The Dog I Loved

by Susan Wilson

  “Stove works. And I had a gas delivery made. Oh, and the water is on.”

  “Is there hot water?”

  “Looks like the water heater died a long time ago. We’ll get a new one in soon.”

  Tucker is clearly familiar with this place, and he leads me around, enumerating the ideas he has for its restoration. They all sound expensive, and I figure that my first responsibility to the Homestead Trust will be to make sure he’s working off its page. Except that I have no specifics. No budget. No idea.

  How am I ever going to stay here? We haven’t even gone upstairs yet and I’m ready to bolt. “I’m not sure how I’m even going to stay in this house; there’s no heat, no hot water. It’s pretty…”

  “Primitive?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t add that this place makes prison look positively luxurious.

  “You won’t need heat just yet, and I’ll show you how to use the woodstove. You can boil water on the gas stove. If you think the beds aren’t usable, I’d suggest that you head down to Cabella’s and pick up a good cot and sleeping bag. It’s roughing it, yeah, but, hey, the Trust obviously thinks you’re up for it.”

  I have to ask, “Who are they, the Trust people?”

  “Damned if I know. I just talk to that Pete Bannerman guy.”

  Thus goes any fleeting hope that I’ll find out who my benefactor is.

  “And why do you think they hired me?” Clearly, he doesn’t know the actual arrangement; that this is some kind of bizarre test of my spirit by an unknown benefactor.

  “I don’t know. Probably the same reason why they hired me. I’m the best. You’re probably good at what you do, too.”

  I wonder what it is he thinks I’m good at. I haven’t been good at anything in a very long time.

  I follow Tucker back out into the warmth of the summer day. He’s given me a rough idea of the work he’s already got lined up. As early as tomorrow, I can expect workmen. I wonder if I can find someplace to hang out while they’re here. The idea of being in the presence of men is still uncomfortable, and I wonder if I’ll ever get over that.

  Tucker yanks his truck door open, climbs in. “So, tomorrow, then. Welcome to Dogtown.”

  “I thought this was Gloucester.”

  “It is.” He pulls away, leaving me standing in the unkempt yard.

  I watch him drive away, and fight the urge to call Meghan right this minute. I need the voice of someone who will tell me that everything will be all right.

  * * *

  I’ve made camp in my new digs, racking up a few bucks on the “business” credit card that Pete handed me. A decent folding cot, which I’ve set up in the kitchen with a Coleman sleeping bag; a composting toilet because, despite what Tucker said, there is no dependable plumbing in this house—one flush and the ancient commode blew a gasket. He told me that the last tenant—Henrietta Baxter, he said her name was—didn’t seem to mind the lack of hot water or other modern amenities, such as a shower. I can’t complain. Which is to say, I shouldn’t complain. I don’t have to share that fly-specked mirror over the nonfunctioning sink with anyone else. I have a giant economy-size box of tampons, and being able to reach in and get one whenever I need it is priceless. I don’t have a supply of ramen noodles hidden away, I have actual cans of Campbell’s soup, six varieties, sitting openly on the shelf in the pantry. My first trip to the grocery store took two hours, my eyes dazzled by choice.

  I have silence.

  I am not used to silence. I lived in an unquiet house, then a noisy dorm. Not to speak of life in prison with the bells and sirens and loudspeaker announcements day and night; the perpetual sound of someone yelling or crying or cursing God. Even living with Charles wasn’t quiet, not living as we did in the city. Here I don’t even have the soft hiss of car tires on the macadam in front of this house, situated ever so close to the road. After seven o’clock, there is scarcely a car going by. I wonder who would call should this place go up in smoke? Who would notice? The most reliable noise is that of crickets, knelling the end of the day. At dawn, the birds twitter and cheep and caw and rasp, and the fact that I can hear them so distinctly only reminds me that I am alone. I have never really been alone. I longed for the concept while incarcerated; a moment’s privacy seemed attainable only through breaking rules and being sent down. But now, now that I have hours alone either before the various crews join me for the day or after they go home, I realize that I have never been prepared for solitude. I come from a full house. I don’t think that there were more than a handful of times when I had more than an hour by myself there, and those times only when my mother had Teddy out for his therapy or for a checkup.

  I find myself lying awake tonight, plucking at the slippery surface of the sleeping bag in an attempt to get it smoothed out over and under me. Other than my own grumbling about the uncooperativeness of the sleeping bag, there is complete silence inside, not even a ticking clock to keep me company. The single brass faucet doesn’t even drip, no relentless hypnotic rhythm to fix upon. I think I hear an owl outside. Certainly crickets. Needless to say, I quickly give in to a little wholesome wild imagining. A creaking sound from upstairs—is that the house settling, or someone there? Old house noises, not quite inside, not quite out. Something hits the roof. Acorn or intruder? This place is ancient; surely one or two of its former inhabitants must be lingering. A scratching in the walls, and I draw the sleeping bag over my ears.

  Earlier, I’d called Meghan and she’d patiently listened to the odyssey of my travels and the oddness of my accommodations. Her only advice: “Hang in there. It’ll get better.”

  A while later, in a doze, not truly asleep, I startled. Is there movement outside? A rustle in the long grass? Is someone moving out there? Someone who might think this abandoned-looking house is a good place to seek shelter? I sit up, yanking the bottom of the sleeping bag, which had slumped to the floor, back onto the cot. The slick material hisses as it moves against the mattress. Of course, it was just the sound of the bag slipping, not some creature—or worse, human—slinking around the back door. Still, I get up and turn on the one working lamp in the house. It was never dark in prison, so having a lamp on in the bedroom-cum-kitchen is no problem for me.

  * * *

  When I was with Charles in New York, I thought that I was lonely. What I was, it seems to me now, was simply being bored. Now I am actually alone, and I suffer a different kind of loneliness, not one of being left to my own devices all day, but as one who has been alienated from those I love, those who used to love me. At first, this estrangement from my family felt temporary, forgivable. I had this childish belief that families had to take you back, that they had to love you. My transgression was in making the choice I had, and it was only after Charles’s death, and the upending of my life, that I realized that that choice had cut so deep that I would never be welcomed home.

  I am more persistent now that the wheel of fortune has turned for me once again. I call my mother every day. I leave voice messages for her and, as an unreformed pesky little sister, I group text my brothers. I see the lengthening one-sided thread, as if I’m casting my line into an empty sea.

  * * *

  It rained last night, and the tall grass of the backyard is glittering with droplets in the early sun. I’ve become an early riser. As soon as the sun breaks cover, I wake up, surprised every morning that I am awakened by the sun and not fluorescent lights. I make my coffee in an old-fashioned percolator on the stove. It’s taken a few tries, but now I have the timing down perfectly. Cup in hand, I go out through the path that I’ve trampled in the unkempt yard—Tucker has promised a mow crew will show up by the end of the week. It rained hard enough that the path is muddy, and I regret wearing my new Nikes outside. There’s a stone bench, or maybe it’s just a big rock no one could move, so it’s become a bench, but it’s situated perfectly to sit and enjoy coffee and nature and make a plan for the day. The bench is nearby Boy’s stone, and I feel like I’m communing with his (presumably) ca
nine spirit as I sip my wickedly strong java. It makes me feel less alone, which makes me wish that I was comfortable around the workmen. But I think that may take some time. It has been a while since I was in the company of a nice guy. A trustworthy guy. Someone who didn’t want something from me. Or who made me into a target. These guys are too much like the men I spent the last few years staying away from. Not that they aren’t polite, quiet, and honed in on their tasks, not on me. But some habits of fear are hard to put aside when circumstances change.

  I hear Tucker’s truck horn. I’m sure he’s afraid of catching me in dishabille. He has no idea that I’ve grown quite used to strange men seeing me in my nightclothes. Or even wrapped in a raggedy towel on those occasions when a sudden lockdown resulted in my being forced to the floor as I was coming out of the shower. He certainly can’t imagine the squat-and-cough routine. He doesn’t know that I have no modesty.

  As I push myself off the rock, I glance down and see a paw print. It’s huge, too big for a dog, I think, and then I wonder if there are wolves in this area. Maybe coyote feet are bigger than I thought. I’ll ask Tucker if I should be nervous. I’m a city girl, after all. Now that I’ve noticed them, I follow the paw prints as they appear here and there in the exposed muddy patches in the tamped-down grass. Here’s one, there’s another, and then I’m standing in the barn. Not exactly in the barn proper, but in that connector that Tucker calls the dogtrot, the covered space between the house and the barn. Ancient splits of firewood are stacked in it, and I imagine the former residents were happy to have a dry cover for their heating source, and a way to fetch it without having to go outside. The paw prints—and by now I’m convinced these are a wolf’s—lead into and out of the dogtrot and away, as if the beast took himself across the road.

  “Good morning.” Tucker has found me standing in the dogtrot. I point out the paw prints. I assume that anyone built like he is, outdoorsy, would know what these prints signify. “Look at this. Can you tell me if this is a wolf print?”

  Evidently, Tucker was raised right, and he doesn’t make fun of me. At least not immediately. “Uh, no. I don’t think we have wolves out here, at least not anymore. I’ll check with the fish and game people if you’d like.”

  “How about a coyote?”

  “That’s more likely.” Like a good Boy Scout, Tucker examines the set of prints, and he admits that they are unusually large. “Be careful about leaving trash around.”

  “I’m composting.”

  “Keep it in a container. You don’t want to attract skunks and raccoons; they’re coyote food.”

  Maybe I should get a dog. A random thought that sends a little thrill through me. I could do that. I have the freedom. No one’s permission to ask, no application to fill out, no waiting period. Nothing so small it could be killed by a man’s hands. Something big, with a big bark. I picture it exactly. Almost like I’ve seen it before. Something assertive, but not aggressive—unless I require it. Loyal to me. Mine alone, never to be handed over to anyone else.

  Shadow of a Dog

  The woman moves, as they often do, in slow perambulations around the property, reaching out to touch the reedy stem of tall grasses, placing a soft palm against the flaking wood of the barn. She goes into the barn, and he watches, hidden behind the rotting stack of cordwood that has been in this place since beyond time. He takes a deep breath, reading the air as it moves ahead of her. Reading the trail of scent she leaves behind. They are always the same. Alone. Like with this woman, the aura of darkness emanates from within them.

  He will watch. He will wait. She’s not ready yet, but he is confident that she will be ready soon to accept his help.

  Meghan

  He was there again, the balding black guy with the curly-coated dog, a mixed breed named Spike, despite her being a girl. Their after-work schedules seem to bring them to the dog park at the same time every weekday afternoon. Five-thirty. She goes right after work, and he works at home and is ready to stop for the day by that time. After a few weeks, they finally got around to introducing themselves.

  “Marley, yeah, that Marley.”

  “Rasta parents?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Meghan Custer. No, not that Custer.”

  He squatted down so that she could see his face. “Iraq or Afghanistan?”

  “Both.”

  “Me, too.” He stood up. “Spike’s my service dog. PTSD.”

  “Shark’s mine. For obvious reasons.”

  After that, it got easier. After that, it seemed like a cup of coffee would be nice. Soon enough, that after-work dog park meeting took on certain aspects of friendship. They rarely mentioned their military experiences, but it was nice to have someone around who didn’t treat her like some kind of exotic creature. Not just the wounds but the whole experience of being in a war, being in the military, tends to be beyond the scope of most of the very nice but somewhat clueless people Meghan spends her days with. Marley is more like the guys she lived, ate, and survived with, sometimes a little jokey, sometimes very, very quiet.

  * * *

  “Hey, Rosie.”

  “Meghan, you wouldn’t believe this place.” Rosie doesn’t sound thrilled, that’s for sure, as she enumerates the flaws in the old house. No hot water! No shower! Sleeping on an army cot because the beds are beyond gross.

  Meghan listens patiently, her fingers hovering over her keyboard, as she was composing an email when she answered Rosie’s call. “That’s nice. Sorry, that’s not nice.”

  “You okay?”

  “Just working, babe.”

  “Oh, man, I am so sorry.”

  “Not to worry. Hey, just think, you can make a phone call anytime you want. You can go to Target.”

  “Yes, Meghan, I am free to poke around mindlessly.”

  “How quickly we adjust.”

  “Sorry. I’m just frustrated. And this Bellingham guy is a pain.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The contractor. Excuse me, the general contractor. He wants everything done authentically, so there’s no ripping up, knocking down, and the freakin’ paint has to be analyzed for original color, and now he’s waiting for some special kind of recycled floorboards from a teardown in New Hampshire, so there’s this gap in the front room’s floor that I’m afraid I’ll fall into should I take up sleepwalking. You’d think he was making it into a museum instead of a family retreat.”

  “Sounds expensive.” Meghan opens a new blank email. TO: don@donflintlaw.com

  “I guess so. Guess the Homestead Trust has the dough. They must want it done properly.”

  Meghan lets Rosie rattle on for a bit longer before signing off. Maybe she should have interrupted her unintended soliloquy, spoken of Marley and his dog, Spike, but Meghan is of a cautious nature; she’s not quite ready to mention Marley to Rosie. She’s not quite ready at all.

  * * *

  Now that she no longer lives with them, Carol and Don Flint are frequent visitors to Meghan’s fifth-floor apartment. They pop in for a drink before heading to the train, or bring takeout and the three of them spread it on the small kitchen table, an indoor picnic. Without his tie and with his suit jacket flung on the back of the couch, Don stops being the principal partner of the law firm and goes back to being her cousin’s soft-spoken husband. The gentle soul who believes that everyone deserves a fair trial and a fair shake at life. Second chances, he says, are his favorite kind.

  Meghan has, oh so casually, mentioned her “friend” Marley Tallman to her cousins, in the context of someone who has also enjoyed a second chance.

  “Where did he acquire his dog?” Carol is clearly keeping a poker face. If it had been her mother, Meghan would have been subjected to the third degree. “Not a prison program?”

  “No, another program altogether. One that matches rescue dogs with veterans.”

  “I’m glad that there are other programs out there, and it makes me think that you would have gotten a dog even if you hadn’t be
en accepted into the prison program.”

  “But I wouldn’t have Shark. That’s like saying if you married a different man, you’d have had different children, but they wouldn’t have been the ones you did get.”

  “And I wouldn’t have known the difference.”

  “I suppose. You can’t know what you’ve missed by chance. Still, I’m really happy that I got into that program. That I got to know Rosie.”

  “Tell me how she’s doing.” Carol holds her plate up to Don, who slips another piece of chicken onto it.

  “She’s—I don’t know the best word. I guess confused captures it. The effect of having been abruptly released and then finding herself in charge of a crazy project is really disconcerting, but she’s coping. Mostly by kvetching.”

  “You should go see her.”

  “Not yet. It’s too soon.”

  “Why?”

  “I might confuse things for her.”

  “So, will you ever tell her?” Don sits down opposite Meghan. “We can only go so far with this.”

  Shark

  Shark is sitting in his special corner, but his eyes are on the people. He likes it when these two come to their place. He likes the atmosphere of human kin. Of calmness. So when a flicker of tension arises in Meghan, he leaves his corner and touches her elbow with his nose.