by Debbie Burns
Donna and Mickey, two women in their fifties, worked hard but consistently made jokes that kept the mood light and fun. There was Jim, a retired electrician who Kurt was hoping would have a look around inside. The wiring seemed safe enough, but two different fuses had shorted since he’d arrived. There was also a retired couple, Barbara and Ron. After an hour of working alongside them, Kurt learned it was Barbara’s second marriage and Ron’s fourth. They’d only been married to each other a year and had met while volunteering at the shelter.
Kurt was pleased with the work the group had done, and it was only five thirty. Eventually, he’d cement the corner posts into the ground and bury eighteen inches of the galvanized mesh fencing underground to keep the dogs from digging out. For now, the runs would be a supervised way to give the dogs some much-needed time out of their kennels.
Afterward, the volunteers and Patrick stayed around, watching the first two dogs experience the ten-by-four-foot runs. Two of the runs were purposefully built side by side. These two runs would be a safe way to see if the dogs were truly able to get along with one another when they were ready for a greater level of socialization with other dogs. For now, only one of the side-by-side runs would be used. The third run stood alone at the back of the yard. The mess of a dog, the giant who was causing more commotion and concern than most others combined, was given the largest side of the joint run.
Kurt was hoping a good stretch of his long legs and some fresh air might take the dog’s edge off a little, but every time someone walked within ten feet of his run, the hair on his neck and upper back ruffled, and his tail stuck straight out. The massive dog sniffed and scent marked until it was hard to believe there was a hint of moisture left in him.
In the other run at the back of the yard, the lively Argentine mastiff was more interested in dropping into a play bow and dashing around the enclosure than he was in doing much scent marking. Like most Argentine mastiffs, he looked like a cross between a Great Dane and a boxer. He was eighty-five pounds of pure muscle and had the energy of a smaller, lighter dog. The vet had put him at about a year and a half. His sleek coat had minimal scars and none from cuts or bites that had been severe, indicating he hadn’t spent much time in the fighting rings.
Although Kurt wasn’t ready to share it aloud, he suspected the rambunctious dog would be easy to integrate into a new home, possibly even one with another dog.
The dog’s playfulness made him think of Zara, the last dog he’d had in Afghanistan. It had been difficult to keep her on task those first few months. She was willing to do the work, but underneath the surface was a playful and carefree three-year-old German shepherd. She wasn’t a fan of the heat, but she was smart and loyal and willing to work. The best dog he’d ever had. In training, she’d been the first in her group to successfully sniff out IEDs. When she was finally acclimated to the scorching desert heat, she excelled in the field, staying on task as long as she was asked.
It was hard to think of Zara without thinking of how she’d passed. She was hit by the debris of an IED and lived just long enough afterward to slip away on a medevac transport back to base. To keep from experiencing the suffocating loss that was attempting to rush in alongside his thoughts, he conjured an image of a steel lockbox, visualized shoving his feelings inside and tossing away the key.
Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. He’d told one person—his best buddy and fellow marine, Zach—about the imagery he conjured to lock away the feelings of pain and loss. “Kurt, my friend, forget the box,” Zach had said. “Forget the lock. Nothing does well being locked away. Picture yourself standing alongside something peaceful, like the ocean. Picture yourself not having to hold it in. Picture yourself letting it go.”
The advice seemed to make sense, but Kurt had never been to the ocean, and he had no idea how to simply let go, but he’d seen lots of boxes and lots of keys, and he knew how to hold things in. So Zara and the pain of losing her—along with a whole lot of other shit that really stank—got locked away in the heaviest steel box he could imagine.
She wasn’t the only dog he’d lost during his service, but losing her had hurt the worst. It wasn’t the way she got hit with so much shrapnel or that she struggled. It was how she’d looked at him before she died. Like she still trusted him to make things better.
After her, he didn’t take on another dog of his own. In fact, losing her had been part of the reason he’d transferred to Central America. He was done with the desert, and he was done with the horror of IEDs.
But he found that training Honduran troops in the jungles of Central America wasn’t any better than the desert. Their world was just as full of insurgents, only they were camouflaged guerillas of the forest, fighting against a government they believed was tyrannous. Fighting to protect the cocaine they smuggled into America and to provide for their families. It was a jungle, not a desert, but IEDs were still the enemies’ best friend.
After several months of this, Kurt was ready to come home. Now, a little over two weeks past earning his discharge, he was knee-deep in something else bigger than himself. Like saving the lives of his fellow marines, rehabbing these dogs was an honorable path and one Kurt could be proud of. It didn’t matter that his grandfather had dragged a hand slowly, deliberately over the top of his thinning hair when Kurt had told him; Kurt knew he’d made the right decision.
He’d felt it seeing the old mansion for the first time yesterday morning, and felt it again last night after he’d collapsed onto the musty featherbed and lay in the dark, listening to the quiet hush that fell over the house. He’d brought his own pillow and a light blanket to toss over the top of the bed till he could find time to do a load of sheets, assuming the old washer and dryer worked.
As he’d drifted off, he’d heard the dogs downstairs breathing and shifting in their kennels. There’d been a soft breeze through the open windows, and for the second time, he could have sworn he heard his nana’s singsong voice carried on the wind.
Looking around at the dogs making themselves at home in the runs and the enthralled volunteers, Kurt suspected he was meant to be here. It wasn’t just the remarkable blond, or the house whose many projects called his name, or the thirty-seven dogs who deserved better lives than the ones they’d come from. It was all of them put together.
This sent his thoughts spiraling into a tangled mess of questions while most of the group laughed at the Argentine mastiff’s continued antics and Patrick studied the giant from far enough away to not to disturb him. If Kurt was meant to be here, then something intentional was supposed to come of this. And he wanted to know what it was.
But who was he kidding? He’d stopped believing in fate when one of his buddies was severely injured after passing Kurt and his IED-detecting shepherd because Kurt had paused to give the animal a drink. Things happened, or they didn’t happen. Those who survived moved on.
Locking himself off from his thoughts, he finished wrapping up the extra mesh fencing, then rejoined the group. The volunteers had drained their bottles of water but were hanging around until the mastiff was finished putting on a show, which didn’t seem like it would be anytime soon.
Perhaps tired of them all, the giant German shepherd mix urinated on the gate, then, having stood guard for half an hour, plopped to the ground with a muffled sigh. Kurt wondered how many homes the big dog had passed through. And in how many of them he’d been traumatized. The cautious dog had no reason to believe this new set of circumstances would be any different.
But that was okay, Kurt thought, feeling a surge of hope. It would be their job to show him otherwise.
Chapter 10
Ida Greene could come up with a dozen reasons to be upset over the goings-on next door, but at her doctor’s advice, she’d been practicing “complete tolerance” for twenty-three days. If she broke her streak now, all the good she’d done in naturally lowering her blood pressure might be for nothing.
&nb
sp; Instead, she determined to bake a pie for the young couple inhabiting her late sister’s house the last three days. Baking always settled her nerves. Thanks to the four mature apple trees in her backyard, she didn’t need to fire up the old Camaro and make a trip to the grocery store either. Both the Pink Lady and McIntosh varieties were crisp, delicious, and ripe for picking. Under the watchful eye of Mr. Longtail—he came to visit every day—she used the handle of her broom to knock down apples until she had a basketful.
The girl, a tall, pretty blond, had been coming and going for the last eight months, feeding Mr. Longtail per her late sister’s directions, when it would’ve been so much easier for Ida to do it. Of course, this was as Sabrina had instructed in her will, and Ida knew to leave well enough alone when it came to Sabrina’s wishes.
Ida had meant to introduce herself to the girl long ago, but nothing seemed to happen fast at her age. The first several months she’d been reeling from the loss of her sister, and then there’d been the whole high-blood-pressure scare. In the scheme of things, today seemed like as good a time as any. A young man was staying in the house now too, it seemed. She’d caught a few glimpses of him working late into the evening the last two nights. If her trifocals weren’t deceiving her, he was as fine as young men were back before the world grew so complicated and soft at the same time.
She’d seen the report on Channel 3 and had put two and two together. She’d known they were bringing those mistreated dogs here before the vans had pulled up. But she hadn’t been prepared to see so many crates being unloaded. Her sister’s quiet house was being packed full of dogs. And not just any dogs. The dogs Channel 3 flashed across the television screen were intimidating, to say the least.
But the pie making sent Ida’s worries away. The girl who’d been feeding Mr. Longtail was competent enough. In all these months, she’d never forgotten to take care of him. And hopefully, that shelter Sabrina had been so fond of knew what it was committing to.
Ida lost track of the afternoon as she readied the crust. There was nothing quite like dusting the countertop in flour and rolling out a fresh, buttery crust or hearing the thin, fine scrape of the sugar and cinnamon as she mixed them with the apples. And of course there was the smell. Few things on earth smelled better than an apple pie baking in the oven.
When it was done, she let the pie cool as the sun sank low on the horizon. She watched the protesters pack up from their second day of protesting. Thank heavens they were leaving. The idea of people picketing outside Sabrina’s house was disturbing. Ida hoped they had realized how quiet the street was and determined to take their picketing elsewhere. Or, better yet, abandoned it entirely. That was more consistent with the benefit-everyone way of thinking her holistic practitioner had been trying to teach her.
When the ceramic pie dish was cool enough to carry, she covered the pie with her best dishcloth and slipped a small flashlight into her pocket. If the young couple was the welcoming type, she might well be walking home after dark. Mr. Longtail met her halfway between their two houses. He meowed and beelined in front of her, nearly causing her to trip and send the pie sailing, which would have been a shame. It had turned out lovely.
The young man answered the door, looking both more guarded and more handsome than he had from far away. “Can I help you?” he asked, eyeing the heavy pie that was growing heavier by the second.
“I’m Ida Greene, your neighbor. And you can be a dear and relieve me of this pie.”
He took it off her hands and cocked an eyebrow. “If I do, I may not give it back. It smells incredible.”
“That’s good to hear. I baked it for you. It only seemed right that you get more of a welcome than those protesters have offered you.”
He smiled and shifted the pie to the flat of one hand as he extended the other in her direction. “Kurt Crawford. Nice to meet you, Ms. Greene.”
He was enough of a gentleman to impress her. And he had remarkably strong hands. After the introduction, Ida craned her neck to look into the parlors flanking the entryway. Rather than studying the crates, she took in the condition of the walls and light fixtures. “It’s funny, but my memory of the house as it was twenty years ago is more vivid than that of how it looks now. And look what that crotchety cat has done to the beautiful old wallpaper!”
Kurt followed her gaze to the strips of wallpaper that the cat had clawed away. “You know this house?”
“Yes, very well. Sabrina was my year-younger sister.” She pointed toward her house. “I moved next door after my husband died twenty-one years ago. Sabrina lived here much longer, nearly sixty years in fact.”
Kurt’s eyebrows arched upward. “Would you like to come in?”
Ida’s thin fingers closed around the doorframe for support. She could almost see her sister, decades ago, barefoot and in a cornflower-blue summer dress, carrying a basket of laundry down the stairs, singing as she went. “I very much would, Mr. Crawford. I very much would.”
* * *
If it wasn’t for Ida taking a seat at the kitchen table after touring the house, Kurt doubted he would have remembered his dream from last night, his second night in the house. As it was, only snippets came to mind. It had taken place here in the kitchen. He remembered the soft, yellow light pouring into the kitchen from the window behind the sink, making the god-awful aged counters shine a brighter yellow. Kelsey had been at the stove stirring something in a pot, and his grandmother, Nana, was standing alongside her, smiling with approval.
Nana had looked younger, like she did when he was a kid, and she was wearing her favorite slippers and an apron over a cotton dress. He also remembered the powerful sensation he’d experienced watching them, one that had made his insides swell up like a balloon. It had been so long since he’d felt something that strong in real life, so the best he could equate it to were peace and contentment. Like everything was exactly as it should be.
Ida showing up with her pie and her wrinkles and her old-person manners must have stirred the dream into conscious thought. Kurt rarely remembered any dreams. The ones that stuck tended to wake him in a cold sweat and were nothing to reminisce over. He hoped time out of the service would change this.
“This kitchen,” Ida said, shaking her head and smiling. “It stood out as much when they had it installed as it does now. The first time I saw it was in the early sixties. They’d only been in the house a few years. Back then, I lived in my childhood home of Connecticut with my husband and two sons. With Sabrina having settled so far away, she and I were only able to see each other every few years.
“When she and her husband bought the house in the late fifties, it needed considerable plumbing and electrical repair, and the kitchen needed a complete revamping. It was already half a century old then. Since the work was completed, little about the house has changed. Sabrina replaced the stove and refrigerator again in the late seventies with the models here now. She had to pay an arm and leg to keep the vintage look because hardly anyone was making it then.”
Kelsey, who’d brewed a fresh pot of coffee to go with the pie, carried a steaming mug to Ida. Not wanting Kelsey to feel as if she needed to serve him, Kurt got up to pour his own cup.
“We have milk but no sugar,” Kelsey told Ida. “No creamer either. Sorry. We’re still getting things up and running.”
“A splash of milk will be fine. And I understand. At this house’s age and after a full year with no inhabitants, there’s likely to be a bigger-than-average to-do list. And to be fair, the house hasn’t had the care it deserves the last several years. After Sabrina’s husband passed, she spent more time next door with me than she did here. Fewer memories, you understand.”
“I can only imagine,” Kelsey said. “If your sister was from Connecticut like you, how did she end up in St. Louis? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t. Jeremy Raven, her husband, led her here. He was raised in this very house,
in fact. His parents died when he was young, and the house was sold. Through the grace of an aunt, Jeremy went to medical school at Cambridge. He and Sabrina met in Weston-super-Mare, a seaside town in southwest England, while he was on break from the university. And theirs was quite the meeting. At Weston, at low tide, the water recedes about a mile offshore. It’s something to see. Everywhere you look, boats are trapped in the sand.
“My sister had traveled there by train and was walking alone at low tide looking for seashells when she got stuck out in the mudflats. Jeremy was on the beach with friends, celebrating the end of another term. He ran out and attempted to save her, and ended up stuck himself. They were thrown a rope, thankfully, and pulled from the mud as the tide was rushing in.”
“Wow. That’s both very fortunate and wonderfully romantic at the same time,” Kelsey said. She met Kurt’s gaze, and her cheeks flushed pink.
“She sounds brave to have traveled on her own like that, especially for a woman back in the 1950s,” he said, surprised by an urge to run his hand down Kelsey’s back.
Ida let out a soft humph. “Brave she was. In her younger years, she was a bit of a black sheep, at least in my parents’ eyes. Her way of doing things tended to be a touch unconventional. They never could see eye to eye. Our father was a minister, so maybe it’s no surprise. After one particularly big argument, Sabrina left home in a fury and made for Europe. She was just seventeen. It caused such a scandal in my hometown! She lived like a gypsy for nearly two years, sending me postcard after postcard from one city to the next before she and Jeremy met. She claimed if it hadn’t been for his complete devotion to her, she’d never have settled down.
“Jeremy was six years her senior and ready for a grown-up’s life by the time he earned his medical degree. To my entire family’s surprise, Sabrina allowed Jeremy to make her his wife and bring her to St. Louis. They lived in a small apartment in Soulard, but Jeremy bought back his childhood home the first chance he got. And, obviously, they lived out the rest of their lives here.”