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203 pages, Hardcover
First published November 1, 1992
The women’s room in the Trailways station was a familiar, dreary place: the kind of public place you never think of when you’re away from it, but once you push open the door, step inside, you realize it has been there all along, waiting for you. The lipstick scrawls on the cinderblock walls, the mirrors specked with grime, stained sinks with hairs visible in the drains, stained toilets. I rushed in, steeling myself for some disagreeable sight or odor, and one of the mirrors showed me wild-looking in the face, damp eyes and a mouth that appeared lipless. I winced, looked away, refused to acknowledge myself before I was ready to be seen.
She fled, she returned home.
And she did telephone the SPCA. And the local police.
And whether they came to the woman’s house at the end of the dirt road and saved Shot from his misery, or made any difference at all in the dog’s life, she didn’t know; she kept her windows closed in the morning and kept her air-conditioning unit on. It was hot weather, in any case.
Often, she heard dogs barking. In the distance.
Any number of dogs. For the world was filled with barking dogs after all.
And then the murderer was arrested. And confessed. (A local man, a resident too of the welfare hotel.) And though Dennis Brewer was innocent (presumably) people continued to view him with a certain degree of suspicion. It was as if the man had been absorbed and been contaminated by evil as freshly laundered white sheets, hung out to dry, might absorb and be contaminated by polluted air. Even the children could not shake off the expectation, or was it the perverse unspoken hope, that their uncle Dennie had done something special – was something special. Though of course they knew better. As everyone knew better.