The Dwelling: A Novel by Susie Moloney Page B

fingers around the page, executing life from dust. Under his breathing were strains of music too low to really hear, something that moved in and out at such a low decibel that it might have been the hum of the fridge, a car driving by outside, the buzz of electrical wires in a distant power plant.
    Sometimes he spoke, real words: “Rounder, yeah, like that…good. Arched…angled light…good. Good. Right.”
    No one answered back.
    Not really.
     
    It was after six when Becca pulled in front of the house, parked her late-model Volvo behind Dan’s ancient Mustang. In the terrible days just after he’d lost his job they had discussed, briefly, getting rid of one of the cars to save on insurance and the like. She had been horrified when he suggested her car. He said maybe they should trade it in on something smaller and cheaper. “Like a Taurus,” he’d said.
    She nearly died. She wouldn’t be caught dead in a Ford Handivan, even if both her legs fell off, was her answer to that. He hadn’t brought it up again.
    His car was parked in the exact same place it had been when she’d left that morning, which meant he hadn’t left the house all day—unless he’d walked to the grocery store, and there wasn’t much chance of that. She was late because she’d stopped at the store on the way home. She was going to make veal Parmesan. Dan’s favorite. They hadn’t had it in months and soon it would be too warm to cook anything fancy.
    Just before leaving work at five, Becca had slipped her updated résumé into Gordon Huff’s mailbox. He’d e-mailed her at four and said that Tuesday at one for lunch was a go. That’s what the e-mail had said: Lunch is a go for one tomorrow.
    All systems go. And how far, exactly, will I be going?
    Veal Parmesan.
     
    She juggled two bags of groceries onto the front stoop and twisted the knob, but the door was locked. She knocked a couple of times, but while she waited she rested one of the bags on the stone step and fumbled with her keys. She unlocked the door and, holding it open with her elbow, grabbed the other bag and went inside. She pushed the door shut with one heeled foot.
    “Hello!” she called. The hall was dark. The sky was cloudy and very little sun managed its way into the house. Most of it was blocked during the day from the hall, anyway, by the neighbor’s huge tree. It would help keep it cool in summer.
    There was no immediate answer to her call. She wondered if he was napping, the thought instantly pissing her off, but she cut it off. She was going to be nice. In the back of her mind was the reason why, but she cut that off, too.
    Instead, she slipped off her heels with a delighted sigh and picked up the bags of groceries again to take them into the kitchen. Stepping once off the mat, she was greeted by the distinct growl of an animal.
    She stopped dead, listened, feeling ridiculous. We don’t have a dog. She didn’t like dogs as a rule: they shed hair, and needed too much attention. They drooled. What she had heard was likely air forced up from the furnace, or the pipes or something. Really, in an old house, it could be anything. It was part of the charm and character of an older home. That and the lower taxes.
    She took two brisk steps down the hall and heard it again, the growl of a dog, clearly, distinctly, right in front of her.
    Low. Menacing.
    Her head swung around, she looked quickly into the living room and by her feet, blocked by the bags. There was, of course, nothing there. Radio? Nothing else could be heard in the house.
    “Hello?” she called out weakly. There was no answer. Then she moved.
    The dog barked, loud, once. Becca dropped the bags of groceries, hearing something break (that would be the salad dressing, goddamn it) and, unable to stop herself, she let out a small scream, in reaction. Her hand flew to her mouth.
    The door to the studio flew open. Dan appeared in the hall, hair disheveled, in the same T-shirt he’d had on when she’d left;