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The Dog in the Photograph

Jim Woessner

    “Remember this?”
    The faint yet distinct words seemed disembodied, as if floating, ghostlike down the stairs and into the family room. It was his wife’s voice, an invisible projection. And the words found their target lying on the sofa buried in a Swedish crime novel, his long sought weekend relaxation, his prized “me” time. How could he possibly know what he was supposed to remember? It was, however, the first movement in a choreographed ritual he knew well. The next step required him to respond, “Remember what, darling?” The term of endearment tacked on at the end wasn’t mandatory but recommended. Nevertheless, he wasn’t in the mood. He resented perpetuating the dance, even though he felt powerless to change it. He kept silent and continued reading, knowing there would be consequences for not playing according to the unwritten rules. He did, however, anticipate her next move, a one-word question with a raised accent on the last syllable.
    “Honey?” she asked, on time and as predicted, her voice meandering down the stairs.
    He knew exactly what the word meant. At this moment she was wondering why he hadn’t responded to her first question. She would permit herself to think that perhaps he had gone to the garage or the yard and was out of earshot, even though she suspected he was lying on the sofa ignoring her. Next, he thought, she will come down the stairs, enter the family room, see him lying comfortably while she has been in the attic organizing boxes of memorabilia. And she will say, “Honey, I was calling. Didn’t you hear?” The completion of this thought occurred at the exact moment he heard footfalls coming down the stairs and into the family room. He didn’t look up, he didn’t have to. “Honey,” she said, “I was talking to you.” Close enough, he thought.
    “Sorry,” he lied, “I was reading,” as if it wasn’t obvious. Here we are, he thought, the end of Round One and the beginning of Round Two, which promises to be slightly less predictable.
    “Who’s this?” she asked.
    He had, of course, remained on his back while she stood without making any attempt to show him what she was holding in her hand. The expectation for this part required him to sit up, swivel his legs off the sofa, and make room for her to sit next to him, which he did, albeit reluctantly. Rules are rules, he reminded himself.
    “Who’s what?” he asked, according to the understood and well-practiced script.
    “This,” she said, flashing a photograph at him. “This woman.”
    Not a good sign, he thought. This was the part he hated most – the implied accusation. He said nothing, of course, because she continued to stand and stare at the tightly held photograph. But then after an agonizing moment, she sat heavily on the sofa, let out a labored breath, and handed it to him. The photograph showed a much younger version of him with his arm around the waist of a dark haired woman, both of them smiling, and with a dog, which looked something like a golden retriever, sitting in front of them looking at the camera.
    “I don’t know,” he said. And although it was the truth, he knew instinctively that it was the wrong answer. Not that it mattered, of course, because he also knew that there wasn’t a right answer. But in saying that he didn’t know, he had also committed himself to “I don’t know” for as long as possible. The steps that came after “deny” were “defer,” “deflect,” and “defend,” roughly in that order. Although defend against what, he couldn’t be sure at this point.
    “Where did you find it?” he asked.
    “With your Navy stuff,” she said, taking back the photograph.
    “That was more than thirty years ago,” he protested, “before I knew you.”
    “Where was it taken?” she asked.
    He paused, trying to recall. “I couldn’t tell you.”
    “Whose dog is that?”
    “I don’t know. I suppose it’s hers.”
    “How can you not remember?”
    He shrugged. “Do you remember every person you were ever photographed with?”
    “I tend to remember men who had their arms around me,” she said.
    “One arm.”
    “One? Two? What does it matter?”
    “You’re good with things like that,” he said. This represented a slight change in strategy. Offer a compliment, even though it probably wouldn’t have the desired effect.
    “Good with what?” she asked.
    “Memory,” he said.
    “You’ve got your arm wrapped around this woman. You’re beaming like you’ve just won her at the County Fair. And you haven’t a clue who she is?”
    At least I tried, he thought.
    “It’s probably the wife of a friend who’s taking the photo,” he said defensively.
    “She’s not wearing a ring.”
    “You can see that?” he asked. He leaned over to look again.
    “She’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
    Oh oh, he thought, a landmine. His brained screamed, it’s a trap, don’t go there. “Really?” he said, falling headfirst into the hole that she’d dug and lined with sharpened stakes. What to do now that he’s wounded? His mind raced. “You sound jealous,” he said. That’s it, he thought. Try offense. It can’t hurt.
    “I’m curious,” she said. “I mean, you look so happy, the two of you.”
    Dagger to the heart. He countered, “That’s what you look like when someone says ‘cheese.’ You smile for the camera.” Just then, between his words and thoughts, he remembered the dog. Then the woman. In that order. He remembered it had been a short affair, an explosive one. That his best friend had introduced them. That she was incredibly sexy. And that he wished he hadn’t remembered, but it was too late. He realized that all he could do now was try to save himself.
    “No, darling, it completely escapes me. Haven’t a clue. Memory’s going, I guess.”
    The look she gave was the final act. That and her wordless walk back up to the attic.

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