The Barker Street Regulars

came through the big window bathed Althea’s face and made her look a hundred years old, but she was even more animated than usual, and crowed to Rowdy in a fashion that reminded me of her sister, Ceci. The cause of her excitement, I learned, was the prospect of a visit from her grandnephew, her late brother George’s grandson. Jonathan lived in St. Paul, Minnesota, where he taught mathematics at Macalester College. Jonathan’s father, George’s only child, had died a number of years before. Except for Ceci, Althea said, Jonathan was her only living relative. He had called on Wednesday. The call alone, I saw, had been a treat for Althea. Jonathan was arriving in Boston on Saturday, tomorrow, and would stay with Ceci. Althea was getting her hair done this afternoon, and her nails, too. “Not that it matters,” Althea commented, “but at my age, special occasions are to be treasured and are well worth a celebration.” Just how excited was Althea about Jonathan’s visit? She was so keyed up that she mentioned Sherlock Holmes only once, and the mention was no more than a passing allusion. Jonathan, she said with amusement, was interested in the binomial theorem, but she didn’t hold it against him.
    “Professor Moriarty?” I asked. Holmes’s archenemy, the criminal genius.
    “Ex-Professor Moriarty,” said Althea, but I could tell that she was pleased in spite of my little mistake.
    As I hope I’ve made clear, the visit had not a single premonitory or paranormal feature. If telepathic signals had been flashing, I might have failed to receive them. Animals, however, especially companion animals, are widely credited with psychic powers beyond those of mere human beings, and since Rowdy is an extraordinary dog in every earthly respect, I assume that he must also be able to hold his own against the competition when it comes to occult gifts. But his behavior was perfectly normal.
    After I’d wished Althea a good visit with her grand-nephew, I went back down to the third floor, let Rowdy say hi to a few new people, and spent a little time with Gus. Nancy still wasn’t in the corridor or the TV room, so we again made our way to 319. This time, the door was open. Long blue curtains were drawn around the bed near the door. I didn’t know the name of Nancy’s roommate, whose bed it was. I’d just seen her lying there looking weak, ill, and vacant. Whenever I’d spoken to her, even loudly and clearly, she hadn’t responded at all. I hadn’t persisted. If there’d been ten of Rowdy and ten of me, we’d probably still have shortchanged the people who could have benefited from a therapy dog. As it was, I reserved Rowdy for people like Nancy.
    Rowdy knew before I did. Instead of rushing brighteyed toward Nancy’s bed, he sized up the situation, turned around, and tried to head out the door. Her bed was not curtained off. It was stripped bare. Nancy’s bulletin board, identical to Helen’s and everyone else’s, showed only a random pattern of small holes left by the pins that had held up notices she hadn’t read and photographs she hadn’t looked at. Her water pitcher, her drinking glass, her box of tissues, and her other possessions were missing from her nightstand. The wide windowsill, identical to the one where Althea kept her Sherlockiana, held nothing and looked as if it had just been washed. Nancy owned two embroidered pillows that usually sat on the two chairs near her bed. The pillows were gone. So were Nancy’s two stuffed animals, a fuzzy dog of an unidentifiable breed and a gray squirrel that played a tune when you turned a key. Her wheelchair wasn’t there. I was as baffled as I’d have been if the Gateway had been a boarding school, a summer camp, or a college dormitory. Rowdy, who’d known immediately, pulled toward the door. I let him lead me to the corridor, where I stood in a daze for a few seconds until a man in white, a nurse, spotted me and asked, “Nancy?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    Lowering his voice, the man said gently, “Expired.” The word didn’t register; I simply did not understand it. “What?” I demanded.
    “Nancy expired this morning,” he said.
    Far too loudly, I said in amazement, “Nancy died ?” The man was kind. “She was ninety-three. She was very frail.”
    I signed out, returned my badge, and even managed to exchange a few words with the people in the lobby. Still reeling, I drove to Newton Corner and spent a miserable half hour in the dentist’s chair.