Grace by Linn Ullmann Read Free Book Online Page A

in his own chair in the living room, Johan inspecting the inflamed spot in Mai’s compact. He said, “Do you think it could be anything other than an ordinary sty?”
    “No,” she said flatly.
    Johan blinked again. “The drops aren’t doing any good, Mai.”
    “It’ll probably take a day or two.”
    “But it’s stinging even more than it was this morning.”
    “Johan, it’s a perfectly ordinary sty.”
    Johan opened his eye and felt it throbbing. “You don’t suppose it could be anything—you know—serious?”
    Mai heaved a sigh. “No, I don’t. You’ve got a sty on your eyelid, that’s all.”
    Johan laughed shortly. “Ever since I was a boy I’ve been scared of going blind. I don’t mean to be dramatic, Mai. I know you think I tend to be dramatic. But I’ve always been scared of going blind, and this doesn’t feel like an ordinary sty to me. It’s something more serious. It’s definitely something more serious.”
    Mai tossed her book onto the floor and looked straight at Johan. “You’ve got a sty, Johan. You’re not going to go blind. I can’t believe how you can . . .”
    She left the sentence unfinished.
    “You can’t believe how I can . . .”—Johan breathed— “seeing as I’m going to . . .”
    He left this sentence unfinished too.
    The next morning the inflamed spot on his right eyelid was almost gone.
    Some days later at breakfast, Johan announced that he thought they should get a dog. They’d had one before, and now he had the urge to get another. It wasn’t as if he’d given it much thought. It wasn’t even a serious suggestion. He said it on impulse, out of a longing for a cold, wet dog muzzle against the tip of his own nose, the smell of a dog’s paws, the warmth and vitality of a dog’s body against his own nervy form. All this prompted him to say, “I think we should get a dog.”
    Mai put down the book she had been reading, looked down at her plate, and fingered a slice of tomato. She didn’t say anything—she merely sighed, once, twice—but Johan knew exactly what she was thinking: I’m not looking after a dog on my own.
    “Forget it,” Johan said. “It was thoughtless of me. The last thing you need right now is a dog on your hands.”
    Mai looked at him and smiled.
    “What good would a dog be to you, anyway?” he went on. “You don’t even like going for walks.” She was still looking at him. “Anyway, you’ve got me instead,” he said. “Woof, woof.”
    “Johan, please. . . . Maybe when you’re better.”
    “Woof, woof!”
    “Johan. Please. Don’t do that. When you’re better.”
    “I’m not going to get better, Mai. For Christ’s sake, look at me! I’m not going to get better.”
    Johan remembered that time a dozen years ago when Mai turned forty—when her hair had still been fair and people were still taking her for his daughter—and he had given her the silver cross and the puppy. To be honest, it was Johan who wanted a puppy—all his life, really—so he gave one to Mai as a present. The puppy was an albino-white Labrador retriever named Charley. Even though the puppy was a bitch, Johan decided to call her Charley; she wouldn’t answer to Clara or Kira or Carla or any other name they tried.
    Charley was the sort of dog who seemed old as soon as she was past the puppy stage. She was slow and heavy and slightly lame due to a displaced hip, a birth defect undiscovered until she was eighteen months old. When she wasn’t ambling through the forest with Johan—she was never nimble enough to run and play with other dogs—she slept in a basket in the hallway, curled up with her big tulip-red nose cradled in her forepaws.
    Charley was the most devoted of dogs. Her trust knew no bounds. She greeted everyone with the same affection and gratitude. And one day the following happened.
    Charley and Johan were taking a walk around Sognsvann Pond. Halfway round they came upon a young couple barbecuing by the water’s edge. The girl was