in Swann to resemble a swan, and she constructed the capital H in Hill with a rise like a hill. Her skill improved and her creativity blossomed by the end of the page.

We both have last names you can draw, she thought, somehow thrilled by this discovery.

Since their brief, confusing introduction, Fanny and Timothy began running into each other in the hallways at school rather frequently. Why is it, she wondered, that after you meet someone you tend to see them everywhere? Fanny would smile politely at him, and Timothy would blush and grin as if he had just done something slightly devilish. His eyes would bounce about like popcorn popping, then slide back to Fanny. They'd both turn
their heads awkwardly after they passed, looking, looking one last time.

“I think he likes you,” Mary said to Fanny. They were standing at Fanny's locker before classes one morning. Timothy had just walked by. “Have you noticed the way he smirks at you?”

“What do you mean?” Fanny could feel the color in her cheeks rise, so she tipped her head forward so that it was hidden inside her open locker.

“You know what I mean,” said Mary. “Hey, look at me. Come on.” Mary grabbed Fanny's chin and turned her head around. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You're in love.”

“Shut up.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Fanny wasn't ready to explain that Timothy Hill was Red Cap. And she couldn't bring herself to say that no boy had ever paid attention to her before, and that a goofy smile was far better than no smile. She also couldn't say how it
made her feel. She didn't know the words.

“He's got a chipped tooth, you know,” said Mary. “And a space like David Letterman's,” she added, thrusting her fingernail between her two front teeth.

Fanny closed her locker door and stuck her tongue out at Mary.

Mary stuck her tongue out at Fanny.

They brushed their shoulders together, giggling, and walked through patches of sunlight to their first class.

“How old do I have to be to go on a date?” Fanny asked her mother as she unloaded the dishwasher. She hugged a hot, clean platter to her chest and leaned against the sink.

Ellen had just hung up the telephone. Fanny had been waiting.

“Oh, I don't know,” Ellen answered, picking at her cuticle. “Twenty-five.”

“No, really.”

“It depends on what you mean by a date.”

“Mom.”

“Eighteen.”

“Mo-om,”
groaned Fanny.

“All right, all right, sixteen . . . fifteen . . .
fourteen
?” Ellen fingered the end of her ponytail, twirling it. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” said Fanny.

“Just wondering about what?” Henry asked. He had carried an assortment of dirty mugs down from his studio. He rinsed them and set them in the sink.

“Nothing,” Fanny said at last, and she went about her work.

Henry and Ellen had gone to a movie. They had asked Fanny to go with them, but she decided to stay home. Henry had been particularly moody all day—early in the morning before Fanny had left for school, in the afternoon when she had returned, and throughout supper, when he seemed distracted to the point of being elusive. Fanny thought that being alone with Ellen, out of the house, away from his work, might be good for him. Maybe it would take his mind off his painting. Henry and Ellen could talk the way Fanny imagined par
ents talked when their children weren't around. And furthermore,
she'd
get a break from
him.

Fanny wasn't fearful about being by herself in the house at night any longer. This was a change that had come about since Dinner had entered her life. It was a nice change, and recently Fanny had been anticipating
other
changes, changes that would take place when she turned thirteen in March. She would be a teenager. That in itself would be an accomplishment. Even the sound of it—
thirteen
—was exhilarating. With any luck, the physical changes she had been waiting for would begin to show. And she was certain that there would be invisible, inside things that would change as well. Things inside her body, things inside her head. I'll grow into my nose, she thought. I'll become elegant. My life will be different.

With Dinner right beside her, Fanny locked the door after her parents left. An ancient gray scarf of Ellen's was hanging out of the wooden bin near the front door like a saggy elephant trunk. Fanny tugged it, freed it from
the bin, and casually wound it around her neck, throwing one end over her shoulder. “When I'm thirteen,” she said with a lofty air, jutting her chin out, “I'll be . . . be . . .” She was searching for the perfect adjective.

Dinner barked, a small, short, clear bark.

“Exactly. I couldn't have said it better,” remarked Fanny. “Hey, I have an idea.” She stepped back to the bin, and balancing on one leg, bent over, and rummaged with intent. It took some effort and she practically fell into the bin, but Fanny managed to retrieve a striped stocking cap, a lint-covered beret, and a pair of fuzzy white earmuffs. “This will be fun,” she said, slapping her thigh so Dinner would follow her. Dinner's nails clipped rhythmically on the floor.

The living room was dim. The light from the end table lamp was honey colored, yet pallid, and they sat in the wan apron it cast. After choosing the earmuffs, Fanny gently slipped them onto Dinner's head.

Dinner acted as though the earmuffs were a natural part of her body, an extension of her
own ears. And Fanny marveled at that. Dinner was so gentle, so good-natured, so amiable. Recently, at the Dibbles', Joey had leaped onto Dinner's back, encircling her neck with his arms like a vise and clamping his legs to her belly. Rocking up and down on her to urge her to move forward, he chirped, “She thinks she's the Batmobile! Vroom! Vroom!”

Without a complaint, Dinner endured it all, while miraculously maintaining a look of modest nobility. Even when it got a bit rough, she stood solidly and remained calm, although her head drooped off to the side and she cast her eyes downward in such a way that it caused Fanny's heart to ache.

“You're the best,” Fanny praised.

With the earmuffs on, Fanny pretended that Dinner was her mother. She told Dinner to lie down, and she arranged her front legs so that they were spread wide. “There,” Fanny said. “You're Mom doing yoga.”

Next came the beret. Set at a jaunty slant, it transformed Dinner into Henry. “You have to scowl,” Fanny said. “Puff your cheeks, Din
ner, like you do when you seem sad.” The beret slid off Dinner's head; Fanny placed it back, right on top where it wouldn't fall. “Hi, Dad,” she said. “I like you better as a dog.” Fanny cranked her head around so that she faced a small framed photograph of Henry on the bookshelf. “Just kidding.”

In the striped stocking cap, Dinner was Timothy Hill. “I know it's not exactly right, but it'll do. It's nice,” she said, straightening it, making it secure. “Did you know we both have last names you can draw?” She cleared her throat. “Oh, by the way, I saw a hockey stick in your locker when I walked by the other day. Would you like to play sometime?”

Dinner stretched and stretched, yawned and stretched.

“You are such a good sport,” Fanny complimented Dinner. “And I like
you
best as a dog, too.” She ripped the stocking cap off Dinner's head, scooped up the earmuffs and beret, unwound the scarf from around her neck, skipped to the hallway, and flung it all into the bin. Dinner stayed where she was,
watching Fanny intently every second.

Starting with an ear massage, Fanny stroked Dinner enthusiastically. And Dinner loved it, rolling onto her side, seeking more attention. She shaped herself into an S. Fanny kept at it, raking her fingers through Dinner's thick fur.

After about ten minutes, Fanny clapped her hands to her legs. “That's all,” she said. “Time to call Mary.” Her hands left dark, dirty prints on her beige jeans. She turned her hands over in her lap. Her palms were filthy from petting Dinner. Either it was charcoal from her father's studio, she reasoned, or plain old dirt. She considered this, glancing from her hands to Dinner.

Fervently she chose to believe that it was dirt, and nothing more. Not charcoal. Simply dirt.

Several days later when Fanny came home from school, the front door was locked. This wouldn't have been unusual if it had been a Tuesday or a Thursday—the days Henry
taught—but it was a Wednesday. On Wednesdays, Henry was nearly always at home.

Fanny didn't think much about this as she unlocked the door. Her ears were straining, listening for the sound of Dinner's tags.