White Dog

Neverne Covington. White Dog. 2013. Charcoal. 12 x 10.5 inches.

The white dog appeared on the lawn, far back in the shadows by the woods, and although Rob waved his arms and stomped his feet on the patio and shouted, it did not go away. The dog circled around itself, then stopped and stared at him across the yard, as if expecting Rob to be the one to leave.

He called to his wife, Julie, who was in the kitchen preparing hors d'oeuvres for their guests. He had never seen this dog before and wanted to warn her that it had arrived on their property. There was always a chance she might do something foolish and get herself attacked.

Inside, Julie placed the last of the sushi on the platter and wiped her hands on the dishtowel draped over her shoulder. The canapés were done, too. Everything was ready for their guests. She slid open the screen door and stepped out.

The sun glinted off her blonde ponytail and her forehead was still shiny from horseback riding that afternoon. Rob had worried about her riding this early in the pregnancy, but Julie seemed fine, better than fine. Her slim, elegant figure strode towards him. Rob couldn't help thinking she did look happier here in the Connecticut countryside than in the city.

The animal on the lawn took a few slow steps, then stopped.

Rob waved his arms and shouted again, then said, "It won't go away."

The dog dipped its head lower and looked off towards the woods.

Julie studied the poor creature. "It's probably just hungry."

"I'm getting the rifle," Rob said.

Julie stepped closer and wedged a hand into her husband's crossed arms. In the golden afternoon light, he appeared darker to her than usual, his skin so brown it seemed almost purple and bruised, especially around the eyes. He was the color of the heirloom eggplants she'd picked that day. Julie liked the way her pale, freckled arm shone beside his.

Together they stared at the stand of trees. They had bought their country house for this view: tall and stately maples with moss between the roots and grey New England shale rising in surprising outcroppings. Gaudy orange in spots, dark blood red in others, the crown canopy overhead seemed emblematic of the season, the rolling yard unequivocally tying them to something deeply American and right.

On mild fall weekends like this one, they both stayed out in the back for much of the day. Between business calls and texts, Rob tinkered with tools and equipment left behind by the former owners, while Julie picked the last of the vegetables in her garden.

The house itself was a contemporary monstrosity, ostentatious and grand, an embarrassment to them both. Although Rob had grown up behind a high wall in a family compound in Delhi, so he knew how homes could be constructed to impress. Julie didn't fully grasp that yet. When she leaned over the second floor balcony and took in the marble hallway below, she felt plunked down on a movie set, promoted from extra to leading lady.

Sometimes, she could hardly believe all this was theirs. Her parents had said as much when they came to visit. The large house, the lawn, the art inside and now the baby on the way had done the trick, transforming Julie's husband from a foreign interloper interrupting the pure trajectory of their daughter's life into an impressive provider. Her folks had been decent all weekend, except when her father refused to take off his shoes and put on the slippers they provided, but that was to be expected. It had taken her a while to get used to a few things as well.

Julie left Rob's side and arranged the patio chairs in a semi-circle facing the lawn, iron scraping across flagstone. They would sit outside when the guests arrived. Everything was going to be fine. Rob would see to it. He always did. That he didn...