Protecting Marie: Chapters 14–15

One genial February afternoon when Henry came home from teaching on campus, his canvas satchel was bulging with envelopes of black-and-white photographs.

Fanny pored over the photographs, rapt in the world contained in the glossy three-and-a-half-by-five-inch rectangles.

Stuart’s expert use of shadow and light defined Dinner beautifully and distinctly.

In a few of the photographs, Dinner’s coat looked like bushy fields of wheat, her ears like tufted mountains.

The choosing of this paper had been a conscious effort, she was certain.

“May I open it now?” Fanny asked, her thumb already prying the tape off.

Painstakingly, she opened it, so that she could save the wrapping paper.

It was exquisite: a portrait of Dinner wearing a fancy, crownlike adornment. Stars and spangles and limp stalks of white beads spun out from a band that was fastened snugly to her head.

She appeared to be completely self-possessed, poised, staring off into the distance, a clairvoyant’s stare.

She appeared to be completely self-possessed, poised, staring off into the distance, a clairvoyant’s stare.

She appeared to be completely self-possessed, poised, staring off into the distance, a clairvoyant’s stare.

One week passed and then another, and Henry painted in his studio with great fervor, like a motor in a busy machine.

He was not one to show anyone a painting in progress, but Fanny knew that he was pleased with the way his work was developing. He couldn’t hide things like that; there were too many telltale signs: a cheery disposition, energetic humming wafting from the studio, and a tendency to prepare a fancy evening meal several times a week.

He was not one to show anyone a painting in progress, but Fanny knew that he was pleased with the way his work was developing. He couldn’t hide things like that; there were too many telltale signs: a cheery disposition, energetic humming wafting from the studio, and a tendency to prepare a fancy evening meal several times a week.

On the first night of lessons, after Fanny had done her homework, she learned the basics: how to hold the needles; how to cast on stitches by positioning the fingers on her left hand like a bird’s beak, twisting the yarn around her hand, plucking the yarn off with the needles and pulling it tightly, but not too tightly; how to knit; how to purl; how to cast off; and how to form a tidy ball out of a skein of yarn.

The painting was beautiful and mysterious and stately and haunting.

The leaves were oily and black like the leaves Fanny imagined in the gnarled forests of fairy tales.

A stormy sky was visible behind the foliage; there was a yellowy green cast to the light.

This one had a head that resembled Dinner’s, angel wings, a doggy-print-wrapping-paper gown, and a tail with real dog hair added for authenticity.

Fanny and Dinner shot out the door and glided down the sidewalk at a brisk clip.

“I’d like to be a linguist,” Fanny told him.

“That would be a great career,” he said solemnly.

His clothes were filthy and wet, but his face was flushed and buoyant.

Corey Shinkle ran off, his arms outstretched, belching forth a wretched sound like a fighter plane.

She bent down so that she was nose to nose with Dinner. She looked intently into Dinner’s clear, brown eyes.