Bride & Groom

desire to rid my house of the evidence of the dogs’ misdeed. Reality aside, I liked seeing Rowdy and Kimi through Jack London eyes; the green garbage bag reflected an image of trash hounds that jarred with my treasured picture of Arctic nobility. Also, with the green trash bag in one of the barrels under the back steps to the house, Steve would never have to know what bad dogs Rowdy and Kimi had been and what a careless idiot I’d been to let them get in trouble.
    “This is going to take two seconds,” I called to the dogs. “I’m practically not going out at all. I’ll be right back.”
    As if to demonstrate just that, I didn’t put my rain parka back on, but picked up the trash bag, passed through the little back hall, opened the outer door, and considered dropping the bag over the railing so that it would land next to the barrels. But I didn’t. For one thing, Steve might’ve seen it when he came home. For another, although we have very few loose dogs around here, we do have a few raccoons and occasional possums and other wild animals that raid trash; I had no desire to clean the same mess off the driveway that I’d just finished removing from the kitchen floor. And the rain had now changed to mist; I wouldn’t even get wet. Besides, the original outside lights in combination with the new ones that Steve had installed meant that it was anything but dark outside. Clutching the bag, I ran down the back steps, yanked the lid off a barrel, deposited the trash, and put the lid back on.
    That’s when I heard the noise. It came from alarmingly nearby. Worse, it originated in a place where almost no one ever went and where no one belonged: the narrow strip of earth between my house and the low fence that separated my property from my Concord Avenue neighbor’s. In contrast to the fenced yard on the opposite side of my house, this little passageway was about the width of a footpath. I kept it clear of weeds, but otherwise took no care of it and used it only as a place to rest a ladder when I painted or washed windows. Running as it did from Concord Avenue to the end of my driveway, it wasn’t a shortcut; no one but me used it at all.
    When I say “noise,” I don’t mean a loud one. On the contrary, the sound was soft and muffled, as if someone lurking just around the corner of my house had taken a single step on the wet ground or had perhaps shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Ordinarily, I’d have ignored the sound; I wouldn’t have investigated its origin or called out to ask who was there. In this extraordinary time of fear, I heard the sound as furtive and threatening. Feeling guilty and stupid for ignoring the warnings, I made a panicked run up the back steps and went hurtling indoors. Once inside my cozy kitchen, I caught my breath, double-checked the locks on all the doors and windows, and freed Rowdy and Kimi from their crates. If Kevin Dennehy had been at home, I’d probably have asked him to take a look around, but I knew that he’d had a date with his girlfriend, Jennifer, and I knew that his car wasn’t in his driveway. As to dialing 911, Kevin had told me all about people who pestered the police by summoning officers to chase down and arrest what turned out to be tree limbs rubbing against roofs or paper bags blowing in the wind; I had no intention of becoming such a person.
    “But,” I told Rowdy and Kimi, “I did not imagine that sound. I really did hear something. And you know as well as I do that no one ever goes on that side of the house. Something was there. Or someone. I would really like to know who. Or what. And I would like to know whether it’s still there.”
    With that, I turned off the lights in the rooms with windows facing the passageway: the living room and kitchen. Feeling ridiculous, I then moved from window to window, stopping at each to peer out at what was, as far as I could see, the usual vacant strip of property.
    “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you two to bark when there’s someone outside,” I said. “I don’t actually like barking, and I hate pointless yapping, but I wouldn’t mind an occasional woof when the situation calls for one.” The dogs, being mala-mutes, wagged their tails. “And this situation does, or at least did, warrant a woof because... hey, let me tell you something. You know how people are always saying, ‘I’m not the imaginative type? Well, I am the imaginative type, and that’s the reason I’ve had to get good at