Hunter! I barked. Hunter!
“See there,” she said. “Even the dog thinks that’s ridiculous. Well, whatever his name was, she’s been around children. Bring her. It’ll give you something to do besides putter around here like a fusty old hermit. You don’t have to do anything. Just sit there with the dog while they read out loud. Will you try it, just once? If the dog doesn’t like it, or you don’t, I won’t ask again.”
To me, it sounded like heaven. Kids were different than grown-up strangers. They threw balls and gave belly rubs and giggled while they rolled on the floor with you.
“When did you say your nephew will be by?”
Bernadette flicked her wrist over to check her watch, her bangled bracelet clacking. “Well, seeing as how I told him to be here fifteen minutes ago, he should arrive any minute now.” She tapped her sparkly red fingernails against her mug. An amused grin crept over her mouth. “You’re good at that, Cecil.”
“Good at what?”
“Avoiding questions.”
“I wasn’t aware you asked any.”
“About the reading program at the library.”
“Oh, that.”
She waited awhile as he drank and looked off through the kitchen window. “Well?” she finally prompted.
I went and laid my head on his knee, puffing out my cheeks with a loud breath. Please, please, please?
His hand drifted down from the table to alight on my head. He curled his thumb beneath the flap of my ear, placed his forefinger on top and rubbed lightly. “Mondays, you said? I don’t know if —”
Her spine shot up straight. “I’ll pick you up at three.”
—o00o—
“Damn almighty, that is one fiiine working dog!” Tucker Kratz swung a leg over the top rail to straddle the fence. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and lit one up. Pinching the cigarette between the circle of his thumb and forefinger, he inhaled, held his breath in for a few seconds, then blew out a ring of smoke. “Wild coloration for a red merle, too. Kinda pretty.”
The Old Man glared at him from fifty feet away.
“Tucker!” Bernadette swatted at the haze that drifted her way. “How many times have I told you?”
“Sorry, Aunt Bernie.” He tipped his cowboy hat back. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Actually, I do,” the Old Man said flatly. “Thanks for asking, anyway.”
Smirking, Tucker smashed the glowing end of the cigarette on top of the fence post, flicked the dead butt away and stuffed the pack back into his pocket.
The Old Man turned back to me. I was holding a flock of twenty older Barb lambs in the nearest corner of our working pasture, which he’d once told me was over two acres. Every time one stepped either way, I’d shift my position before it could bolt.
When Tucker had shown up, I’d helped the Old Man sort the ewes from the lambs in the pen next to the barn. Although the lambs had been weaned for weeks now, their mothers still remembered their babies and clamored to be reunited with them. That part was always rough, but we managed well enough, and only two ewes gave me any problem. I put that issue to rest with a quick nip to their noses.
Next, we’d taken the flock of lambs from the pen, across the open area between the old bank barn and the driveway, and then I pushed them through an eight foot gateway into the pasture, where I moved them in various patterns: squares and small arcs, diagonal lines and backward Zs. The Old Man stood off to the side, one elbow resting on the top rail, the brim of his ball cap down low to keep out the noonday sun. His crook was propped against the fence next to him. He seldom used it these days and, when he did, it was to shoo away a wayward sheep, not to force me further out, for I had long since learned the point at which the sheep would move and at what pace to push them. Boogered sheep, as the Old Man called the frightened ones, were panicked sheep, and panicked sheep did stupid things. I was pretty sure that each five sheep only had one brain between them.
“Sure does take commands well.” Tucker swung a leg over and dropped into the pasture. He walked up to the Old Man. “But then, some dogs that are great at home plumb lose their brains in a trial.”
The Old Man worked his jaw in a slow circle. “That so?”
“Yup. I see it all the time. Different sheep, different surroundings ... An’ sometimes the handlers get all nervous, like they can’t remember their left from their right. Or which obstacles to put the stock through. Dogs pick up on that.”
“Do they now?” The Old Man called me off.
I tossed one last look at the lambs, trotted to him, and sat by his left knee, just as I always did. A bothersome horse fly buzzed my ears. I twitched my hide and then shook my head, trying to dislodge it. The moment it flew past my nose, I snapped. Missed it!
“Sure do.” Tucker rolled his short sleeves up over his shoulder to show a tattoo of a bald eagle with outspread wings. The bulging muscles of his tanned arms were hardened and defined, nothing like the Old Man’s thin, pale arms, with their sagging skin, or Bernadette’s soft, plump arms. When his aunt had introduced him, she made a point of mentioning the fact that he’d been stationed in Afghanistan until just last year. He still wore ‘dog tags’ around his neck, although he’d long since grown his hair out to the point where he could pull it into a ponytail. He hitched his thumbs in his belt. “Bill Clancy’s coming from St. Louis. He’s a professional. This trial is usually a bit below his standards, competition-wise, but sure would be nice to see a local put him in his place. Think you could do that?”
The fly landed on Tucker’s pants leg. Tempting, but by the time I closed the space, the fly would be in flight again. I waited.
“I have no idea.” Gazing thoughtfully at the lambs still quivering in the corner, the Old Man stroked his neck. “But I’m game to give it a go.”
“I’ll put the word out. Just might draw the biggest crowd we’ve seen since ol’ Angus MacDonald came down from Vermont to challenge him. Course, that was way back in ’98, or maybe it was ’99. My pa used to trial his dogs, but they was just farm dogs, not fancy trained trial dogs. Ain’t nobody come within 5 points of Clancy since. Some says he has an ‘in’ with the judges, but this year it’s some young uptight chick named Jessica Zink, who couldn’t care less about reputation — hers or anyone else’s. Some hate her for that. I hear she’s a looker, though.” Tucker took a fresh cigarette out of his pack and tucked it in the corner of his mouth. Bernadette shot him a warning look. He threw his hands in the air. “What? Haven’t lit it up now, have I? Geesh, you’d think I was committing a felony or something. Ain’t against the law to do this, y’know.”
The fly landed on my nose. I jerked my head sideways, then back, snapping at air. Missed again.
The Old Man patted his leg. That was my signal to follow. We went through the gate and escorted Tucker to his jacked up truck with the dual wheels in back and the chrome pipe stacks that belched black exhaust. The young man went through some papers on his front seat, then said, “Sorry, man. Thought I had an entry form here. Just go to the web site for the Central Kentucky Australian Shepherd Club and download the flyer. And don’t wait. Deadline is next Wednesday. No day-of entries. Got it?”
The Old Man nodded. “I think so.”
He pounded the Old Man on the arm and stepped up into the cab. Before he put the key in the ignition, he lit up his cigarette, took a puff, and blew a smoke-hazed kiss at his aunt. The truck roared to life. Instead of carefully backing out, he turned a donut through the yard and sped off.
Bernadette clutched both hands to her breast. “I apologize for his manners, Cecil. The boy had a poor upbringing. His mama likes the moonshine and his daddy ain’t around no more.”
“Oh. How long ago did he pass away?”
She smiled sadly and whispered, as if someone might overhear, “Oh, he’s not dead. He’s in jail. Gambling charges. Tried to run slot machines in the back of his convenience store. He’ll be out by next Christmas. Not sure that’s a good thing, though. Tucker’s his only
child, so I’ve always tried to keep an eye out for the boy. Even managed to get him a job with the county extension office through my friend Merle. Mostly, he takes care of the grounds, but he’s trying to work his way up. Merle put him in charge of the trial, since he knows a few things about livestock. His daddy ran a small cattle farm before he lost the place to gambling debts. The Army seemed to have straightened Tucker up a bit, but he’s not perfect. He’s been doing so well the last few years — relatively speaking, of course. Shame he got discharged like he did. He still claims it was all a mistake.”
“They usually do.”
“Well, I suppose I should fetch my dessert pan and be on my way, unless ... Know what? I should just leave the brownies here for you.” She patted her big stomach. “I always sample a little too much of my own baking.”
He nodded toward the house. “Tell you what — I’ll get them and you can take them to your ladies’ lunch tomorrow. Let them all try one. Then you tell them I said those were the best brownies this side of the Ohio River.”
“Why Cecil Penewit ...” Bernadette fingered her beaded necklace. “If I tell my girlfriends that, they just might think you’re sweet on me.”
He turned away and hurried into the house before I could see his expression. Usually, I’d have followed him, but I decided to stay with Bernadette. Just in case she had a biscuit crumb or two in her pocket. I stared at her, hoping, but she didn’t seem to notice me. She just kept her eyes trained on the door. It took him a few minutes to come back out, but he’d taken the time to wrap the remaining brownies individually in Saran Wrap.
As he handed the pan to her, he stumbled over his words. “Say, um ... I gave it some thought and figured, maybe, you’d like to have dinner Monday at Harris’s Outdoor Café?”
“After going to the literacy center, you mean? At that place with the cute little red and white umbrellas over the tables and the flowers out front?”
“An early dinner, if that’s all right. I have evening chores to do.”
She eyed him sideways, like she was trying to figure out the catch in his proposal. “Just the two of us?”
He removed his ball cap, mopped at his forehead with a sleeve, then put his cap back on. He gestured toward me. “The dog would have to come along. I can’t leave her in the truck this time of year.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
He nodded. “Maybe you can tell me some more about your family then. They sound like a colorful bunch.”
“I could, but ... I’d rather hear about you.”
“Not much to tell, really.”
“Oh, I bet there’s more to you than you let on.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. Instead, he just tipped his head goodbye and turned to go inside. I followed him this time.
I’m pretty sure Bernadette understood things about Cecil that he didn’t even know about himself. She was a lot like a dog that way. Maybe that was why I liked her so much.
chapter 14
The Old Man gripped my leash as we stood before what looked like four small buildings crammed wall to wall. Faderville’s library was born when the local historical society donated the log cabin of the area’s original settler to the town in the 1950s. Unsure what to do with such a small space, the mayor stored his collection of antique books in orange crates along the back wall. With no movie cinema in the county and nothing better to do, the more literate residents would borrow books from the unlocked cabin and return them on the honor system. Sometimes that was a few days later, sometimes a few years if they forgot about them.
Ten years later, an annex was added: a slightly larger room big enough for two rows of shelves, a librarian’s desk and filing cabinet for index cards. The library had been added onto twice more over the years, each addition reflecting the architectural style of the times, rather than aiming to achieve any sense of congruity or practicality. Turned out the ‘Literacy Center’ was the smallest of the wings, its purpose dedicated to housing children’s books and a collection of bean bag chairs.
We learned this because Bernadette told us the entire story on the twenty minute drive over. She knew so much about Faderville’s history that the Faderville Historical Society had elected her president over fifteen years ago. She’d been in the post ever since — an honor which might have held some weight if they met more than once a year and actually performed any functions in the community.
One thing I liked about Bernadette was that if no one else was around, she’d even tell me things, whether it was the tale of how Faderville’s first pioneers lived off possum stew their first year, current gossip like whether Ginny Holiday kept hundred dollar bills stuffed in her mattress, or commentary on the weather. None of it was truly earth-shaking, but it was the animated tones of her speech that held me captive. The way she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper in one sentence, then flailed her hands in the air the next. Her eyes alone told a story — lined in kohl, with her lids highlighted in shades of brilliant blue, glittery green or sometimes gold, it was hard not pay attention to them.
Where Cecil was all humility and minimalism, Bernadette was spontaneity and excess. They were like shadow and light, yin and yang, distinct entities, yet a perfect complement to each other.
Bernadette laid her hand on the Old Man’s forearm. “You’re going to strangle that poor dog, Cecil.”
He looked down at my leash, coiled tight in his hand. He let out some slack. I went to the end of the leash, gazing inside through the double glass doors, scanning the rows of shelves for small people. He tugged me back. “I just don’t know about this.”
“Are you talking about yourself or the dog? Because the dog looks just fine to me.”
When no one moved, I turned around to stare at him. One more minute of him standing there like a fence post and I’d have to bite his ankles to get him moving. I turned back around, pulled toward the door, and whined. Just a little whine. Their reflections in the window remained firmly planted. I whined again.
“See there,” Bernadette said. “She wants to go in. You’re the one who’s being a chicken. They’re just children, Cecil. They don’t have cooties.”
“No, but ...” He was looking down at the ground. His shoulders slouched. He had shrunk in height. “They read to the dog, you say?”
“They try. Sometimes I help them, but we usually have five or six of them. If you want to help them out, you can.”
“That, uh ...” His head disappeared into his shoulders with a prolonged shrug. “That might be a bit of a problem.”
“Why? Did you forget your reading glasses? I’d let you borrow mine, but unless you’re blind as a bat like I am, they’d probably only make things worse. Besides, leopard print would clash with your plaid shirt.”
“It’s not that.” He shifted from foot to foot.
“Then what? You don’t like children. Is that why you and Sarah —?”
“No! If we could have ...” He began to turn away, as if he were about to leave.
“That was too personal. I’m sorry.” Bernadette grabbed his arm to stop him, then quickly released him. “Why then? Why don’t you want to go inside?”
His shoulders twitched. “I get my letters mixed up. It’s been a problem long as I can remember.”
Realization dawned on her. “Cecil, a lot of the children who come here are dyslexic, just like you. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Tell you what — I’ll tell them your job is to make sure the dog minds and they’re not to ask you any questions. If you want, you and I can work on the reading alone together later.”
“I’m too old for that, Bernadette.”
She planted a fist on her round hip. “You’re never too old for anything, Cecil Penewit. Soon as you realize that, why the whole world opens up.” She reached out to latch onto his arm, but pulled her hand away as something behind him caught her eye. Her eyes lit up. “Oh look, there’s little Russell Stevens. Hi there, Rusty!”
She waved at a mother and little tawny-haired boy as they turned the corner of the sidewalk a block away. She scooted in close to the Old Man and whispered, “I don’t know why they call him Rusty. He’s not a redhead.”
The little boy kept his head down as his mother pulled him along. From a distance, I might have mistaken him for Hunter. The hair was the same straight sandy blond, his frame slight. My heart bounded. He kicked at pebbles and leaped over the cracks in the sidewalk, as his mother swung his hand vigorously. But as he got closer and raised his face to take me in, I could see his cheeks were rounder than Hunter’s, his eyes a dark brown and turned up slightly at the corners, his lower lip slack with a string of spittle hanging down. This was not Hunter. Not at all. Still, there was something special about him, something very pure and uncomplicated.
As Rusty and his mother came near, she stopped to wipe his chin. “Say hi to Mrs. Kratz and her friends, Rusty,” she told him.
Lowering his eyes, Rusty scuffed his sneakers over the concrete. “Hiw.” Without looking up, he pointed at me. “Who dat?”
“I think he wants to know the dog’s name,” his mother said.
The Old Man tried to pull me in close to his leg, but I resisted. Bernadette finally nudged him with her elbow.
“Halo,” he said. “Her name is Halo, but she’s not used to —”
Rusty rushed forward and flung his arms around my neck. “Hiw dere, Hay-O.”
And just like that, I was smitten. The thing that had been missing in my life — it was a little boy’s love.
I licked his face clean as he giggled in my ear.
“Um, okay, Rusty.” His mom guided him toward the door. “Let’s go inside. It’s story time.”
Rusty collapsed like a rag doll. He started to scream. An ear-splitting scream that could have drowned out fire truck sirens.
His mother threw her head back and rolled her eyes. “I’m so sorry. He does this sometimes when he doesn’t get his way. I thought it would stop by the time he turned seven, but apparently not. Fortunately, he doesn’t do it as often anymore, but when he does ...”
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