many shepherds over the years, he said, and all of them were buried in the backyard, beneath that big apple tree. Their dog had a habit of lying there, as if considering the road ahead.
My own journey back to my parents’ house was a lot less unlikely than the journey of that shepherd or of Jimpa. But it felt no less miraculous to me, to show up at the back door of the home I’d grown up in. I’d stood by the Pacific Ocean and watched an eagle half a continent away. I’d hung out with the members of the Titanic disaster fan club. I’d made out with Rachel in the rain.
I’d had all those adventures, but I’d been drawn back home with a single twitch upon the thread. And there was my father, opening the door to let me in.
“Hey, old man,” he said, looking at the puppy in my arms. “What do we have here?”
“I got the puppy, Dad,” I said, and as I said it, something in my throat caught.
Did I know even then what was coming, the result of my unconscious attunement to a disturbance in the magnetic field?
He picked up the brown fluff ball, and his face crinkled and shone like the sun. “Who’s a good girl?” he said.
* * *
We walked into the living room, my father and the new pup and I. There they were—my mother, Aunt Gertrude, Gammie, and Hilda, just as I had left them centuries before. They sat before the fireplace, under the watchful gaze of my grandfather. You could tell from his expression he was getting fed up with the bunch of us.
And there was my sister, back from Oregon. Cyndy put her arms around me. “Hey, little brother,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek.
My grandmother rattled the ice in her glass. “Voka,” she said.
My father passed the puppy to my sister and went out to refresh my grandmother’s drink. Cyndy and I stood there beaming, breathing in the redolent puppy smell. “You know,” she said to me, “I think that maybe, just once, we might have a dog that is not insane.”
It occurred to me that she was right about our dogs—all of them thus far had been deranged, although each in a different fashion. I wondered, in passing, why this was true, but then at that same moment, Gammie pulled her breast prosthesis out of her bra again and started waving it around as she cackled with laughter. “Hey, Hilda,” she inquired, “ever seen one of these?”
The question of why our dogs had always turned out to be mental was one that, really, seemed to answer itself. I looked at the adorable brown puppy in my sister’s arms and hoped that this time our dog would turn out to be a civilized member of the family of nations. It was something to wish for, anyhow.
But it was early yet.
* * *
Rachel, of course, had not accompanied me on the journey to Montauk to get the puppy from the farm, nor had she joined me on the journey back to Devon. The morning after, however, she called me on the phone, asked me if I wanted her to come visit. I said I wasn’t sure. She said there were two trains—she could arrive at 9:00 A.M. or at 11:00.
I talked to her as I sat in the living room, the chocolate fur ball in my lap. I said, “Well, either one is fine. Whichever one you want to take is great. I’ll be waiting.”
“Yes,” said she. “But tell me which one is better.”
“Well, if it’s all the same to you,” I said, “maybe the eleven o’clock one. That way I can sleep in.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Are you saying you don’t want me to come?” asked Rachel.
“No, no,” I said. “Take whichever train you want. I’m just saying. Since you asked. If you arrive at eleven, I won’t have to get up so early.”
“Well, I’d hate to disturb your sleep,” said Rachel.
“Well, take the nine o’clock,” I said. “That’s fine.”
“No, no,” said Rachel. “I hate to be an inconvenience. Why don’t I check the schedule again, there’s probably one that arrives in the afternoon.”
“Rachel,” I said. “Please. Come whenever you want. I can’t wait to see you.” I ran my fingers against the dog’s soft ears.
“It doesn’t sound like it!” said Rachel. “It sounds like you don’t want me to come at all!”
“Take the nine o’clock train!” I shouted. “Come at dawn! If there’s a