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

front of the house. She suspects nothing. Once Dog and I are in the car, I feed her. I keep her food in the glove compartment. I keep the glove compartment locked. Dog stands on the front seat next to me and eats her dinner. I stroke her back while she is eating. Every few bites she looks up and smiles at me.
    When she is done eating I start the car. I drive about a mile to an A&P that is open all night. As I drive, Dog stands with her nose out the window. I open the window only a crack because I am afraid Dog might jump out.
    At the A&P we get out. First I take her behind the store to a grassy bank beside the railroad tracks where she can relieve herself. Every few days she does this in the closet, but usually she is very good about waiting till we get out. She hops about the tracks, sniffing and wagging her tail. She is a joy to watch. She squats, and I look the other way.
    Then we go back to the parking lot, which is usually empty. Every now and then a car pulls in and someone jumps out and runs into the A&P. We have plenty of room. This is when I train Dog. I have a book, which I also keep locked in the glove compartment, called How to Train Your Schnauzer. Dog is not a schnauzer, but it seems to be working well. We are on week nine, although we’ve only been working for four weeks. That is how smart Dog is.
    I have to give Dog plenty of exercise so she will sleep all day. We begin running. Dog runs right beside me. We run a mile or two through the deserted streets of the sleeping town and then walk back to the car. Dog trots beside me, panting. Her long pink tongue hangs out one side of her mouth. She stops and sniffs at discarded papers that flutter on the sidewalk.
    We do this every night.
    One night when I come in, there is a light on in the kitchen. This has never happened before. I put Dog in her closet and quietly close the door. I walk slowly up to the kitchen. Miranda is standing by the table in her bathrobe. She is slicing a banana into a bowl of cereal. She won’t look at me. Her hair is loose and hangs down over her face, which is bowed above the banana. I cannot see her face. I sit down and still she will not look at me. Miranda, I often think, looks more beautiful when wakened from sleep than during the day.
    Suddenly the knife slits her finger, but Miranda does not acknowledge this wound. She continues to slice the banana. I realize she is crying.
    “You cut yourself,” I say, quietly. I think I can hear Dog plopping down on the floor in the closet.
    Miranda raises her cut finger to her mouth. She sucks on it, then wraps it in a napkin. She tucks her hair behind her ears and sits down. Then she looks up at me. “Where have you been?” she whispers. There are two pink spots, high on her white cheeks. There is also a little blood on her lips. She has stopped crying. “Where have you been?” she repeats.
    I watch the napkin she wrapped her finger in turn red, slowly. I cannot speak. Miranda stands up. She runs her finger under the faucet, and looks at it. She wraps it in a clean napkin. She is facing away from me, toward the sink. “Who are you seeing?” she says. “Do I know her?”
    It has never occurred to me that Miranda might think I am having an affair. This is a great relief, for if she believes this she must not suspect Dog. “I’m not having an affair,” I say. “I haven’t seen anyone.”
    Miranda looks over at me. “Really?” she says.
    “Yes,” I say. “Really.”
    “Where have you been?” asks Miranda.
    I think for a moment. “I can’t tell you.”
    Miranda looks down at her injured finger. “Why can’t you tell me?”
    “It’s a secret,” I say. “I can’t tell you because it’s a secret. But I’m not having an affair. Do you understand?”
    For a few seconds Miranda says nothing. She glances above my head at her reflection in the window. I, too, turn and watch her in the window. She looks very beautiful. I see her mouth move against the night. “Yes,” she