Rachel Alexander 02 - The Dog who knew too much

across the afternoon sky.
    Under each picture of me, there was one of Lisa, sometimes two or three—Lisa walking in the Village, talking on the phone, walking her Akita, at her window late at night. Lisa, that little braid in her long curly hair, a smile on her pretty face, walking arm in arm with Paul. And in the pile of prints near the enlarger, me with Paul and Dashiell, and Paul leaving the Printing House alone.
    The last two photos in the pile were pictures of me. In one I was leaving Lisa’s building, Dash at my side, carrying a bunch of roses, twelve of them to be exact. And in the last, I was tossing those same roses into the trash basket on the comer. He must have used highspeed , professional film; every petal was in focus.
    T’ai chi had certainly taught Stewie Fleck patience. No hunter had more successfully captured his prey.
    I listened for a moment and, hearing nothing, opened the door and looked out into the dimly lit hallway. I shut the light, locked the door, and dropped the key in front of it, pushing it as close to the sill as possible with my foot. Then Dashiell and I moved quickly and quietly out of the basement and out of Stewie Fleck’s building, blinking when we emerged into the comparatively fresh, clean, bright air of Bedford Street .
    Unused to the light, I didn’t see him leaning against the building, just to the side of the door, until he’d actually grabbed my arm.

32

“Rachel,” He Said

    “RACHEL,” HE SAID, surprised, but not half as surprised as I was, “what are you doing here?”
    He looked pleased, the fool.
    “I came to see you,” I said, “to see if you were here, you know , if you felt like a beer or something.” God bless adrenaline. “I didn’t even see you standing here. I must have passed right by you,” I said, thinking no one, not even a vegetarian, could be stupid enough to believe that lie.
    “I didn’t see you either,” he said, frowning. “I must have been looking the other way.”
    “So, how about it?”
    Stewie looked lost in thought.
    “A beer? My treat.”
    “A beer? Oh, no, I can’t. I’m waiting for the locksmith. I lost my keys somewhere. I’m locked out.”
    “Bummer,” I said, his keys as heavy as an anvil in my jacket pocket. Dashiell was sitting now, and I reached down to touch his head, for my own comfort as much as his.
    “You’re wearing it,” Stewie said suddenly.
    I looked at him and followed his eyes down to my wrist. Then I lifted my arm, as if I were about to do Push Hands, or defend myself from a blow, and Stewie’s hand closed around the silver heart.
    “It was Lisa’s,” I said.
    “But I never saw her wear it,” Stewie said.
    “No,” I told him, “I don’t think she ever did. It was still in the little bag from Tiffany’s, brand-new, not a scratch on it. It’s so beautiful,” I said, “such an extravagant gift. I thought someone should wear it.”
    Stewie beamed at me. “Yes,” he said.
    And that’s when I thought of a Chinese proverb I’d found in one of Lisa’s books. He who asks a question is a fool for five minutes; he who doesn’t ask a question remains a fool forever.
    So I asked.
    “Did she write that note to you, Stewie ?”
    He dropped the heart and I dropped my arm, putting my hand back on Dashiell’s head. Stewie took a step to the side, away from me. “What do you mean?”
    “What happened, Stew? Did you tell her you loved her, that it was you sending the flowers, not Paul, that you’d sent the bracelet, hoping that since Paul was no longer in the picture—”
    “No!”
    “What did she say, Stewie ? Did she laugh at you?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “I think you do, Stewie . I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
    “I don’t. I don’t know.”
    “There’s something you want to tell me now, isn’t there ?“
    “You’re out of your mind,” he said, a little on the loud side.
    I felt Dashiell’s head move. He was looking at Stew now, too. “You don’t know what you’re saying. I never—”
    But he didn’t get the chance to finish, because that’s when the locksmith arrived, and I wasn’t sure if I should be annoyed or grateful, because it was pretty quiet on Bedford Street and Stewie Fleck was looking more than a little bit crazy.
    “Mr. Fleck?” He was carrying a metal toolbox, and the patch on his navy blue work shirt said “Hudson Hardware.”
    “That’s me,” Stewie told him.
    “Too bad we couldn’t have