She remembered that when they had looked at the house with a real estate agent before they bought it the previous year, the woman had opened this door and said, "You could close it off to conserve heat. Or, in fact, you could even have this room torn down. It does stick out rather awkwardly from the side of the house..."
Anastasia and her parents had looked at each other that day more than a year ago as if they shared a secret, and of course they did: the secret was that the real estate lady was a complete idiot, and that they were going to buy this house despite her.
Now she looked at her mother, who was standing at her big tilted drawing table. In a corner, Sam was quietly playing with his Lego set.
Sleuth, responding perfectly to the command Anastasia had heard her mother give, was sitting alertly in the middle of the room. He was avery obedient dog. The Krupniks had been lucky. Whoever had owned Sleuth before, even though they had given him a dumb name like Louie, had clearly spent some time training him. He never chewed anything except his toys; he walked happily on a leash, without pulling; he came when you called him; and now he was behaving exactly like a perfect model should. He sat motionless, though his tail wagged when Anastasia entered the room.
"Now look sorrowful," Mrs. Krupnik said. She frowned and made some strokes on the paper with her pencil. "Look sad, please, Sleuthie."
Anastasia laughed aloud and her mother looked up. "Oh, hi, sweetie," she said. "I'm having a terrible time with the dog." She turned to the dog, who hadn't moved. "Take a short break, Sleuth," she told him. He stood up and came over to welcome Anastasia, who scratched his shaggy head.
"How come? It looked like he was a better model than I am. I always have to scratch my nose."
"Oh, he's great at sitting still," her mother explained. "But—well,here. I'll explain the plot of this book to you."
"You did already. The old woman is going to die so she has to find a home for her pet. It's guaranteed to give nightmares to every toddler in America. I would have hated it when I was little. Sam will hate it."
Sam looked up from the large red and white tower he was building. "I do," he said cheerfully. "I hate it."
"No, no," Mrs. Krupnik went on. "It's not that bad, actually. It doesn't say she's dying. It says she's getting old and can't take proper care of the dog ... his name is; oh, what is his name? Let me think; oh, his name is Toby ... and so she starts looking for a happy home. The title, by the way, is Want a Dog?
"Anyway, first she takes him to the home of a TV comedian. See, I've done some sketches. These are copies, actually. I mailed the originals to the publisher yesterday. As a matter of fact, you mailed them for me. Thank you."
Anastasia managed a weak smile.
She looked over her mother's shoulder at the rough sketches of a man wearing a bad toupee and a fake smile. Around him, family members were doubled up, laughing. It was a pretty funny drawing, Anastasia thought.
"The comedian is telling these terrible jokes: 'Who was that lady I saw you with last night?'—that kind of thing.
"And the dog is supposed to look so miserable that the old lady says Thank you' politely to the comedian's family and takes the dog away."
Anastasia looked with interest at a sketch of the old lady leaving the house. She was holding a leash, but at the end of it was a blank space because the dog hadn't been sketched in yet. In the background, the comedian was still gesturing and grinning and holding a fake microphone.
"Then she takes him to the home of a clown."
Anastasia chuckled and looked at the sketches of a frenzied clown with a big greasepaint smile. He was riding a unicycle and juggling some balls. In the front of the scene was a blank space where obviously the dog would be.
"I get it," Anastasia said. "He's going to look miserable here, too."
"Right. She takes him to all these wildly cheerful places, but he gets sadder and sadder. So eventually she has to take him back home. See?" Mrs. Krupnik shuffled through the papers and found one that showed the old woman from the back, walking dejectedly toward her little house, with the leash coming from her hand, and a blank space where the dejected dog would be.
"But how will it end?" Anastasia asked.
"Here." Mrs. Krupnik handed her a sketch of a little boy walking past the house. The boy's head was down. His shoulders were slumped, and from one hand he was dragging a string with a pathetic-looking wooden toy attached to it.
"Oh, I get it!" Anastasia said. "That blank place in the window is where the dog will be looking out."
"Right. With his head up and his tail wagging."
"And the old lady will call through the window and say—"
"Want a Dog?"
At Anastasia's feet, Sleuthie wagged his tail agreeably.
"You're right, Mom. I don't hate it. It's cute, actually. But why are you having a problem with Sleuth?"
"Well, he sits, and he stays, and he lies down when I tell him to, and he stays in any position that I want him in. But his expression never changes. I can't seem to get him to look sad or miserable, and I suspect that when I get to that last picture, when he's in the window, even if I can get him to wag his tail, which I probably can, he still won't look exuberant and happy. He doesn't seem to change his facial expression at all."
"Mom," Anastasia pointed out, surprised that her mother hadn't noticed. "Sleuth doesn't have a face. How can he have a facial expression when he has no face?"
Her mother stared at Sleuth. From his corner, Sam, too, looked over at Sleuth.
Sleuth looked back at them. Or at least they assumed that he was looking back at them. All they could see was hair, with a black nose poking out of it.
"Anastasia, you're absolutely right. It's because you can't see his eyes. In order to have a facial expression, you have to have eyes!" Mrs. Krupnik leaned down and held Sleuth's hair up to expose his eyes. There they were: big and brown and long-lashed and adoring. Suddenly Sleuth had a facial expression. But when she dropped the handful of hair, he became expressionless again.
"Well, I'll have to think about this. I don't want to have to hire a dog model." Mrs. Krupnik tapped her pencil thoughtfully against the tabletop. "Maybe in the meantime I'll have a cup of coffee. It's probably time to start dinner, anyway. How was school?"
Anastasia followed her mother down the hall toward the kitchen. Behind them came Sam, with his arms full of Legos, which were falling piece by piece on the floor behind him; and then Sleuth, who sniffed, examined, and then padded his way past the red and white bits of plastic.
"School was okay. Can I have Daphne, Sonja, and Meredith over tomorrow night while I'm baby-sitting? And rent a movie?"
"May," her mother corrected automatically.
"I meant 'May I,'" Anastasia replied.
"Don't say baby-sitting," Sam commanded. It was a word that he despised.
"Sorry, Sam. I forgot. I meant 'boy-sitting.'"
Mrs. Krupnik laughed and poured herself some coffee from the pot on the stove. "Sure, I guess so, if their parents don't mind. Dad and I will be back around eleven, and we could drive them all home then."
"Could we rent Sleuth, do you think?"
At the sound of his name, the dog became alert, with his ears up and his tail wagging vigorously.
"Sure," her mother said. "But feed him first," she added, laughing.
"How was jury duty, Dad?" Anastasia asked when her father came home. She could almost guess the answer, because he looked exhausted and miserable.
He grunted. Then he undid his necktie, took it off, and loosened the collar of his shirt. He sat down, with his shoulders slumped, at the kitchen table.
Mrs. Krupnik, who'd been preparing dinner, brought him a cup of coffee. Then, while he sipped, she stood behind him and massaged his shoulders and neck. Sleuth, who seemed to sense that the master of the house was unhappy, came over and lay at his feet, snuggling between Myron Krupnik's two size-twelve shoes.
Finally, after he had relaxed for a minute, Anastasia's dad answered
her question.
"It was horrible," he said flatly.
"How come? I thought it would be fun."
He sighed. "Never use the word Tun' to describe the judicial process," he told her. "It is very, very serious. There was not one minute of fun all day."
"Yeah," Anastasia said, "I guess I was thinking of Night Court on TV."
"All of us gathered there at eight this morning," Mr. Krupnik explained, "and we waited around, and a judge came in and explained the whole thing to us, how it would work, and then we waited around again. Every now and then they would come in and collect one group of people—we all had numbers—and they would take that group away to ask them some questions and figure out if they would actually serve on a jury.
"There are lots of different trials going on at the same time," he explained. Anastasia nodded.
"So I sat and sat and sat, and read the New York Times over and over. I even read all the small print: what restaurants were closed this week for health violations, who had a baby."
"Who had a baby?" asked Sam, with interest.
Myron Krupnik thought. He rubbed his beard. Finally he said, "Heidi and Michael Kooperman welcome Alisa Michelle, beautiful baby sister for Matthew and Jared."
Anastasia stared at him. "You made that up, didn't you, Dad?"
He shook his head sadly. "No."
"Poor Myron," Katherine Krupnik said, and poured him a little more coffee.
"Anyway, finally they called my number, and I went into a courtroom with a group, and it was just like on TV, with a judge up there on the bench. And he described the case and started asking us questions."
"Like what?"
"Well, he read us a list of all the lawyers and all the witnesses, and he asked if we knew any of them."
"Did you? You and Mom know a lot of lawyers."
"Nope. I was hoping I would, because then I would have been excused. Some of the jurors got to leave at that point. But I didn't recognize a single name."
"What happened then?"
"Well, then he called our numbers, and we had to go sit in the jury box, and the trial started."
"Just like on TV?"
"Right. But the worst thing was, the judge looked through the list of jurors. He had all those questionnaires we'd filled out. And he appointed me foreman. I had to switch seats with someone and sit in the front seat."
"Why did he choose you?"
"Beats me."
"I bet you were the only guy with a beard."
"Well, I was, as a matter of fact."
"Was it fun—I mean, interesting—after that, when the trial started? Did the defendant sit there glaring at you with glittering piggy eyes?" Anastasia was very curious.
"Well, the defendant looked at us. I wouldn't call it glaring. And it was interesting at first. The lawyers each made opening statements—"
"Just like on TV."
"Right. Then they started with witnesses."
"Just like—"
"Right. And I listened carefully, because I knew how important it was."
"You're always a very good listener, Myron," Mrs. Krupnik said from the sink, where she was washing lettuce.
"And after the prosecution had presented their witnesses—it didn't take very long, just a couple of hours—I was feeling pretty good about everything. It was clear the accused person was guilty. Then we stopped for lunch. We went in a jury room, and they brought us sandwiches."
"Did you talk about the guilty person while you had lunch?"
"No, we weren't allowed to. We talked about football, mostly."
"Then what? You went back to court, and said 'Guilty'?"
Anastasia's father groaned. "No, we went back in the courtroom, and the defense presented their witnesses."
"Did anybody cry on the witness stand?" Anastasia asked. "Sometimes they do on TV."
"No. Nobody cried. I almost did, though."
Anastasia giggled. "Why?"
"Because when I listened to the defense witnesses, I became convinced that the defendant was innocent."
"But you just said—"
"Right."
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Krupnik said. She came over and sat down. "What did you do?"
"Well, I kept listening carefully. And after all the witnesses had testified, there were closing arguments. And when I listened to them, first I thought: Guilty.
"Then I thought: Not guilty.
"Finally we went into the jury room and we had to come up with a verdict."
Anastasia nodded. "Just like on—"
"Right. And there we sat. Half of the people said, 'Absolutely guilty, no question.' And the other half said, 'Absolutely innocent, no question.' And they kept arguing and looking at me, because I was the foreman."
"What did you say?"
Her father sighed loudly. "I was wishy-washy," he confessed. "I said I couldn't make up my mind."
"Just like me!" Anastasia announced. "I know just what you feel like."
"But what did you do, Myron?"
"We all argued a lot, and it was getting late. People wanted to go home. One woman had a baby-sitter who had to leave at six. Somebody else had a bad headache. Finally, because we couldn't decide, we said to each other that there must be a reasonable doubt. So we decided on a verdict of not guilty. We went back to the courtroom and I announced that to the judge."
"Just-"
"Right, Anastasia. Exactly like on TV. The defendant shook hands with the lawyer and left. And we all left, too.
"You know what? I think that was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. Do I have time to listen to Brahms's Double Concerto before dinner, Katherine?"
"Sure," she said. "I'll call you when it's ready."
Anastasia followed her father down the hall toward the study. "Don't you feel good, though, Dad? Because after all, if it weren't for you, an innocent man might have been convicted and sentenced to a life behind bars, and the real murderer would have gone free. Even though you suffered, Dad, it was a monumentally important thing to have done."
Myron Krupnik searched through the B's in his CD collection, took out the Brahms concerto, inserted it into the stereo, and turned it on. He sank down onto the couch and stretched his long legs, listening to the first surging notes of the violin.
"And now, Dad," Anastasia went on, "they'll find the real killer, and eventually justice will be done! All because of your courage in holding out for a Not Guilty verdict!"
He chuckled. "Sweetie," he said to her, "it sounds like a lot of drama, but in all honesty it wasn't a federal case or anything. The defendant was an eighteen-year-old girl accused of driving without a license."
Later that evening, feeding her fish, Anastasia said nervously, "Frank, this is a tough time coming up, and I want you to be patient with me if I don't pay a whole lot of light-hearted attention to you the way I used to. I may have to be preparing for a trial soon."
She sat down at her desk and read question five with a feeling of misery and hopelessness.
It was Anastasia's very favorite land of night. Outside, it was raining heavily and the wind was blowing. Water spattered the windowpanes and tree branches brushed and tapped the side of the house.
But inside, in the study, a fire was glowing and crackling in the fireplace. There was a huge bowl of Paul Newman popcorn and four cans of Pepsi on the coffee table. The dog was curled up, looking like a mop, on the floor; occasionally he twitched or stirred as if he might be chasing a squirrel in his doggy dreams. Anastasia and her three best friends, silent except for an occasional munch or sip, were watching Laurence Olivier and Michael Caine pretend to be civilized and witty, while the two were actually scaring each other to death in Sleuth.
Upstairs, wearing his Batman pajamas, Sam was sound asleep.
"Can you put it on pause?" Meredith asked. "I have to go to the bathroom."
Anastasia stopped the film, and they waited while Meredith went down the hall to the small half-bath near the entrance to the house. Sonja stood
up, pushed the draperies aside, and looked out at the rain. "That looks like a haunted house next door," she said. "It's all dark."
Anastasia laughed. "That's Mrs. Stein's house," she said. "She goes to bed early. She's really old. When we first moved in here, Sam thought she was a witch, like in a Halloween story, because her hair was all messy and she has a kind of pointy nose. But she's really nice. Sometimes she baby-sits for Sam if I can't."
She looked through the window where Sonja was standing. "See over there?" She pointed. "That great big house down the street with the fence around the yard? That's where Steve Harvey lives."
"No kidding. Is he rich?"
Anastasia shrugged. "I guess so. His dad's a sportscaster, remember? And his mom's a lawyer."
"Who's rich?" Meredith asked, coming back into the study.
"Steve Harvey. That's his house," Anastasia explained, pointing it out again.
Daphne, who had been leafing through a magazine, looked up from the couch where she was sprawled. "Do you think after my mom finishes law school she'll get rich? I'm sick of living in a crummy apartment."
"Probably. But you'll be old by then," Meredith pointed out cheerfully. "Hey, I have an idea! How about if we call up Steve Harvey anonymously?"
Anastasia made a face. "That's such an adolescent thing to do, Mer. I did that when I was in sixth grade."
"Yeah, you're right," Meredith acknowledged. "It was a dumb idea. You really have values, Anastasia. Did you answer question four yet, about the shoplifter?"
"Yeah, I have it right here." Anastasia went to her father's desk, where she had been working on her homework. "All of my answers are actually non-answers," she explained miserably. "I can't ever make up my mind. Listen to this." She read her answer to the shoplifter question aloud.
"Heck, I thought that one was easy," Daphne said. "I'd turn him in. I'd call the cops on him."
Sonja looked startled. "I thought it was easy, too," she said, "but I said the opposite. I'd look the other way. It's his problem, not mine."