Housebreaking by Dan Pope

short the dealership got nothing—but his salesmen hadn’t missed their numbers in a year. They’d even hit September, a rarity, because the first week of school was always lousy for sales in the suburbs.
    He put away his laptop and called his son. No answer, as usual. He could picture David, as he’d seen him do so many times, fishing the phone out of his pocket, glancing at the number, and then putting the phone away until it rang itself out. David wasn’t like Sarah. He didn’t want to discuss the breakup; he wouldn’t even let Benjamin raise the subject. “It’s fine, Dad. Whatever” was the most David cared to comment on his parents’ divorce. Benjamin didn’t leave a message. This was another thing he’d learned about his son’s phone etiquette; he never listened to messages, and apparently it wasn’t good form to leave one, at least in David’s social universe. The number appeared on the screen; that was all he needed to know.
    Next, Benjamin called his sister and updated her on their father’s condition, all the while gazing across the street at the Thursday-night crowd at Max Baxter’s Fish Bar. Benjamin could see the well-dressed men and women through the plate-glass window, pressed together in the small bar area, everyone drinking and talking. He felt the urge to walk over for a cocktail and join the conversation. He wanted some company, even a drunken crowd—anything but another night in front of the television. But Yukon needed to go out; there was no way to avoid his responsibility to the dog.
    When he got home he found a card in his mailbox.
    Thanks for rescuing my dog.
    Beneath her name she’d written her phone number. He went into the house—he’d forgotten to leave any lights on, again. It was a bad timeto call, six-thirty on a weekday, dinnertime. Her husband would probably be home, maybe in the same room with her. But she didn’t have to answer the phone, did she? She could simply let the call go to voice mail. He cleared his throat and dialed, and she answered immediately.
    â€œThis is Benjamin Mandelbaum,” he stammered, feeling much like the high school version of himself. “I got your note.”
    â€œMy thank-you note?”
    â€œYes.” He paused. “Thank you for that.”
    She laughed. “You’re not required to thank someone for a thank-you note.”
    â€œNo?”
    â€œNo. It could go on and on.”
    â€œLike pi,” he said.
    â€œExactly.”
    There was a silence. Finally he said, “I was just about to take the dog for his evening stroll, and I was wondering if you’d like to come along.” He braced himself for her rejection, but she agreed without a pause, suggesting they meet at the bottom of the street in ten minutes.
    He felt his pulse beginning to quicken. Even if dog walking was all it would amount to, that would be okay. He welcomed the company. Dog walks could be a lonesome business this time of year. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if she wanted more than companionship from him. He certainly hoped so.
    He brushed his teeth, rolled on some deodorant, and changed into a pair of khakis. Five minutes later he was tugging Yukon down the street, breathing in the crisp night air. He found Audrey waiting by the mailbox, her malamute wagging its tail. Yukon leapt at the sight of the other dog, howling and straining at the leash. Then, getting close, he quieted and politely inspected the other dog’s rear.
    Audrey greeted him with a hug, surprising him with the press of her body. “Let’s go down to the grammar school,” she proposed. “Sheba likes to dig in the sandbox.”
    â€œFine by me,” he said.
    They crossed the intersection, Audrey leading the way. He studied her backside, a reflex whenever any woman walked ahead of him. (Judy called this his “biological necessity.” She would roll her eyes and