Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

Ruth. She shrugged her shoulders. “In all this time, she never once . . .”
    “She wanted us to write about something sad,” Will said. “So she said she’d tell us the saddest thing in her life to help us get started.”
    “Ms. Gordon said if you write down the things that bother you,” Bob said, “they won’t hurt your feelings as much as they used to. She said it helps to talk and write about things.”
    “She said it’s different, writing and talking,” Everett said. “She said they both help, but in different ways.“
    “And was that true for you? Did you write about something sad after she told you about her sister dying, and did it make you feel better?”
    “I wrote about being deaf,” Bob said. “But I still can’t hear.”
    Everett punched him in the arm. Then Will signed something to both of them and they put their backpacks on. “The bus is flashing its lights,” Ruth said. “They have to go”
    “There were no other relatives she mentioned?” I asked. They shook their heads.
    “Will you bring Bianca again?” Will asked. “I hardly had a chance to see her.”
    I looked at Ruth. She nodded.
    “Okay.”
    “And Blanche, too?”
    “And Blanche, too.”
    “We miss her. Ms. Gordon,” Everett said. “She was the best teacher I ever had.” Then all three boys headed for the bus.
    I looked at Ruth.
    “She never told you?”
    “Not a word.”
    “Does that make you feel worse?”
    “I’m not sure. She probably . . .”
    She knelt and began to pet Bianca. I could barely hear her when she spoke.
    “It was probably a kindness, the omission.”
    I watched her petting Bianca, not saying anything.
    “I’m heading downtown,” I said after she stood up. “Which way do you go?”
    “Oh, I have to go back inside. I don’t get off until four-thirty.”
    “Thank you for this, Ruth.”
    She nodded.
    “I was wondering, how many kids were in her class?“
    “Only twelve. And most of them stay for after-school programs.”
    “Will I be able to bring the bullies into her class one day before they’re . . . placed?”
    “I’m sure I can arrange that. Now that we’ve seen how three of the kids reacted to Bianca, I think it would be a very good idea.”
    “I’ll be in touch.”
    Bianca and I headed off and I decided that, before going home, I’d give the dog run one more shot. With so little other information, I was obsessed with finding Herbie. The run got crowded after three, and by the time I got there, it was jammed. I let Bianca off leash and started at one end, showing the picture of Herbie to each and every person there, asking the same question, over and over. It was the third time I’d canvased the run, the third time I’d asked people to stop their conversations or stop watching their dogs and look at the snapshot I’d found on my client’s refrigerator, held there with a little, white bone magnet, saved when it should have been tom up and pitched out, the third time I’d waited for a response, a what’s-it-to-you or a shake of the head, and, finally, when I got to the far end of the ran, just past the water bucket, someone said yes.

Chapter 18
    The Driver Began to Shake His Head

    Standing in the cavernous main room at Penn Station, waiting to be told which track my train would be on, I took the picture of Herbie out of my pocket again. I’d found him. In less than an hour, we’d be face-to-face.
    “Sure, I know him,” the dark young woman had said, her miniature schnauzer digging a hole under the bench.
    “You do? Terrific.”
    “That’s Herbie Sussman. But you won’t see him here anymore. He and Murray moved to Metuchen.”
    “New Jersey?”
    “Yeah. That’s what I told him. ‘What’re you leaving the city and moving to New Jersey for?’ It’s crazy, don’t you think?” She had what my mother used to call “dirty blond” hair, uncombed looking, as if she’d been in a rush, pulled back with a purple elastic. She was wearing gray sweatpants and an oversize top. She hadn’t bothered to put on
    makeup. “The city,” she said, “is where it’s at. I don’t get it. But he went, ‘Murray and I are moving to New Jersey. Now do you want my address or not?’ You know Herbie.”
    “Murray’s his dog?” I asked.
    “Oh,” she said, squinting up at me. I took the seat next to her, glancing over at the dogs, then looking back at her, the picture of Herbie still in her hand. “Then you don’t know him, Herbie?”
    “Not actually, but I