plump woman in a flowered dress fluttered around, trying to see over their shoulders.
“Excuse me, I’m Lily Davis from The Sakonnet Times. I’m sorry about—”
“Baby.” She pressed her hand against her heart. “He gets into everything.”
A policeman turned around. “We’re taking him to LePater’s, Claire. We’ll grease him out, don’t worry about it. Who are you?” he asked me.
“Lily Davis,” I repeated. “Sakonnet Times.’’
“Stay back, out of our way.”
“Of course.” I read his name tag, Sergeant McKee, and wrote it down on my pad.
He returned to the problem at hand, allowing a viewing instant, and I saw that the baby, Baby, was a dog—a dachshund, to judge from its unmistakable hot-dog shape. A silver pitcher sat upside down on its head. “I should have given him obedience training,” wailed Claire. I took notes, as the sergeant scooped him up, supporting his tummy with one hand and the pitcher with the other. We could hear Baby’s muffled moans as we moved out of Claire’s Collectibles. A small crowd fell in behind for the short walk around the corner to LePater’s.
A female officer herded the shoppers into a compact viewing gallery next to a rack of chips. Matt, the cashier, handed over a bottle of Wesson oil. While the third officer held Baby in place on the counter, Sergeant McKee lubricated his hands and began massaging Baby’s neck, sneaking his fingers into the pitcher. Onlookers strained with anticipation. Would Baby be pried from the silver jug before he expired from fear? The only sound was the rustle of a paper bag when someone reached in for another doughnut.
Finally McKee managed to ease the pitcher off the dog’s head.
Everyone hooted and cheered. Baby barked. His sausage body rippled and twisted. The cop tried to adjust his grip, moving his hands from the animal’s haunches to his middle, when Baby squirmed free and fell or leapt about four feet to the floor. He hit the ground on his side, and waved his legs before righting himself. Then he dashed at me and sank his teeth into my ankle.
“Eek.” I heard myself utter the tiniest squeal. Baby released my flesh and raced through the fruit section. He skidded a few feet, trying to stop, scrambled in an attempt to move in another direction, and then shot right back. Sergeant McKee seized the dog just before it attacked again.
“Oh my goodness, give me that poor angel.” Claire snatched Baby from McKee. “He was only excited, weren’t you, my honey?”
I looked down to see if my pants were ripped, and now heard laughter, which made me snap my head up quickly. All I saw was the group of shoppers staring, some slowly chewing. They might have been an audience riveted by an exciting movie but continuing, as if on automatic pilot, to shove snacks into their mouths.
McKee moved in close. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“Eek.” I heard someone mimic the sound I’d made when I was bitten. Then snickers of laughter. “Eek,” someone else peeped. More titters. A wave of amusement swept the crowd.
“Do you want to press charges?” asked McKee.
“I don’t give a shit. I don’t give a goddamn shit, you idiots.” I walked out of the store.
No sooner did I reach the sidewalk than I was horrified. I’d insulted the Sakonnet Bay police. “Idiots,” I had said “idiots,” hadn’t I? And I’d flung “I don’t give a shit” at the cops in front of nearly half the town’s residents. My ankle hurt, it really hurt. I’m not good at pain. I’ve cried at the dentist’s office, winked tears simply from a novocaine shot, and now my ankle was throbbing. Why hadn’t they expected Baby to freak? They should have summoned an animal expert, phoned the SPCA, or taken the dog to the vet. Instead, they oiled it up and yanked it out.
I became aware that I was standing in a throng. People who had been peering in the window were now backing away from me. It was a dog bite. I can’t be brought down by a dog bite.
Fixing my eyes on the wall of the building, focusing on dry fragments of flaking paint, I forced myself to walk normally, making sure the heel of my right foot grazed the concrete each time I took a step. The cops might be watching. As well as everyone else. I wasn’t going to embarrass myself toe-hopping through the alley and across the public lot.
I sighed into my car as if I had fallen into a safe house.
I sat there not knowing what to do. Suddenly I was hot. Roasting. I fished my keys out of my purse and turned on the ignition so I could roll down the windows. I hit the wrong button and locked the doors first by accident. My eyes were wet. Tears of pain, I hoped, not humiliation. After rubbing them with the back of my hand, I tilted the rearview mirror to assess my face.
I looked like a clown in a sad circus skit. My normally peachy complexion was white, with a watery smear of mascara under each eye. My face, a pleasing oval, had grown mournfully long. Serious gray eyes had a panicky pinpoint intensity. So piteous was the image, it would not have seemed inappropriate if a teardrop had been painted on my cheek. Most alarming, however, was my hair. The burnished red had acquired a garish glint, and short pixyish strands stuck to my forehead and cheeks, while others, on top, torpedoed skyward.
I was beyond repair. I reset the mirror for driving, and forced myself to examine my ankle.
Using both hands, I hoisted my right thigh and gently lay the calf across my left leg. I folded up the hem of my slacks. The back of my tan sock was red.
“I’ll have a look at that.” Sergeant McKee materialized at the window, a spook, and without asking permission, stuck his head further in, an invasion of my personal space. “I’m going to push the sock down all around, okay?”
I didn’t answer, since I would have been talking directly into his hat. Also, I didn’t trust myself to speak. Who knew what the simple act of having someone fuss over me might unleash? As I pressed back, trying to merge with the seat so our bodies wouldn’t connect, I felt the sock resist separating from the sticky wound.
McKee pulled his head out the window. “It’s probably going to swell up a little. You might need a tetanus shot.”
“I’m fine.”
He folded his arms on the window ledge and drummed his thumb impatiently.
Suppose I became a joke? I just moved here, and already I’m a joke? I could see the sleepless nights ahead. The obsessing. The endless replay of worry. I’d heard those people in the store laughing.
“Let me drive you to the hospital,” he said.
“That’s not necessary.”
“Get out, goddammit, I’m taking you.”
“Okay.” Capitulating was such a relief that concealing it became paramount. I busied myself, dropping my keys back into my purse, organizing objects there. This must be post-traumatic shock. I was going to either shout insults or sob.
His car was parked behind mine. While I stood, mostly on one foot, he quickly cleaned up the passenger seat, tossing a bag of Fritos and a Rush Limbaugh paperback into the trunk. He must be a conservative, big surprise. This was a Republican town.
“I’m
