"Tell me, what's Don Wilson up to?" Vic asked her that evening.
"What do you mean what's he up to?"
"What're you both up to? You do so much consulting."
"I like him. We have quite a lot to talk about. He's got some very interesting theories."
"Oh. I never knew theories interested you."
"Oh, they're more than theories," Melinda said.
"What, for instance?"
She ignored the question. She was on her knees, cleaning out the bottom of her closet, dragging out shoes and forgotten stockings, shoe trees, a little dusty cloth doll of Trixie's.
"I think we ought to get a dog," Vic said suddenly, "It'd be nice for Trix. We've put it off long enough."
"Just what our household needs," Melinda said.
"I'll talk to Trixie about it and ask her what kind of a dog she'd like." Melinda didn't want a dog. Vic knew. They had had long discussions about it, Vic pro and Melinda con, and he had always given in to her. He didn't care whether she argued about it now or not. "By the way, how's June Wilson?" Vic asked.
"All right. Why?"
"I like her. Such a nice straightforward girl. How on earth did she marry him?"
"She's a dreary little girl. Maybe he couldn't see what he was marrying."
"She came to see me about two months ago, you know, especially to tell me that she thought her husband was doing the wrong thing. She put it delicately, I remember. She just said she didn't think along her husband's lines, and she wanted me to know it. It's too bad Wilson's wished an ostracism on her, isn't it? What does she do while you two talk?"
Melinda wasn't biting that night.
Vic looked at her bent back for a few moments, watched her hands feverishly dusting shoes and lining them up, an outlet more constructive than usual for her frustrated energy. Vic knew what the atmosphere at the Wilsons' must be. It was the only place Melinda could still go without being treated with a certain coolness. And Wilson must be getting a little bored with her, must see in her an indirect cause of his retreat from Little Wesley and his present disfavor in the community, but he would feel obliged to be cordial to her. June would leave them alone, after giving Melinda a cool greeting, but since Melinda in general despised women, this wouldn't bother her at all. Vic supposed that Ralph was there sometimes. And perhaps Melinda went to see Ralph at his house sometimes when she said she was going to see the Wilsons. That was, if Ralph had the courage to let her come to his house. Vic smiled to himself as he looked down at Melinda's long, strong back and at her busy hands, wondering about the atmosphere at Ralph's house when they were alone together. He imagined Ralph too scared to touch her, and Melinda contemptuous of him for that, but she would be drawn to see him again and again because Ralph formed part of the little anti- Vic league. They'd chatter on about him, repeating themselves, whining, like a couple of old women.
Vic knocked on Trixie's door. "Mademoiselle?" he called.
"Yep?"
He opened the door. Trixie was sitting on her bed, filling colors in a picture book with crayons. He smiled at her. She looked so self-sufficient, so contented, all by herself. He was proud of her. She was her father's daughter. "Well, Trix, what do you think about getting a dog?" he asked.
"A dog? A real dog?"
"I don't mean a stuffed one."
"Oh, 'boy'!" She wriggled forward, off the edge of the bed, then jumped up and down, screaming. "A dog, a dog! Yippee!" She began socking Vic in the stomach with her fists.
He put his hands under her arms and lifted her up in the air. "What kind would you like?"
"A big dog."
"But what kind?"
"A—collie."
"Hm. Can't you think of something more interesting?" "A—German police!"
He swung her down and set her on her feet. "They're so utilitarian. What about a boxer? I think I passed a place the other day on the East Lyme road that had a sign out about boxer puppies. You want a puppy, don't you?"
"Yes," Trixie said, still hopping up and down, in a mood to want anything.
"Well, let's try there tomorrow afternoon. I'll pick you up at school at three o'clock. Okay?"
"Okay!" she said, the breath jerking out of her with her hopping. "What does a boxer look like?"
"Don't tell me you don't know what a boxer looks like!
They're brown with a black muzzle, about so high—I think you'll like a boxer."
"Goody!"
"I hope that jumping tires you out, because you've got to go to bed. Get your clothes off." He started toward the door. "Run my bath!"
"Didn't you have a bath before dinner?"
"I want another bath."
He started to remonstrate, then said, "Okay," and went across the hall into the bathroom and started the tub for her. Her bath mania in the last couple of days was inspired by the toy diver he had given her, which lay now on the end of the tub. He tossed the diver in and squeezed the bulb to keep him afloat. He was a little man some ten inches high dressed in a rubber diving suit and helmet with a tube coming out of his back. Vic watched the figure bobbing around on the surface for a couple of minutes, and when the water was fairly deep he let the bulb expand, and the man obediently sank, sending bubbles up over his head, until his weighted feet were standing on the bottom. Vic smiled,
