Black Ribbon

John R.B., her husband, was, and Cam said he was fine, thank you.
    “Not here?” asked Don, draping an arm around a startled-looking Phyllis.
    “He couldn’t get away.”
    “Hasn’t got dogs on the brain, huh?” Don remarked.
    I examined the back of Cam’s neck to see whether her short-clipped hair was rising. Neither it nor her face revealed any response. “Like I said, he couldn’t get away.” Her fingers slowly curled into tight fists.
    Don turned to me. “Great guy, John R.B. I knew his father. Gracious old gentleman.”
    With a nod of approval, Phyllis seconded Don: “Very nice dogs.”
    “English setters,” Don told me.
    Phyllis frowned.
    “Pointers,” Cam said. “R.B. had pointers. Elizabeth still does.”
    At the mention of Elizabeth, whom I presumed to be the widow of Richard Burton White, I could practically see the word gracious start to form on Don Abbott’s lips. I looked down at my plate, on which remained a half slice of chocolate cake and a big blob of sinking whipped cream that I was sav-lng for last. I felt tempted to mention my father, Buck, who has somehow managed to keep a remarkable number of friends at the AKC and whom the Abbotts probably knew as well. I almost did it, just as an experiment. There are lots of adjectives to be applied to my sire, but no honest man could call Buck gracious. I resisted.
    “Elizabeth,” Don said. “Gracious lady. Lovely family,” he informed me. “R.B. had a farm in Connecticut, gentleman’s farm, stables, kennels, twenty-room house, entertained all the time. Course, John R.B.’s kept up the tradition—nice little place he and Cam have. Phyllis and I both admired what they’ve done with it.”
    If Cam had been a long-pointy-nails type, the palms of her hands would have been oozing blood. She thanked Don, rose from her seat, and politely prepared to bolt. She’d been up since four A.M., she said; it had been a long day, and she was going to bed. As the Abbotts must have known, Cam was the kind of dog person who thinks nothing of driving eight hours to a show, and once there, spends the whole weekend catching up with people, showing her dogs, and making the rounds of the vendors’ booths, and wastes hardly a moment on sleep before driving eight hours home. When no one challenged her white lie, I offered a legitimate version of the same excuse: I really was tired. In the lobby, the Abbotts lingered to talk with Eric Grimaldi. Cam and I walked back to the cabins together.
    The night air revived me, and in any case, Rowdy needed a final outing before bed. I leashed him and, after a stroll and cleanup, wandered toward the lake, where the broad white path of beckoning moonlight made Apollo II seem like a total waste of time: Swim till you smell green cheese. Rowdy and I clambered down the slope to the dock. I had no intention of violating the ban on night swimming by heading for the moon or even by taking a quick skinny dip; I just wanted to dabble my feet from the end of the dock. As I led a reluctant Rowdy over the wooden boards, my shoes and the pads of his feet thumped the dock. Far out on the lake, a loon suddenly laughed. The freakish yodel echoed over the water.
    When we reached the end of the dock, the last echo died. A soft splashing took its place. Someone was swimming a steady breast stroke across the little cove toward the dock. Swimming alone really is dangerous, especially after dark. The swimmers most at risk are those made overconfident by natural buoyancy and long practice. The steady stroke, powerful kick, and smooth timing were the ineradicable marks of hours of drill for competitive swimming. I took off my shoes and socks, sat down, and stuck my feet in the cold water. Rowdy whined. “Settle down,” I told him. He lowered his body, rested his chin on the dock, and glowered at me. My belief in the buddy system was one thing I couldn’t explain to a creature who’d never voluntarily enter water either alone or in the company of a dozen lifeguards. I stroked Rowdy’s head and watched the water. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if the swimmer suddenly vanished. Scream for help? The time I’d taken Red Cross lifesaving, I’d flunked out by towing the pretend victims to the bottom of the pool.
    Within a few minutes, the swimmer surged close to us, threw out a hand, and grabbed the dock. As I scrambled out of the way, a woman’s round-bellied body in a dark tank suit rose from the lake.
    “Whew! Caught breaking my own