The Dogs of Littlefield by Suzanne Berne Read Free Book Online

rhododendrons in front of houses where children lived and construction-paper witches and black cats decorated the windows. Houses without children had at least a Hubbard squash on the front steps, or hanging from the door knocker a spray of red and yellow bittersweet.
    Three more dogs had been poisoned since Margaret Downing found George Wechsler’s dog in the park. A Bellingham terrier, a rescued greyhound, and a malamute named Violet that was a registered therapy dog and visited bedridden residents at Avalon Towers. Photos of each dog had appeared in the Gazette . Last week the police issued a statement that someone who was trying to poison coyotes was accidentally poisoning dogs instead and warned the public against taking coyote control into their own hands. Two letters to the Gazette put forward other theories: one speculated that the poisoner was trying to frighten supporters of the off-leash dog park; the other, written by a local biologist, pointed out that bittersweet was deadly poisonous and suggested that the dogs might have ingested autumn decorations. People should be careful about what they brought into their houses. A public hearing had been scheduled at the town hall to address the off-leash dog park proposal, and it was expected that the poisonings would be addressed as well.
    These notes and impressions were recorded into Dr. Clarice Watkins’s laptop, along with what she’d overheard at the Forge Café, where she had taken to sitting at a window table with a view of Brooks Street. The Forge Café occupied a storefront on the site of what was once a blacksmith’s shop; a rusty anvil was displayed in the front window, often topped with a wicker basket of plastic daisies. Today the front window had been painted for the Halloween Window Painting contest. Within a taped rectangle, two white ghosts played soccer with an orange pumpkin, using tombstones as goalposts. She regarded the ghosts closely for a moment before sitting down at her usual table.
    Just an hour before, she had attended a Littlefield girls’ soccer game, borrowing a fleece lap blanket and a folding nylon chair from her neighbors the Downings, who, when she’d expressed interest in local youth sports, had invited her to watch their daughter Julia’s team play a team from Walpole. She sat on the sidelines cheering with the Downings and other families at the park as pink-cheeked girls with muddy knees thudded past, ponytails wagging. Julia Downing was on defense and hung back, often contriving to be elsewhere when the ball hurtled toward her. She was smaller than the other girls. Thin brown hair straggled from her ponytail and stuck to her pale neck. Her expression was tense, wary, at the same time disbelieving, as if she were baffled by everyone else’s urgency as they rushed across the field.
    â€œCome on, Julia,” shouted Bill Downing, less encouragingly as the game went on.
    Margaret Downing said, “Don’t yell at her. She doesn’t like it.”
    Halfway through the game, as Littlefield tied the score, Bill said, “Look at that Hannah. She’s amazing. Three goals.”
    And Margaret said, “You’re always watching Hannah.”
    Dr. Watkins noted down these comments on a steno pad, along with typical exhortations:
    â€œGood hustle, Annie!”
    â€œGet up there, Katie!”
    â€œGo, Rachel, go!”
    Only when a pair of gray F-15s from Hanscom Field streaked low overhead, like a pair of flung darts, did the encouraging cries cease for a minute or two until the shattering noise receded.
    With three minutes left in the game, a Littlefield forward charged Walpole’s goal. “Shoot! Shoot!” screamed the crowd. The ball circumscribed an exquisite arc to land just behind the leaping goalie, her gloved hands reaching, as clouds rushed across the bright blue sky.
    â€œGreat game,” called Bill Downing a little while later, when Julia and another girl