The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge

by Jim Kraus

  She wanted to make sure his story was true—about Bargain Bill claiming he had adopted Hubert just before the shelter had closed its doors.

  Sounds too convenient, if you ask me.

  The drive took longer than expected.

  Everything on these back roads takes longer than expected.

  The first name and address she had was for an Emily Sillers on St. Paul Street.

  The man at the gas station said, “You can’t miss it. If you see the airport, you’ve gone too far.”

  Lisa never saw the airport and parked in front of an untidy ranch house with a full lawn of uncut grass. The garage door was lined with rust stains and leaned a few inches askew. She got out and walked toward the front door.

  A door creaked open from the house next door.

  “You looking for the Sillers?”

  “I am. I’m Lisa Goodly. With the Wellsboro Gazette.”

  She said it firmly, as if that association gave her the right to come, unannounced, to a stranger’s house and pepper her with questions.

  “They ain’t here no more. At least she ain’t. The mister, I ain’t sure of. But she moved a couple of months ago. Right after she closed that dog shelter of hers. I heard it was some sort of what-cha-call ‘marital discord.’ I ain’t saying that for sure, but that’s what I been hearing. And he was never round much, anyhow. So now I got to cut their grass or else the neighborhood looks like it’s going to hell in a hand basket, pardon my French.”

  Lisa tried to remain professional and not appear crestfallen, even if she was.

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I wanted to ask her about the shelter.”

  The voice came out from behind a storm door, the glass so cloudy that Lisa could not be sure exactly who or what she was talking to. She stepped a little closer. The voice belonged to a man, an older man, no doubt retired, from the casual looks of his mid-afternoon dress: baggy work khakis and a scooped-neck white T-shirt. Or at least a mostly white T-shirt. His white hair formed an incomplete halo around his ears and the back of his head. He took a half step outside, holding on to the doorknob.

  He’s got a kind face. Just dresses horribly.

  “You might try that other lady. There wuz two of ’em. Two ladies who ran it. The shelter. I thought they were both sort of odd, you know what I mean?”

  The pot-and-kettle cliché.

  “Not in that sort of weird way. But taking care of strays and protesting at the mink farm out on Henderson and saying that eating a cheeseburger is wrong. That kind of weird, you know?”

  “That would be Judy Kubista? Am I saying that name right?” Lisa asked as she flipped her notepad open.

  “Beats me. I knew there wuz two ladies. She used to live over on Washington. You know, around the corner from Domino’s Pizza. But I heard she moved.”

  Lisa was striking out.

  “Would you know where?”

  The old man shook his head.

  “Nope. I mean, she used to work over by Dor-Day’s Sub Shop. I saw her in there a few times. Taking care of dogs and making subs don’t appeal to me much. Maybe they know where you might find her.”

  “Do you know the address?”

  “Over on Market. You can’t miss it. It’s like downtown, sort of.”

  Lisa scribbled down the name in her pad and closed it.

  “Well, thank you so much for your help. Really appreciate it.”

  The old man grinned widely. He was in need of some serious dental work as well.

  “No problem. I had no idea that you Wellsboro people came all this way to sell your newspaper subscriptions. Long drive, if you ask me.”

  Lisa was about to explain that she was not selling newspapers, but stopped herself and decided not to go there.

  “Now, I ain’t been getting newspapers here since Truman. Got no use for ’em. All a bunch of lies, you know. You seem nice enough, but I ain’t got use for them newspaper people or them television people. You tell your editor that I ain’t interested in subscribing. Okay?”

  Lisa smiled at him, her best walking-backward-while-keeping-an-eye-on-someone smile. “I will be sure to tell him that. Thanks so much for your help, though. And have a good day.”

  The old man nodded several times.

  “You, too, young lady. You, too.”

  Hubert was spread out on the rug in Stewart’s living room, letting the afternoon sun warm his stomach.

  He could not remember how long he had been cold and miserable. Dogs are not adept at recalling numbers or accurately judging the passage of time.

  All Hubert knew was that he had been cold for a very, very long time, many, many days and nights—so cold that he, once or twice, had dipped into despair, all but certain that he was simply a dog, disposable and forgotten, and that he had no business thinking that someone, somewhere, was watching out for him and leading him and keeping him from undue suffering.

  The cold can do that to your soul.

  And now Hubert luxuriated in allowing the sun to beat down on his chest and stomach, making them warm—nearly hot, actually, and letting the heat sink deep into his being and his bones.

  Then his eyes snapped open.

  He scrambled to his feet and shook himself aware.

  He knew what to do. Or at least, he knew what to try to do.

  The thought simply appeared in his mind, and because of the sudden and total surprise, he knew. Sometimes dogs just knew. It was the way nature worked.

  Hubert was pretty sure that while he was a smart dog, he was not skilled in formulating complicated plans.

  I know enough to get by today. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

  Hubert smiled a canine smile, to himself, happy that the idea was there. That he knew what to do next.

  They need to be together. And I need to help. I need to do all that a good dog can do to make that happen. It is so simple.

  He listened for the sound of footsteps outside the door. All was quiet.

  They need to be together. I can try to do that. I can.

  He took a deep breath.

  I can try to get that Stewart and that Lisa person together. I can do that. I can try to do that.

  He smiled again.

  That is a very good plan. A very good plan indeed. Everyone needs to be part of a pack and this will make our pack stronger.

  Then Hubert walked to the door and sat down. He thought that Stewart person would soon be home and he wanted to be ready when he arrived. He wanted to greet him, but he also wanted to think more, with Stewart in the room, of just what he might do to get them together.

  It is what a good dog must do.

  Everyone at the Dor-Day Sub Shop (no superfluous “-pe”) knew Judy Kubista, and no one knew where she went.

  The manager on duty, a small, wrinkled woman with WENDY written on her name tag, said, “She came in one day, got her paycheck, and said, ‘I quit.’ No one seen her since.”

  The rest of the afternoon crew, consisting of two teenage boys, nodded in agreement.

  “Judy, she used to live over by the elementary school. But I go that way to pick up my grandkids sometimes and I saw her house was empty with a FOR SALE sign on it.”

  Lisa tried not to appear disappointed.

  “You a relative?” Wendy asked, as if suddenly realizing that Lisa was a stranger—and from out of town, probably.

  “No. I work for the Wellsboro Gazette.”

  It’s only sort of an exaggeration.

  Wendy’s face remained as blank as those of her two teenager assistants, and that was pretty to mostly blank.

  “It’s the newspaper in Wellsboro. I was doing a story on animal shelters and I heard Judy helped run the one in town here.”

  “So you’re not trying to collect on a bill or anything, are you?”

  “No,” Lisa replied. “I just wanted to ask Judy a few questions, that’s all.”

  Wendy shrugged.

  “Sorry I couldn’t help. I would tell you I’ll keep a lookout for her, but
people like that…once they leave, they leave for good,” Wendy explained, as if disappearing from Lewisburg was a relatively common occurrence.

  Well, maybe it is.

  As Lisa was facing her disappointments in Lewisburg, Stewart was home dealing with a most unexpected phone call from his father.

  “So, what’s the weather like in Wellsboro?” his father asked.

  Stewart held the phone away from his face for just a second and stared at it, as if a stranger had hijacked the conversation.

  “Dad, we’re only fifty miles away. The weather here is the same as the weather there.”

  He heard his father snort in derision.

  “Not always, kiddo. Sometimes it can be ten degrees colder here than where you live. That’s nothing to sneeze at, you know. Ten degrees is a lot.”

  Stewart closed his eyes, almost as if in pain.

  “The weather here is really nice, Dad. Almost seventy degrees today. Sunny.”

  His father listened and replied.

  “’Bout the same here. This time, anyhow.”

  He never just calls me. Maybe he needs money. Or is sick. Or something.

  “Well, your grandmother called me. Out of the blue.”

  “Really?”

  Really?

  “Yeah, been ’bout a year, maybe two, since we talked.”

  What do I say to that?

  “She’s all worked up. Which is normal for her, but still…”

  I have to ask, don’t I?

  “About what? I mean, what’s she upset about?”

  He heard his father sigh loudly, as if giving up. That was one of the things he remembered very clearly about his father: his long sighs of resignation. Other memories were more painful.

  “She says you’re datin’ some hussy. I ain’t even sure what a hussy is. You went to college. I didn’t. Is this girl a hussy or what?”

  Stewart would have sighed as deeply as his father just had but did not want to emulate him—not now.

  “Dad, she’s a very nice person. We’re only friends. And Grams doesn’t know her at all. She met her once when she was up here visiting two years ago for like a minute. So she has no idea what she’s really like. And we’re just friends, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Okay, okay. I believe you. But your grandmother insisted that I call you and straighten you out. She also said you have a job waitin’ for you in Florida that you just don’t want. Like jobs grow on trees these days. Is that what you think?”

  This is all too complicated to straighten out. Too much triangulation.

  “No. I don’t think that. And I’m not moving to Florida.”

  “Hey, suit yourself. You never listened to me and you’re not listening now.”

  Stewart looked down and saw that he had been clenching his free hand, much too tightly, and the skin over the knuckles had gone sheet white.

  Even Hubert had stood and walked carefully to Stewart, nosing at his clenched fist, whimpering softly.

  “And this girl—her name is Lisa, by the way—she’s very nice. We even went to church together.”

  Oh man, I should not have said that. What was I thinking?

  Stewart heard a low guttural snort from his father.

  “A Bible-thumper? Really? You’re hooked up with a Bible-thumper? You forget what happened to your mother? Don’t get me started on those holy rollers.”

  Why did I say that? Why did I tell him that?

  “Stewie, you saw what happened to your mother and me, right? You ain’t going there, tell me you ain’t going there.”

  “Dad, she is just a friend. That is all. There is nothing going on.”

  Another snort.

  “Your mother—you were there. How them crazies at that church broke up our marriage. It was all their fault. You know that, Stewart, don’t you?”

  No, they didn’t. It was because you drank too much, were abusive, and ran around. That’s why. That’s why she took off. It wasn’t their fault. And it wasn’t my fault. It was your fault.

  “Hey, Stewart, if that’s what you want to do with your life, then go ahead. Just don’t expect anything from me, okay?”

  Stewart took a deep, silent breath.

  “Okay, Dad. I won’t. And tell Grams if she calls back that everything is fine. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure thing, sport. If you say so.”

  Stewart ended the call and slumped into a kitchen chair. In a moment, Hubert was standing on his rear legs, his front paws on Stewart’s thigh, whimpering and pressing his nose into Stewart’s cheek, as if trying to reassure him that everything was going to be all right.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  STEWART HEARD Lisa pull into the driveway that evening. He remained in his chair near the window, muted the TV with the remote, and waited. Hubert heard Lisa arrive as well, and danced silently over toward the door, hoping she would be coming up to visit.

  Stewart heard the soft closure of her apartment door. Hubert did as well, then looked back to Stewart, his dog face marked with obvious disappointment.

  “She must have had things to do, Hubert. We’ll see her soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Hubert did not appear to be assuaged, not at all, and circled in front of the door several times, perhaps whimpering just a little, then lay down.

  Maybe they’re right. Maybe my grandmother has a sense about these things. After all, I am just a bag boy at a supermarket. What sort of career path is that? And Lisa is probably going places. She has talent. I could see her moving to Pittsburgh. And what am I doing? Bagging groceries.

  He did not unmute the TV. He stood and went into the kitchen and prepared a cup of instant coffee.

  You know, maybe that’s good enough for me.

  He did not bother to turn on the kitchen light and drank his coffee by the blue flickering light from the TV.

  Lisa wandered about her apartment.

  At least I have some room to pace. Poor Stewart would cross his entire place in like four steps.

  She placed her empty notepad on the kitchen table and glared at it.

  What a waste of an afternoon. Some reporter. I should have called. Saved a lot of driving time and gas. What was I thinking?

  She opened her refrigerator and pulled out a can of store brand diet cola. The can hissed as she popped it open and she sat at the table. She did not bother turning on the lights.

  It feels better to be in the dark.

  She sipped silently and stared out the window.

  I wonder if Stewart and Hubert went for their walk. I could watch for them.

  She shook her head.

  No. Not tonight. And maybe my mother is right. That I’m moving too fast. I don’t want what happened with Mark to happen again. Stewart is nice and all, but if I move to Pittsburgh, then what happens? Hurt feelings all around. I don’t think I can go through that again. Better just to stay as friends. Only friends.

  She drained the rest of the cola and placed the empty can carefully into the bin she had set aside for recyclables. It was lined with a recyclable paper bag.

  Better to be safe than sorry.

  Upstairs, Hubert stood and paced, as best he could, in the small apartment.

  Up until this moment, the cozy closeness of Stewart’s small apartment had felt warm and inclusive and safe, like a protected den in a rock pile in the forest.

  But tonight Hubert felt as if the walls were growing closer and closer, pinning him in.

  He wanted to nudge open the door and run down the steps and nudge open that door and keep running until the trapped feeling left him.

  I could do that. It would feel good.

  But he looked over to Stewart. Stewart did not hide his loneliness well. His face was a road map for loneliness. He did not hide the pain behind his eyes. Hubert could not imagine what caused that pain, but Hubert knew pain and knew what it looked like. He knew pain like that—loneliness like that corroded the soul, rusted the heart.

  Hubert walked into the living room and stared at Stewart.<
br />
  In an instant, a fear spread over him, causing him to shudder, just a little.

  What if Stewart doesn’t want to be part of the pack? What if he is too broken inside to know that?

  Hubert shook his head and his body followed, as if shedding an unwelcome bath of water.

  That can’t be. I will make it work. It is the way that—the way that things are supposed to be. Together. Safe. Fed. Warm.

  Hubert narrowed his eyes.

  I will do all that a good dog can do to help him see. Stewart, you have to open your eyes—to Lisa and the truth of the pack.

  In the dark, the clock on Stewart’s countertop microwave, purchased during a “Blow-out After-New Year’s Sale” at the Tops Market, glowed 10:00.

  I have to take Hubert out. No fair to him to make him wait any longer.

  He snapped on the leash and then waited at the door, opening it just a little, and listened.

  All was silent. He heard no noises from Lisa’s apartment. And there was no loud ESPN chatter booming from Larry’s apartment on the first floor.

  Must be two-for-one beer somewhere in the area.

  He tried to walk down the steps as quietly and as softly as he could, avoiding the third and sixth steps, which creaked loudly every time anyone stepped on them. He actually held his breath as he approached the landing on the second floor.

  But Hubert had not been briefed on their stealth walk. He stopped at Lisa’s door, sniffed heavily, just to make sure he was in the right place, then whimpered loudly and scratched at the door.

  Stewart whispered-hissed, “Hubert! Stop!”

  Hubert faced him, midscratch. His canine face seemed to communicate that he was intent on rousing Lisa from whatever she was doing.

  “Hubert,” Stewart hissed again.

  And Hubert whimpered loudly again, adding a little twist of a growl as well.

  Stewart heard footsteps inside and closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that she would peer out the spy hole in the door and not open it.