Gaits of Heaven

herself at the computer in the hope that I have stored my password and that she will thus be able to read my e-mail without having to bother trying the guesses from her mental list of likely bets: Rowdy, Kimi, Sammy, malamute, 256Concord, DogsLife, our phone number, my license plate number, and so forth, all of which, I might add, would have been wrong. As it turns out, my password is stored, so she doesn’t have to guess at all.
    The rules of Netiquette, I might mention, typically concern the form, content, and tone of the messages the sender composes. If you WRITE EVERYTHING IN CAPITAL LETTERS, the message will look as if you’re SHOUTING. In posts to e-mail lists, avoid obscenities and personal attacks. Remember that e-mail doesn’t convey tone of voice, so if you don’t want comments made in jest to be taken seriously, put in a smiley face or say that you are just kidding. Why do the rules fail to lay down as law the taboo that Caprice is now violating? Because they shouldn’t have to, that’s why. The rules of civilized conduct were written a long time ago, and it doesn’t take a Harvard education to figure out that if you’re a guest in someone’s house, you’re damned well not supposed to take advantage of her absence to read her e-mail.
    Fair is, however, fair. As payback for her act of ungrateful snooping, Caprice sees before her on the screen of my computer about ten gazillion messages devoted to one single subject, the subject being, of course, dogs, dogs, and more dogs. Pack animal that I am, I subscribe to the list for members of the Cambridge Dog Training Club, to lists about Alaskan malamutes, and to lists for dog writers and dog trainers. Since all the other subscribers are pack animals, too, and are therefore given to frequent woofing and wooing and yapping, the lists are very active, and Caprice has the chance to read message after message that has nothing to do with me and can be of no interest to her. Indeed, she doesn’t even bother to read the list mail. She does, however, come upon a piece of personal e-mail that she opens and reads.
     
Subject: Cartoonbank.com E-card from Steve
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
 
You’ve just been sent an E-card from Steve, care of Cartoonbank.com, the Internet’s premier cartoon Web site and source for New Yorker cartoons.
     
    There follows a hyperlink that takes Caprice to an E-card meant only for me. It shows a Booth cartoon from the New Yorker depicting a man seated at a typewriter in the midst of scruffy, disoriented-looking canines. The caption, spoken by the lady of the house is, “Write about dogs.” To the right of the cartoon is what E-card sites always call the “personalized greeting.” This one reads: “Dear Holly, I love you. From Steve.” When Caprice finishes with my e-mail, she carefully marks the Cartoonbank message as unread. She would have been welcome to read messages from the lists to which I subscribe. But Steve’s message is personal. It is private. Or it should have been. Steve and I make a little game of sending each other New Yorker dog cartoon E-cards with love notes. We order the same cartoons on T-shirts when we want presents for each other. We are united by dogs and laughter and love. And our union is none of Caprice’s business.
     

CHAPTER 18
     
    At five-thirty on Thursday afternoon, Monty Brainard called Caprice on her cell phone to say that he was flying in from New York for Eumie’s memorial service. Leah and I were with her in the kitchen when she got the call, which was brief.
    “You don’t have to,” she said. “I mean—” After listening, she said, “It’s okay. Really. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you there. I love you.” And then, “Bye.”
    “My father’s coming,” she announced with a smile of relief. “Holly, you really don’t have to go. I won’t be there alone.”
    “We’re both going,” Leah said.
    “Please! Leah, it’ll be gross. Please don’t. Ted will pretend she’s there in spirit. He’ll speak to her.”
    “I can handle that,” Leah said.
    “It would be embarrassing to have you hear it. Please."
    Leah conceded. In case Caprice tried to discourage me, too, I shifted the conversation to another topic. “We need to get organized. Caprice, you have your appointment with Dr. Zinn at six, don’t you? Steve will be home any minute, and he’ll be going to dog training. Leah, are you going with him?”
    “I’ll take