Something Worth Saving

by Sandi Ward

  Confusion creases Mom’s forehead, but only for a moment. “He’s just trying to be thoughtful. He’s trying to be nice. And having all three of you for the weekend at the apartment is a lot for him. It’s all right. I’ll take her.” Mom unsnaps the leash, and Gretel walks reluctantly down the hall to the kitchen, head hanging low in disappointment.

  I feel a little bad for Gretel.

  Mom sighs. Her work has been tiring lately, especially now that she works all day, and she is the only one here to cook and clean up after the children at night. Mom works at a preschool, where she is the director. I don’t know what this means precisely, but I know she is in charge of many important things and must bear the burden of worrying about many people. I imagine that at work she wears a special hat or perhaps a crown, and her workers listen carefully to her and do her bidding.

  That’s my best guess, anyway, from the way Dad says she “lords it over her subjects” at the preschool. I have heard him explain it this way at the dinner table, and call her Queen Kate. He says she is very tough. When Dad says she intimidates her subjects with her icy stare and strict tone, the children nod eagerly, and then burst into smiles.

  The children find something funny in this, but I do not. It is true that Mom can be strict. No one likes to cross her. She is the voice of authority around here.

  Victoria takes her time, coming down the steps while staring at the phone in her hand. Head bowed, back straight. Mom moves just in time to kiss the side of her daughter’s head as she passes by.

  Charlie is last to come down the stairs, his backpack in his hand. He has changed his shirt. He looks like he is on the verge of tears. Mom hugs him for a good, long minute. Finally, a honking from the driveway startles them both.

  Charlie turns to me. “Bye, Lily.”

  Good-bye, sweet boy. Take care of yourself.

  “Bye, Mom.”

  “Bye, baby.” Mom swallows. She watches Charlie for a minute before shutting the door gently behind him.

  Mom leans against the door. I go to sit at her feet. When I crane my head up, I see her face is set in a hard frown. I think that Charlie’s actions and Kevin’s words have upset her.

  I wish she wouldn’t worry. But I understand. I worry too. I want both Charlie and Dad to be happy—not just in life, but with each other.

  The fact is, I might as well forget about them for a while, because now we have a nice evening to look forward to! Mom and I will enjoy fluffy blankets and tasty snacks and the comfy couch and the blaring TV. Mom might let me lick the bowl when she finishes her ice cream. And later, I will snuggle up right by her side, my head near hers, my paw on her arm. We will have the big bed all to ourselves!

  Gretel will lie on the bedroom rug and guard us. She does not cuddle. Watching over our family is her calling in life, and I respect that.

  As soon as the kitchen is clean, Mom and I both stretch out on the couch. It is lovely. Perhaps it is a little too quiet, but very nice nonetheless.

  I wish I could talk to Mom about Charlie. If only there were a way I could tell her about the awful bruises.

  Mom and I worry together in spirit, if not in words.

  Little do I know that tomorrow someone will enter our lives and change the course of everything.

  Chapter 3

  The New Man

  Mom has a good friend, a man named Vincent. He has been her friend for years, and he has come over quite a bit since Dad left. I know he lives down the street, because I’ve seen him in his yard during my evening walks. He has his own wife and children. Vincent is very good at fixing things that are broken.

  I know all of our neighbors, because I spend a lot of time prowling around the block. The fact is, our house is small and cramped on the inside—but oh! We have a wonderful outside! The river attracts magnificent white swans, green-headed mallards, and long-tailed wood ducks. Behind our house is a small garden, and beyond that there are woods full of deer, voles, daddy longlegs, dragonflies, big black ants, and bats at dusk. The forest floor is covered in dry, spiky pine needles, and beneath that is the cool sand. I go exploring all the time.

  Vincent lives five houses down, in a little gray cottage not much different from ours. He will look at whatever it is that is perplexing Mom, and suggest a solution. For example, if a painting needs to be hung, or a pipe is leaking, he will study the problem. He’ll push his glasses on tighter and think about it. Then he goes out and gets what he needs, and comes back to repair it.

  If Vincent were a creature, he might be a crafty spider who weaves beautiful webs. He has a talent for his work.

  Kevin once suggested to Mom that she “give the poor guy a break.” Kevin sometimes scowls when he sees Vincent is over yet again. But Mom knows something that her son is not quite old enough to understand.

  I understand it, because I am always watching.

  You see, Vincent doesn’t mind helping Mom. Not at all. He rather enjoys it. He is a problem solver.

  The way he beams when she compliments him makes it clear to me that he feels rewarded by her words. Perhaps his own family does not appreciate his skills. And it probably doesn’t hurt that she is genuinely grateful.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she’ll say.

  But this Saturday morning, when Vincent comes over, he is not smiling.

  We started the day with our usual breakfast—coffee and cereal for Mom, dry food for me and Gretel—and then Mom did her stretches. When she was done, I think Vincent sent her a message, because Mom frowned after checking her phone and made more coffee. She ran upstairs to change into different clothes and brush her hair. Then she came down to pick up the things all over the kitchen counter and throw them into a closet.

  Gretel started pacing anxiously. We both wish we could help Mom sometimes.

  “It’s okay, Gretel. Just give me a bark when he gets here.”

  Gretel answered: Roo!

  After Vincent arrives, he and Mom sit at the kitchen table and talk quietly. I flop down on the floor, across the room, catching every other word. Gretel listens too, her pointy ears alert.

  I hear that someone’s condition is “bad, very bad.” Vincent looks grim, adjusting his glasses. I listen more closely, and determine that his wife is sick—or, perhaps, sicker than she used to be. He hunches over his coffee cup as if the news is threatening to swallow him up. He says his wife is being admitted to the hospital to treat her cancer.

  Mom winces. “Vincent. I’m so sorry.”

  When Mom rubs his arm, he just closes his eyes, as if he cannot believe this small kindness. As if it is the only good thing to happen to him in a long time.

  Mom looks worried. She stares at Vincent, eyes creased in a frown. She drinks more of her coffee, gulping it down in a hurry.

  “I’m really sorry about the timing. I don’t want this to delay your project. You’ve been waiting a long time to get this done.” Vincent shakes his head. I am not sure what project he is referring to.

  Mom startles. “Don’t be silly. Don’t worry about it. The project can wait.”

  “Yeah, maybe some of it can, but it’s more than just the bookshelves.” He gestures toward the back room, off of the kitchen. “Those window frames are really rotted out, and you can barely see through the windows with the seal broken and all that fog between the panes. And you need more insulation in the walls—you said they’re drafty all winter, right? I think we should get it done this spring, so you’re ready for the fall. And we’ll have to finish with a new coat of paint, but honestly, you need it anyway. The wall above the couch is pretty scuffed up, probably thanks to the kids.” Vincent looks at her over his glasses. “I actually have an idea on how we can get started. I’ve found a friend of a friend who can help us out. Someone I know through church. Someone who needs a small job just like this one. He’s a good guy.”

  I watch Mom’s nose wrinkle. Of course, she doesn’t want a “friend of a friend” in this house. I know that. She wants Vincent. Vincent likes Mom
, he likes the kids, he likes Gretel, he likes me. It’s hard to consider allowing someone else—a stranger, someone with an unfamiliar voice and habits—in this house for any period of time.

  “I’ll send him over to get a look at the space,” Vincent offers. I can see how he hates to disappoint Mom, the way he glances down at his lap. Vincent barely touches his coffee. “Would today be okay?”

  Mom nods. “I have to go out this afternoon,” she responds, leaning toward him. “But your friend can come by. The key will be here.”

  I know where Mom hides the key. I have seen it on the rim of a large potted plant by the front door.

  Vincent knows where it is too. That’s how much Mom trusts him.

  “Thank you,” Vincent gushes, as if she has done him a great favor.

  “Oh, Vincent. This is terrible.” Mom envelops him in a hug. “It’s not fair. You’re such a good person. Why is this happening to you?”

  I feel bad that Vincent’s wife is sick. He is always so good to Mom. But Mom is wrong to think that the health of Vincent’s family has anything to do with him being a good person.

  Perhaps it is unfair. But that’s just the way the world works.

  The world is made up of predators and prey. Some creatures are big and athletic, natural hunters—like myself—and we rule the top of the food chain. I can clear our yard of any bug, bird, or animal that becomes a nuisance. But other creatures are born frail, or they become weak because of age or illness. It is a fact of life. If a human or an animal gets sick, it is no one’s fault. It is just the way bodies work. They are susceptible. They break down.

  When I was little and the bad man kicked me, my leg broke.

  When someone hits or pinches Charlie, he bruises. He feels pain.

  I know all about it. Many creatures are vulnerable.

  Eventually it’s time for my morning nap. Charlie’s bed is my favorite spot, so I gallop up the stairs. I love the abrasive texture of his blanket. His bed is unmade, just the way I like it, and I find a comfy spot to rest.

  I’m only half-listening as Mom shows Vincent out. Soon after, I hear the shower running and water draining through the pipes of the house, and I nod off. I wake when I hear the door to the garage open and close as Mom goes out to do her errands.

  The only sound left is Gretel panting. I know Gretel is sitting in the hallway, waiting to see if Mom comes back because she forgot something.

  Like a big black-and-tan dog, perhaps?

  But Gretel has no such luck. Mom must have other plans that don’t involve driving around a giant dog with a long snout and a slobbery tongue.

  * * *

  Time floats by. I stir when I hear the sound of a key rattling in the lock to the front door. My head immediately picks up.

  Ah! The friend of a friend.

  I hear the creak of the heavy front door swinging open, and then Gretel’s low growl.

  Hmmmm. This could be interesting.

  I have seen Gretel chase men before. I have witnessed a man who was trimming the bushes in our yard scramble up on top of a car to get away from her. First he jumped onto the hood of the car, and then realizing he was not high enough, he climbed right onto the roof! The poor man was just doing his job, but Gretel didn’t seem to understand that.

  When humans first see Gretel, their eyes light up with fear. Gretel is certainly strong and fast, and the humans say she is smart. As I’ve mentioned, I haven’t quite seen the evidence to convince me one way or the other regarding her intelligence. But there is no doubt Gretel is a physical force to be reckoned with.

  So it remains to be seen how Gretel will react to this intruder.

  I need to see this!

  I jump up, stretch my back, and then leap down to Charlie’s rug. I pad over into the hallway to take a peek from between the slats of the balcony, and look down to see who has come in.

  At first, the sun coming in the picture window blinds me. I blink, and then my eyes adjust.

  Oh.

  Oh!

  Tall and broad and younger than Vincent. Pale skin and black hair that twists in waves, looking like it’s never seen a brush. It covers his forehead and almost hangs in his eyes. A faded T-shirt, more threadbare than the smart way Vincent usually dresses.

  I don’t know what I was expecting. But not this.

  The man freezes when he sees Gretel crouched in the hallway, and slowly shuts the door behind him. He puts out a hand.

  “Hey, boy. It’s okay. It’s alright.”

  Gretel cocks her head. For goodness sake. She’s not a boy. But I’m sure it makes no difference to Gretel. She waits to see if this is friend or foe.

  The man’s voice is soothing, but his rigid posture gives away the fact that he’s nervous. He stands completely still. I’m sure Gretel senses it too.

  I assume that Vincent, in his grief, forgot to mention to this man the wolflike creature that guards this house. So now I get to watch, to see if Gretel will make a sport of chasing this man.

  He has a bag over his shoulder, which he finally slips off, taking his time and not making any sudden movements. He sets the bag on the floor. Crouching down to Gretel’s level, he murmurs to her. Gretel just watches him for a moment.

  “C’mere, boy,” he calls. “It’s okay. Hey, you’re a good boy.”

  This guy is never going to get anywhere. Gretel doesn’t like any man who is not Dad. She doesn’t even like Vincent that much, and he’s lovely.

  I also suspect Gretel doesn’t like being called “good.” I enjoy being called a “good girl” because I try to be just that: sweet and loving, greedy for cuddles.

  But for a warrior like Gretel, it’s just condescending. She’d probably prefer—yes, I think this works—“brave dog.”

  Finally, Gretel walks over, head down. She sniffs the man’s hand and his knees. She allows him to pet her head, then her back. I’m impressed to see the man actually kneel down on the floor and let her smell him all over. She jumps up and sticks her wet snout in his ear. He flinches, but lets her do it.

  Most humans aren’t so patient. They’re usually in a rush. And afraid of Gretel’s sharp teeth.

  Gretel is intimidating. But this human is not in a hurry, and he forces himself to be still. It makes him a little different from most other humans. He has a calm energy.

  When he finally stands, the man takes a long look around. I’m surprised all over again when he looks up and sees me. I thought I was fairly well hidden, on the balcony. But we make eye contact, and his mouth turns up into a crooked smile.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he says to me.

  My goodness. My ears twitch.

  Hello, sir.

  I suppose I’m hard to miss. With all this buttery fur, fluffed just so.

  I get up and decide to go right down the stairs and see what project this man is going to work on. Each paw sinks silently into the musty carpet that covers our stairs as I sneak after him.

  By the time I reach the bottom stair, he has disappeared, taking long strides to go straight back to the kitchen and around the corner to the study. Vincent must have told him where to go. Gretel follows him, and I take up the rear. I stop at the doorway to observe.

  The man places his bag on the floor and hunts around for this and that. He studies the back wall and pulls some kind of tape out of a little box and runs it over the wall before typing things into his phone. Then he does the same to the three windows. I watch as he takes his time with this task. Gretel stands right behind him, watching him with curious eyes.

  I think I have figured out what this project is. Mom has talked before about wanting bookshelves built into the wall, surrounding the fireplace. She has a lot of books, and nowhere to put them. They pile up on the floor of her bedroom. And Vincent also mentioned he is going to replace the rotting old windows. So I think the whole room is going to be fixed up.

  I finally feel comfortable enough with this new man to wander in and brush my head against Gretel’s shoulder. She moves away from m
e.

  Gretel loves me, but she does not like to get too close. I believe she prefers to think of herself as fierce and independent.

  Believe me, I am independent too, but at least I’m capable of showing affection to those I love. Sometimes I resent Gretel for being so standoffish.

  Gretel’s priorities in life are:

  1. Dad.

  2. Guarding the family.

  3. Food. Preferably meat. But anything she can sink her teeth into will do in a pinch.

  The man watches me walk and frowns. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  It’s an old injury to my leg. Just ignore it.

  When he is satisfied that I am not in pain, he turns and looks over some photos of our family that sit on a side table. He studies each one carefully. There is one of Mom and Dad and all of the children from many years ago that he stops to study. In this photo, the children are younger, all either squinting or squirmy or distracted. But Mom is smiling up at Dad and he has his arm around her with a grin on his face. They look very happy.

  The man shakes his head. I don’t think he is very focused on his job at all.

  He finally unfolds a big piece of paper. He reads it carefully. The man looks up at the wall, then back at the paper. His eyes turn again to the wall, and then down to the paper. He sighs, taking in a deep breath. There is clearly something he doesn’t understand. He looks around the room almost wistfully, as if this room calls memories to mind.

  But, of course, he’s never been here before.

  It’s puzzling.

  Finally, the man packs up his things. Gretel allows him to pet her again, and she follows him to the door. I can see that something about him attracts her. We both move to the picture window to watch him go down the walkway in the front yard, and then get into his truck and drive away.

  Truth be told, I have mixed feelings about this. I am happy and excited that Mom is finally getting bookshelves and new windows. She and Dad talked about this project many times.

  But I’m sorry that Dad won’t be here to enjoy it. And I’m concerned this new man may not be able to make Mom’s dreams into a reality, because he is not Vincent. I don’t know if he has the talent to pull it off. I sincerely hope he does, because Mom has been sad lately and this might make her feel better.