Bloodlines

find discount, and she’ll go to the regular places and pay full price.”
    Beano! Have I lost you? Well, then, bingo! But that’s not what it’s called at the fairs in Maine, where we still use real beans, dried ones, of course, to cover the numbers on our cards. When it comes to dogs, I’ve learned to temper my competitive spirit, thus malamutes in obedience, but when I’m seated on one of those old wooden benches in a Maine beano tent with three cards lined up in front of me on the oilcloth and I put the fifth bean in place to complete that straight, winning line? Well, I’ll tell you, I’m a killer.
    “Beano!” I said out loud.
    Gloria looked mystified. “What?”
    “Nothing,” I said. “Never mind, Gloria, this is very helpful. You’re doing great. This is really helpful.” I quit leaning on the counter and began to zip up my yellow slicker. “So the first call was to Simms, right? And I bet the second one was to a guy named Rinehart.”
    “That’s what the papers say,” Gloria confirmed. “Her list and the, uh, order forms, I guess you call them.”
    “Simms and Rinehart,” I said. “I knew who they were, but I didn’t know what was going on. Now I do. Hey, Gloria? Thanks a whole lot. I think maybe you’ve done enough, okay? When Janice Coakley gets back, just tell her you’re allergic to dogs or something, or just don’t show up tomorrow.”
    “But, Holly—”
    “I know what’s going on, okay? I’ll explain it some other time. I’m going now. Janice Coakley’ll be back soon, and I want to get home. My dogs have been alone long enough.” Through the plate glass window, I could see that the rain had started up again. I pulled the hood of my slicker over my head.
    “Holly?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Don’t you want the, uh, papers? The list and—” I did a swift about-turn. Gloria was holding out a large manila envelope.
    “Don’t you want them?” Gloria’s voice was hurt and puzzled. “They’re just copies, but I thought... The Xerox machine was right there, and I thought... I couldn’t take them, because Mrs. Coakley would notice they were gone. So I just copied them. Isn’t that good enough?”
    I snatched the envelope from Gloria as eagerly as Rowdy and Kimi grab liver treats. I used my hand, of course. If I’d used my teeth the way the dogs do, Gloria would have lost a finger.
    “Good enough?” I told her. “It’s beautiful.”
    “Oh, and there’s one thing... About Mrs. Coakley?” Gloria’s face took on the condescension of youth for age. “She’s... This is sort of... You can tell she’s sort of in love with this guy.”
    “The old guy who—?”
    “No. This guy, Walter Simms. You can tell from how she says his name. She gets sort of smug sounding, like, ‘Walter’s bringing me some puppies tonight.’ Like that. It’s kind of cute, the way she says it, you know, ‘Walter.’ Like she’s bragging about her boyfriend. Is he?”
    “I have no idea,” I said.
    “It doesn’t matter,” Gloria said. “I was just kind of wondering.”
     

25
     

     
    I’d missed Rowdy and Kimi so much that when I returned home, I made the mistake of greeting them on bended knee. I ended up with a scratched chin, a sore nose, and a bruised jaw. Since winning the unconditional love of these two dogs, I have sustained more injuries than I received in all my pre-malamute years. Take it from someone with the scarred knees of a retired quarterback: If a happy malamute ever makes a mad dash toward you, flatten yourself against the nearest solid vertical object. I’ve been dragged down the back stairs three times, and before I learned never to walk malamutes in icy weather, I hit the sidewalk twice. Oh, and watch out: These dogs have skulls of steel. Knock heads with a malamute, and you see double for three days. You still think you want a malamute? Well, the breed boasts a few angels, but most mals will steal food, raid the trash, chase cats, kill livestock, and kiss the burglar. When mals are shedding, your house looks like the aftermath of a sheep-shearing contest, and, with the possible exception of all terriers, they are the world’s greatest diggers and the world’s worst obedience dogs. But as soul mates? As kindred spirits? As an intelligent companion in a partnership of equals, the Alaskan malamute is without peer.
    So I washed the scratch on my chin, forgave the dogs, let them out and in, fed them, admired them while they ate, and then made my way to the