by Jan Karon
‘Merry Christmas!’ said Cynthia.
‘And many more,’ he said.
A good portion of his soul was forever bound to the two souls in the photograph.
• • •
Otis drove Avis home.
Somebody had draped a string of colored lights above the kitchen sink. On the counter, a loaf of banana bread from Lois Burton. A bag of yesterday’s donuts from Sweet Stuff. A sticky note on the fridge: MAC AN CHEESE INSIDE 350 20 MINNITS
‘Johnsie sent the mac and cheese,’ said Otis. ‘She’ll be up tomorrow.’
‘No John . . . Johns. . . .’ Avis couldn’t get the word out and shook his head no.
As Avis didn’t have any next of kin, the doctor had given him, Otis, an earful—here were prescriptions to pick up, here was a file folder full of stuff to read, here was a list of what th’ patient could and couldn’t eat, plus appointments for checkups an’ an order for somebody to monitor the patient for the next few days.
Otis had never once told Avis what to do, but that was then and this was now.
‘If you go up th’ hill one more time, you prob’ly ain’t gon’ make it down here ag’in. You need to do what th’ doctor says an’ let somebody look after you a day or two!’ Otis’s heart thundered. He had raised his voice, but was glad he said it.
Avis fumbled with the oven knob as if he’d never seen it before. Otis took the mac and cheese out of the fridge.
‘I’d ’preciate it if . . . you-u-u would run home an’ bring Chuck . . . Chucky. I’ll pay-y-y your gas.’
‘No need to run to th’ Valley, he’s at th’ store in his place by th’ deer jerky. We didn’t need to fool with a dog till I got you home.’ He looked at the oven setting to make sure Avis had dialed it to 350. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’ Lord knows he was sick of foolin’ with a man who wouldn’t listen to nobody but hisself.
Avis opened the refrigerator door and stared in.
He took a package wrapped with butcher paper out of the freezer.
He filled Chucky’s water bowl, put kibble in his food bowl.
He shuffled through his house.
In the bedroom, he found Chucky’s blankets and made a nice spot at the foot of the bed. Seem like he wanted to whistle a tune but there wadn’t enough air in his lungs yet.
‘Whoa!’
He saw hisself in the mirror on the back of th’ door. Looked like one eye was settin’ lower than th’ other an’ his clothes were hangin’ on him. He would have to kill a pint of rocky road every night or two to put meat on his bones. What he would do about his head, which was a dope bucket, he didn’t know. Plus what would he do for Father Tim, who had done so much to get him over the worst hump of his life? He couldn’t answer that right now, but it would have to be somethin’ good.
In the kitchen, he started a list. Kibble. The best money can buy! Plus a couple dozen cans of soft, as life for Chucky had been hard.
Bacon. Free-range eggs. Two pork chops. He’d have to get hisself well an’ go back to makin’ pasta. No handmade pasta at th’ Local was money goin’ over to Wesley. Basmati rice. Roasting hen. Chucky would like a little white meat an’ rice with his kibble. Some of Father Tim’s Italian sausage, which he heard was tasty. Four pints rocky road. An’ some kind of vegetable to make th’ doc happy. 1 sweet potatoe.
There you go! He was in th’ grocery b’iness; life was good.
Over by th’ door, his wall calendar was still parked on November.
He lifted what was left of December an’ hooked it on the nail.
The only time to eat diet food is while you’re waiting for the steak to cook.
—JULIA CHILD
‘Amen!’ he hollered.
Speakin’ of amen, what little time he was layin’ in th’ hospital with a clear head, he had thought about God. Well, not about God exactly, but how people talked about him all th’ time. He realized he did th’ same thing.
He said God A’mighty when somethin’ rattled or surprised him.
He said God only knows when Avis Packard didn’t.
He said Lord help when he didn’t expect any help.
It was just words. You open your mouth and out comes stuff you hear other people say, then you say it, too, and it don’t mean nothin’.
The thing was, he’d like it to mean somethin’.
• • •
It was your wonderful idea,’ said Cynthia. ‘I think it should be just the two of you. This is so important, and you don’t get much time together. I’ll go in and give Lace a hand.’
He had checked his CDs and was surprised that, indeed, he had enough wherewithal to do this. He arranged the purchase with the help of Hal and delivery time through Blake. Not easy this time of year. But on Thursday, Hal had gotten Dooley up to the Crossroads for a cheeseburger, and by grace alone, literally, the truck had arrived at Meadowgate on time, and it all came together.
He and Dooley walked to the clinic. At the storage room door, he took the key from his pocket.
‘So that’s where the key went,’ said Dooley. ‘I was ready to get a locksmith out here.’
He inserted the key but didn’t open the door.
‘We know you asked us not to help you. And we’re obeying that request. So we’re not helping you, we’re helping the cats and dogs and all those whose lives you may save because of what’s in this room.
‘The manufacturer will send someone at week’s end to install it and do the tutorials. Blake and Amanda have all the details.
‘It’s an investment, son—in the lives of creatures who generously give so much joy and satisfaction to us. We present it to you in memory of Barnabas. He would have liked you to have it.’
He turned the key, opened the door.
Dooley laughed, Dooley cried. He threw his arms around his dad and slapped him on the back again and again and again.
‘You’re rattlin’ my brain!’ said his dad, doing some backslapping of his own. ‘Merry Christmas!’
He had never held his son like this; his son had never held him like this. Years ago, he had legally adopted Dooley. In this moment, Dooley had completely, unilaterally, adopted him back.
The X-ray machine would run through a few parts as time went by, and would last between ten to fifteen years.
But this particular Christmas memory, he hoped, would last for the rest of their lives.
• • •
I can only read some words. That word is forty. That word is Christmas, that word is books, an’ that is my name on th’ top. You can read my card out loud if you want to.’
‘Dear Jack,
‘Here are ten books. In the spring, you will get ten more. In the fall, you will get ten more. Next Christmas, you will get ten more. That makes FORTY BOOKS!
‘Love you to the clouds and back.
‘Mom and Dad.’
Jack ran to the new bookcase. ‘Granny C! You could read this one!’
He held up a large-format Tale of Peter Rabbit.
‘Perfect!’ Granny C helped her grandson climb into her lap. ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like better,’ she said, meaning it.
• • •
The Owens had come over for the unveiling and returned home; all had marveled at the new technology. Tommy and Beth were doing a gig in Holding. Rebecca Jane was conducting a bike-maintenance tutorial in the living room.
Things were pretty quiet at Meadowgate.
‘So, Dad, let’s step out back a few minutes. I have somethin’ for you, too. It’s really special.’
‘Give me a clue.’
‘He isn’t Barnabas, no other dog can ever be. This dog is just Gus. That’s all he was made to be, all he wants to be.’
‘A dog? No, no.’
‘You’ll like this little guy, I guarantee it. He’s at the clinic, come take a look.’<
br />
‘Truman,’ he said. ‘Truman.’
‘Gus loves cats, he grew up with cats. Give it a whirl. If it’s not a good fit in ten days, back he comes. Two years old. Trained to grass. Great health. Great disposition. I’d take Gus myself, but I can’t take ’em all.’
Gus. He’d had a great-uncle named Gus. He had to be clear here. ‘The timing is not good. Not at all.’
‘Try it for ten days. He’ll get you out of the house.’
‘Get me out of the house? Wait a minute, buddyroe, I am out of the house. Six days a week! I have no wheels of my own, I walk to work, I . . .’
‘Sure, Dad. Right. Sorry. But trust me, the minute I saw him, I thought he’s perfect for you. Plus he does a really amazing trick.’
‘What’s his breed?’
‘Good bit of terrier. Franklin Roosevelt, Coolidge, Hoover, Harding—they all had terriers. Presidents love terriers.’
He did not remind Dooley that Barnabas’s trick was unparalleled in canine history. Any disobedience by his dog, he had rebuked with whatever Bible verse or passage came to mind. Instantly, his errant dog lay in submission at his feet. He could have taken that show on the road.
To put a fine point on it, he had loved and been loved by the best. There was no topping that, so why bother?
‘What kind of trick?’
‘Hard to describe. I’ll bring him out to the yard. You can meet and we’ll see how it goes.’
He gave his son a look.
‘I talked with Cynthia,’ said Dooley. ‘She met Gus, she’s okay with th’ ten-day trial. She says you need a dog.’
He felt betrayed. Everyone knew he was not getting another dog . . .
Gus charged from the clinic ahead of Dooley.
Twenty-five pounds, he guessed. Muscular. Happy little guy. Bristling white coat, nice coloring around face and ears . . .
‘If it doesn’t work,’ said Dooley, ‘I’ll come get him. No problem. Got kibble and a loaner crate ready to roll. You’ll never get another deal like this.’
Gus trotted up and looked at the man with the white collar who was looking down at him. Very thoughtfully, it appeared, Gus raised his leg and relieved himself, spattering a few drops on the Collar’s right loafer.
Dooley was aghast.
‘If that’s his trick . . .’ said Father Tim.
‘Man. Sorry, Dad, sorry, totally uncharacteristic behavior . . .’ Dooley dug something from his jacket pocket. ‘See this tennis ball? Watch this.’
Dooley pitched the ball toward the corncrib; Gus tore up some snowbound grass to retrieve it.
Back raced Gus, with the ball in his mouth—barking. He dropped it at Dooley’s feet.
‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ said Dooley. ‘Barking with a ball in his mouth?’
‘How does he do that?’
‘That’s his trick! Isn’t it amazing? I mean, look at this little guy—teeth clenched on th’ ball, barkin’ like crazy. People go nuts over watchin’ this.’
Father Tim looked down at his shoe.
‘And loves cats, totally. We can take him out to the barn where there are at least a dozen, we’ll prove it. And remember: a twenty-five-pound bag of kibble. Organic! Made in America! Free!’ How long could he keep pitching this dog?
His son was absolutely determined to ship Gus out of here. What did he have to lose? Ten days would be over, after all, in ten days. He stooped down, offered Gus the back of his hand. Gus sniffed. Sat. Looked up, tail thrashing the snow.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Consider it done.’
‘Good job, Dad! You and Gus will be a great team!’ He pitched the ball again.
‘Ten days,’ he said in his pulpit voice.
And there was Dooley’s smile, every bit as good as his X-ray machine smile.
A light snow was beginning to fall. Lace and Cynthia watched through the kitchen window, heard their laughter.
‘My husband the matchmaker,’ said Lace.
‘How are you?’
‘Tired. Really tired. But I can rest a little now. Dad says it’s already moving around, though I can’t feel it. And he says fingers and toes are forming.’
Her beautiful daughter-in-law had already taken on the proverbial glow. Cynthia gave her a hug. ‘You know I’ll come anytime, any hour, for any reason.’
She had never been able to have a child, and occasionally the old disappointment still haunted. But somehow she knew this baby was for her, too. She would live all the days of all the stages of this new beating heart with a joy she hadn’t known before.
• • •
He checked his email as they loaded the car. Maybe in the New Year he would learn to text, or at least type u for you.
Avis settled at home with Chucky. Eating mac and cheese. Says they starved him at the hospital.
He hit Reply.
Great news! I’ll be at the store in the morning. You and Lisa take the day off. Don’t worry. Omer will give a hand. Will check on A first thing. Merry Christmas!
It was time to have a heart-to-heart with Avis Packard. About more than the Local. He’d been praying about this for months.
They were installing the dog crate in the hatch when Old Man Teague drove in.
Dooley watched him climb down from his truck with a paper bag, and thought their neighbor looked more feeble than he’d noticed before.
‘Somethin’ for y’r boy.’
Dooley opened the bag and took out a duck call.
‘Hit’s signed,’ said Teague.
‘You made this? Wow. Good-looking work, Mr. Teague. Thank you very much. Jack’s at the Owens’ right now. He’ll sure love it. Austin Teague, meet my dad, Reverend Tim Kavanagh.’
He liked that his dad was wearing the scarf he and Lace gave him.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr. Teague. I hear you’re a very fine dancer.’
The old man shook his dad’s hand, gave a curt nod.
‘Will you come in?’ said Dooley.
Teague wagged his head, he would not come in.
‘I hope you’ll walk out to visit Redeemer. She’s in our pet cemetery behind th’ corncrib. We gave her a nice sunny spot and a marker. It’s easy to find.’
The old man turned away, removed a handkerchief from his overalls pocket. ‘I thank you.’
‘I’ll bring Jack by one of these days. Would you come for supper sometime?’
Teague shook his head. He would not come for supper.
‘Thanks for the great duck call. It’s a wonder how anybody can make these things.’ Dooley tested it. An actual smile on Austin Teague’s face. He blew the call again. ‘Beautiful!’
‘That’ll get you a raft of ducks on y’r pond.’
‘Merry Christmas!’ said his dad. ‘Good to see you, Mr. Teague.’
Dooley watched the old man walk along the driveway toward the corncrib.
‘Mr. Teague!’
He turned around.
‘We’ll call you about supper here in a week or two.’
He knew exactly what Austin Teague needed. It was a little soon yet, but when the time came . . .
• • •
Truman was pouting. Big-time.
Not one swipe had he taken at Gus, who seemed crazy about his new surroundings and totally dedicated to getting on the good side of the house cat.
Truman had removed himself from the lowlife by leaping from the floor to the desk chair and from the chair to the desk, where he ensconced himself in the out-box.
They were on the study sofa with a bowl of popcorn, couch potatoes par excellence. It was snowing again—what the Wesley TV station’s weatherman had called ‘a quixotic and somewhat indifferent snowfall.’ Perhaps the meteorologist had been an English major.
‘What do you feel ready for in the coming year?’ he asked his cou
chmate.
Cynthia devoured a handful of popcorn and considered the question. ‘Ready for you to retire again and stay retired.’
‘Not just any woman would say that to her spouse.’
‘Well, there you have it. Living proof that I’m not just any woman.’
‘So what would we do?’
‘I think we should learn to have more fun.’
‘I’m not terribly good at that,’ he said.
‘Yes, but we can learn. It’s not too late to learn.’
‘Spring,’ he said. ‘I drive, you knit. That will be fun.’ Liar, liar, pants on fire. He had not yet adjusted to the idea that it might be fun to wheel that thing around, but he was getting there.
‘Look who’s here,’ he said.
Gus sat at their feet, amber eyes unblinking.
‘I thought I latched his crate.’
‘I unlatched it,’ she said.
‘But dogs like their crates. They’re den animals.’ Whose dog was this supposed to be, anyway?
‘It’s Christmas, honey. Besides, the gate is still up from Chucky’s visit; he can’t go anywhere. I think he wants popcorn.’
‘No popcorn unless it’s unbuttered, unsalted, and inspected for unpopped kernels, which can lodge in the teeth or in the throat.’
‘Textbook!’ said his wife.
‘That’s what Dooley would tell you.’
‘Gus really is darling, don’t you think? Maybe he wants on the sofa with us. If I were a dog, I would want on the sofa with us!’
‘No, no, this is a trial run, we don’t need to start any . . . ’
In one tidy leap, Gus joined them on the sofa.
• • •
It was a awful idea, all right. Turned out th’ Grinch stole everybody’s Christmas—roast beef dinners, stockin’s hung on th’ mantelpiece, all th’ presents for th’ young’uns—everything!—an’ piled it on his sled to dump off a mountain.
But before th’ ol’ Grinch got to it, somethin’ wonderful come to pass. It took up two whole pages of th’ book!
He settled into the ending with renewed satisfaction.
He read the part where th’ Grinch, after stealin’ ever’thing he could git his hands on, brought back to Who-ville everything he stole—all the food, all th’ toys, even th’ Christmas tree!