Stepdog by Nicole Galland Page B

flat?”
    â€œMr. O’Connor,” said Sara, wagging a pointy elf shoe at me. “Please take this seriously.”
    â€œI’ve committed a morally turpitudinous amount of drug-related offenses, but not in many years.”
    â€œI’ll mark it no, then,” she said.
    The other questions I could answer with complete honesty—although Sara, earnest as she was, could not ask many of them with a straight face. No, Uncle Sam, cross my heart, I’d never been a prostitute, hijacker, kidnapper, or assassin, nor had I engaged in any other form of terrorist activity. I’m glad they asked, because the asking of that question would foil all those terrorists and assassins and hijackers and kidnappers applying for green cards.
    We were interrupted by a buzz of the bell, and stepped out into the hall together to receive a large trick-or-treating gaggle of zombies, ghouls, and Harry Potter characters. A few protective parents hovered outside on the step pretending to admire our jack-o’-lanterns. When they saw the Red Sox–capped dog, most of the kids squealed and reached toward her.
    â€œCody!” said one shrill, delighted four-year-old Ron Weasly. It was Marie’s son, Nick; I quickly scanned the parent gaggle and saw Marie herself. The dog took a moment to steel herself, and thenmaneuvered like a veteran celebrity through the group, making sure everyone had a chance to pat her, and delighting Marie’s son by pretending to lick his face. He was awfully chuffed with himself for the being the only kid who knew the dog personally; it made him king of the under-fives.
    Marie, meanwhile, grinned and waved at me. “’Dat your wife?” she asked, meaning Sara.
    â€œThe one and only,” I said, feeling strangely exposed. “Sara, Marie, Marie, Sara. I know Marie from the arboretum,” I explained to Sara.
    â€œCongratulations!” said Marie. “You’re a lucky woman, and he is so in love with you.”
    â€œThank you,” said Sara. She looked really pleased, which made me feel like a million bucks, as the Americans say.
    â€œAnd you have the world’s best dog,” Marie added to Sara. She went on: “And I know you get all the credit, because he’s always saying it’s not his dog, it’s his wife’s dog.”
    That made me feel even more exposed. “He sure does,” Sara said, her smile freezing a wee bit. “Always.”
    After the gaggle moved down the block, we returned to Sara’s living room (sorry, our living room) so she could continue to interrogate me on behalf of Homeland Security. No, I did not intend to engage in espionage or overthrow the government. I’d never tortured anyone, denied anyone’s ability to practice their religious beliefs, or served in a guerrilla group. “Never too late to start, though,” I mused. Sara threw her pen at me.
    â€œHere’s that medical form,” she said, holding it out. “Report of Medical Examination and Vaccination Record, you have to take it to a government-approved doctor to determine that you do nothave . . .”—she pulled it back to read—“tuberculosis, syphilis, malaria, mental illness, or drug addiction.” As I began to retort, she said firmly, “No more jokes about moral turpitude, please. You don’t get to derail your own immigration process with puerile humor. Also there’s another form here you have to take to someplace in Rhode Island, and have them measure your pupils or something.”
    â€œThat’s so Blade Runner, ” I said approvingly, reaching for the forms.
    There was another buzz from outside; Sara dropped the paper to the table and we both rose, which brought the dog dutifully scrambling up again. As we moved to the door, my cell phone rang as well. I glanced at the screen.
    There it was again, that Los Angeles number.
    â€œDougie,” I said quietly.
    Her eyes widened, and