Work Text:
Cindy had reached the pale green house before Jennifer returned from town.
The gate stood open by several inches, not enough for Bart to squeeze through now that the loose board had been fixed, but enough for Cindy to see across the yard. The late-summer grass had gone uneven in color, greenest beneath the trees and dry near the path where feet had worn it thin. A line of washing shifted behind the house. Two shirts, a white apron and a row of smaller cloths moved gently in the mild breeze, lifting and settling against the rope.
April had seen Cindy through the kitchen window.
She came to the back door wiping her hands on the apron she wore, her grey hair pinned firmly away from her face. She asked Cindy whether she had been waiting long, then opened the door wider and told her she could sit inside until Jennifer came back.
Cindy had thanked her and said she didn’t mind the yard.
April looked toward the sky as though checking whether the weather supported that answer. The afternoon was warm without being close, and the clouds were thin enough that rain seemed unlikely.
“There’s lemonade,” she said. “Not much sugar in it, but it’s cold.”
“That’s kind of you, ma’am.”
“You can have it outside too.”
Cindy hesitated only long enough for April to notice, then accepted the glass when it was brought to her. She drank it slowly near the gate, holding it with both hands so there would be no danger of dropping it. It was tart and cold enough to ache faintly in her teeth. April went back inside after telling her Jennifer shouldn’t be long.
Cindy heard the woman moving through the kitchen, cupboard doors opening and closing, the scrape of a chair across the floor and the low sound of a radio somewhere deeper in the house. She remained where she was.
She had been invited inside plainly enough. Nothing in April’s tone suggested reluctance or obligation. Even so, Cindy couldn’t bring herself to cross the threshold while Jennifer wasn’t there. Standing in the yard felt different. The yard was open to the road and the neighbouring houses. She could wait there without wondering where she ought to sit or whether she should speak or what she might touch by mistake.
Bart’s lead had been looped over one of the fence posts when she arrived. He had greeted her by pushing both front paws against the gate and wriggling so violently that the repaired board trembled beneath him. April had let him out into the yard and passed Cindy the lead, though there was no real need for it within the fence.
“He settles better when he thinks somebody has hold of him,” April had said.
Cindy wound the leather once around her wrist.
Bart settled only in the sense that he remained inside the yard.
He travelled from the gate to the porch, from the porch to the washing line, then to the pump, then behind the shed and back again. Each place seemed to remind him of another. He stopped at Cindy often enough to press his nose to her skirt or look up at the hand holding the lead, then rushed away as soon as another smell caught him.
Nicola rested in the shade of the maple nearest the house. She lay on her side at first, her legs stretched out and her thick coat rising and falling with each breath. When Cindy entered the yard, Nicola lifted her head, watched her for several seconds and then lowered it again. Her ears still moved toward Cindy whenever the girl crossed the grass.
Cindy finished the lemonade and placed the glass carefully on the porch step.
Bart went behind the shed once more.
The leather lead slid across the ground after him. Cindy let it pass loosely through her hand until only the loop remained around her wrist. She could hear him moving among the weeds and old boards on the far side, his claws scraping the hard earth, followed by a soft thump against the shed wall.
“Bart,” she called.
There was no answer except another scrape.
Cindy took two steps toward the shed. “Come out.”
Bart appeared around the corner at once.
He carried a work glove in his mouth.
It was a heavy brown glove with a darkened palm and a long split near one finger. The leather had softened through use and age, though it remained stiff enough that one empty finger stood upward beside Bart’s muzzle. A small piece of dried grass clung to the cuff.
Bart came toward Cindy with his head high.
His stride had changed completely. Instead of his usual loose-legged rush, he walked with solemn importance, placing each paw carefully as though carrying something valuable across dangerous ground. His eyes remained fixed on Cindy. His tail swung behind him with such force that his hindquarters shifted sideways.
Cindy waited.
Bart reached her and lowered his head. The glove dropped at her feet.
She looked down at it.
Bart looked up.
“Where did you get that?”
His mouth opened. He panted once, then closed it again and glanced toward the glove.
Cindy bent.
Bart seized the glove before her fingers reached it.
He backed away two steps, tail moving faster.
Cindy straightened. “Give it here.”
Bart held the glove more firmly and watched her.
She took one step toward him.
He took one step backward.
Cindy stopped. Bart stopped too.
“You brought it to me.”
His ears moved at the sound of her voice.
“If you want me to have it, you have to let go.”
Bart lowered his head, and for a moment Cindy thought he might place the glove down again. Instead he shifted it deeper into his mouth until the cuff disappeared between his teeth.
Cindy moved slowly toward him.
Bart backed away.
The lead tightened around her wrist. She followed far enough to keep it from pulling sharply against his collar.
“I’m not chasing you.”
Bart’s eyes brightened.
Cindy knew that look from the road. It came just before he decided the world had become a game.
She turned partly away.
Bart remained still.
Cindy looked toward Nicola. The grey dog had raised her head and was watching. Her expression offered no assistance.
“It isn’t his,” Cindy told her.
Nicola blinked once.
Cindy looked back.
Bart had moved closer.
The glove hung from his mouth, damp at the cuff where he held it. He took another step, then another, approaching cautiously as though Cindy might disappear if he hurried. When he was within reach, he lowered his head again.
Cindy bent without looking directly at him.
Bart picked the glove up before her hand touched it.
He sprang sideways and circled behind her.
The lead passed around Cindy’s legs. She stopped, stepped over it and turned as Bart came back into view. He had resumed the proud walk, though the glove now swung from side to side with each step.
“You’re foolish,” Cindy said.
Bart wagged.
He carried the glove to the porch, dropped it beside the step and stood over it. Cindy approached from the side. She kept one hand low and moved slowly enough that he might believe she had lost interest.
Bart watched her hand.
She reached.
He snatched the glove and darted away.
The lead tightened suddenly. Cindy’s arm extended, and Bart reached the end of the leather with a small jolt. He turned, surprised, then shook the glove as though it had caused the interruption.
Cindy gathered the lead into her hand. “That’s enough.”
Bart came toward her when she drew him in, though he kept the glove.
She put one hand near his collar and held the other beneath his mouth. “Drop it.”
He breathed warm air across her palm.
“Bart.”
His jaw remained closed.
Cindy tried to slide two fingers beneath the cuff. Bart turned his head away without growling and stepped around her, keeping the glove beyond reach. She moved with him, careful not to twist the lead.
He stopped when she stopped.
Cindy looked toward the house. April was no longer visible through the kitchen window. The radio continued playing. A woman sang faintly beneath the static, the words too blurred to understand.
The glove couldn’t be important. Its split finger and worn palm showed that it had already been used nearly to pieces. It might even have been left behind the shed because nobody wanted it.
Bart lowered his head and pressed one paw against the cuff.
Cindy crouched. “Let me see it.”
He looked at her, then released the glove.
She moved her hand slowly.
Bart waited until her fingers closed around the cuff.
Then he picked up the opposite end.
For a moment they both held it.
Cindy didn’t pull. Bart didn’t either. His eyes stayed on her face, his body quiet except for the broad sweep of his tail.
“You have to choose,” Cindy said. “You can give it to me or you can keep it.”
Bart pulled lightly.
Cindy held firm.
His paws shifted. The glove stretched between them, the old leather creaking near the split. Cindy let go before it tore.
Bart stumbled backward, recovered and shook the glove with renewed triumph.
Nicola rose from the shade.
She stretched slowly, front legs extended, chest lowered close to the grass, then came toward Cindy. Bart paused when she approached. Nicola smelled the glove once and moved past it without interest. She came to Cindy’s side and stood close enough that the fur along her shoulder brushed the girl’s skirt.
Cindy looked down at her. “You don’t want it.”
Nicola turned her head toward Bart.
“He shouldn’t have it either.”
Bart began moving toward the hedge.
At first Cindy thought he had found another place to display the glove. He walked with his nose low and the leather hanging from one side of his mouth, stopping near the edge of the yard where the hedge grew thickest. There the soil was darker and softer beneath fallen leaves. Bart smelled one patch, moved to another and stopped.
He dropped the glove.
Cindy watched him scratch the earth with one front paw.
“No.”
Bart scratched again.
Dirt scattered over the glove.
Cindy hurried forward, gathering the lead to keep it from wrapping around the pump.
Bart dug with both paws now. His movements were quick and joyous, his nose close to the ground while loose soil flew beneath his chest. The glove disappeared partly beneath the first layer.
Cindy reached him and put one shoe over it.
Bart stopped digging.
His head came up.
“No,” Cindy said. “You aren’t burying it.”
He looked at her shoe.
Cindy kept her weight carefully balanced so she wouldn’t grind the glove farther into the dirt. The hedge brushed the back of her cardigan, and a dry twig caught briefly in the fabric near her elbow. She freed it without looking away from Bart.
He moved to the other side of her foot.
Cindy shifted with him.
Bart tried the first side again.
She blocked him.
His tail beat against the hedge, shaking several leaves loose. He lowered his front half, hindquarters raised, and stared at the hidden glove.
Cindy knew the posture. “Don’t.”
Bart sprang sideways.
She stepped with him, keeping her shoe over the glove.
He circled behind her. The lead drew around the backs of her ankles. Cindy lifted one foot over it and nearly lost her place. Bart darted toward the exposed corner of leather.
She put her shoe down again just before he reached it.
“You’ve had it long enough.”
Bart backed around the shallow hole, watching her closely. His tail struck the side of a metal bucket near the hedge.
The bucket tipped.
It hit the ground with a hollow clang and rolled twice before settling against a stone.
Nicola stepped away from the noise. Bart started, then immediately returned his attention to the glove.
Cindy glanced at the bucket. A little dried soil had spilled from it. She would have to put it back before leaving. She had no wish for April to come outside and find the yard looking as though she and Bart had fought through it together.
Bart lowered his nose close to Cindy’s shoe.
“Leave it.”
He gave a soft huff.
Cindy crouched, keeping one heel over the glove. She tried to slide her fingers beneath the cuff while using her knee to block Bart’s head.
Bart moved around her.
She shifted.
He went the other way.
Cindy’s skirt brushed the soil near the hole. She gathered the fabric quickly with one hand and stood before it could touch the ground.
Bart seized the moment. His teeth closed around the glove’s exposed finger.
Cindy caught the cuff.
They held it again.
This time the leather was coated with loose earth. Dirt pressed into Cindy’s palm and beneath her fingernails. Bart pulled backward, paws planted.
“You’re making it worse.”
His tail knocked the bucket a second time.
Cindy looked down at her clothes. The hem of her skirt was still clean, though dust had settled across one shoe. She kept her knees straight and leaned only far enough to maintain her grip.
Bart drew back another inch.
The split in the glove opened farther.
Cindy released it.
He backed into the hedge, sat down heavily and looked at her with the glove clamped between his teeth. Leaves trembled around his shoulders. He seemed pleased not merely to possess it but to have defended its future burial.
Cindy stood over him. “It belongs to Jennifer.”
Bart’s ears shifted.
“She won’t want it full of dirt.”
He looked toward the house at Jennifer’s name, then back at Cindy.
“Give it to me.”
Bart lowered his head.
Cindy held out one hand.
He placed the glove on the ground.
She waited.
He waited too.
Cindy reached slowly.
Bart picked it up and backed deeper beneath the hedge.
The lead tightened around Cindy’s wrist. She stopped him before he could force his whole body beneath the branches. Several leaves had caught in the fur along his back.
“You can’t go in there.”
Bart attempted to reverse farther.
Cindy pulled steadily, not enough to drag him but enough to prevent progress. “Come out.”
He braced his paws.
Cindy shifted sideways as Jennifer had taught her at the drainage channel. She brought her hand toward her hip and stepped away from the hedge. Bart’s shoulders turned. He resisted for another moment, then came out with a small jump, still carrying the glove.
Cindy backed toward the open grass, keeping him with her.
When they were far enough from the hedge that he couldn’t resume digging immediately, she stopped.
Bart stood facing her.
Dirt marked his front paws and the lower part of his muzzle. A thin root clung to the wet leather. The glove’s empty fingers hung downward now, heavy with soil.
Cindy breathed out through her nose.
“You aren’t keeping it.”
Bart wagged.
The yard gate clicked.
Cindy turned.
Jennifer came through carrying a brown paper parcel beneath one arm and a smaller cloth bag in her free hand. Her braid had loosened from the walk, and the afternoon breeze had drawn pale strands across her forehead. She shut the gate behind her with one heel and looked first at Cindy, then at Bart, then toward the shallow hole beneath the hedge.
She didn’t speak immediately.
Bart’s whole body changed at the sight of her. He lifted the glove and started forward. The lead pulled against Cindy’s wrist before she released enough length for him to cross the yard.
He reached Jennifer and offered the glove.
Jennifer lowered the parcels to the grass before taking hold of his collar. She looked at the leather in his mouth, the soil around his paws and the dark patch beneath the hedge.
“Where did you find that?”
Bart wagged against her skirt.
Cindy came closer. “Behind the shed.”
Jennifer touched one finger of the glove. Bart turned his head away.
“He brought it to me,” Cindy said. “Then he wouldn’t let me have it. He was trying to bury it.”
Jennifer looked toward the hole once more. “I see.”
“I tried to stop him before he got it dirty.”
“You did stop him.”
“He got it dirty anyhow.”
Jennifer’s eyes moved to Cindy’s hand. Soil darkened the lines across her palm. A little had gathered beneath two fingernails.
“Did he pull you down?”
“No.”
“Did he nip you?”
“No. He only moved it whenever I reached.”
Jennifer nodded. She didn’t smile at Cindy’s rumpled determination or at the bucket lying on its side. She didn’t tell Bart he was bad. She crouched beside him and waited until he looked at her.
“May I see it?”
Bart held the glove.
Jennifer touched its cuff.
He backed away.
She let him go.
Cindy watched, expecting Jennifer to call him again or take the lead. Instead Jennifer stood and crossed to the woodpile stacked beside the shed. Bart followed her with his eyes. The glove remained in his mouth.
Jennifer moved several pieces of split wood aside and selected a stick from beneath them. It was smooth along one end, with bark still attached at the other, and long enough for Bart to carry without swallowing half of it. She brushed away a cobweb and returned.
Bart watched the stick.
Jennifer crouched several feet from him. She held it low, moving it once across the grass.
His ears lifted.
She moved it again.
Bart’s attention shifted from the stick to the glove and back.
“You can have this,” Jennifer said.
He stepped closer.
Jennifer kept the stick still.
Bart smelled one end. The glove remained clamped in his jaws.
Cindy held the lead loose enough that he could choose without feeling pressure.
Jennifer tapped the stick lightly against the ground.
Bart dropped the glove.
Jennifer slid the stick forward at once.
He seized it and lifted his head, tail beating furiously. The exchange appeared to satisfy him completely. He turned away carrying the stick as though he had arranged the matter himself.
Jennifer picked up the glove.
Mud and dry earth covered most of the palm. The split finger had opened farther but hadn’t torn away. She shook it once, sending crumbs of soil onto the grass.
“I should’ve thought of a trade,” Cindy said.
“He likes sticks better.”
“He didn’t have a stick.”
“No.”
Jennifer looked at the glove, then toward Bart as he carried his prize in a wide circle around the yard. “He may have wanted us to find one.”
Cindy considered the dog’s pleased stride. “He acted as though it was his idea.”
Jennifer gathered the parcels from the grass. “He usually does.”
They carried everything to the porch. Jennifer placed the paper package and cloth bag near the door, then took the glove to the outdoor pump. The metal handle stood high above the basin, warm from the afternoon sun. A dark stain marked the stone beneath the spout where years of water had run over it.
Cindy set the fallen bucket upright before joining her.
Jennifer placed the glove beneath the spout and worked the pump handle. It resisted on the first stroke, then moved with a hollow squeak. Water coughed from the pipe, brown for an instant, then ran clear across the leather.
Dirt loosened from the glove in thin streams.
Cindy crouched beside the basin. “Turn it over.”
Jennifer did.
Water struck the palm and flowed through the split finger. The leather darkened nearly black as it soaked. Small pieces of leaf and root gathered near the drain.
Bart came to investigate with the stick held crosswise in his mouth. One end bumped Cindy’s arm.
She moved him aside. “You’ve done enough.”
He stepped around her and brought the stick toward the running water.
Jennifer shut off the pump before he could put it beneath the stream.
Bart looked at the silent spout.
“He wants that washed too,” Cindy said.
“It isn’t dirty.”
“He may not agree.”
Jennifer pressed the glove between both hands. Water ran over her fingers and dripped from her wrists.
Cindy reached for the cuff. “Let me.”
Together they squeezed it, not twisting hard enough to damage the old leather. Cindy pressed the fingers one by one, forcing water from each. Jennifer flattened the palm against the edge of the basin and worked the worst of the mud away with her thumb.
The glove had belonged to Jennifer long enough for the leather to fit the shape of her hand. Cindy could see the slight bend in the fingers and the softened curve along the palm where tools had rested.
“You used this?” she asked.
“Until the finger split.”
“What for?”
“Garden work. Carrying wood. Anything rough.”
“It’s large.”
“It was Papa’s first.”
Jennifer lifted it from the basin. Water continued dripping from the cuff.
“He gave it to me after he wore through the other one.”
Cindy looked at the split finger. “Why was it behind the shed?”
“I left it there when the tear got worse. I thought I might patch it.”
“Can leather be patched?”
“Some can.”
“Can this?”
Jennifer rubbed the edge of the split between her fingers. “Mama might know.”
Cindy touched the glove’s palm. The leather had become soft under the water, almost like thick cloth. “Bart made more work.”
“He found it before the weather did.”
Cindy looked toward the back of the shed. The ground there stayed shaded most of the day. Autumn rain would have ruined the glove if it remained where Bart discovered it.
“He still shouldn’t have buried it,” she said.
“No.”
Jennifer lifted the glove and searched the yard for somewhere to dry it. A broad flat stone lay near the pump, warm where the sun had reached it through the afternoon. Cindy brushed away a few grains of soil and together they spread the glove across the surface.
Jennifer straightened each finger. Cindy pressed the cuff flat so it wouldn’t curl as it dried.
Bart came near with the stick.
He placed one paw on the stone.
Cindy moved him away before he could step on the glove. “That isn’t yours anymore.”
Bart released the stick.
It fell near Cindy’s shoe.
She looked at him.
His tail moved in a slow, expectant sweep.
Jennifer picked up the stick and tossed it across the yard.
Bart ran.
He reached it near the washing line, lowered his head and took it without disturbing the hanging clothes. Then he turned and came directly back to Cindy.
She held out her hand.
Bart placed the stick against her palm but didn’t release it.
Cindy waited.
He watched her face, jaw firm around the wood.
“You have to let go.”
Bart breathed through his nose.
Cindy touched the stick but didn’t pull.
After several seconds, his mouth opened.
She took it.
Jennifer had remained near the pump, watching. “Throw it.”
Cindy drew her arm back and sent the stick toward the maple. It didn’t travel as far as Jennifer’s throw, but Bart chased with the same enthusiasm. He passed Nicola at full speed. She lifted her head from the shade, watched him recover the stick and lowered it again.
Bart returned to Cindy.
Jennifer stepped closer and held out her hand. “Here.”
Bart passed her.
He reached Cindy and dropped the stick at her feet.
Jennifer lowered her hand.
Cindy looked from the dog to Jennifer. “You threw it before.”
“He knows.”
Bart nudged the stick with his nose.
Cindy picked it up and offered it to Jennifer. “Try again.”
Jennifer threw it toward the shed.
Bart bounded after it, claws striking the dry ground. He vanished briefly around the corner, then returned with the stick. This time Jennifer crouched and called him softly.
Bart angled toward her.
For several yards it seemed he would bring the stick to its thrower. Then he saw Cindy standing near the pump and altered course. He passed behind Jennifer and came to Cindy instead.
He pushed the stick against her skirt.
Cindy took it. “That isn’t right.”
“He wants you to throw it.”
“You threw it.”
“I don’t mind.”
Cindy looked down at Bart. “You should take it back to Jennifer.”
His mouth remained open, tongue showing as he waited.
She tossed the stick.
The game continued around the work of the yard. Jennifer carried the town parcels inside while Cindy remained near the gate with Bart’s lead. April came out to collect the empty lemonade glass and inspected the wet glove on the stone.
“That old thing,” she said.
“Bart found it,” Jennifer told her.
“He nearly buried it,” Cindy added.
April looked toward the shallow hole, then at Bart running after the stick. “He’d bury the house if he could get his paws around it.”
She lifted the glove and tested the leather between her fingers. “It may still take a patch.”
Jennifer stood beside her. “Could you do it?”
“I can try once it’s dry.”
April replaced the glove carefully, spreading it flatter than before. She thanked Cindy for helping and went back into the house with the glass.
Cindy looked at Jennifer. “She wasn’t cross.”
“It’s an old glove.”
“I thought she might mind the hole.”
“Bart’s made worse ones.”
Jennifer went to the hedge and used the side of her shoe to push the loose earth back into place. Cindy joined her, setting the bucket upright beside its stone and gathering the leaves Bart had scattered. They didn’t make the ground smooth, but the hole became shallow enough that nobody would catch a foot in it.
Bart watched while holding the stick.
When Cindy finished, she held out one hand. He brought it to her.
The afternoon moved gently around them. The sun lowered enough for the shade beneath the maple to lengthen across the yard. The washed clothes no longer lifted as high on the line. A train sounded from beyond town, the whistle arriving thin and distant before fading into the ordinary quiet of the houses.
Cindy and Jennifer took turns throwing the stick.
Jennifer’s throws travelled farther and straighter. She could send it past the shed or nearly to the fence without coming close to the washing. Cindy’s throws sometimes struck the ground early and bounced unevenly, which Bart seemed to prefer. He chased the rolling stick with his front legs extended and his ears lifting behind him. If it landed near the hedge, he searched through the grass with his tail raised until he found it.
No matter which girl threw it, he returned to Cindy.
The first several times, Cindy tried redirecting him.
“Jennifer threw it,” she told him, pointing.
Bart followed her finger with his eyes but pressed the stick against her hand.
Jennifer didn’t call him away. She stood nearby with Nicola beside her and waited until Cindy threw again.
After a while Cindy stopped correcting him.
She learned to take the stick without touching Bart’s teeth. She held one end lightly and waited for his jaw to open. Sometimes he released it at once. Other times he made her stand there while his tail moved and his eyes held hers, pretending the exchange required thought.
When he delayed too long, Jennifer crossed to the woodpile and picked up a second stick.
Bart saw it and let go immediately.
Cindy looked at him. “You only understand a trade.”
“He understands wanting both,” Jennifer said.
She tossed the second stick. Bart ran after it, leaving the first in Cindy’s hand.
Nicola came out of the shade when the light began to cool. She crossed the yard slowly and stopped near the warm stone. She smelled the glove once, then lay down several feet from it with her front paws together.
Cindy sat on the porch step. She kept her skirt folded neatly beneath her knees and held the first stick across her lap. Bart returned with the other and placed it beside her shoe.
“You have two now,” she said.
He put one paw on the stick in her lap.
Cindy moved it beyond reach. “No. Choose.”
Bart smelled both, then took the newer one.
Jennifer sat on the step above Cindy. The porch boards creaked beneath her weight. She drew one knee up and rested her arm across it while watching Bart move into the yard.
“Were you waiting long?” she asked.
“Not very.”
“Mama said you wouldn’t come inside.”
Cindy looked toward the kitchen door. The screen remained closed, though she could hear April moving within.
“I didn’t want to be in the way.”
“You wouldn’t have been.”
“I know.”
Jennifer waited.
Cindy ran one finger along the bark of the stick. “I hadn’t been inside before.”
“No.”
“I thought I should wait for you.”
Jennifer accepted that without trying to persuade her that she had been wrong. “You can come in next time.”
Cindy looked at the yard. “Maybe.”
Bart returned and climbed one paw onto the bottom step. He laid the stick across Cindy’s shoes and looked toward her face.
She picked it up. “You haven’t rested.”
He moved backward, ready.
Cindy threw from where she sat. The stick landed near the pump and skidded across the damp stone beneath the spout. Bart raced after it.
Jennifer watched him go. “He’ll sleep tonight.”
“He should.”
“He may not.”
Cindy looked at her. “Doesn’t he get tired?”
“He gets tired. Then he finds something.”
They sat together while Bart found the stick and brought it back. The conversation moved only when there was something to say. Jennifer told Cindy where she had gone in town and that the grocer had put aside a small sack of bruised apples for April because they were still good enough for cooking. Cindy said her mother used bruised fruit for preserves when sugar could be spared. Jennifer described a woman at the fabric shop who had argued over the price of thread until three people behind her left the queue. Cindy recognized the description and said the same woman complained at the butcher about bones being weighed with meat.
Neither girl hurried through the talk. Their voices remained low, carrying little farther than the porch and the nearest tree.
The glove darkened the stone as moisture left it. Jennifer turned it once so the underside could dry. Cindy pressed the fingers flat again.
When the church clock sounded from across town, Cindy counted the strikes.
She stood after the fifth.
“I have to go.”
Jennifer rose too. “I’ll walk to the corner.”
Cindy looked toward the house. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
She went inside to tell April, leaving Cindy with the dogs. Bart stood close, the stick held crosswise in his mouth. Nicola remained near the stone.
Cindy brushed dust from the front of her skirt. The damp marks from Bart’s paws had dried pale near the hem, but the fabric was otherwise clean. Her hands showed more evidence of the afternoon. Dirt remained beneath her nails despite rinsing at the pump, and one palm had a dark line where the wet glove had rested.
Bart pressed the stick against her leg.
“I’m leaving.”
His tail moved.
“You stay here.”
He dropped the stick.
Cindy bent and picked it up before he could seize it again. She carried it toward the gate, intending to place it beside the woodpile.
Bart followed.
Jennifer returned from the house with her cardigan buttoned. “Bring it.”
“The stick?”
“He’ll want it.”
Cindy held it at her side as they crossed the yard. Bart walked between them without needing the lead shortened. Nicola came behind Jennifer, quiet as ever.
At the gate, Cindy handed Bart’s lead back.
He took the stick from her before she released it.
Jennifer opened the gate and stepped through with both dogs. Bart went first, carrying his prize. Nicola passed close to Cindy’s skirt but didn’t stop to smell it. The four of them moved along the lane toward the corner.
Bart’s pace was slower now. The stick altered the way he held his head and kept him from examining every mark in the road. He carried it carefully, adjusting his grip whenever one end dipped near the ground.
At the corner Cindy stopped.
Jennifer stopped with her.
The road toward Cindy’s house had begun to fall into evening shade. Porch lamps hadn’t yet been lit, but kitchen windows showed warmer light behind their curtains. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke from somebody’s stove.
“I’ll see you,” Cindy said.
Jennifer nodded. “Yes.”
Cindy looked down at Bart. “Don’t bury that.”
He held the stick.
She touched the top of his head once, then turned toward home.
Jennifer remained at the corner for several moments before drawing Bart gently toward the lane. He took one step with her and stopped.
The stick shifted in his mouth.
Jennifer waited.
Bart looked after Cindy.
She had reached the first house, her dark hair and neat skirt moving through alternating strips of shade and late sunlight. She didn’t turn around. Her pace stayed even, neither hurried nor deliberately slow.
Bart moved to the edge of the road.
Jennifer kept enough slack in the lead for him to stand there.
He carried the stick to the gate and stopped beside it, his body facing the road Cindy had taken. Nicola settled near Jennifer’s leg. The breeze moved through the hedge and lifted the loose hair near Jennifer’s cheek.
Cindy passed the second house.
Then the third.
At the far turning, she became smaller between the trees. Bart remained still, the stick held firmly across his mouth.
When Cindy disappeared beyond the corner, he waited several seconds more before turning back toward Jennifer.