by Jan Karon
Jack looked at him, blinking tears.
‘What is your great idea? I want to know. Please.’
‘I forgot.’
He picked him up. ‘From now on, I want to hear all your ideas, okay? Please. Every one. Don’t stop telling me your great ideas. Because they’re important. Really important.’
Jack didn’t know that dads could cry. He put his arms around his dad’s neck and squeezed really hard.
He felt the softness of his boy’s skin against his, the innocence and unguarded love.
‘You’ll run all your ideas by me, okay? And I’ll be glad to hear them, okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Jack.
‘Thanks, buddy. Thanks.’
He wiped Jack’s tears with the heel of his hand, then wiped his own.
Man. He needed that. ‘Can you give me a smile?’
Jack’s brown eyes and long lashes, then the smile for his dad. ‘I remembered my great idea.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I want to be your name.’
‘Jack Brady Tyler Kavanagh?’
‘It’s too many names. Just Jack Brady Kavanagh.’
‘Are you sure? You can have it either way.’
‘I don’t even need Brady, what is Brady?’
‘I confess I don’t know, but it’s a good name.’
Jack laid his head on his dad’s shoulder. ‘Just Jack Brady an’ your name,’ he said, glad to be in his dad’s arms.
‘Our name,’ said Dooley.
‘Our name,’ said Jack.
• • •
If he was goin’ to move in with Willie awhile, he didn’t want to be a burden. That sounded like his grandma. When the chicken platter was passed around, she took a chicken wing an’ said, I don’ want to be a burden. When she took the smallest piece of pie—when they was a piece of pie to take—she said, I don’ want to be a burden.
Movin’ in with Willie was Lace’s idea and he agreed it was a good one. Nobody had time to clean out that bedroom upstairs, which was a mountain of pure junk; you could not repair or sometimes even recycle stuff that college students had anything to do with. The best solution was to open the window and shovel it down to a truck bed and take it to th’ dump for a fifteen-dollar fee, which’d be money well spent.
On their afternoon break, he felt Willie out. ‘What kind of breakfast does a man git at your place?’ He said it in a jokin’ manner, but he was serious.
‘Any kind he wants,’ said Willie.
Was Willie frownin’ or what? He couldn’t tell. He did not want to move in on a person that did not want to be moved in on. He and Willie had cooked many a meal together, but it was always supper and sometimes Willie let him fire up a pot of collards or bake brownies or whatnot. Mainly, he used his two-eye burner in his bedroom and a refrigerator that could hold one good-size bowl of banana puddin’ and a six-pack of Cheerwine. The freezer could hold a pound of livermush, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, an’ a Snickers bar, which was pretty much his housekeepin’ provisions, total. Lace an’ Dooley, they asked him up for supper pretty regular, but he didn’t want to be a burden to young people.
‘Just tell me what to do,’ he said to Willie, ‘an’ Lord knows, I’ll do it.’ They had agreed to split th’ food bill, but other matters had not been clear.
‘Keep your bed made up,’ said Willie, glad for the chance to talk about it. ‘All white laundry together, all dark together. Laundry soap is four ninety-nine a clip, don’t use more’n you need. Roll your socks up an’ try to keep ’em separate from mine, don’t you know. I’ll wash, you dry like usual.’
‘No problem,’ he said. He was a clean-livin’ man, he was regular military when it come to keepin’ house, just ask Dooley or Miss Pringle how trim he’d kept his basement place in town. Of course Willie was plenty trim hisself; he Swiffered a mop around his kitchen floor every evenin’.
‘An’ no tobacco,’ said Willie.
He didn’t smoke, he didn’t chew. Why was Willie tellin’ him this?
‘Just sayin’,’ said Willie. Willie leaned back in his chair and grinned. Then he chuckled and then he laughed. ‘I’ll be real glad for your company, Harl.’
Ol’ Willie! What a joker! He could have hugged his neck but wouldn’t want Willie thinkin’ th’ wrong thing.
• • •
He came in for lunch and hung his jacket on the hook. ‘The guys will be deer hunting for two days.’
‘Deer hunting?’ she said. There was the wrinkle, the little furrow in his brow . . .
‘Bow hunters,’ said Dooley. ‘We’ve got a bunch of bow hunters workin’ this job.’ They were just getting started at the clinic and this would stall their work. Meantime, concrete jackhammered up, a hole in the floor, dirt piled on tarps in the X-ray room . . .
‘What can you do?’ she said.
He said all that he could reasonably say during deer season in western NC.
‘Zero.’
• • •
Have you seen the truck key?’
‘Don’t you leave it in the truck?’
‘I brought it in to change key rings.’
‘When?’
‘Last night.’
Dooley rummaging in the kitchen drawer, opening a cabinet door.
‘You wouldn’t have put it in there. Look in your jeans pocket in the laundry. Lily does a big wash tomorrow. Where are you going?’
‘Hey, thanks!’ Blake, their vet tech, passed through the kitchen from the hall, walking fast. ‘Sorry.’
She felt sorry for them feeling sorry . . .
‘I’m gon’ love you an’ leave you,’ said Lily, flying in from the laundry room with her handbag. ‘I’m runnin’ late to pick up Violet, we’re cleanin’ th’ mayor’s house tonight, an’ she’s caterin’ a party on Saturday—ten dozen ham biscuits for starters, I’ll bring you a couple. What can I git at th’ store on my way in tomorrow?’
‘Umm,’ she said. Her brain was mush. The acrylics and brushes and all the supplies had just arrived by UPS; she was opening the boxes on the kitchen table, and Jack was fidgety and the little pug they thought was so sweet had just picked a raging fight with Bone Meal, their oldest farm dog.
‘Okay,’ said Dooley. ‘Gotta go.’ He said something else but she didn’t hear.
‘Love you,’ she said.
‘Love you back.’
‘Corn,’ she told Lily. ‘Two cans of corn, no GMO. And a carton of cashew milk and granola and blueberries.’
‘Corn, cashew milk, granola, blueberries. Plus furniture polish, I’ve got to do somethin’ with your livin’ room, it looks like it ought t’ be boarded up.’
‘Polish can’t fix the living room.’
‘At least it’ll look like somebody’s been in there. If I could sew, I’d make slipcovers for th’ whole mess.’
Maybe they would put it all in the yard sale. The old Beemer could be parked at the road, flanked by a couple of armchairs with their quaintly puzzled look . . .
‘Where’s Dad goin’?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘I could’ve gone with him.’
‘You’ll be helping me carry things up to Heaven.’ Paint, big-time. Brushes, a lot of brushes. Two rollers. It was all real, starting now.
‘I could feed th’ kittens!’
‘Not yet. I have to heat their milk.’
Two huge staple guns. Staples. ‘And butter!’ she called after Lily. ‘Unsalted! And cocoa for hot chocolate!’
‘I could give th’ kittens their new names,’ said Jack.
‘You gave them new names yesterday.’
‘I have a better idea.’
He went to the box and squatted beside it, pointing at each nearly hairless newborn. ‘Moogie! Boogie! Frank! Bobo! An’ you can be Pookie. Or you could be Boogie and th�
� one that was Whiskers can be Moogie.’
She heard Lily leave by the front door as Amanda came in the back.
‘Sorry,’ said Amanda. ‘I just hate doin’ this.’
Everybody hated trooping through their kitchen and down the hall to take care of business. But she hated it more. Her house was a zoo.
• • •
Amen!’ she said, closing Jack’s long, rambling bedtime prayer.
‘Amen,’ he said, petulant. ‘You say amen, too, Charley!’ He shouted at Charley, who was sleeping on the foot of his bed. ‘Say amen!’
Charley looked up, blinked.
‘Don’t speak like that,’ she said. ‘You’re being rude and silly.’
‘I want Charley to say amen.’
‘You know very well that Charley can’t say amen. I suggest you apologize for shouting at her.’
Jack was exhausted and she was frightened and angry. For a moment, she thought he would cry; she could see it coming. But he didn’t.
A sigh of self-pity. ‘I’m sorry, Charley.’
Charley jumped down and slunk into her crate.
‘Charley is your best friend. She will protect you and love you always, no matter what. Never be hurtful to her.’
‘Are you mad at me, Mom?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sad at me?’
‘Absolutely not.’
Jack rubbed his eyes. ‘When is Dad ever comin’ home?’
‘Soon.’
She hated lying to her son. But how could she say I have no idea when your dad’s coming home—it’s been hours, I’m frantic, I’m furious. Children did not need to bear the burden of grown-up craziness.
‘Let’s lie down now and tell your story.’
They read books together during the day, but he liked telling his own story at night. Now that he had learned it perfectly, they would begin reading to him at bedtime from the box of books her mom and Cynthia had sent: The Berenstain Bears and the Spooky Old Tree and Mouse Soup and If You Give a Mouse a Cookie and The Velveteen Rabbit. Even so, his own story was a liturgy that soothed when he was overstimulated and gave confidence when he was hurt or out of sorts. Maybe there would always be times when his own story, with its changes and evolutions, would be the best story.
‘Let’s look out the window at our stars, okay? Deep breath—in through the nose and out through the mouth, okay? Hold hands.’
Jack made all the breath gush out of his lungs and gulped air and fell back onto his pillow. ‘Here we go!’
‘This is Jack’s story, the story of a forever family. Jack lives in . . . ’
‘A farmhouse!’ he said. ‘With green shutters. With my mom and dad!’
‘Next door is . . . ‘
‘Th’ Kav’na Animal Wellness Clinic. Where Dad is the doctor for dogs an’ cats an’ sheep an’ sometimes chickens an’ even a goat an’ th’ big, big things with long eyelashes, which is llamas with two l’s.’
‘Jack loves his . . . ’
‘ . . . big ol’ slobbery dog named Charley!’
‘Who loves him back and protects him. A lot of people work on the farm named . . . ’
‘Meadowgate.’
‘And his home phone number is . . . ’
‘Two six six nine seven . . . I forgot.’
He repeated the two numbers she told him, then said it all over again. He did not like to forget the numbers or get them wrong.
‘Besides us, the people at our farm are . . .’ He liked to say this part in his loud voice. ‘ . . .Willie an’ Harley an’ Lily an’ Uncle Doc Owen an’ Amanda an’ Blake!’
‘Very good. Perfect. Every day, Jack does what?’
‘Pulls Charley in th’ wagon, goes with Dad to see th’ heifers an’ Choo-Choo, learns to talk better and not say ain’t.’ He shrugged. ‘Hangs out with my mom and sometimes Amanda. Plays with my dump trucks an’ stuff.’
‘Jack has four grandparents and they all live in . . . ’
‘Mitford!’ He held up four fingers and named each finger. ‘Granpa Tim, Granny C, Granpa Hoppy, an’ Granny O.
‘An’ my uncles are Uncle Pooh, Uncle Sammy, Uncle Kenny, Uncle Walter, an’ Uncle Doc Owen, who is a fake uncle but I let him be real. Five uncles!’
‘How many fingers?’
He held up five.
‘Remember Uncle Henry in Mississippi.’
‘An’ Uncle Henry. Six uncles. An’ my aunts are Aunt Jess an’ Aunt Julie. Two is all.’
Just as she’d said, they were short on aunts.
‘Jack’s cousins are . . . ’
‘Etta an’ Ethan! An’ my fake cousin, Rebecca Jane.’ He held up three fingers. ‘Three cousins. I would like to have this many.’ He held up ten fingers.
‘Soon, Jack’s last name will be . . . ’
He yawned big and squeezed his eyes shut and spelled. ‘K-a-v . . . n-a . . . h!’
She didn’t tell him that he left out two letters tonight.
‘When it’s my name forever, I can have a pony or a bike.’ He yawned again. ‘Or maybe a Lego set with a barn and tractor or an iPad. Or maybe it could be a huge big dinosaur that you put together with help from your family like in th’ catalog.’ He couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. ‘Or . . . it could be . . . a TV . . . in my room . . . ’
The sweet opiate of his liturgy was working, and it was good.
She lay beside her son and listened to his breathing. So easy and natural, unlike hers which was shallow and uneven. Where was Dooley? Nobody knew. Why couldn’t she reach him? Why wouldn’t he answer his phone or text her back? Why hadn’t she listened when he said where he was going? Or did he even say? He found his keys—that’s all she knew.
She had called Blake, but he didn’t pick up. Harley and Willie were at Jake’s place, celebrating Harley’s upcoming move-in, and didn’t have cell phones. She had tried Jake’s, but the line was constantly busy, as Jake liked to leave it off the hook and hang out with his customers. Amanda didn’t know where Doc Owen was; there was a lot going on today, she said, and they hadn’t communicated as they usually did.
Should she call the county police? Dooley was usually home at five-thirty unless he was needed at the clinic. She had texted Dooley at six-thirty, seven, and seven-fifteen, called him at seven-thirty and eight, and now it was eight-forty. His supper was in the toaster oven on warm, but it wouldn’t be good now, he could want cereal.
Why would he do this? Being more than three hours late and not letting her know—it was the kind of thing that had broken them up twice; the second time had almost been the end. She had felt she would die from the pain they inflicted on each other. Out of hurt and anger and complete frustration, she had punched him, but she could never do that again, no matter what. A kick, a slap, a punch, a blow—all had been used by her biological father to terrify and intimidate her.
She would not imagine the worst. She refused. But the curve. If it was the curve, somebody would have come. She saw herself opening the front door and the county police standing there and the car in the yard with its flashing light . . .
No! Dooley was her heart, her soul, her blood. She prayed again.
Her head had been a fog bucket for days; all that was up there was the huge roll of blank canvas. Did he mention that Joanna Rivers had something for sale? Maybe he’d gone over to her place. Joanna was beautiful. And tall. Dooley liked tall girls. She had met her only once and wondered how she could make farm calls and wrangle big animals and still look stylish, even with mud on her boots.
But she would not go there. Going there was a guaranteed disaster.
Eight forty-five. Her heart was racing; she couldn’t lie here and do nothing.
Teddy sat still while she snapped on the leash and took him downstairs and out to the yard. She kept her eyes on the dark road, looking fierce
and resolute, as if that could produce headlights and the sound of his truck.
• • •
He was crazy, but not too crazy to remember the curve up ahead and the fact that he was pushing eighty. Lace would kill him and he might as well help her do it and be out of his misery. God knows, he hadn’t meant this to happen.
Joanna had been doing an intramammary infusion on a berserk first-calf Jersey that the farmer brought in on a rope. A rope! Was this the twenty-first century? Did the man not have a halter to walk his heifer a mile up the road to what he called ‘th’ vet woman’?
‘This is Myrtle,’ said the farmer, by way of introduction.
Any fool would have held on to the rope while the vet was down there at his cow’s teats with a needle. The heifer was in horrific pain; he’d seen what mastitis could do. The moment the cannula was inserted into the streak canal, Myrtle blew a fuse. Off she bolted, rodeo-ing past the barn, cannula and plunger in the teat.
Whoever said cows can’t run fast? And who would run after her? Not Joanna, who had sprained her ankle yesterday on a horse farm, and not the poor dope who stood there with his mouth open like the flap of a county mail box.
No, the derp vet who had no vested interest in any of this—he would run after the cow.
It was nearly dark and the pasture was a sludge bed. They’d kept horses in here for years and the field was beaten to a pulp. Up ahead was an open gate, and there went the cow sailing through the opening and disappearing over the hill. He hammered the air with cussin’ and threatening the beast with her life, the rope flying behind as she careened down the slope toward a creek.
The marshy pasture bottom slowed him down, but on they went, the cow walloping into the creek and churning upstream as if pursued by demons. His left shoe made a bad connection with a slippery rock and he sprawled into the water, hitting his hip hard on a stone, then scrambling to his feet and chasing her farther upstream, where he was able to grab the rope and down he went again.
A dog barking. The cow stopped, suddenly timid. He hauled himself up and felt for the teat and gave the cannula a quick jerk and out it came and she bawled and reversed direction and splashed downstream at a run. The heifer weighed 800 or 900 pounds; he clocked in at 154 soaking wet. Even with the rope, he could not bring her under control. He was along for the ride and the fact that he hadn’t broken every bone in his body was a miracle.