Protecting Marie (19 page)

O
ne genial February afternoon when Henry came home from teaching on campus, his canvas satchel was bulging with envelopes of black-and-white photographs. The photographs were of Dinner, the ones that Stuart had taken. Because they were shot for reference, compositionally they weren't terribly fascinating. A simple sheet served as the backdrop for most of them. And many of the photographs were razor-sharp close-ups of Dinner's muzzle, paws, ears, tail.

The photographs wouldn't have been interesting at all to most people—unless you were the artist whose tool they were to become, or the owner of the dog.

Fanny pored over the photographs, rapt in
the world contained in the glossy three-and-a-half-by-five-inch rectangles. This was her dog—every hair of her—in all her glory. It was amazing to Fanny how black-and-white photographs, when they were done well, could appear more lifelike than color photographs. Stuart's expert use of shadow and light defined Dinner beautifully and distinctly.

In a few of the photographs, Dinner's coat looked like bushy fields of wheat, her ears like tufted mountains. In others, her teeth—white lunar peaks—were dazzling against the dark cave of her open mouth. Her eyes were always radiant.

“May I have a few of these?” Fanny asked. “I mean, when you're done using them.”

“I think that can be arranged,” Henry replied. “And in the meanwhile, you may have this.” He presented Fanny with a small, flat, wrapped package.

“I love the paper,” Fanny commented. The background of the wrapping paper was a milky yellow color, and it was dotted with dogs of all sorts and kinds. Spaniels, retriev
ers, terriers, collies, poodles. The dogs were printed in chestnut, orange, and black, and they stood on mint green, oval patches of grass as if the dogs were all posing in tinted spotlights. It was precisely the kind of paper that Fanny used to search out to wrap presents for Henry. The choosing of this paper had been a conscious effort, she was certain.

“May I open it now?” Fanny asked, her thumb already prying the tape off.

“Of course.”

Painstakingly, she opened it, so that she could save the wrapping paper. Sandwiched between two thin squares of cardboard lay another photograph of Dinner.

“I took this one myself,” said Henry. “I'm not quite as good as Stuart. I was going to give it to you for your birthday, but I figured—why wait? I thought you could use it now.”

Fanny trembled, she loved it so. It was exquisite: a portrait of Dinner wearing a fancy, crownlike adornment. Stars and spangles and limp stalks of white beads spun out from a band that was fastened snugly to her head. She
appeared to be completely self-possessed, poised, staring off into the distance, a clairvoyant's stare.

“Thank you, Dad,” she said breathlessly.

“I know you like the Snow Queen. This is my attempt at re-creating her as a dog. For you.”

“Where did you get the crown?” Fanny asked.

“I noticed it hooked onto the banister when I first arrived at Stuart's. It belonged to his granddaughter, who was visiting. She didn't mind one bit when I asked if I could borrow it. And Dinner didn't mind one bit, either. She let me put it on without a hint of a struggle, and she wore it proudly as if it were hers and she had picked it out herself.”

“Did Mom see it before you wrapped it?”

Henry shook his head. “No, but I'm sure she'll think it's wonderful, too.”

“I can't wait to show it to her.”

Turning his wrist and glancing at his watch, Henry said, “She should be home soon.” Then he scowled at her playfully. “But now I have
to come up with something else for your birthday next month.”

He was in such a good mood that Fanny nearly kidded: How about another dog? But she stopped herself. “I don't think you can top this,” she said instead. “Except for Dinner, this is the best thing I have. The best thing that's mine.”

“Good,” said Henry, and he gathered all the other photographs and went off to his attic room to work.

One week passed and then another, and Henry painted in his studio with great fervor, like a motor in a busy machine. He was not one to show anyone a painting in progress, but Fanny knew that he was pleased with the way his work was developing. He couldn't hide things like that; there were too many telltale signs: a cheery disposition, energetic humming wafting from the studio, and a tendency to prepare a fancy evening meal several times a week.

While Henry painted, Fanny learned how to knit. She had asked her mother to teach her.

“I'd love to,” Ellen had replied, obviously surprised and tickled. “I'd given up on you and knitting. You used to say it was too old-fashioned. What changed your mind?”

Fanny knew that she was blushing. She could feel her cheeks growing pink, pinker. “I don't know,” she answered. “I just decided that I'd like to learn.”

On the first night of lessons, after Fanny had done her homework, she learned the basics: how to hold the needles; how to cast on stitches by positioning the fingers on her left hand like a bird's beak, twisting the yarn around her hand, plucking the yarn off with the needles and pulling it tightly, but not too tightly; how to knit; how to purl; how to cast off; and how to form a tidy ball out of a skein of yarn.

By the time she was ready for bed, Fanny had created an uneven, holey swatch the size of a pot holder that curled up at the edges.

“You're a knitter,” Ellen declared, eyeing Fanny's handiwork.

“I'm not nearly as good as someone I
know,” Fanny said, thinking of Timothy Hill.

“Thank you,” said Ellen. “But don't forget, I've been doing this for years.”

For her maiden project, Fanny decided to make a scarf. A red scarf. And she chose to knit it using the seed stitch. Knit, purl, knit, purl, knit, purl, knit.

Faithful Dinner was always at Fanny's feet, often asleep under a tangle of Fanny's yarn.

Ellen had begun a complicated Norwegian sweater in multiple colors. She didn't have to watch her fingers the way Fanny did, and Ellen's needles clicked swiftly and in a pleasant rhythm. “Are you going to keep the scarf, or give it to someone?”

“I don't know,” said Fanny, deep in thought. “By the time I finish, it probably won't be scarf weather anymore.”

Once, as their needles rattled away, Fanny asked her mother the question that had been burning inside her, the question that she had been waiting for the perfect time to ask. “Are you ever afraid of me?” she forced herself to say, her eyes bonded to her silvery needles,
her fingers rigid.

“Afraid of you? Why in the world would I be afraid of you?”

“Just a dumb question” was the only response Fanny could offer.

Ellen continued to knit. “Never,” she said. “I've never been afraid of you.”

“Me neither,” said Fanny. “I mean—you know what I mean.”

Just then, as if she were responding to a cue, Dinner yawned and moaned, and Ellen and Fanny laughed.

H
enry had completed the first painting in his new series. “You're the only one to see this so far,” said Henry, wiping his glasses on his shirttail. He fussed with the wire bows, turning them on their hinges. “Come on, come in. I thought it would be appropriate for you to be the first . . .”

Fanny stepped into the studio and walked over to the easel. She didn't speak for the longest time; she was looking.

The painting was beautiful and mysterious and stately and haunting. It was both strange and familiar. It was similar to the drawings Henry had done earlier. Dinner was huddled beneath a table. Upturned dishes—broken and not—cluttered the tabletop and floor. Dark, dense brush covered the middle ground. The
leaves were oily and black like the leaves Fanny imagined in the gnarled forests of fairy tales. A stormy sky was visible behind the foliage; there was a yellowy green cast to the light. But the thing that Fanny kept coming back to was this: a glass of milk on the table, with a piece of red licorice sticking out of it.

Saying “I like it” or “It's nice” would have been all wrong, so Fanny just nodded and said all the right things without talking.

Henry understood.

“Do you have a name for it?” she inquired after minutes had passed.

“I'm glad you asked,” said Henry. “I'm calling it
My Daughter's Dinner
.”

Fanny nodded again, this time beaming. It dawned on her that she had something—Dinner—that he needed. She bit her lower lip. “I'm glad you told me,” she said, smiling again.

It was a Saturday late in February, and Fanny had seen him out the window. It was the red cap that had caught her attention. She had spent the
morning in her room making a new Marie from the thin cardboard and paper that Henry had used to wrap the Snow Queen photograph of Dinner. Fanny cut and glued and drew with felt-tip markers to create a substitute, very unlike the original doll. This one had a head that resembled Dinner's, angel wings, a doggy-print-wrapping-paper gown, and a tail with real dog hair added for authenticity. Initially, Fanny had felt silly doing it, something so childish. But she convinced herself that it was a necessary task, and so she proceeded. She even enjoyed herself. When she had finished, she folded the doll's legs so that she could sit, and she placed her on her dresser. Out in the open. Stashing her inside the file cabinet would not have been suitable.