Huck

by Janet Elder

  “I see you have a lot of signs in your window,” I said. “It is really nice of you to help people out.”

  “If it helps somebody, we want to do it,” he said. “It’s a small thing.”

  It was not a small thing to me. We shook hands. I felt like I had scored an early success. If everyone was as nice as Unmesh, Huck’s picture would soon be in every store window in town.

  I crossed over to the other side of the street and went into the redbrick post office. Inside the door was a bronze plaque: UNITED STATES POST OFFICE JOHN F. KENNEDY, PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, 1962.

  Nineteen sixty-two was exactly what all this was beginning to feel like. Walking up and down Main Street, despite the circumstances, had some of the charm of a bygone era—the open, welcoming attitude of the people, the slow tempo of the day, the unencumbered feel of things.

  There was a bulletin board in the post office, like Unmesh’s window, filled with homemade posters and business cards advertising services of one kind or another. Roofers, travel agents, garage organizers. One sign had a picture of three perfectly erect dogs on it, a German shepherd and two golden retrievers; it was advertising dog training services. TEACH YOUR DOG TO STAY BY YOUR SIDE, it read. I took a stray tack and put our flyer next to it, hoping someone who saw it would appreciate the irony.

  The movie theater took a flyer and put it right up in the ticket window. The hair salon took three. The bagel store took two. The hardware store put one in the window and a stack by the register.

  In the middle of Main Street was a store I had passed in the car many times on visits to the Clarks, but never really knew what it was. There were two planters out front at either end of the large storefront window. In the window, heavy, colorful striped drapes were held open with tasseled fabric ropes revealing a big red wooden cabinet with oddly connected merchandise piled high—a wooden table, a watering can, a canister, two toy rakes, a stone penguin. I stopped and took a close look through the glass front door.

  I stepped through the doorway and into a fairy-tale sugarland and was greeted by the owner, John Crames. He was a man with big hands and hair cut like a marine, a man who used to own car washes. He had created LoLo’s because he wanted to run a business with his wife, a business that made people happy. “I like candy. I like the way it looks. It’s like we’re a bar,” he said. “When you’re sad or you’re happy, you come here.”

  LoLo’s is no ordinary candy store. Along the walls are all manner of candy to scoop into a bag and buy by the pound—chocolate gummy bears, chocolate krispies, chocolate pretzel poppers, and sour watermelons. Under a glass case with an American flag sticker on it are truffles—butter toffee, Irish coffee, white Russian, and black forest. Then there are chocolate pizza-making kits, books on cupcakes, cookies in the shapes of baseballs and basketballs. There is a tree of lollipops. When I commented on the unusual array of goodies in the immaculate store, John said, “If I can find it in the mall, I don’t want it in my store. We try to sell things you can’t find anywhere else.”

  He offered up his delectable treats, but I politely refused. It was too early for chocolate and I probably did not have the stomach for it at that moment anyway. I told him our tale and he recounted his own, involving his dog Otis, an Akita pal from his bachelor days. John had left Otis in someone else’s care while he went to Florida. A medical emergency arose. Treatment did not come soon enough and Otis died. John didn’t say how long ago it was, but it was clear in his telling of the story that the pain of the loss was still close to the surface.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and put one of your flyers up there on the bulletin board,” John said, pointing to a bulletin board near the front door with the words LOLO’S TOWN CRIER above it. “People stand around eating candy and reading whatever is up on the board. People will read it. They’ll see that cute picture of your dog, and they’ll read it.”

  John’s story about Otis turned my mind back to Huck. As kind as everyone was, it was incredibly draining walking in and out of stores, repeating our story, asking for permission to use their store window as a billboard. My stamina was waning. I was committed to our plan of publicity, but I was starting to have more and more doubts that this intense effort was actually going to yield anything. Shouldn’t we be out driving around looking for Huck?

  After saying good-bye to John, I was back on the sidewalk, walking past the gas station. I had been canvassing the area for more than an hour and wanted to sit down but I wouldn’t allow myself the respite. There was a lot of territory to cover. Results, the exercise studio, took a couple of flyers; so did the video store. Next to it was Pet-A-Groom, a store devoted solely to the grooming of the town’s pets. Just as I opened the door to walk in, a young woman holding a thick red leash with a perfectly coiffed collie on the other end was walking out. She spied the flyers in my hand. “Did you lose your dog?” she asked. “I’ll take one of your flyers and put it up at my church. I’m on my way there now.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said as I handed her a flyer.

  She held it in her hand, taking a few seconds to read it, and then looked up at me and asked: “What happened?”

  I filled her in as quickly as I could, not wanting to appear anything but thankful for her help, but it was hard to mask my sense that time was disappearing and talking to her was eating up precious minutes. She must have realized my sense of urgency because she brought the conversation to a close, saying, “We’ll pray for you.”

  Inside the pet store were bulletin boards filled with pictures of well-groomed cats and dogs—on the beach, in front of Halloween pumpkins, there was even one of a dog sitting on Santa’s lap. It was like being in a pediatrician’s office, only with pictures of terriers, retrievers, and mutts instead of children. I was always wary of people who had crossed the line and completely anthropomorphized their pets. And although I kept telling myself I was nowhere near that line myself, owning a dog as an adult, I saw how easy it is for dogs to become peoplelike members of the family. I had not yet put Huck on Santa’s lap, but it was not totally out of the question either. I was hoping I would still get that chance.

  Doreen Tietjen didn’t worry about such boundaries. Franky, short for Champion Robbans Four Seasons, was her prizewinning rottweiler, also known as “her girl,” but only one of many animals she had raised and loved. This was her store. She presided there like a devoted schoolteacher over her charges. “I know who they are the minute they walk in,” she said of the animals left in her care.

  Doreen was a self-proclaimed tomboy, a fierce competitor while growing up, who had an unusual feel for all inhabitants of the animal world, including the kind most of us have a hard time warming up to, like snakes and turtles. She’d find them in the woods and bring them home.

  When she was ten years old, her parents enrolled her in horseback-riding lessons. Before long she was carefully tending to the horses, keeping up the sheen on their coats, and with her mother behind the wheel, hauling them around in a trailer attached to the back of the car to horse shows where she often walked away with a ribbon or trophy.

  By the time she graduated from high school, she was a pro. But the family’s fortunes were unstable, and though she wanted to go, she could not afford college. Nor could she afford to keep on riding and showing horses. She married at nineteen and divorced at twenty-one.

  Doreen held life and limb together with a series of jobs—she was a liquor store manager, she studied and became a wine sommelier (finishing first in her class), and she worked in a computer store. But each of those posts was wrong. She longed for the connection nurtured in her as a child, the connection to animals.

  One day, fate and a boyfriend took her to the Westminster dog show at Madison Square Garden. It changed her life. She loved being around the dogs. She loved the tension of being a competitor. Six months later, she bought her first show dog.

  She did not stop there. Dogs began to take the place of horses in her heart. She wanted to be near them every day.
She enrolled in the Nash Academy for Dog Grooming in Cliffside Park, New Jersey, and after six hundred hours of apprenticeship and little else, had the temerity to open her own grooming store in Ramsey.

  Doreen was immediately sympathetic to a family in search of a lost dog. Our connection to our dog did not have to be explained. “Let’s put up a bunch of signs; we’ll put a couple in the window and a few around the store and one in the back where we groom the dogs,” she said.

  I asked her, based on her experience, if she thought someone might steal Huck and bring him to a groomer to change his look, as Lisa, the breeder, had suggested when I called her from the airport in Florida.

  “Nothing like that would happen around here,” Doreen said. “But it is possible someone would find him and not be able to figure out how to reach the owner and eventually bring him in here. We will all keep an eye out. You know people around here are pretty good about things like this. If anyone finds your dog, they’ll make an effort to get him back to you.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said. “What do you think happens with runaway dogs most of the time, really?” It was the question I kept asking, hoping for some kind of assurance, something to stifle the gnawing uncertainty that we might ever see Huck alive again.

  “Well, I think most of the time the dogs eventually find their way home, but your situation is different because your dog ran away from a place that is not his home,” she said in a straightforward manner. “It is hard to know.”

  I appreciated her honesty, even though it was not the least bit reassuring. Picking up on my undiminished level of anxiety, Doreen said: “Listen, I’m happy to help you in any way I can. Just let me know. Here’s a card with our number on it. Call if you need anything at all. If I’m not here, the girls here know how to reach me.”

  A few blocks away, Michael was arriving at the police station with Rich and feeling some of what I was, a sense of desperation about the way we were spending our time. He was grateful, too, but with every offer of help, Huck seemed farther and farther away. Michael hoped to find some answers at the police station.

  As father and son walked together over the mat that said WELCOME TO THE RAMSEY POLICE STATION, Michael had some trepidation, wondering if there might be prisoners inside and what he, a twelve-year-old boy, was doing there. It felt just a little bit scary.

  Inside was a small waiting area. There were a few metal chairs and a counter topped with a smoky glass divider that reached the ceiling, behind which were several desks and a television. The concrete brick walls in the waiting area were filled with plaques, all testaments to the police department’s tireless work in caring for the town’s well-being. There was one from Don Bosco Preparatory High School, a local Catholic school for boys. The plaque was identical to one posted in the school gym as a “lasting tribute to all the men and women who daily risk their lives in the line of duty.”

  There was a plaque from the county in recognition of Ramsey’s dedication to victims of domestic violence, a reminder that even this bucolic little town struggles with darkness.

  Most of the plaques, though, about a dozen or more, had to do with the police force’s involvement in the state’s Special Olympics. The largest of these plaques had a three-dimensional torch on it. The plaque read:

  Every year thousands of law enforcement officers run throughout New Jersey carrying the Olympic torch—or flame of hope—to spread awareness of the abilities of children with mental retardation and other closely related developmental disabilities.

  Rich went over to the glass divider and explained to the police dispatcher sitting on the other side of it in front of a console why he had come. “That’s a tough break,” the dispatcher said. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll notify an officer.”

  While they sat waiting, Michael and Rich started talking about what it takes to spend your life serving others in the way police officers do. They talked about all the brave policemen and policewomen in New York who had lost their lives on September 11. Before the conversation got much further, Michael and Rich were ushered into a back office. There were no prisoners in sight. A tall, burly, round-faced police lieutenant appeared. There was something about him that was both comforting and intimidating. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  After hearing the story from Rich, the whole story of our runaway dog, Lieutenant Mark Delhauer sprang into action. He said he’d alert the entire Ramsey force and he’d go one better. He’d radio all the police officers in neighboring towns. He’d use the flyer to give them a description of Huck and tell them to be on the lookout. He said he would also post it in the squad room so the officers on all shifts would see it. Michael was beginning to feel hopeful. Finally, some real help. A man with power, with a true ability to mobilize a lot of people was going to help us.

  Rich asked Lieutenant Delhauer the same thing I had asked Doreen. “What usually happens in cases like this?”

  “Ninety percent of the time, the people get their dog back,” he said confidently.

  “Thanks very much for all your help” Rich said, as he extended his hand to the officer.

  “You’re very welcome,” Lieutenant Delhauer said, returning a firm handshake. And then putting a hand on Michael’s shoulder, he added, “We’ll do everything we can.”

  Walking out of the police station, back over the welcome mat, Michael turned to Rich: “He was really nice. This is the best I have felt yet.”

  But Rich, while comforted, had his own nagging worries, one of which was raising Michael’s hopes, while also preparing him for the possibility that we might never see Huck alive again. “I liked him, too,” Rich said.

  “Ninety percent is a high number,” Michael said.

  “It is. Those are good odds,” Rich responded, but then cautioned: “Keep in mind, though, Huck did not run away from his own house, he ran away from a house he is not all that familiar with. That could lower those odds a bit.”

  Michael’s newly found high spirits were undiminished. Lieutenant Delhauer had inspired him. Michael was now a full partner, committed to fanning out, getting our flyer before as many eyes as we could. He was ready for Northern Highlands High School.

  As Rich and Michael drove through the winding streets on their way to the school, Michael’s eyes kept searching the wooded areas for Huck. The trees were still bare, which was a blessing. The woods were so dense that seeing into them would have been just about impossible if it had been spring or summer and the foliage full.

  “The principal is not available for a while,” the secretary in the high school administration office said to Rich and Michael. “Would you like to meet with the assistant principal, Mr. Occhino, who could see you now?”

  Rich and Michael looked at each other and said “Yes” at the same moment.

  Joe Occhino, a stocky man with an athletic build, a quick smile, and an intense look in his eyes, invited Michael and Rich into his office. They took in his impressive collection of Yankees paraphernalia—hats, balls, signs—sitting on a shelf above his desk. Turns out, twenty years earlier, Joe had ventured to the Yankees’ team tryouts in Florida to try his luck. In the process of showing off his skills, he had managed to break a bat belonging to Graig Nettles, the legendary third baseman.

  But alas, Joe did not become a professional ballplayer. Before becoming assistant principal of Northern Highlands High School, Joe had been a physical education teacher, a baseball coach, and a guidance counselor. He had an unflinching belief that “you will only be remembered for the person you are and the lives you touch,” as he told Rich and Michael on that cold afternoon in March.

  His only regrets had to do with the children he could not help, who somehow passed through his school unnoticed or unreachable. The part of his job he never expected, the toughest part of his job, was weathering the loss of kids taken from this earth, teenagers who got behind the wheel of a car drunk or went careening down a black hole after experimenting with drugs.

  Prominently displayed on
his desk was a photograph of a young blond boy walking down a dusty road with a dog. In large letters was the word GUIDANCE. Underneath it, “For our children, the road to happiness and success is usually paved by our example.”

  The walls and tabletops were filled with tokens from students whose lives he had affected. They vowed to never forget the teacher who had helped them navigate the rocky shoals of adolescence.

  Two girls who had recently graduated had left a plaque behind. It said:

  Mr. Occhino, A Special Person.

  In the world there are few people who are truly special. They go around caring for others before themselves. They have a smile on their face and love in their heart for everyone. They ask nothing in return. I see all this and more in you.

  Rich and Michael knew they were sitting in the office of a man who understood children. They imagined he had a light touch with his students, able to reprimand without damaging self-esteem.

  As Rich spun out our story, Joe kept looking at Michael. “I’m moving this to the top of my priority list,” he said to Rich and Michael. He said he saw sadness in Michael’s eyes. Joe decided in that moment that everything else he had been doing that day had to come to a stop.

  He asked the secretary in the outer office to make a hundred color copies of the flyer. “I’m going to give these out in senior study hall,” he told Rich and Michael. “And then I’m going to the cafeteria where right now about half the student body is eating lunch. These kids like to help people. These are the kind of kids who gave up having a day off on Martin Luther King Day to work in a soup kitchen.”

  After a quick good-bye and an exchange of handshakes, Joe moved quickly through the school library and upstairs to a classroom full of seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds, many of whom welcomed the interruption to their studies. “What’s it worth, Mr. Occhino?” one of the boys asked Joe.

  “You find this dog and you won’t have to serve detention for the rest of the year,” he promised.