The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel by Trout Nick

Author:Trout, Nick [Trout, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Hyperion
Published: 2013-02-12T05:00:00+00:00

12

In the absence of Google I make do with a telephone directory and a tattered road map to find my way to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Brendon Small. There’s nothing fancy here—a cul-de-sac of ranch-style homes, chain-link rather than picket fences, remnants of busy multicolored Christmas lights, competitive snowmen on the front yards, and bad-insulation icicles hanging off gutters like crystal stalactites. I park the truck at the bottom of their driveway. I could blame my lack of a reverse gear but I’d be lying. Truth is, I’m prepared for a quick getaway.

The driveway is a neat rectangle of dry asphalt. Too neat. There is not a patch of residual snow anywhere, and the driveway is lined with precise, Grand Canyon snow walls carved by an experienced snowblower. Clearly the work of a man with far too much free time on his hands.

I take a deep breath and drop down from the truck, marching with purpose. The cold makes my eyes cry tears that instantly dry stiff on my cheeks. Focus on the mission: return the dog, make sure she’s going to be safe, confirm Small is behind the newspaper article, and brace for the possibility of confrontation.

Standing on a pineapple welcome mat, I ring the doorbell. Only now, at this very second, do I ask myself, What am I going to do if Brendon Small doesn’t answer the—

“Can I help you?”

I recognize the woman as the one putting up posters, of course. I take in the Red Sox sweatshirt, kind eyes, pixie nose, and short auburn hair with gray feathering in the middle of her center parting.

“Um … hello … good evening … I’m Cyrus Mills, Dr. Cyrus Mills. I work at the animal clinic in town. Bedside Manor. You may have heard of it.”

“Yes.” And then, as though my presence at this point makes perfect sense, she screams, “Oh my God, you found Frieda?”

Her excitement takes me by surprise.

“Um … no. No, I didn’t find Frieda.” Suddenly I become conscious of not lying to her, of being factual and accurate about what I say, as though not perjuring myself any further might eventually count in my favor. Technically speaking I didn’t find Frieda. Frieda was delivered to me. But as I try to rationalize my misguided logic I see Anne Small jump to the only other conclusion possible. This is her worst-case scenario.

She staggers, dips a little at the knees, and clasps a hand to her mouth. Her sharp intake of air makes it sound as though she is being smothered.

“Mommy?” Emily is everything I imagined from our phone call—bright blue saucers for eyes, red apple cheeks, and long blond hair (though no symmetrical pigtails). From nowhere she appears at her mother’s side, and I’m not sure whether she’s been listening to our conversation. Not that it matters. What frightens her mother must be bad, and Emily responds with a trembling lower lip and a tear tumbling over a lower lid, her long blond lashes unable to keep it from falling.

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