She shut the door as he started to explain how he knew Ferring. I could hear the faint rumble of his voice and Albritten’s own slow cadences in reply, but I couldn’t make out any of the words. They spoke for almost five minutes, and then I heard her unsteady gait going farther into her house, her voice on the phone, again with the words indistinguishable. Finally she returned to the front door.

“I hope I’m not making a mistake”—she sighed, handing me back my phone—“but I guess you can come on in.”

She peered down the sidewalk at Peppy. “Is that your dog out there? You might as well bring her in. There’s a couple of rough boys who fight with dogs over on Ninth Street. I wouldn’t leave her tied where they could pick her up.”

I’d wondered if the Buick had belonged to a drug dealer, checking out strangers in the neighborhood, but maybe it was a fighting ring eyeing how easy it would be to steal Peppy.

“She’s dirty,” I said doubtfully. “Maybe we could talk out here where I can watch her.”

“I need to sit. You bring her in and let her lay on a towel.”

18
Those Good Old Days

The room where Ms. Albritten talked to me was cared for as meticulously as her garden. The floral-upholstered couch and armchair were recently vacuumed, and she used starched white antimacassars to protect the headrests. The towel she’d laid down for Peppy was as brightly yellow as if it had just come from the store. I cringed at the thought of how it would look when we left, but Peppy obediently took her place on it, despite her obvious wish to explore the room. She held up a paw to Ms. Albritten, who gave a faint twitch of a smile.

“Hmmpf. I have biscuits I give that dog Peeta. He’s a little faker—barks for show, but that poor girl is deluding herself if she thinks he can protect her and her baby. Be best if he bit her worthless boyfriend in the ass and sent him about his business, but you can’t talk to young girls about love. They think women like me never knew what it was like.”

She gestured me to the couch before disappearing into the back of the house, her steps careful: her ankles were badly swollen under her support stockings. I heard the clink of ice against glass, the pouring of liquid, the fumbling with a canister, at which Peppy looked up alertly. Pictures were still flashing on the muted television—Judge Judy, it might have been.