Far-Flung by Peter Cameron Read Free Book Online Page A

couple of days.”
    “I don’t think so,” said Langley.
    “Why not?” he asked.
    “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m just, you know, going through a lot of stuff right now, and I want to get it sorted out.”
    “What stuff?”
    “Just stuff. Life stuff, work stuff.” She paused. “Love stuff.”
    “About me?”
    “Bingo,” Langley said.
    “What’s the problem?”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” said Langley. “I don’t even know that there is a problem. I’m just thinking about it.”
    “Well, can’t you think about it on Fishers Island?”
    “Baby, listen, call me when you get back to L.A. We’ll talk about it then.”
    “You don’t think we should talk about it now?”
    “No. Have fun. Paint well.”
    “Wait,” he said. “Don’t hang up.”
    “What?” said Langley.
    “Listen,” he said.
    “I’m listening,” Langley said.
    “I don’t want to lose you,” he said.
    Langley didn’t say anything.
    “I don’t want to lose you,” he repeated.
    “That’s funny,” Langley said.
    “Why?”
    Langley made a small noise that could either have been the beginning of a laugh or a sob.
    “What’s funny?” he asked.
    “Nothing, really.”
    “Have I already lost you?”
    “Maybe,” Langley said. “A little.”
    “Listen, I’ll come back tomorrow. I can paint the house later this summer.”
    “No,” said Langley. “Paint it now. I told you I have stuff to think about. It’s O.K. I’ll be here when you come back.”
    “Well, don’t think about anything till I get there.”
    “I’m a smart girl,” Langley said. “I can’t promise you that.”
    The next day Jack took a train to New London and rented a car and rode the ferry over to Fishers Island. He drove out to Benders Bay and parked at the end of the long, sandy driveway, and looked up at the house, which stood on a bluff above the water. It had not been changed. The lilacs were blooming. There was a strong breeze from the sea and it blew some lavender blossoms across the windshield. Jack closed his eyes. He could smell the lilacs and the salt water and the heat. He remembered a time when he and his grandmother had been playing Scrabble on the terrace. He could remember the same fragrant hot wind, and how every now and then they would have to lean forward, shelter the board, and place their hands over the intricately arranged tiles, so that their words would not blow away.
    He got out of the car and assembled his easel and supplies at a point in the road where the house was best silhouetted against the sky. As he began drawing, a woman appeared on the terrace and looked down at him curiously. She began to walk down the driveway, and Jack thought of the questions she was bound to ask him—Who are you? What are you doing here? Why are you painting this house? He put down his piece of charcoal, and tried to think of some answers.

THE SECRET DOG
    W HEN MY WIFE, M IRANDA, finally falls asleep, I get out of bed and stand for a moment in the darkness, making sure she won’t awaken. Miranda is a sound sleeper: Life exhausts her. She lies in bed, her arms thrown back up over her head, someone floating down a river. I watch her for a moment and then I go downstairs to the closet where I keep my dog. On the door is a sign that says “Miranda: Keep Out.”
    Miranda is allergic to dogs, and will not allow them in the house. So I have a secret dog.
    I open the door to the closet without turning on any lights. Dog is sleeping and wakes up when she hears me. I have trained her to sleep all day and never to bark. She is very smart. In fact she is remarkable. I kneel in the hall, and Dog walks over and presses her head into my stomach. I hold it gently. The only sound is Dog’s tail wagging, but it is a very quiet sound, and I know it will not wake Miranda. This is a moment I look forward to all day.
    Dog and I go out to the car. I purposely park down the street so Miranda won’t hear the car start. I tell her I can never find a space in