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“
that
dog.”
    “It’s a miracle you weren’t bitten.”
    “Thank God,” he said, “I had a shovel.”
    “You didn’t hit the poor dog with a shovel?” she asked with mock dismay.
    “Well, wasn’t it attacking me?”
    “But it was only a miniature collie.”
    He frowned. “I thought it was a big dog.”
    “No, no, dear. It was little Muffin, from next door. A big dog certainly would have torn up both you and the pants. We’ve got to have a credible story.”
    “Muffin seems like such a nice little dog.”
    “But the breed is nervous, dear. With a nervous breed, you just never know, do you?”
    “I guess not.”
    “Nevertheless, even if Muffin assaulted you, she’s otherwise such a sweet little thing. What would Maria think of you if you told her you’d smashed poor Muffin with a shovel?”
    “I was fighting for my life, wasn’t I?”
    “She’ll think you’re cruel.”
    “I didn’t say I hit the dog.”
    Smiling, cocking her head, Agnes regarded him with amused expectation.
    Scowling, Joey stared at the floor in puzzlement, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, sighed, turned his attention to the ceiling, and shifted his weight again, for all the world like a trained bear that couldn’t quite remember how to perform its next trick.
    Finally, he said, “What I did was grab the shovel, dig a hole really fast, and bury Muffin in it up to her neck—just until she calmed down.”
    “That’s your story, huh?”
    “And I’m sticking to it.”
    “Well, then, you’re lucky that Maria’s English is so evil.”
    He said, “Couldn’t you just take her money?”
    “Sure. Or why don’t I pull a Rumpelstiltskin and demand one of her children for payment?”
    “I liked those pants.”
    As she turned away from him and continued along the hall toward the kitchen, Agnes said, “They’ll be as good as new when she’s mended them.”
    Behind her, he said, “And is that my gray cardigan? What did you do to my cardigan?”
    “If you don’t hush, I’ll set it on fire.”
    In the kitchen, Maria was nibbling at the raisin scone.
    Agnes dropped the damaged apparel on one of the breakfast-table chairs.
    After carefully wiping her fingers on a paper napkin, Maria examined the garments with interest. She earned her living as the seamstress at Bright Beach Dry Cleaners. At the sight of each rent, popped button, and split seam, she clucked her tongue.
    Agnes said, “Joey is so hard on his clothes.”
    “Men,” Maria commiserated.
    Rico, her own husband—a drunkard and a gambler—had run off with another woman, abandoning Maria and their two small daughters. No doubt, he had departed in a spotlessly clean, sharply pressed, perfectly mended ensemble.
    The seamstress held up the khakis and raised her eyebrows.
    Settling into a chair at the table, Agnes said, “He was attacked by a dog.”
    Maria’s eyes widened. “Pit bull? German sheep?”
    “Miniature collie.”
    “What is like such a dog?”
    “Muffin. You know, next door.”
    “Little Muffin do
this
?”
    “It’s a nervous breed.”
    “Qué?”
    “Muffin was in a mood.”
    “Qué?”
    Agnes winced. Already, another contraction. Mild but so soon after the last. She clasped her hands around her immense belly and took slow, deep breaths until the pain passed.
    “Well, anyway,” she said, as though Muffin’s uncharacteristic viciousness had been adequately explained, “this mending ought to cover ten more lessons.”
    Maria’s face gathered into a frown, like a piece of brown cloth cinched by a series of whipstitches. “Six lessons.”
    “Ten.”
    “Six.”
    “Nine.”
    “Seven.”
    “Nine.”
    “Eight.”
    “Done,” Agnes said. “Now put away the three dollars, and let’s have our lesson before my water breaks.”
    “Water can break?” Maria asked, looking toward the faucet at the kitchen sink. She sighed. “I have so much to be learned.”

Chapter 7
    CLOUDS SWARMED THE late-afternoon sun, and the Oregon sky grew