On a warm Friday morning in April, Helene Baxter was out by the curb in front of her house on Dorchester Road, raking the sodden leaves from the perennials. Monday through Friday, except in the dead of winter or bad weather, Helene would be out there early in the day—inspecting, staking, weeding, picking beetles off the roses. Helene was a dedicated gardener. She was also dedicated to patrolling the corner of Dorchester and Charles.

Because of Helene’s persistence in hounding City Hall, it was now illegal, during the morning rush hour, for the savvy southbound driver to cut through the neighborhood in order to avoid the long stoplight on Charles Street. A sign had been posted, and the motorist could gaze at it while inching along in the rolling backup: No Right Turn on Dorchester Road, Mon. thru Fri. 7 AM to 10 AM. But of course, there were lawbreakers. And so, Helene had been on patrol for a year now, ever since First National Bank had downsized, forcing her into the retirement she wasn’t prepared for.

At first she had simply counted the cars and reported her findings to the police. But lately she had taken to flagging the lawbreakers down and scolding them. For the most part, the lawbreakers were nicely dressed business people, late for work and liars all. They would blink innocently through their car windows and feign ignorance of the sign they had just passed.

“Well, all right then,” Helene would say, as though it were actually in her power to let them off the hook; “Just make sure you don’t do it again.”

One morning a man in a red sports car had had the nerve to ignore Helene and keep right on going down Dorchester, well above the speed limit. She ran into the street after him, shaking her rake and yelling No right turn! and filled with wrath.

But surely one day the red sports car would return to slip out of that traffic moving sluggishly down Charles Street and into the dappled shade of Dorchester Road. Helene would be waiting behind her rose bushes. She’d get his license plate number.

As for the neighbors, they just looked the other way. They hadn’t cared so much about the shortcut-takers in the first place. Alice Wong across the street, for example, who was out there every morning, waiting for the school bus with her two little girls—Alice had seen the red car and Helene running after it, but she’d only slowly shaken her head, and afterwards hadn’t come over to chat with Helene after the school bus pulled away.

By eight-thirty on Friday morning Helene was tired of raking. She had a dull headache and wanted a cup of coffee. She tied up the leaf bag and dragged it over the grass toward the gate. From the other side of the fence came the piercing yelp of her neighbor Carmella’s new dog.

The new dog was a stray from the animal shelter. Helene had been surprised by his arrival—Carmella had always been fussy about her immaculate house and yard, and didn’t seem like the type who’d want a dog. But then again, maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising, because the dog had arrived not long after the boyfriend had departed. Helene had watched that happen through her bedroom window one Saturday morning—the boyfriend going back and forth, packing up his van, obviously moving out for good.

The new dog was small and black, with a white diamond on his forehead and two matching swirls of white on his behind. Helene had been told his name but couldn’t remember it. As she dragged the leaf bag along the fence, the dog followed her on the other side, barking all the way. Carmella had already left for work—had she left the dog to bark in the yard all day?

Two days earlier, when the dog was barking continually at Helene through the fence, Carmella had come out to get him. “I’m sorry, Helene,” she said, “He just wants to say hello. He’s not a mean dog.”

“I can see that,” Helene said; “I’m more worried about the bark than the bite.”

Apparently, the remark had hurt Carmella’s feelings. Her eyes filled with tears. She abruptly scooped the dog up and carried him inside.

Helene dumped the leaves in the compost bin and went into the kitchen to brew the coffee. The barking continued, more frantic than usual. And now the Wong’s dog was barking, too. She went to the front door and looked out. It was the meter reader—a young man talking into his phone, ambling across Helene’s lawn and then on up the street. Suddenly, peculiarly, Carmella’s dog was quiet.

She went to the dining room window: Carmella’s gate was open, the dog gone. It was then—in that moment before she went out to investigate—that she allowed herself to picture that little dog tearing out of the neighborhood, over the city line, out of her life forever. It was a pleasant thought, a relief.

She was halfway down the front walk, looking toward Carmella’s house, when she noticed the red car turning the corner and heading down Dorchester. She checked her watch: a quarter to nine. She took off running toward the street, waving her arms at the lawbreaker, only vaguely aware that at the same time something small and black was tearing along beside her. The red car screeched to a stop, the something small squealing as it disappeared under the carriage.

The red car wasn’t anything like the sports car Helene had chased the time before. In fact, it wasn’t exactly red, but maroon—a small, maroon sedan. The driver was not a man, but a young woman in a pale gray suit. Helene froze behind the rose bush while the young woman ran around the front of the car and got down on her knees in the street. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she wailed, “I’ve killed your dog.”

Helene couldn’t get her legs to move. She saw it again—Carmella’s little black dog tearing out of the neighborhood, over the city line, out her life forever.

The young woman was sobbing as she reached under the car.

Suddenly, Alice Wong was there. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said, getting down on her knees beside the young woman, putting a hand on her shoulder; “I saw the whole thing. He ran right in front of you.”

The mailman pulled up and jumped from his truck. He got down on his knees, too, and carefully pulled the dog out, “Here you go, buddy boy. Hang on there.” Miraculously, at the sound of the mailman’s voice, the dog began to scramble with his front legs.

“Thank God,” the young woman cried, scrambling to her feet.

“Take is easy now.” The mailman lifted the dog, carried him into Helene’s front yard, and laid him down in front of the iris bed. Helene couldn’t take her eyes off the white swirls on the limp behind. He had stopped the scrambling now, and was just lying still.

“Looks like he’s in shock,” Alice said, “Do you have a towel or something we could use to wrap him in, Helene?” They were all looking at her—Alice and the mailman and the stricken young woman. The dog lifted his head slightly, looking in her direction, too.

“Helene?” Alice said, “Are you alright?”

“I’ll get a towel,” Helene said, and headed up the walk.

“By any chance do you have Carmella’s number at work?” Alice called after her.

“I think maybe I do.” It came out barely a whisper, “I’ll look.”

She felt dangerously light going up the steps to the house. It was as though a dreadful power had just torn through the neighborhood, searching her out, slapping the wrath right out of her.

Lucky—the dog’s name came to her out of the blue. She remembered Carmella calling to him from the back door in her high-pitched voice. With all her heart she prayed she wouldn’t have to call Carmella, wouldn’t have to report that the little dog was gone.

 

Madeleine Mysko is the author of two novels, Bringing Vincent Home and Stone Harbor Bound, and a poetry collection, Crucial Blue. A past recipient of Individual Artist Awards in both poetry and fiction from the Maryland State Arts Council, she has taught writing for years, most recently at Goucher College.