As dog and handler disappeared through the walkway and up the steps to street level, Morgan said, “He’s an olfactory psychic, you know. He can smell the past. It’s not his job to make any sense of it.”
“What’s this all about?” Miranda asked when she realized he wasn’t going to volunteer an explanation for testing Rex or McGillivery — she wasn’t sure which.
“What?”
“Don’t be coy, Morgan. The business about walking on bodies that aren’t there. It’s all a bit eerie.”
“I was just wondering. It’s something I’ve been reading.”
“You’ve been reading?”
“Griffin’s notes. The dog grasped the situation, but the words were irrelevant. He obeyed ‘Rumpelstiltskin,’ he obeyed me. It wasn’t the words. He smelled death. He knew from his training not to intrude.”
“And?”
“Griffin was right.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“He’s a nice guy,” Miranda said, meaning McGillivery. “Nice dog. Why would you name a dog Rex? What about Lassie or Rin Tin Tin? What about Prince?”
“I said that.”
“What?”
“Prince. Seventeen percent of American dogs are called Prince. That’s thirty-four percent of the males.”
“Did you make that up?”
“Nope. Eleven percent are called Rex, six percent are called Rusty. Of the males.”
“What’s the most popular name for a bitch? Ellen?”
“Six percent. Did you know that forty-seven and a half percent of statistics are bogus. His real name is Schnitzel.”
“Who?”
“Rex. That’s what they call him at home.”
“Schnitzel? I wonder what his registered name is?”
“Schwangau’s Baron von Schnitzelgruber. He calls himself Dog.”
“How do you know that?”
“We communed. Some dogs have four names. Fish and cats only have three. I took him for a swim in the pool.”
“You didn’t.”
“His idea. And in the process of nearly drowning he told me his name was Dog. That was his final message to the world. Did you know males can’t climb over ice ledges or walls? Their penises get caught.”
“I didn’t know that. I’m lucky. I don’t have a penis.”
“You’re not a dog.”
“Dogs, oh. Told you I’m lucky.”
They sat on the low retaining wall, and Miranda produced the gourmet sandwiches. The coffee was cold, but the sandwiches, which cost more than dinner for six at McDonald’s, were crumpled, with roast beef and bean sprouts and crusty whole-wheat bread and horseradish mustard from a family recipe passed down through millennia.
“I bought the sandwiches at the Robber Barons. As long as we’re hanging out in Rosedale, we might as well take advantage.” She fished around in her purse, withdrew a wrinkled bag, and announced, “Petit pain au chocolat for dessert.”
They spread out their lunch on the stone between them, amused by the fish that converged at the surface, begging for crumbs.
“Did you feed them?” she asked.
“Yeah, when I got here.”
“I called Mr. Nishimura.”
“Who?”
“Your friend from the koi place. He’s on his way down.”
While they ate, she told him about Jill. She had informed Children’s Services but insisted she would take responsibility herself, for the time being, as long as Victoria, the live-in, was there. Jill trusted Victoria. The girl asked about a funeral. She knew there had to be arrangements. She wasn’t sure how to do it. She didn’t think anyone would come to a funeral. She was on record as Elizabeth Jill Bray. She was born in Toronto. No father listed, no next of kin. Molly Bray was born in a crossroads village up past Elora. Detzler’s Landing. A general store, a mill, and a post office at the back of a service station. Miranda had driven by but never stopped in, cutting north from Waterloo County to cottage country to visit friends.
“How on earth do you know these places?” Morgan asked. “I’ve never heard of Detzler’s Landing. Must be on a river, on its own little lake with a name like that. I’m city. I know Canada from one end of Toronto to the other.”
Morgan waited for a laugh, and she complied. She had heard it before.
“Old Sunnyside in the west to the Beach down east,” he continued. “Everyone calls it the Beaches, but it was always the Beach. North to Steeles Avenue. Yonge Street, the longest street in the world. And to the south the lake — no, the United States. That’s where the world was real.”
He still had her attention. Now that they were alone she wanted to talk, but needed even more to listen to his familiar words, his voice. She didn’t want to talk until she was ready.
“Living here,” he said, “it was like being a smudge on a giant balloon, and inside the balloon was the United States of America, and we couldn’t get in. We could peer through from the surface, but we couldn’t get in. So when I finished university, did I go to the States? No, I went to Europe, and do you know why?”
“Because you couldn’t get in without bursting the bubble?”
“I have no idea why. I am not American, but I needed to get away. I am American, and I needed to get away.”
“You were reading too much Samuel Beckett.”
“They don’t know they’re inside the bubble-balloon.”
“I’ve never felt very Canadian,” she said. “No patriot fervour, no national angst. Nationalism is like a bad dye job. It’s probably better if your roots are showing.”
“And I felt badly for stretching a metaphor! Let’s take a run up to Detzler’s Landing tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s take the Jag.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s … okay, let’s take the Jag.”
“Okay.”
“Do you think I’m going grey?”
“Let’s see. No, some lovely pale highlights.” He tousled her hair.
They ate for a while, quietly, old friends having a picnic. Morgan watched her watching the fish. He felt he had been unfaithful. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, he wanted to be “masculine” and protect her, and he knew if he tried she would laugh at the cliché and say he was the one who needed looking after. Then he would laugh and say something about women who nurtured, and they would both sputter into embarrassed silence.
So he said nothing and she, feeling she would love to lean against him in the midday sun, said nothing. She felt strong with him; the revelations of the previous night were gradually integrating into a coherent emotional pattern.
He felt sad, not for what he had done, but for the distance between them, and for the closeness, and for how the two didn’t seem to resolve.
As if she were reading his mind, she asked, “Did you go home with Ellen last night.”
“Yes,”