Free Ruffly Speaking by Susan Conant Page A

after all, expect us to make it on our own. We have not been deserted; we are not bereft. Reach out your hands! Touch them! But Matthew does not. Rebuffed, they prostrate themselves at his feet. He does nothing at all. Yes, friends, the literally god-awful truth: Matthew is an atheist! He does not believe in dogs.
     

10
     
     “There doesn’t seem to be much here,” I said from the depths of the refrigerator. Its principal contents were a gigantic red box of dog biscuits—stored safely out of reach of dogs and food moths alike—a twenty-one-ounce plastic bucket of Redi-Liver—the same—two plastic bags of Vermont cheddar cut into bite-size cubes, and a half pound of thick-sliced low-sodium roast beef that would have done for sandwiches if it hadn’t been a little squished from being shoved in my pockets. As you’ll have gathered, I train with food. The cheese might have done okay for Matthew and Leah—it looked all right—but I somehow suspected that the last time I’d used it, I’d been teaching Rowdy to watch my face by filling my cheeks with cheddar. If you’re a real dog person, you know the rest, and if not, by all means don’t miss my forthcoming article in Off-Lead, “Secrets of the Pros: Top Handlers Spit It Out.” I closed the refrigerator door. When I stood up, so did Matthew. “I could run down to Emma’s,” I offered.
    “My mother’s expecting me,” Matthew said, “but thank you.”
    Nonetheless, when I took a seat at the kitchen table, he sat down again. I was hungry. I wished that he’d eat with us or go home, one or the other. On the theory that there’s nothing most adolescents hate more than a determined interrogation by a parental adult, I asked him whether he lived nearby. His reply was more interesting than I’d expected.
    “Highland Street.” He glanced briefly at me and returned his eyes to Leah.
    “Oh,” I said enthusiastically, “I used to know someone who lived there. He died this spring. Morris Lamb. Did you know him?” Highland is only two blocks long. Besides, Morris was hard to overlook.
    “My mother’s renting his house.” Matthew’s voice registered nothing.
    To Leah, I said, “Morris had Bedlingtons.” For Matthew’s benefit, I added, “Bedlington terriers.” Matthew still looked so blank that I stupidly said, “Dogs,” Leah squirmed in her seat and examined her fingernails.
    I changed the subject. “Highland Street is beautiful.” Scintillating. “So you’re going to college right near home?”
    Matthew’s eyes shifted; he looked unaccountably uncomfortable. Before he could reply, Leah, ever voluble, said, “Not really. His mother just moved here. They used to live in New York, and Matthew thought his mother was staying there, but he isn’t living with her after the summer. He’s in Weld, too.”
    All Harvard freshmen live in halls in the Yard. When they’re sophomores, they move to houses. Halls and houses, mind you, not mere dormitories, because the word would obviously condone the possibility of permitting one’s intellectual powers now and then to lie dormant, whereas at Harvard, even in sleep, the mind never rests.
    “Oh,” I said, “with Leah.”
    Kimi, who had evidently decided to return snub for snub, had retired to my bedroom, but Rowdy never gives up. His latest offering to Matthew was a polyester lambskin ball that he happily retrieves or simply transports i from place to place. When Matthew showed no interest in the toy, Rowdy dropped it at his feet and left the room. I’m not sure that Matthew noticed him at all.
    Meanwhile, Leah was talking. “And, Holly, you won’t believe what his mother does! You know what she is? She’s a rector! Just like in Jane Austen. Isn’t that incredible? A rector!"
    Matthew finally cracked a smile. “My mother’s an Episcopal priest. Leah thinks—”
    She interrupted him. “And she has a hearing dog, and I’m going to get her to bring her dog to the program and do a demonstration.