The Dog Who Knew Too Much by Carol Lea Benjamin Read Free Book Online Page A

Before leaving, I also borrowed some jewelry to go with my new clothes, a jasper heart necklace from Tiffany’s and a pair of silver earrings that sounded like small bells when they moved. I left my small gold hoops in their place.
    I dropped the clothes off at home, and once again Dashiell and I headed toward the heart of the Village, Washington Square Park. Radiating out from the fountain at its center were paths that led north, east, south, and west, to the hanging tree, an old elm once used for executions, to playgrounds, to enclaves of the down-and-out asleep or sitting up and smoking on the benches that were the closest things they had to home, and to the dog run. Dashiell began a hip-hop ballet with a broken-coated Jack Russell terrier, and I took myself to the southwest corner of the run and, listening to the crunching sounds of the dogs playing on the pea gravel, faced north, eyes on the horizon, and became meditation in motion in Lisa Jacobs’s beautiful, expensive clothes.
    Near the dog run, a mounted policeman was putting his horse through its paces. A nurse was pushing an old man in a wheelchair, a plaid blanket over his legs. A nanny pushing a baby carriage walked by, a handsome young man was headed in the direction of the NYU law library, people sat on the grass reading. No one was imitating Bob Dylan or Janis Joplin, and it was a bit early for the drug dealers. Later in the day, if I asked Dashiell to “find the grass,” he’d go nuts.
    It was quiet, so I stayed for a long time, watching Dashiell play and thinking about Lisa Jacobs. At six I stopped at the Cowgirl Hall of Fame for a burger, then headed over to school.
    I took the stairs. Avi had said it would help me do the form. Lisa, he’d said, always took the stairs, never the elevator.
    Avram looked startled when he opened the door, but said nothing. I slipped off Lisa’s jacket, put on her black cotton shoes, and followed Avi into the studio. Dashiell had already taken his usual spot in the sitting area, his big white paws just touching the wooden floor where we worked.
    As is tradition, we did the form without speaking. Then Avram began again, and I followed him. This time, as I continued, he came near me to make corrections, gently moving an arm or a hand or readjusting a foot by placing his next to where mine should have been and leaving it there until I’d lifted mine and placed it next to his.
    Most of the form is done with knees bent, as if you were in a low-ceilinged room. Avi helped me to sink lower, until my legs felt as if they were on fire. He had explained that the burning meant that the blood was seeking new pathways, and so my legs were getting stronger. Unfortunately, so was the pain.
    Suddenly I was flushed with heat. All I wanted to do was hang out the window and get some air, but Avi kept on working.
    â€œDid you ever notice how clumsy people can be?” he asked, leaving me with all my weight on my right leg.
    â€œWhen your step is empty, no weight at all in it,” he said, taking the same posture he had left me in sometime back in the Iron Age, “you are steady before shifting your weight.”
    He flexed his knee, lifting his left foot off the ground. Then he placed his foot back down, heel, toe, and shifted his weight forward, as slowly as honey oozing off a spoon.
    â€œRemember that t’ai chi is a martial art, Rachel. You must always be connected to the earth, both figuratively and literally. You do not want your opponent to be able to push you over.”
    It was long past dark, but neither of us stopped to put on the lights. Lit by the bright light of the moon shining in through the big windows, reflecting in the mirrors, and shining on our faces, we continued to practice, mostly in silence.
    â€œOkay, shake out your legs,” Avi finally said.
    We stood quietly for a moment, neither of us speaking. Something was bothering me, jabbing away at the edge of my consciousness. I