Rachel Alexander 02 - The Dog who knew too much

because someone might see you and challenge you.”
    That seemed a remote possibility to me where we were. The Greenwich Village waterfront was a gay pickup area, especially after dark. People came here to make love, not war.
    “I was just going out for a bite to eat. You feel like some food, or a beer?” I asked him, never one to let a serendipitous opportunity slip through my fingers.
    “Well, if—” he said, looking like one of those Fresh Air Fund kids seeing trees for the first time.
    “Sure you do,” I told him. “I know a great place. Dylan Thomas used to drink there. Of course, where didn’t he used to drink?”
    Stewie smiled his nervous smile. I took that as a yes and led the way. Ten minutes later we were seated at a booth at Chumley’s , drinking beer, Dashiell lying under the table on my feet.
    “So I was working as a carpenter, making cabinets, fixing things,” Stewie said, continuing the story of his life he had begun as we’d crossed West Street, “living in Ohio of all places, and I’m not exactly happy, but I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life. I’m all of twenty then.” He flashed me his tense little smile again. Like a lot of shy people, once he felt it was okay to talk, there was no stopping him, which was just fine with me.
    “So one night,” he continued, “I go to sleep and I have this dream that I’m walking in the woods and I meet an ancient man, right, and we begin to talk, we just sit on the ground and talk, and he says he’s going to tell me the secret of life, right? Just like in all those shaggy dog jokes, you know, life is a bowl of cherries, those jokes? But when I wake up, I know he told me the secret, but I can’t remember what it was. Jesus, I thought. Maybe I can go back to sleep and ask him again. But then I thought, No, you can’t do that, if someone tells you the secret of life, you can’t go back to them and tell them you forgot it, right?”
    I laughed and tried to look fascinated. “So what happened then?” I asked.
    “Get this, Rachel. I’m sitting there and I’m really depressed, and then I think, No big deal, I’ll have to find it out for myself.”
    “Wonderful,” I said, thinking this guy would be talking to a lamppost if he hadn’t run into me, the way this stuff was pouring out of him. His last conversation was probably when he ran into Adam and Eve as they were leaving the garden.
    “And that was the beginning,” he said. I sipped my beer, and our food arrived. “That’s how I found t’ai chi.” He sat back, nodding, really pleased with himself. “You take a lot on faith here,” he said. “It’s too dark to see what you’re eating.”
    He had ordered the vegetarian chili. I had gotten a bacon burger, the bacon and the beef so rare it must have been only moments since they had their own dinner. It didn’t occur to me until the first delicious bite that the sight of a fresh kill might offend Stewie . On the other hand, on my list of things to worry about, offending vegetarians doesn’t even show up.
    “How long after the dream did you come to New York ?” I asked, hoping to catch up to the present before arthritis set in.
    “There was this girl I met, said she was moving to California , so I went out there, too. But I had to wait about six weeks after she left, to finish up the jobs I had started. And when I got to where she said she’d be, she wasn’t there.” He took a spoonful of his chili. “I tried to find her, and when I couldn’t, well, I was out of money by then, so I stayed anyway, and that’s when I began to study t’ai chi. It was really popular out there. The yellow pages were full of schools .“
    “How did you end up in New York ?”
    “I met this guy who was out on the coast on vacation, and he was taking classes where I studied t’ai chi. People do that all the time, if they’re serious. They don’t take vacation from going to class. And after rounds one evening, I overheard him talking to another student, about the school he studied at in New York , and he started to talk to him about Avi . Two months later I was in New York . And two weeks after that I was working for the welfare department and studying t’ai chi on Bank Street , living in Greenwich Village .”
    “What about the carpentry?” I asked, noticing how rough and stained his hands were. “Do you still do that?”
    “Why? Do you need some work done?”
    “I might,” I said.
    “I still make