“Shhhh,” says Miguel.
Dane watches expectantly as Miguel grabs the little plastic thing attached to the computer and moves it around as he leans close to the screen. After a moment, he picks up the phone and dials. “Yes, I’d like to speak with Bunny Lê. Um, this is Miguel Rivera…I’m the co-owner of Lakeside Books.” His face twists in pain as he registers his mistake. “Um, owner. My—never mind. This is about Jonathan Middleton-Biggs. He was supposed to be here last night for a reading and book signing and he didn’t show…right. Well, can you give Bunny my contact information? It’s important. As in, eight thousand dollars’ worth of important.” Miguel rattles off his number, then hangsup.
“No dice?” says Dane. “That blows.”
“Why are you still here? Go sell some books,” Miguel growls. “Or, better yet, dress up like a chicken and stand on the side of the highway with a sign telling people we exist.”
“I don’t hate it. But first I’m gonna go check and see if the guy in the back needs help.”
Miguel waits for Dane to leave. Then he gets back on the phone, and this time, he sounds like he knows what he’s doing. “Yes, this is Miguel Rivera, the owner of Lakeside Books in Michigan. It’s regarding Jonathan Middleton-Biggsand the event he was supposed to attend last night at our store.”
Across the store, Dane gives him a thumbs-up, and Miguel responds with a tight smile.
“Um, hi. Thanks for taking my call.” He sounds surprised. Optimistic, even, which makes me think our luck’s finally about to change.
But then his face falls. “What? Oh no. No, I had no idea…Dios mío.Right—well, please let me know if you find out more. Thanks.”
Dane, who’s mistaken Miguel’s gaping mouth for delight, lopes over. “Well, boss? What’d the agent say? Is she going to get the future Mr. Pulitzer to do the right thing?”
“That was his assistant, not his agent. And…not exactly.” Miguel rubs his forehead for a moment, then says, “Turns out she hasn’t been able to get ahold of Jonathan, either—and worse, no one seems to have any idea where he is.”
Five
When we get home, Miguel strips down to his underwear and pours himself a bowl of Lucky Charms. It was Amelia’s favorite cereal, but she never would’ve had it for dinner. Miguel used to cook all sorts of things for her—Japanese curry, empanadillas, spaghetti squash with shrimp, and whatever else he felt like whipping up. It wasn’t all good (there was a particularly unfortunate incident with sea scallops and maple syrup), but they were real meals, effort, love.
Now it’s just marshmallows and milk, day after night after day.
I stare up at Miguel, hoping to remind him that I, too, need to be fed, and more than just his leftovers. When that doesn’t work, I push my metal bowl to make it bang against the wall.
“Sorry, Harold,” he says wearily as he gives me a scoop. Moments later, it’s gone. This is the drill: I inhale the contents of my bowl, then we go for a walk. Otherwise, my stomach does weird things; sometimes I even upchuck whole kibble onto the rug, which every dog knows is the best place to barf.
But there will be no walking tonight. Instead, he sends me into the yard to speed my digestion, then turns off the lights and crawls into bed. I hate to see him like this, so I lie on the floor next to him, just in case.
I let him sleep in the next morning, too, because I know he needs a break. But his snoring goes on so long that eventually I nose him to tell him the sun’s been up for a good long time—as have I—and it’s his turn to rise.
“Go away,” he mumbles.
I most certainly will not. I whimper, and when he pulls a pillow over his head, I have no choice but to jump onto the bed.
“Harold!” he grouses, but I won’t be dissuaded. While I may not know how to help him find a new partner or keep the bookstore open, I’m certain he’ll accomplish neither feat between filthy sheets. So I stand over him, and when he doesn’t move, I bark—just once, but sharply.
“All right, Cujo, I’ll feed you,” he says, tossing the pillow at me. “After all, it’s not your fault humans are the worst.”
Woof.
He stops in the bathroom briefly, then lets me out. When I trot back inside, I find him in the living room—curtains drawn, thank goodness, as he’s clearly in no rush to get dressed. He’s hunched over the coffee table, muttering at his computer. It’s wired to the wall but is still much smaller than the one at the store and somehow folds in half. He jiggles it, then smacks it with his palm because this, apparently, is how machines do their best work.
After a moment, the thing starts to hum and glow. Miguel leans in toward the screen and types frantically, pausing toshake his head every so often. Eventually he looks at me. “Nothing. Not a peep from JMBorhis agent, and no updates from his assistant, either. I’m not sure what to do next. You have any ideas, Harold?”
He never used to talk to me like this; I was just a dog to him. I almost miss his blissfully ignorant days. I cock my head to indicate I’m thinking, which gets a tiny smile out of him. But then his lips tighten into a straight line. “I’ll have to keep brainstorming, and in the meantime come up with some cash. At this point, I doubt I could get a banker to lend me so much as a pen, but maybe I can sell the house,” he says, glancing around. “But then I’d have to find a rental that’d take you. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to sell by September—and how would I box up Amelia’s things when I can barely make myself go into her office?”
We both sigh.
Now, I like our house. I do. It’s a lovely little place with tiger-striped wood trim and a narrow staircase on the second floor that leads up to the attic, which Amelia turned into her writing space. Miguel joked it was a jungle because she had so many plants. But…like him, I don’t go up there anymore. I can’t. And the rest of the place feels cold and empty with her gone.
I swear I’m not trying to, but I must be giving him puppy dog eyes because he leans down and hugs me. “Sorry, Harold, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll always take care of you—promise.”
He’s going to take care ofme? That’s cute.
