I should hurry on. Traffic streams by me while the crossing remains open. But curiosity keeps me rooted. I never allowed myself more than a quick glance through the print shop windows. I think he is silently condemning a cigar butt on the pavement, until a breeze blows the nub away, and Nathan’s gaze remains fixed. In fact, his ear is cocked in the direction of two ladies seated behind him, their hats bent toward each other.
Nathan is . . . eavesdropping? Not only that, but jotting notes in a journal. Now, that is bold. Of course, I do a little eavesdropping myself, but never mind that now. Perhaps he is writing an article. Certainly not one about hickory fungus.
I maneuver to the front of the dray. Nathan’s spindly fingers work his pencil, the dark slashes of his eyebrows crouched low on his face. Hammer Foot, whose own eyebrows were plucked as a boy and never regrew, said folks with crouching eyebrows prefer the comfort of shadows. I always considered Nathan’s face unremarkable. But the more I study it, the more interesting it grows: sturdy chin; deep-set eyes in dove gray that take in more than they give away; and a no-nonsense nose that will do a decent job supporting the spectacles he will need one day with all the fine print he sets. A grouchy Homburg in soil brown holds itself stiffly at the brim despite a droopy crown. You can tell a lot about a person by their choice of headgear.
A bark shocks me from my thoughts. To my horror, Bear’s head swings toward me, though I can’t tell where her eyes are looking, or if the creature even has eyes underneath her mop of a head.
Not two shakes later, Bear bounds over to me, woofing and bellowing like she’s discovered the world’s largest sheep. It’s uncanny that an animal with no eyes could have such accurate aim. Why am I so irresistible to the canine species? My ankle cowers, and I wish I had bought that sausage. Hammer Foot always said Do not engage an adversary; feed it.
I dodge one way, then another, but the boot of my injured ankle catches on one of the ties. I fall in a heap right on the tracks. Frantically, I scramble backward, anticipating the teeth that could impale my limb like a drumstick. Something rips! My stockings—they’re wet. Dear God, am I bleeding?
No. I am being . . . licked. “Stop! Please,” I beg the sheepdog.
“Forbearance! Forbear this instant!” Nathan utters in a voice that could bend grass. The licking stops. I am vaguely aware of him pulling the dog away from me. Traffic carves a path around us with its stamping hooves and squeaking wheels.
“What has gotten into you? I am sorry, miss.” Nathan’s eyes fasten onto me, and that familiar confused gaze I provoke in others lands squarely on curious.
I pull off a glove and feel for my leg, which, thank the Almighty, is still attached. However, my flaxen stockings have torn. Feeling Nathan’s gaze on my exposed limb, I yank my dress back down, and he glances away. Bear, on the other hand, is jumping around as if trying to climb the air, her tongue waving like a pink flag.
Before I can gracefully flee, Nathan pants, “Beg your pardon, miss. She usually only gets this excited with people she knows.”
I freeze. Bear knows me. She must have smelled me living below her, sure as I recognize the familiar scents of the Bell household on Nathan—lemon laundry soap and printer’s ink. Thank the Lord the beasts don’t talk, though it is clear they have opinions.
The crossing guard points his flag at us. “Move along! Next one’s in two minutes.”
The sheepdog begins circling, as if to herd us off the tracks, and her leash wraps around us, yanking Nathan toward me. Nathan’s mouth tucks into a grimace, showing teeth Robby would approve of, teeth I shouldn’t be admiring from so close. My skin tingles at the energy surrounding him—warm and vibrant as the tracks, which have started to hum. Before we collide, Nathan releases his end of the leash and grabs the dog by the collar. “Naughty. I should make you into a rug.”
I pull free of the slackening rein.
“Clear the track! She’s coming through!” The guard clangs a bell, and the last of the traffic scurries across. A plume of smoke drags through the sky.
We hurry off the track, but where is my glove? Dropped between the ties, only ten paces away. What good is one glove? I will need to buy another pair, and I was saving up for a new hat to replace my misfit one. I could make it if I hurry.
A hand stays me. “Is your skull cracked?” Nathan hisses.
I shake my arm free of him.
A train whistle shoots a hole in the air through which all other sound escapes, even the sound of Bear’s barking. I chug away as fast as my limbs can carry me.
Five
I return home a quarter of an hour later than usual, owing to a circuitous route I used in case Nathan tried to follow me. If you had tied a string to my ankle, I would’ve woven an impressive cat’s cradle through the neighborhood. It occurs to me that Bear is already on to me, and therefore, whichever route I took matters little. On the other hand, she has smelled me living in her basement for all these years and never spoke up before. Perhaps to the dog, I’m just another scent that makes up home, and we can all carry on as normal.
I attempt to wash the day’s filth off my hands, but our soap slips from my grasp. When I pour the rinse water from the pitcher, some of the precious liquid sloshes over the bucket rim onto the concrete.
Old Gin, who goes to the public baths on Tuesday nights, has already set pickled tomatoes and two drumsticks on my chipped plate, covered by a bowl.
I settle onto my bed and remove my ripped stockings. The word gelogenic, which means “invoking laughter,” catches my eye, and under it, gigot, which means “leg of mutton.” My wall is mocking me. So is the listening tube, which beckons me to unplug it. I assure myself that everything is normal. Bear doesn’t know me from a hole in the wall.
I pinch the wool plug from the tube.
Bear woofs so loudly it seems she is mere inches from my head. I jump back with such force, I tumble off my mattress.
“Bear, get down from that wall—” says Nathan. I stare at the tube in horror, as if the sheepdog might actually jump through the vent and slither out.
Has the creature scented me? She never did that before in the five years she has lived here. I reach for the plug, but then the scrabble of claws fades. Nathan’s voice comes back into focus. “Who knew there were so many opinions on how to ask a man to a horse race?”
Bear woofs from farther away.
“My favorite was the chaperone with the chin hairs. ‘You must lodge yourself like a poppy seed in his teeth, and he’ll be dying to take you out,’” Nathan mimics an impressive Irish accent. In his regular voice, he adds, “What do you think, Bear?”
This time, Bear does not woof.
“You prefer the lady with the birdcage?” Nathan affects a voice that sounds as if its owner is missing teeth. “‘Horses stink. I’d rather pick aphids off my azaleas.’” He snorts. “I do like how azalea rolls off the tongue. Plus, it gives z a chance to get out of the box. Zs have had a hard time ever since Zach Taylor left office.”