by Linda Byler
Dewan sat down in the middle of the gravel drive, cupping the tiny dog against his gold sweatshirt, cooing and whispering, his head bent over the helpless animal in his hand. He forgot Alvin and John and simply held the puppy in wonder.
Finally, he lifted his face, his brown eyes full of feeling, and asked if there were more where this one came from.
Dewan was strangely silent during the tour of the kennel. John became uneasy, fearing he would find the dogs’ life in pens unendurable, worthy of a visit from the animal rights activists. Alvin kept up his usual stream of words, proudly showing Dewan the various dog breeds and describing in detail the careful construction of the kennel.
Dewan nodded sometimes, but mostly had very little to say.
When they were through, Dewan shook hands gravely, said he’d be in touch, got into his car calmly, and drove slowly away.
Alvin raised an eyebrow.
John shook his head.
By the first week in November, the days turned cooler, the sun’s heat giving way to a lukewarm, winterish cast that was far more comfortable.
The forests surrounding the farm, the rows of trees along the fences turned into fiery colors of red, orange, and gold. The hemlock and shortleaf pine provided a cooling backdrop of green and dark brown, scattered among the brilliant display that created a wild array of light and pattern.
There were strands of healthy Virginia pine, white pine, and red cedar that provided a pungent scent, a sharp, earthy fragrance unmatched by any other scent John had ever experienced. He love to walk among these trees, breathing deeply. He stumbled upon a huge area of wild rhododendrons and plum bushes, their waxy leaves a new discovery for him.
Ferns completed the woodland forest like a multicolored, waving rug, providing hiding places for chipmunks, deer mice, and gray squirrels.
John walked to these restful places in the evening to get away from the barking dogs and Alvin’s constant verbal onslaught, trying to sort through his exhaustion, the crippling brain fog.
There was so much pressure. The kennel was filling up with litters of puppies that would be ready to sell for Christmas. Alvin had his hopes pinned on astronomical prices for the offspring of the more expensive breeds, relying on the incoming cash flow to pay off the line of credit he had acquired to purchase the mothers. These included the mastiffs, those immense creatures that required constant vigil while birthing the litter of ten to fifteen offspring; the Norwegian elkhound, an expensive risk; the Old English sheepdog, and the Newfoundland. The care of these dogs’ coats required hours of brushing, a task that fell to John. He brushed the thick, dense coats with a special brush, grooming the gentle mothers endlessly, never once feeling any real affection for any of them. He swept the aisles with a stiff broom and hosed down the crates, his arms like floppy half-filled balloons.
Alvin and Lydia got very little sleep, surviving on a few hours a night for weeks on end. They were snappish and short tempered, both of them, so John retreated to a world of his own, cutting both of them out. He moved among the dogs, did only what Alvin required of him, and retreated to the woods at day’s end, finally admitting that he hated this place. Homesickness followed on the wings of that self-discovery, a deep, abiding sense of wanting his father, his brothers, his own horse and buggy, the youths’ company on the weekends.
The despair and exhaustion overtook him again, and he took to his bed, refusing to get up many mornings. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, wishing he could disappear off the face of the earth.
There was no reason to go on living. He couldn’t keep up. The frenetic pace surrounding this farm, the intense pressure to keep every puppy alive and well, the befuddling array of shots and wormer and antibiotics and Oxytocin, when to call the veterinarian, when to feed special rations, records on the wall like a jumble of Japanese writing . . .
Lydia stopped caring about his medication, let pills and medicines, tinctures and capsules run empty. Their little boy, Andrew, was carted around like a sack of feed, on a backpack, in a stroller, on a wagon with red rails inserted into the sides. Sometimes he wailed from his crib in the morning when Lydia was still out at the kennel, and John would stumble down the stairway, through the messy kitchen and into the bedroom. He’d lift the pajama-clad little boy out and onto his lap on the recliner, his heart racing, pumping the quick thrusts of blood into his head until he thought his head had to be like a helium-filled balloon.
It was on a morning like this that John sat at the kitchen table, a dish of Froot Loops set before him, feeding Andrew the colorful orbs soaked in milk, last night’s supper dishes staring at him from the countertop, unwashed piles of laundry sorted on the kitchen floor.
He knew he should wash the dishes and start the laundry, but the task was too monumental. He wanted out of here, away from the demands that accosted him everywhere he turned.
Why didn’t Lydia come get her neglected little guy? He was heavy, the arm John looped around his middle numb, without strength. He stopped feeding him the Froot Loops and set him on the floor, which resulted in a high thin wail, a clinging to John’s pants leg.
That was the sight that met Lydia’s eyes when she slammed through the door, her hair disheveled, her eyes red and bleary from lack of sleep.
She hung up her sweater and black head scarf, shot him an impatient look, and hurried across the kitchen to pick up her son, crooning assurances.
She changed his diaper, dressed him in a clean shirt and little-boy trousers, then sighed, before opening her mouth to release a shower of words.
“You could have picked him up, John. Is that too much to ask?” The words shot from tight lips.
“My arm was tired,” John mumbled, shamefaced.
“Your arm was tired, John. Really? My whole body is numb with fatigue. You lay in your bed pitying yourself, counting all your symptoms, storing them away to bring each one out when it suits. Trotting out your stupid excuses behind the blazing neon sign that says “Lyme disease.” I’m sick of it, John. We’ve done everything we know what to do, and you’re no better than you were a year ago. Don’t you think of anyone but yourself?”
She was crying now, deep, hysterical, gulping sobs, her face red, her eyes scrunched up like a child’s, her mouth wobbling uncontrollably.
“You don’t even try, John. How can a body gain strength just lying around like a wet dishrag?”
She honked into Kleenex she had grabbed from the box on the stand by the couch. She set Andrew into his high chair, gave him a graham cracker, filled his sippy cup with apple juice, and plunked it into the holder.
John blinked, hung his head.
“I know I’m tired myself, probably about at the end of my rope. We lost two of the elkhounds last night. We need your help, John. We can’t do this by ourselves. I figured, surely, after the heat of the summer, you would gain some strength, perk up, show some interest. Instead, it’s the same old same old. Just lying around.”
John looked at her dully. Her words were like flapping pigeons, flying just above his reach. If he chose, he could pluck one and examine it, but it took too much effort, so he let them go. He just wanted out. He wanted to go home to the kindness and benevolence of his mother and the understanding of his father, to see Lena occasionally, to be in her presence. He had failed Alvin and Lydia, same as he failed everyone and everything before.
“I want to go home,” he mumbled, blinking furiously.
Lydia turned from the sink, where she had been throwing greasy casserole dishes and dripping drinking glasses onto the countertop with frightening force.
“You do? Well, you’re not going. You promised to help us out and you’re going to see it through. We can’t manage without you, the way we have been. Get upstairs and get dressed. Get out of those loathsome old sweatpants and that filthy T-shirt, get a shower and brush your teeth. Stop obsessing over every little twinge you feel through your muscles. Everybody has aches and pains.”
She stopped, her eyes boring into his.
“Git. Go.”
“But . . . Lydia.”
“But what?”
Her fists on her hips, her eyes wide, she planted herself above him.
“I have Lyme disease.”
“So what? Maybe I do, too. Who knows? Lyme disease or not, you have to make an effort. Ask God to help you. We all have to call on a higher strength than our own at times. Go.”
And John went, deeply humiliated, blinking back tears of frustration and helpless rage. He returned to the kitchen to find Alvin sitting at the table, eating five fried eggs, a mound of stewed saltine crackers and sausage gravy, a glass of home-canned grape juice and a steaming cup of black coffee.
Alvin grinned up at John, who was now showered and dressed.
“You’re looking good.”
John couldn’t think of a reply, still stinging from his sister’s harsh words.
They heard the crunch of tires on gravel, a car door slamming.
The knock was deafening. Not one or two, but five or six. Alvin rose from his chair, opened the door, and welcomed Dewan Reynolds into the kitchen, warm and inviting with the smell of breakfast.
“Hey, ma man Alvin!”
“Good morning. Good to see you.”
“Yeah. Yeah!” Dewan shook Alvin’s hand with exuberance. “What we got here? Little man?”
He walked over to Andrew in the high chair, bent low to address him in soft tones. Lydia watched, expecting her son to yell hysterically at the stranger, but was amazed to see a broad smile crease his little face, then the corner of a soggy graham cracker extended to the visitor.
When Dewan took it in his mouth, Andrew raised his face and laughed, his eyes crinkled with delight.
“Yeah, little man. You like Dewan, don’t you?”
Andrew raised an arm, extended a hand, and wiggled his fingers for more graham crackers, which Lydia produced, and Andrew promptly fed to Dewan.
Alvin shook his head. “Never saw anything like it.”
“Babies? They love me. All babies. Dewan their man.”
He laughed, swung his arms to bring his left fist into the palm of his right hand.
“Sit down, Dewan.”
“Thanks. Thanks, man. ’Preciate it.”
“So what brings you?
“Well, I went home a few weeks ago, and thought about my chosen profession, the whole veterinary bit. Seems as if I got some growing up to do. Pity them dogs in them cages.”
John thought, Aha, I knew it. Dewan was a secret animal rights person who would try and shut down Alvin and Lydia’s kennel. He watched Dewan with narrowed eyes.
“But . . .” Here, Dewan lifted his eyes to the ceiling, gave a low whistle. Did the man always have to be so demonstrative?
“The way I look at it, the suffering of animals ain’t goin’ nowhere. I mean, there will always be kennels, horses penned up, cows in stanchions, and one old black boy ain’t changin’ any of that. I gotta grow up, learn things, do what I can to help sick and dying animals. I love them all.”
“Just call me James Herriot. Yeah. Read all his books. I’m no white British guy, but you bet I got it in me. Now, I’m asking if you’ll allow me to become an assistant. Don’t need top dollar. Just let me observe, get some hands-on experience, get to know the process. A’right?”
He watched Alvin’s face for a reaction.
Alvin looked at Lydia, who had her back turned, washing dishes. She dried her hands on a dish towel, nodded her head, smiled. “Yes, of course we can use you. We’re in over our heads right now. We’d be glad to have you on board.”
Alvin nodded.
“We have John, but he doesn’t always feel good, with his disease.”
“Oh yeah, that. . . . What is it?” Dewan put a hand to his forehead.
“Lyme disease.”
“Oooh, nasty little bug, those ticks. People die, right?”
“Not if it’s treated.”
“Antibiotics, huh?”
“A chronic case like John’s takes more than that.”
Lydia waved an arm in the direction of John’s pill bottles on a tray.
“What? He take all that?”
Dewan whistled, bent to read labels, shook his head.
“You take all this stuff every day, brotha? Every single day you swallow a pill out of every bottle?”
“I try to,” John mumbled, desperately embarrassed now.
“That’s good. It’s all good. God bless you, ma man. You gonna need it swallowing all them. Whew!”
He clapped a hand to his forehead, rolled his eyes, and grinned at John.
CHAPTER 16
LYDIA HUNG LAUNDRY ON THE LINE, ALLOWING HERSELF A MOMENT of watching the stiff November breeze fan out the bedsheets and pillowcases, flap the colorful bath towels like billowing kites in an untrustworthy wind.
She sighed, weary to the bone.
All this energetic planning, jumping feetfirst into both ventures—the kennel and then John—and here she was, fighting off defeat without armor. The fat was in the fire now. She’d had her say, and figured John and her mother would never forgive her.
Would they?
Had she only made matters worse? She took a deep, cleansing breath, and then another. Her eyelids drooped. No use trying to figure things out when she had only slept a few hours for so many nights she couldn’t remember what a good night’s sleep felt like. She turned, took up the clothes basket, and went back into the tiny lean-to they called a washhouse.
Someday, she’d have a decent laundry room, but for now, this would have to do. She put Andrew down for a nap, then collapsed on the recliner for a short rest before starting lunch.
Dewan Reynolds began working that Friday, arriving in a cloud of gravel. He wore a red sweatshirt with a black Nike symbol on the chest and a pair of jeans tucked into sensible Muck Boots.
He tapped John’s arm with the back of four fingers.
“How’s it going, dude?”
John was fighting an intense emotional battle of his own and found Dewan’s energy suddenly grating, so he acted as if he hadn’t heard.
Alvin walked over, and told Dewan to follow him, he’d get him started. John glanced back over his shoulder, glared at both of them. He wanted out, worse than ever. He wanted to get on that train and go home to his family, to kindness and understanding. At home, if he felt ill, he could rest. If he had a bad day, feeling depressed or overwhelmed, he could rest, too. That Lydia had turned into a mean old shrew, unable to handle her own life and taking her own frustration out on him.
She didn’t understand Lyme disease. You had to rest. If you pushed yourself past reasonable limits, you only suffered the following day.
Homesickness welled up in him. At home there were decent, well planned meals, a clean bedroom, plenty of books to read, the complete trust that if he chose to lie in bed with a good book, it was fully and generously accepted.
Not here. Not after Lydia’s tirade.
This morning, she had stood at his door, yelled his name, and kept on yelling till he answered, then told him to get up or they were not going to pay his wages anymore. “You have to get up,” she’d said.
He did get up, slammed the bathroom door as hard as he could, then put the lid of the commode down, sat on it, and cried.
She was a cruel slave driver. And now he’d have that happy Dewan to put up with. He was amusing on that first day, but since then was nothing but annoying.
He sat in the office, at Alvin’s desk, to upgrade a few records for the Welsh corgis. Queen Mary, the caramel-colored mother with a litter of only four, needed to be put on higher protein, more fat.
Every dog had a name, every puppy in each litter had to be named for the registration. Naming the puppies with Lydia was one of the few things John slightly enjoyed.
They would hold them up to see the expressions on their faces, then consult the book of names for babies, joking about choosing “Goliath” for the smallest dog or “Rosebud” for a mastiff, who would q
uickly grow to be enormous like her mother.
But John refused to help with the naming now. Not until she came to see how unreasonable her expectations for him were. He had Lyme disease. Wasn’t that enough to elicit at least small amounts of empathy? She had judged him without mercy. Now he planned on making her regret that error.
The telephone on the desk rang.
John was so startled he almost forgot to answer, but caught it on the fifth ring.
“Hello, Kentucky Kennel. How may I help you?”
“John? Is that you?”
“May I ask who is speaking?”
“Lena. Lena Zook.”
For a moment, it seemed as if the floor would open and the desk chair containing him would plunge through. He could not think of a single thing to say.
“Are you there, John?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here.”
“I wanted to speak to you anyway, so it’s a good thing you picked up the phone. How are you?”
“All right.”
“Improving?”
“I don’t know. Some, maybe.”
There was a brief silence.
Then, “Do you think you could arrange for a driver to pick me up in Dexter Falls next Thursday? The twenty-seventh?”
Stupidly, he stuttered. “N . . . n . . . next Thursday? Why?”
“My cousin has a child near there who needs a tutor. She’s a special ed student, and she’s having seizures, so the regular special-needs teacher won’t take her anymore. I promised to spend the winter with her.”
John felt like his brain was swimming in thick, green pea soup. Finally, he mumbled, “You’re coming here.”
“Yes, for the winter.”
“What about Samuel?”
For a long moment, there was no answer. Then, in a very small voice, she said, “It’s a long story. Will you schedule a driver?”
“Yes. Do you want me to come with him?”
“If you wish.”
If he wished. He definitely wished.
They said goodbye and he replaced the receiver with hands that shook like aspen leaves. He tilted the office chair and stared off into space, his mind racing around the sentence, “It’s a long story.”