Rachel Alexander 04 - Lady Vanishes

over in a big way. Jackson didn’t even blink. I told him my name, then Dashiell’s. He never moved.
    I waited some more. I didn’t mind the waiting. Having done this work for years, I was used to it. Sometimes you could sit with someone for a long time, and nothing discernible would happen. But the dog was there, and somehow, sometimes—no one knew quite how—that helped them forge a path from their shut-off world to the larger world they didn’t trust, didn’t quite understand. If I was patient, even if I didn’t see anything change, sometimes it did. Then next time, or the time after, there might be some communication, or some action. They might pet Dashiell. Or they might just be less tense, less fearful.
    This time, with the case on my mind and so little to go on, I was too antsy to sit around as if I, too, were in a semi-catatonic state.
    “How about if you turn your chair around,” I said, figuring, what the hell, it was worth a try, “and I’ll show you some neat stuff Dashiell can do. Would you like that, Jackson?”
    To my utter surprise, Jackson turned his chair, and keeping my promise, I showed him how Dashiell works on voice commands, hand signals, and whistle signals. I did mostly ordinary stuff—sit, stay, lie down, come, some silent distance work, the seek-back—no big thing for me and Dashiell, but for someone whose life was contained year after year in one building—the world going by without him, hemlines going up and down, sitcoms appearing and getting canceled, books making the list or being remaindered—for this man who lived as if he were being punished for some wrongdoing he could no longer remember, who was virtually in jail, if he were able to concentrate on what was before him, Dashiell’s demonstration of basic obedience might have seemed as thrilling as the first time you see fireworks, your father saying, That one’s called spaghetti, or Look, goldfish, your mother’s favorite, the sky lit up gold and white, your hand in your father’s hand, safe and warm.
    When I released Dash, he went right back to where he’d been, his chin on Jackson’s knee, soulful eyes looking up.
    For a moment, Jackson remained as he was. So much for that, I thought, and then, watching him staring at the wall, I found myself wondering why, if so many of these people did that, was the wall blank, just a solid sheet of color, when it could be so much more interesting?
    But then it happened, something that made me forget all about a mural for the dining room. Jackson stood. Until then, I hadn’t quite realized how tall he was—well over six feet, maybe even six-two or -three. When I looked into his eyes, Jackson was home, looking back at me.
    “He wants to run,” he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper, but his enunciation clear.
    I clipped on Dashiell’s leash and held the handle out for Jackson. He took the leash and began to lope around the perimeter of the dining room, his long legs reaching out, covering distance with astonishing leaps. I looked around to see if anyone else was as surprised as I was, but no one was giving the moment a bit of attention, as if it were perfectly ordinary for this quiet, skinny old man to take a big dog twice around the dining room, as if it happened on a daily basis.
    When he returned with Dashiell, face flushed, he kept hold of the leash.
    “I want to do what you did.”
    “Go for it,” I said, not exactly sure what he meant, but figuring, something happening is always better than nothing happening, as long as the something was benign and not violent.
    Jackson, copying my hand signals perfectly, got Dashiell to sit, lie down, stay, come, and heel. That was when I’d heard it, a choking noise from somewhere behind me. When I turned, it was Venus, standing in the doorway of the dining room, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands.
    At first, I thought something must be wrong. But when I turned back to Jackson, I didn’t see what it could be. He was trying the seek-back, taking a clean folded handkerchief from his pocket, dropping it, walking Dashiell away, then sending him back for the handkerchief with one long, low whistle, the way I’d done with my keys, remembering everything I’d done, exactly as I’d done it, except for this one innovation. I hadn’t had a handkerchief. And Jackson certainly didn’t have a set of keys.
    “That was wonderful ,” I said, clapping my hands, meaning it sincerely. “You did a great job.”
    Jackson