instincts from the wild. He always came back for reassurance, trotting by my side until another interesting diversion sent himdashing once again. With a pang of sorrow that was tinged with guilt, I remembered another dog and how, for a long time he resented me, the small intruder who threatened to steal his place in the heart of the MacMillan household. I know this from my Ma, who’d laugh remembering how the dog, who was the same age as I was—five when I’d arrived—would slink out of a room if I was in it, looking back at me with frank hostility.
But he had a kind soul and an instinct for fairness and over time he seemed to realize that the heart of the MacMillan household was large enough to accommodate two needy pets. He lived long for a dog, into my adolescence. And when he vanished I hardly noted it, I was by then so mesmerized by the girl that everybody knew as Caddy.
It was Christmas Eve. Our excursions on the trail had become the highlight of our mornings. The ditches had a skim of ice and among the trees there were patches of dirty snow but the trail itself was bare. I heard the distant sound of a motor long before the ATV raced into view. I stepped to the side of the trail and shouted for Birch, but he’d already taken refuge in the woods. The machines were a common sight and sound on the trail, usually meandering. This one skidded to a stop beside me, and when the driver removed his helmet it was Neil, face flushed, smiling.
“How’s the hammer hangin’,” he shouted, high on what for him was physical activity. He turned the machine off and the trees resumed their whispering. Birch was back and sniffingaround a wheel, then he lifted his leg and pissed against it. Good dog, I thought.
“So,” said Neil. “I was thinking after the store the other day. You being by yourself over there for Christmas just doesn’t seem right to me. I was telling the wife and she agrees.”
“Neil …”
“No, the wife told me. ‘Call him,’ she said. You never met the wife. Girl I found in Boston. A good American who doesn’t take no for an answer. And she told me to make sure you come to our place for Christmas dinner tomorrow. Come early, say three in the afternoon. We’ll have a couple a cocktails.”
He started up the machine again and the dog dashed to the woods.
I shouted: “That’s awfully good of you, but I wouldn’t want to leave the dog …”
“Bring him with you,” Neil shouted back and spun away from me.
That night I stood at the kitchen window, drink in hand, sound of people singing on the television in the other room. Outside it was bright from a fattening moon but there was snow falling. I was tempted to walk over to the end of the long meadow and just stare at the sea. In Kingston, I’d often walk to the shore of the lake and stare out, pretending it was the ocean. In the early days Anna would come with me and we’d walk hand in hand, words now unnecessary. But one night she said simply, “It doesn’t work for me.”
“What doesn’t work?”
There was a long pause before she said, “You name it.”
“Okay,” I said. She took her hand away and folded her arms across her chest, a gesture I always associated with distress or anger. But she wasn’t angry, it seemed to me.
“That, for instance,” she said, nodding toward the lake. It was flat and still and there was a splash of blue from the moon and glitter from the streetlights, the sound of someone laughing somewhere in the darkness. “I don’t know how you can be satisfied with that, pretending it’s the ocean.”
Anna’s family was from Gdansk, which they’d fled in 1971 because of the disturbances after Gomulka. She remembered the Baltic. “A lake is just a lake,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how big it is.”
“Depends on how you look at it,” I said
“I suppose,” she said. “It depends on what you need, how bad you need it.” Then: “If you miss back there so much, why do you stay here?” In
But he had a kind soul and an instinct for fairness and over time he seemed to realize that the heart of the MacMillan household was large enough to accommodate two needy pets. He lived long for a dog, into my adolescence. And when he vanished I hardly noted it, I was by then so mesmerized by the girl that everybody knew as Caddy.
It was Christmas Eve. Our excursions on the trail had become the highlight of our mornings. The ditches had a skim of ice and among the trees there were patches of dirty snow but the trail itself was bare. I heard the distant sound of a motor long before the ATV raced into view. I stepped to the side of the trail and shouted for Birch, but he’d already taken refuge in the woods. The machines were a common sight and sound on the trail, usually meandering. This one skidded to a stop beside me, and when the driver removed his helmet it was Neil, face flushed, smiling.
“How’s the hammer hangin’,” he shouted, high on what for him was physical activity. He turned the machine off and the trees resumed their whispering. Birch was back and sniffingaround a wheel, then he lifted his leg and pissed against it. Good dog, I thought.
“So,” said Neil. “I was thinking after the store the other day. You being by yourself over there for Christmas just doesn’t seem right to me. I was telling the wife and she agrees.”
“Neil …”
“No, the wife told me. ‘Call him,’ she said. You never met the wife. Girl I found in Boston. A good American who doesn’t take no for an answer. And she told me to make sure you come to our place for Christmas dinner tomorrow. Come early, say three in the afternoon. We’ll have a couple a cocktails.”
He started up the machine again and the dog dashed to the woods.
I shouted: “That’s awfully good of you, but I wouldn’t want to leave the dog …”
“Bring him with you,” Neil shouted back and spun away from me.
That night I stood at the kitchen window, drink in hand, sound of people singing on the television in the other room. Outside it was bright from a fattening moon but there was snow falling. I was tempted to walk over to the end of the long meadow and just stare at the sea. In Kingston, I’d often walk to the shore of the lake and stare out, pretending it was the ocean. In the early days Anna would come with me and we’d walk hand in hand, words now unnecessary. But one night she said simply, “It doesn’t work for me.”
“What doesn’t work?”
There was a long pause before she said, “You name it.”
“Okay,” I said. She took her hand away and folded her arms across her chest, a gesture I always associated with distress or anger. But she wasn’t angry, it seemed to me.
“That, for instance,” she said, nodding toward the lake. It was flat and still and there was a splash of blue from the moon and glitter from the streetlights, the sound of someone laughing somewhere in the darkness. “I don’t know how you can be satisfied with that, pretending it’s the ocean.”
Anna’s family was from Gdansk, which they’d fled in 1971 because of the disturbances after Gomulka. She remembered the Baltic. “A lake is just a lake,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how big it is.”
“Depends on how you look at it,” I said
“I suppose,” she said. “It depends on what you need, how bad you need it.” Then: “If you miss back there so much, why do you stay here?” In
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