Part 76 (1/2)

”What happened to your face, Vanessa?”

She turned it up to me as we walked. ”Pretty, huh?” She shook her head and the tangled hair fell in her face. ”I never saw him. The guy who did it. Never saw him.” She yanked the leash in her hand. ”Come on, Clarence. Keep up.”

We were in Cambridge, along the Charles. Twice a week, Vanessa taught a law cla.s.s at Radcliffe. I'd been dating her when she was offered the job, and was initially surprised she'd accepted it. The stipend Radcliffe paid wouldn't cover her annual dry cleaning bill, and it wasn't like she needed more work. She'd jumped at it, though. Even with all her other work, the part-time teaching offer had validated something in her she couldn't completely articulate, and besides, she got to take Clarence into the cla.s.sroom with her and have it chalked up as the eccentricity of a brilliant mind.

We'd walked down Brattle from her cla.s.sroom and crossed over the river to let Clarence run wild for a bit on the gra.s.s. Vanessa hadn't spoken for a long time. She'd been busy smoking.

When we began working our way west along the jogging path, she finally began to speak. We made slow progress because Clarence stopped to sniff every tree, chew every fallen branch, lick every discarded coffee cup or soda can. The squirrels, seeing he was on a leash, started f.u.c.king with him, darting in far closer than they'd normally dare, and I swear one smiled when Clarence lunged only to be jerked back against his leash, fell to the gra.s.s on his belly, and covered his eyes with his paws as if humiliated by it all.

Now, though, we'd left the squirrels behind, and he simply dawdled, chewing gra.s.s like a calf, while Vanessa was having none of it.

”Clarence,” she snapped, ”here!”

Clarence looked at her, seemed to acknowledge the command, then started walking the other way.

Vanessa clenched the leash in her hand and seemed ready to yank back so hard she'd decapitate the dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

”Clarence,” I said in a firm, normal tone I'd heard Bubba use a thousand times with his dogs, and then I followed it with a whistle. ”Here, boy. Stop f.u.c.king around.”

Clarence trotted over to us and then fell into step a few feet ahead of Vanessa, his little b.u.t.t wiggling like a Parisian hooker's on Bastille Day.

”How come he listens to you?” Vanessa said.

”He can hear the tension in your voice. It's making him nervous.”

”Yeah, well, I got reason to be tense. He's a dog, what's he got to be tense about-missing a nap?”

I put a hand on the back of her neck, kneaded the muscles and tendons between my fingers. It was as stiff and gnarled back there as one of the tree trunks.

Vanessa let out a long breath. ”Thanks.”

I kneaded the flesh some more, felt it starting to loosen a bit. ”Keep going?”

”As long as you can.”

”You got it.”

She gave me a tiny smile. ”You'd be a good friend, Patrick. Wouldn't you?”

”I am your friend,” I said, not sure it was true, but then, sometimes just saying something plants the seed that allows it to become truth.

”Good,” she said. ”I need one.”

”So this guy who hit you?”

Hard pebbles sprouted under the skin at the back of her neck again.

”I was walking up to the door of a coffee shop. He was apparently waiting on the other side. The door was smoked gla.s.s. He could see out. I couldn't see in. Just as I reached for the door, he slammed it open into my face. Then he just hopped over me as I was lying on the pavement and walked away.”

”Witnesses?”