Mr. Elliot sits on the ground beside Charlie and puts his arm around him and they both cry quietly while Mr. Hanna moves his hand up to Sunny’s head again and begins another slow stroke along her body down to her tail.
The next morning, Charlie and his parents bury Sunny among the fir trees at the exact spot where RJ landed after he fell.
14. HENRY
Henry didn’t want to say that his Rehabilitation Plan had failed, but if he thought about things for as long as two seconds, he had to admit that that was pretty much what had happened: The plan had fallen flat. If it were a school assignment, Henry’s grade would have been a large red D.
During the weeks that followed, as fall had turned to winter, Henry had spent hours scouring Claremont, calling, “Buddy! Buddy!” Frequently, he came across Buddy, but he couldn’t say that the dog actually knew his name. What Buddy did know was that when he saw Henry running toward him calling, “Buddy!” and holding an outstretched hand in his direction, that hand held food or treats. Buddy was now comfortable enough to take the treats from the hand—and even to allow Henry to pat him—before he ran off to eat in private.
So. What had Henry accomplished? He was fairly sure he had accomplished Day 1 of his plan, since Buddy definitely allowed Henry to approach him and occasionally he sniffed his hand before snatching the treats. Day 2, since Buddy also permitted Henry to pat him. And maybe, Henry decided, he had accomplished part of Day 4, since Buddy had certainly heard his name called often enough. And he had sort of accomplished Day 5. But what about “Hug dog,” which was supposed to have been accomplished before Day 4? And what about everything after Day 4? The leash and collar Henry had secretly bought still lay coiled, brightly colored and new smelling, under his bed. Buddy couldn’t sit or do tricks, Henry hadn’t given him a bath, and he still had no idea whether Buddy was housebroken. (He preferred not to think about that. Better to concentrate on other things.)
One day when Henry and Owen and Antony and Antony’s brothers and sisters were walking to school, Sofia said, “We’re going to decorate our tree tonight!”
“Our outside tree,” said Ginny importantly. “We don’t have an inside tree yet.”
Henry stopped in his tracks. Christmas trees! What had happened to the long, long autumn—the one that had boringly stretched in front of him after Matthew had moved away? Where had it gone? Halloween was over, Thanksgiving was over, and now Christmas was almost here. Henry had been so caught up in Buddy’s Rehabilitation Plan that the days and weeks and months had sped past.
“What’s the matter?” asked Owen, turning around to look at Henry.
“Nothing.” Henry ran to catch up with the kids. “I was just thinking. There are only thirteen days until Christmas.”
Henry didn’t know whether to be excited or disappointed.
Henry’s parents brought the boxes of Christmas decorations down from the attic. His mother arrayed angels and elves and snow globes and miniature trees along the mantelpiece. His father twined strands of tiny gold lights through ropes of pine branches and arranged them around the front door of their house. Henry set out the Nativity scene on a table in the living room. The crèche pieces were very old—they had belonged to Henry’s father’s mother when she was a little girl—and Henry handled them with great care and worried that Amelia Earhart would knock them off the table. (But she didn’t.)
Before Henry knew it, Christmas Eve had arrived. Henry’s plan had failed (or at any rate, he was far behind schedule, since by now he should have had a fully trained, friendly, bathed dog for more than two months), and Henry was fairly certain his parents weren’t going to surprise him with a dog the next morning. There had not been one more word of discussion about anything dog-related, from responsibility to fenced-in yards. Still, Henry couldn’t help but feel the surge of excitement that washed over him every year at Christmas. Claremont was dancing with wreaths and trees and lights and snowflakes and candy canes, his class had held an end-of-term party to which their parents had been invited, Henry’s house smelled of gingerbread and pine and peppermint, packages were piling up under their tree, vacation yawned ahead, that evening the Christmas parade would take place on Nassau Street, and today Henry and his parents would pay their annual visit to Henry’s father’s aunt Susan.
“Henry?” his mother called up the stairs. “Are you almost ready? We should leave in half an hour.”
“I’m ready!” Henry called back. And he was. He had not forgotten his promise to himself to prove that he could be adult and responsible for more than twenty-four hours. To this end, he had dreamed up, created, and wrapped his present for Aunt Susan entirely on his own. This had taken a good deal of time. He hadn’t wanted to give just anything to his great-aunt. He loved her and looked forward to his visits with her and had decided that a box of stationery or a dishtowel or a coffee mug would not do. He had thought about his aunt, who was old (as old as Grandpa Jack and Grandma Lucy, his mother’s parents, although she didn’t act very old), and about her life and her house, and then he had remembered how much Aunt Susan loved her dog, Maxie. Maxie was a small black dog of uncertain background who looked more like a poodle than any other breed. Susan had adopted him after he had shown up at a neighbor’s house wearing a too-small collar with no ID tags, and suffering from fleabites and eye infections. Henry remembered Susan’s saying that when she first met Maxie she thought he was beautiful, bites and infections and all, and she had fallen in love with him.
It was this memory that had given Henry the idea for Aunt Susan’s present. Nearly every night in December, after he finished his homework, he had worked on a pastel portrait of Maxie. Then he made a cardboard frame for the picture and wrapped the gift in silver and turquoise, colors his aunt liked quite a bit.
Henry trotted down the stairs, dressed in khaki pants and a blue blazer, his hair neatly combed, the gift in his hand. “I’m ready,” he announced to his parents.
“You look so handsome!” exclaimed his mother.
“What’s in the package?” asked his father.
“A secret,” said Henry. “You’ll find out when Aunt Susan opens it.”
The drive to Susan’s took nearly an hour, and Henry wished he had a dog to keep him company. But he said nothing.
When at last they turned into Susan’s driveway, Henry saw his great-aunt standing in the doorway. She waved heartily, and Henry rolled his window down and called, “Merry Christmas, Aunt Susan!”
“Merry Christmas!” she replied.
The inside of Susan’s house was warm and smelled much like Henry’s—of spices and evergreens and magic. Maxie was wearing a red bow on his collar and when he caught sight of Henry he ran to him, hindquarters wiggling, and jumped up and down until Henry sat on the floor and hugged him.
“My goodness,” said Susan, eyeing the bag of gifts Henry’s mother was carrying. “I hope those aren’t all for me.”
“They’re for you and Maxie,” said Henry from the floor.
“You’ll spoil us,” said Susan, who looked as excited as Henry felt.
“I’ll put them under the tree,” said Henry. “It’s more fun to open presents if they’ve come from under the tree.”
Aunt Susan disappeared into the kitchen to attend to lunch preparations, and Henry lifted the gifts out of the shopping bag one by one and arranged them beneath the boughs of the Christmas tree. He couldn’t help peeking at the packages Susan had already placed there, and he read some of the tags.
Merry Christmas to Charlie from your old Aunt Susan
For Henry—Stay warm! Love, Aunt Susan (Henry prepared himself for a hand-knitted item.)
Warm greetings to Rebecca from Aunt Susan (So Aunt Susan had knitted something for Henry’s mother as well. Henry closed his eyes and hoped the items didn’t match. But if they did, he knew better than to say anything other than “Thank you.”)
To Henry from Aunt Susan—Merry Christmas! (This tag was taped to a big box, and Henry felt a prickle of excitement.)
Aunt Susan returned to the living room carrying a tray with four mugs. The tray was decorated with poinsettias and so were the mugs. Henry sighed. This was one of the best things about Christmas: It was everywhere. He noted a snowman blanket on the back of his great-aunt’s couch. Christmas cards were strung around the doorway. Miniature lighted trees lined the windowsill. Red ribbons and ropes of evergreens cascaded down the banister. Christmas was magical, Henry thought, and maybe—just maybe—anything could happen.
His thoughts were drifting to Buddy when Aunt Susan said, “Let’s have a Christmas toast,” and handed around mugs of hot chocolate.
Henry drank his while sitting on the floor with Maxie in his lap.
“Well!” said Aunt Susan, jumping to her feet. “I think we should open presents next, don’t you? We’ll eat lunch afterward. Henry, do you want to play Santa and hand out the presents?”
“I do,” said Henry, “but I don’t want to disturb Maxie.” He looked down at the little dog, who had fallen fast asleep and was snoring delicately.
Susan grinned. “Maxie loves you. All right. I’ll be Santa.”
“Aunt Susan?” said Henry. “Open that one first, okay?”
“This blue one?” She withdrew it from under the tree and read the card. “From you, Henry? Thank you.” She peeled back the paper, gently opened the box inside, and lifted out the portrait. “Oh,” she said, a catch in her voice. “It’s Maxie, isn’t it? It’s wonderful! And you made it yourself. Thank you, Henry.”
“You’re welcome,” said Henry.
“I’m going to keep it right here in the living room where I can see it all the time. What a thoughtful gift.” Aunt Susan kissed Henry on the cheek, and Henry saw his parents exchange a pleased glance.
One at a time the other packages were opened: A sweater, a board game, a bowl for Maxie with his name on it, several books, a pair of earrings, an enormous box of artist’s supplies (that was the big box for Henry from Aunt Susan), a nightgown, treats for Maxie, a lavender scarf (Aunt Susan’s knitted gift for Henry’s mother), and a navy hat (Aunt Susan’s knitted gift for Henry, who breathed a sigh of relief).
Lunch came next, their traditional Christmas Eve lunch of turkey soup and warm biscuits, and then Aunt Susan said, “Can you stay a bit longer? Shall we sit by the fire again?”
So they sat before the glowing tree, surrounded by their gifts, Maxie once again snoozing in Henry’s lap.
“Well,” said Aunt Susan in her hearty voice, “Henry, what was on your Christmas list this year?”
Henry, who had started to feel as drowsy as Maxie looked, jerked to attention and risked a sideways glance at his parents. “Um,” he said after a moment, “I mostly asked for a dog.”
“He gave us his list from two years ago,” spoke up Henry’s father. “He asked for a dog when he was nine—”
“I suspect,” Aunt Susan interrupted, “that he’s asked for a dog since then, too.”
“I really, really, really want a dog,” Henry couldn’t help saying.
“But?” prompted Aunt Susan.
“But Mom and Dad always say no.” Henry decided not to go into any details. Not now. Not on Christmas Eve with even the dim hope of finding a dog beneath his tree the next morning.
Aunt Susan frowned. “That would be because of Sunny, I suppose.”
“Who’s Sunny?” asked Henry.
Susan sat forward in her chair and clasped her wrinkled hands. She looked intently at Henry’s father, and her frown deepened. “Charlie, you haven’t told Henry about Sunny?”
“Who’s Sunny?” asked Henry again.
“She was your father’s dog,” replied Aunt Susan, and now she sounded puzzled. But there was something else in her tone, something Henry couldn’t quite identify. He half expected Susan to shake a scolding finger at his father, and so he scooted backward in his chair, jostling Maxie. “She was one of the finest dogs ever,” Susan continued. “But Charlie, you should tell Henry about her.”
“It doesn’t seem like much of a Christmas story,” said Henry’s father stiffly, and he glanced around the room, not looking directly at anyone until his gaze settled uncomfortably on Maxie.
Henry raised his chin and saw that his mother was slowly peeling apart a length of Christmas ribbon, as if this required great concentration.
“It isn’t,” said Susan, and her voice had softened. She offered a small smile to Henry’s father. “But the boy wants a dog, and he deserves to know why you won’t let him have one.”
Henry was suddenly brimming with questions for his father. “Dad?” he said.
His father held up a hand. “Let me think for a minute.”
Henry looked down at Maxie in his lap. Everything was very still, the only sound the strains of “Silent Night,” which floated to Henry’s ears from some other room in the house.
Finally, his father said, “This was back when I was just a little younger than you. When I was in fifth grade.”
“Was RJ still alive?” asked Henry.
His father shook his head. “No. And that’s an important part of the story.” He gazed into the fireplace before turning around and facing Henry. “Although we lived on the farm we didn’t have many animals,” he began. “Just your grandmother’s chickens and Sunny. Sunny was RJ’s dog. Well, she was our family dog, but she was devoted to RJ. She was about six years old when he died.”
Henry nodded, stroking one of Maxie’s silky ears.
“For a while, Sunny was very lonely without RJ, but gradually she began to follow me around, just the way she had followed my brother.” Henry’s father straightened in his chair and now he looked directly at Henry, as if they were the only two people in the room.
“She became your companion,” spoke up Aunt Susan.
“Yes. She became my companion. She waited for me at the school bus stop and we took walks together and she slept in my bed. She was always by my side. She didn’t take RJ’s place for me and I didn’t take RJ’s place for her, but each of us helped the other to heal after his death. Sunny helped my parents too. By the time RJ had been gone for a year, we were beginning to feel like ourselves again—a changed family, but a restored one—and Sunny had played a role in that.
“Then, just before Thanksgiving the year I was in fifth grade, Sunny was running around on our property and a hunter shot her.”
Henry opened his mouth in horror. “But—”
“And that was the end of Sunny,” his father said quickly as if he couldn’t wait to finish the story. “We buried her, and we never got another dog.”
“But why would a hunter shoot a dog?” asked Henry. “Did he do it on purpose?”
“No, of course not. At least, I don’t think so. He was hunting too close to our land and it was nearly dark. I suppose he saw Sunny moving and thought she was a deer and he took a shot. Which is exactly why people shouldn’t go hunting. When the man realized what he had done, he ran off into the woods, never owned up to his mistake.”
“His mistake?” exclaimed Henry. “It sounds more like a crime.”
Charlie Elliot was sitting perfectly still, but his eyes were soft now, and he said, “The point is that losing Sunny was horrible.”
“And you don’t want Henry to go through what you went through,” said Aunt Susan quietly. She had settled back in her chair, and her eyes, like Charlie’s, had softened. “Isn’t that right? It was painful and you want to spare Henry that pain.”
Mr. Elliot didn’t answer.
Henry looked at his mother who set aside the frayed ribbon, but said nothing.
“Do you have any pictures of Sunny?” asked Henry.
“Probably. Somewhere,” his father replied.
“Maybe we can look for them sometime.”
When there was no answer to this either, Henry understood that his father had said all he intended to say about Sunny, at least for the time being, and he fell silent. The conversations he had had with his parents about dogs made more sense now. Sm
all indoor pets, such as Amelia Earhart and the hamsters, were safe. They didn’t go outdoors so they couldn’t run away or get hit by cars or shot by hunters. Dogs were another story.
Henry understood something else. There would be no surprise dog under the tree the next morning. He could let go of his last shred of hope. He was sad, but he understood.
The Christmas visit came to a quiet end. Henry and his parents packed up the gifts from Aunt Susan, climbed into their car, and drove silently home along snowy roads. Henry gazed out the window and thought about Buddy. Buddy who had stuck around Claremont, but who still foraged for garbage and slept . . . where? Henry didn’t even know where Buddy slept. He hoped he found warm places.
The Elliots pulled into their garage, and Henry took his gifts upstairs to his room. He crawled under his bed and pulled out the Rehabilitation Plan, the leash, the collar, and a stash of dog biscuits. He considered the leash and collar for several moments before placing them in a box and wrapping it in star-covered paper.
Then he threw the Rehabilitation Plan in his wastebasket.
But he kept the cookies. He still intended to be Buddy’s friend.
15. HENRY
With the ringing of bells on Nassau Street and a sharpening of the chilly air, Christmas Eve arrived. These hours before Christmas Day itself, Henry’s favorite hours of the entire year, were so filled with anticipation and promise, that they seemed magical, even if Henry didn’t actually believe in magic.
The bells sounded as darkness was gathering, and as soon as Henry and his parents heard the chimes, they put on their warmest clothes and walked to town. Nassau Street was already crowded with cheery people bundled into their coats and leggings and boots and mittens. Henry wore the hat Aunt Susan had knitted for him, and his mother wore her new scarf.
“Remember last year?” said Henry. “Remember when Santa drove the fire engine through town?”
Each year Claremont’s Christmas parade heralded the arrival of Santa Claus, and each year Santa’s arrival was memorable. Henry considered himself far too old to get excited about Santa Claus, but every time he thought about the parade he felt the same growing excitement he had felt when he was a very little boy, and he knew that Santa’s surprise arrival was anticipated as eagerly by the adults in town as by the children.
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