Over the following months, and then over the years, she heard news — rumors, facts, she was never sure — he was living in New York, he’d taken a flat in London, he was reconciled with his wife, he was engaged to a girl from Minnesota. But what did any of it matter? Lilian knew what she had to do, she had done it before.

The fire in the wing cooled over the months and eventually over the years, doused with reason and resentment and resignation. The floor rang hollowly. It became finally a place of sorrow, and after a while she did not go there anymore.

51 • The black dog

51 • The black dog

IT WAS AUTUMN, late October, and the leaves lay in a sea around the house on Curtis Road. Mr. Eliot set out on his usual walk after Sunday lunch, leaving Mrs. Eliot with her needlework and sherry.

He crunched his way along the gravel driveway and turned onto the trail between the Nathans’ and the Colchesters’, under the yellow archway of trees, kicking dead leaves, thinking of the radio show he’d listen to that evening. A bird flew by, rising and falling, showing a back stripe. His son-in-law had taught him it was a yellow shafted flicker. The children always grew excited when they saw pheasants, and Mr. Eliot liked to explain that they were not indigenous to America — he knew something about birds himself—but had been brought over from Asia. He recalled one incident when his little grandson Porter had gone chasing after one, running into the woods like a wild creature, then realized with a jolt that it hadn’t been Porter at all but his own son Arthur, thirty-some years ago. The confusion in his memory made him uneasy, and he was glad he’d not said it out loud to someone. He put it out of his mind. The last time he’d heard from Arthur was, oh, must have been three years ago, Margaret had gotten a birthday card from Florida, and a few days later came the letter asking for money. He’d sent Arthur a portion of what he’d asked for and heard nothing more.

The sky was blue between the sharp clouds; the light changed when the sun flashed down, spotting everything in patterns then fading when a cloud came overhead. Feeling his belt a little tight across his belly, he regretted not passing on Rosa’s bread pudding.

Mrs. Eliot used to accompany him on these walks, especially after the children were gone, but in the last few years the cold bothered her more, and with her joints seized up, she had to stay inside. He’d been unable to coax her out for many years, but he was content to walk alone.