Free The Dogs of Littlefield by Suzanne Berne Page A

flesh and blood. (Fred, after all, lived with a man.) But she was not stupid or a prude. She knew that people desired things and each other, and if she had largely put aside such desires herself it did not mean that she condemned them. But it was also true that she had become slightly afraid of Tina and her needs, which lately seemed to Mrs. Beale rapacious and unreasonable and threatening to the rights of those around her. Twice in the last two weeks Tina had mentioned that her mother “might want to think about moving someplace smaller one of these days.” An apartment in Avalon Towers, for instance.
    â€” —
    Tonight Tina was off somewhere, thank goodness, after leaving a wineglass on the kitchen counter instead of washing it and setting it on the drainboard. This evening, very soon, in fact, Mrs. Beale would be speaking at the town hall. Accordingly, she had two fingers of Scotch while sitting at the kitchen table. At twenty to seven, buttoned into her Burberry trench coat, a Liberty scarf knotted at her neck, she was waiting under the fan light above her front door for her friend Sybil Forrest, who at quarter to seven pulled up in her moss-colored Audi.
    â€œLook at my sedum,” Mrs. Beale commanded from the steps. “Still blooming. Should have died back ages ago.”
    â€œI forgot to take my blood pressure medication,” shouted Sybil, opening her door and emerging partway from the car. “I don’t know if I should go to this hearing.”
    The week before, Mrs. Beale, Sybil, and four others had filed their proposal with the Littlefield Parks Commission to ban all dogs from the park.
    â€œIt will be an opportunity to clarify our views, that’s all.” Mrs. Beale settled herself into the front seat of Sybil’s car. Sybil was wearing her raccoon coat, a relic from her days of attending Yale–Harvard games, trotted out for important occasions, otherwise hung in a closet strewn with mothballs.
    Stoically, Mrs. Beale lowered her window. “And in my view, people have become far too indulgent,” she continued. “Especially with dogs. I saw one in a raincoat yesterday, and four little rain boots.”
    â€œIs that what you’re going to say at the hearing?”
    â€œNo, I’m simply going to remind everyone that the park was designed for people and nature. For people to enjoy nature.”
    â€œGood luck with that,” said Sybil.
    â€œOf course poisoning dogs is terrible and I urge the police to do everything in their power to catch the perpetrator. But none of this mayhem would have happened if dogs were kept leashed.”
    â€œWell,” said Sybil, “I think it’s scary.”
    â€œI do not believe in giving in to fear.” Mrs. Beale fingered the knot of her Liberty scarf. “Or to dogs.”
    At the municipal parking lot, they had to circle twice before discovering a spot by the Dumpsters. Above them loomed Town Hall, a turreted granite building that resembled a Bavarian keep. The camphorous smell of Sybil’s raccoon coat had made Mrs. Beale queasy, and as she climbed out of the car she took several deep breaths of chilly air. Gazing at Sybil in her pelts, she could not help feeling as if she were about to face a barbarous uprising.
    â€” —
    Once inside, the two women followed signs to the downstairs meeting hall, a wide, bare room lit by fluorescent lights. At the far end, a low wooden dais was furnished with a long table and padded swivel chairs; below, rows of folding metal chairs were already almost filled. As she scanned the hall, Mrs. Beale recognized many people without remembering who they were, and then she caught sight of George. He was at the front of the hall beside a slender blond woman who seemed to be unwell; she had a hand on her forehead and was very pale. Mrs. Beale had forgotten that one of the poisoned dogs had belonged to George, a huge, smelly, white, drooling dog that used to shed all