He jumped. Spun around. His face cycled throughsurprise, guilt, and then something deliberately blank that he was far too young to have perfected.
“Okay.” He walked toward me, hands stuffed in his pockets, not looking at the fence. Trying so hard to be casual that it was the least casual performance in human history.
I waited until he was inside, shoes off, hands washed. Then I sat at the kitchen table and pulled out the chair beside me.
“Come sit with me for a second.”
He climbed up. His feet dangled, and he swung them once before catching himself. His hands found his lap. He went very still—the kind of still that used to precede bad things, and the fact that his body still defaulted there made something twist behind my ribs.
“So. You and Jolly.”
His chin dropped. His shoulders pulled inward. Bracing.
“You’re not in trouble,” I said. “William. Hey. Look at me.”
He did. Slowly.
“You are not in trouble. I just want to hear about it.”
Whatever he saw in my face was enough. His shoulders came down, one degree at a time.
“I heard him in the yard,” he said quietly. “Right after they moved in. I could see him through the crack in the boards. He kept looking at me, and his tail was going so fast.” The caution in his voice began to dissolve. “So I threw a stick over. Just to see. And he brought it back to a hole at the bottom and pushed it through.”
“And you’ve been playing together ever since.”
A nod. Still watchful, but warming.
“What do you and Jolly do? Besides the pinecone game?”
The dam broke. Not all at once, but in stages—eyes brightening first, then posture straightening, then the words spilling out faster than he could organize them.
“He likes the pinecones best, but he’ll push back sticks too. Sometimes he just lies by the fence, and I talk to him. I told him about school and about Theo and about the snake guy who’s coming to school next week. Jolly listens, Mom. He puts his nose right up to the gap, and I can see his eyes. They’re brown with little gold parts.”
He took a breath.
“He’s my friend. He’s my very best friend.”
I pulled him into my side. He leaned in without hesitation, and I held on.
I should tell Ben. I knew that. This was his dog—his highly trained, professionally deployed working animal—and he had a right to know about the unsanctioned pinecone exchanges happening on a daily basis. The fence gap, the broken slat which I was positive had something to do with this—all of it led to a conversation that needed to happen.
But William was warm against my side, and his voice was the brightest it had been since before Craig, and I couldn’t do anything that might put an end to this. Not yet.
I would tell Ben. I would figure out the right way. Just not tonight.
“Hey,” I said. “Want to see what I’m working on? I think you might like it.”
I pulled my sketchbook across the table and opened it to the Barley spread. William leaned forward, eyes wide.
“Is that a golden retriever?”
“His name is Barley. The book is about how he helps a boy learn to be brave.”
William studied the drawing with the focused attention he reserved for things that mattered. His finger hovered above the page, tracing the outline of Barley’s ears without touching.
“He looks nice.”
“He is nice. He’s a very good dog.”
