Unleashed - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part 2

by Duncan Whitehead

  “Australian, English, British… it’s all the same really,” Carla continued.

  “Well,” said Cindy, “I heard he got a job. Somewhere abroad, not sure where, he just packed his bags and flew away, leaving poor Veronica and that beautiful little girl all alone. He hasn’t been back. Not sure if they are even still together, but Veronica seems to be fine. She has that brand new car, and I see there has been a lot of work done on their house. I also heard she has stopped working, so he must be doing well; he was some sort of accountant, I believe. Anyway, can’t say I miss him, rude man, Unlike Tom, you know he was a fantastic boy. I have no idea why he would leave Kelly.”

  As it usually did, the women’s gossiping went full circle. They repeated previously made statements and comments, disregarding the fact that one of the trio had already uttered the exact same words. It was always the same, maybe a result of the alcohol, and minds not as young as they once were. It was only Heidi, who was actually the eldest of the three, who remained on point, who never repeated herself. It was a mild annoyance to her that her two friends virtually repeated the same thing, day in day out; it really irked her. She found it tedious, but, she supposed, what else did they have, apart from gossip and their dogs? At least she had a purpose, something to aim for…. She stared at Elliott Miller’s house and finished her drink.

  It was now Carla’s turn to take a large sip of her cocktail. Turning her head, she called for her bulldog, Walter, who was busy exploring the northwest corner of the park, sniffing and scratching at the earth. “Walter, stop that!” shouted Carla. Walter immediately stopped his exploring and excavating and returned to play with his canine friends. Unnoticed by her friends, Carla shivered, she knew that Tom Hudd was likely buried somewhere in the park. Though she had no idea who had killed him, she presumed, correctly, that whoever had killed Tom on her behalf had done so in the park, and probably buried him here also. The last thing she wanted was for her continually digging Walter to run back to the table with a part of his body. The mere image of one of the dogs running around with a human arm or a leg bone in their mouths filled her with dread. She was thankful that Tom was regarded as a missing person, and had been delighted to hear that the police did not suspect any foul play. The consequences, if Tom’s body were ever discovered, could potentially be disastrous; an investigation could lead back to her. Gino, her unrequited love in Las Vegas, who had orchestrated, on her behalf, Tom’s demise, had assured her that there would be no trace back to her, that the ‘Organization’ who had carried out Tom’s murder were the best and had protocols in place, ensuring that ‘clients’ remained protected. Still, though, she worried, and of course, despite her readiness to have a man killed, she didn’t have the stomach to see the aftermath. She was, of course, a lady.

  “Maybe he had another woman,” said Carla coyly as she placed her cup on the picnic table. “Maybe he even had a secret lover,” she added, staring into space.

  “Oh, I doubt it,” said Cindy. “They were such a perfect couple, but, you know, stranger things have happened. But please, let’s be realistic here, I don’t know any woman as gorgeous as Kelly. I mean, it’s not as if there is an abundance of women around here who could even compete with Kelly.”

  Carla, once again unnoticed by her companions, smirked. If only you knew, she thought, if only you knew.

  “Well, I heard, what’s his name, Doug? I heard that Veronica has no idea where he is. That all this talk of a fancy new job is nothing but hearsay, gossip and rumor. I do wish people around here wouldn’t do that. Gossip that is. It is how rumors start. It’s hard to work out what is fact and fiction.” The irony of Carla’s last statement was missed by her friends. Considering that they were the root of all the neighborhood gossip and created more rumors, regardless of fact, was beyond their comprehension.

  “He probably ran off with a floozy,” added Heidi, reluctantly joining in with the revolving conversation surrounding the antics of Tom Hudd and Doug Partridge. “I bet they both had fancy women, and I bet that’s where they are. Shirking responsibility and having fun at the expense of their poor wives. Let’s face it — it is the only plausible scenario.”

  Carla and Cindy, as they often did, concurred with their older friend. They continued talking together, recounting stories about other men who had run off with fancy women, floozies and such like.

  Heidi Launer wasn’t listening to her friends. She was looking in the direction of Elliott’s house, her face twisted, almost into a sneer. She tightened her grip on her now empty plastic cup, almost crushing it. How the hell was the man still breathing? She had paid the required money requested. Her son Stephen had assured her that Elliott would be taken care of, but no, he was still here, now likely to become Mayor. It was just wrong. The man was a liar and a fraud and he had hoodwinked the whole of Savannah. Heidi, though, knew different. His speeches, his kissing of babies, his promises of building a better Savannah meant nothing to her. He was one of them, they were greedy, they lied, they manipulated and they stole. They plagiarized.

  “Are you all right, Heidi?” asked Carla, who had noticed the stern expression on the elderly woman’s face.

  “Yes, yes I am fine,” said Heidi, her scowl quickly disappearing, and a smile forming on her face. “I was miles away… miles away. Just thinking about Thelma and the fun we used to have. You know me, very sentimental and always living in the past.”

  The trio of ladies smiled in unison and once more took swigs from their beverages. The conversation then turned to Thelma Miller, the founding member of The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club. Each woman had a different, yet highly amusing story regarding their departed friend. Cindy recalled the time that Thelma had, during an afternoon cocktail drinking and dog walking session in the park, climbed a tree. Getting up had been no problem; it was getting down that had caused the hilarity. Drunk and slurring her words, she had demanded that someone fetch a trampoline so she could jump down. Of course, there was no trampoline. In the end it had been Cindy who had fetched a ladder from Thelma’s garage so she could climb down from the tree.

  Carla giggled as she reminisced about the time Thelma had been so sloshed that she had fallen asleep on the picnic table. Despite everyone’s efforts to waken her she had not stirred, continued snoring, and at one stage passed wind as she slept. The women had had to call Elliott to come and fetch his wife. Carla laughed out loud at the image of Elliott carrying Thelma home. Of course it had not just been the drink. It was her medication, so Thelma often explained, that made her unable to recall any event involving her and the fun it gave her friends.

  Heidi also smiled. There was the time Thelma, while being treated with chemotherapy for her cancer, had spotted two strangers in the park, two nonresidents of Gordonston, just taking a stroll through the wooded area. She had confronted them, told them to leave, and just to make sure they knew she was serious, she had removed her wig, warning them that the park was full of bugs, that if they got into a person’s hair, they ate it. Heidi laughed as she remembered the two encroachers running as fast they could out of the park.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot,” said Cindy excitedly. “The house on Henry Street, the Carter’s old house — well they finally got it rented out. You know they are moving to Canada? Well, they didn’t want to sell, but they didn’t want the place empty, so they found a nice old man who signed a short term contract. They left their furniture, so they wanted someone mature; apparently he is perfect. I hear that he is a very polite gentleman, quite old I believe, extremely polite; that’s what Brenda Carter said anyway.”

  Carla and Heidi nodded their agreement. It was important, they concurred, when renting your home, and leaving your own furniture in the place, that you select a tenant who is going to respect your possessions.

  Cindy continued, “He is a single man, widower she, Brenda Carter, said, ‘foreigner’. She wasn’t sure from where. You know Brenda, she’s not as good as we are at getting information, or even getting her facts right. Europea
n though, she knows that. Poland? Hungary? One of those places she said, who knows where. But definitely from Eastern Europe. Was it Rumania? I don’t know. Anyway, he moves in tomorrow, just for a couple of months. Brenda said he was a lovely little Jewish man, who won’t bother anyone. I told her that is just what Gordonston needs. Nice people who keep their business to themselves. Peace and quiet; there’s been too much drama lately.”

  Carla and Heidi nodded that they agreed with their friend. Gordonston was a genteel neighborhood. No riff raff. He sounded an ideal neighbor. Once again though, another scowl crossed Heidi’s face, again unnoticed by her friends, and once again she tightened her grip on the empty plastic cup.

  “Well, I hope this newcomer abides by the rules of the park. Does he have a dog?” asked Heidi, loosening her grip on the now totally crushed cup.

  “Apparently not,” replied Cindy. “In fact I don’t really know too much about him. But Brenda did say that they would not be entertaining pets. She had stipulated quite clearly in the rental agreement that no tenant could bring pets. Of course I agree. You can’t have someone bringing cats and dogs into someone else’s furnished home. They would scratch the furniture. No, no dog.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Heidi. “The last thing we need is another old man walking around not scooping. We have enough of them already. ‘You know who’ for a start, but I am happy to report that Mr. Jackson has not been frequenting the park recently. So it seems he may have taken notice of our letters.”

  Cindy and Carla once again sycophantically agreed with Heidi.

  “Good,” said Cindy, “I will drink to that.” She raised her cup to her lips and finished the last drops of her cocktail. “I mean, there is a scooper provided. Some people just have no respect for others. I for one am glad he has not been around lately. Horrible old man.”

  “What sort of name is Ignatius anyway?” asked Carla. “If you ask me, we should take it further. Actually try and get him banned from the park.” Carla then proceeded to finish her drink.

  “Well, time for me to get home,” said Heidi. “Betty Jackson is making Brunswick stew, and Fuchsl looks tired. Same time tomorrow, ladies?” she asked as she rose from the table.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” replied Cindy, also rising from the picnic table.

  “Count me in,” said Carla as she stood.

  The women called their dogs, who bounded towards them and followed the trio of ladies as they left the park, leaving three empty red plastic cups strewn on the picnic table, one of them crushed, an empty trash can only yards from the table next to the unused, but much needed, pooper scooper.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ignatius Jackson coughed into his handkerchief and, not for the first time that morning, groaned in pain and then stared at the blood stained cloth. He knew he did not have long to live. Days had now been replaced by hours, and the weakness that engulfed this once fit man belayed the strength of his mind and his memories. Chalky, his Cairn terrier, whimpered as Ignatius tried to rise but fell back onto his bed, unable to muster the strength needed to even pet his best friend.

  “Not long now, Chalky,” whispered the frail old man. “Not long now I think, old friend. You go outside, boy. I left the back door open, so you can just wander outside and do your business.” Chalky did not move. He stared at his master, his head cocked to the left, before he lowered his body and returned to lie at the side of his owner’s bed.

  Ignatius smiled. Chalky wouldn’t leave his side. He had never questioned the phrase ‘man’s best friend’ – as without doubt, this small dog was his best friend. Loyal and obedient, just like Ignatius in a way, he thought, honorable even. But that was where the similarity between man and dog ended. Ignatius did not consider himself honorable — far from it.

  “Look at you,” he said again, “not leaving my deathbed, waiting for me to get better. I am sorry to say, old friend, I don’t think I will be getting any better. Don’t you worry though, I have made sure you are going to be fine, just fine.” Deathbed. It was an odd phrase, thought Ignatius, it was just still a bed after all. One could not purchase a deathbed, not that he was aware of anyway. Maybe he should have gone into another business. Maybe, when he left the army he should have sold deathbeds, so there would be no confusion as to which bed a person should die in. He smiled again at his notion. At least he still had some sense of humor, despite the agony of the cancer ravaging his body. At least his mind was still working.

  Ignatius had always planned ahead, partly due to his military background. ‘Piss poor planning promotes piss poor performance’ had been one of his favorite sayings to his men. It always got laughs, but it was deadly serious, and it was still a code that Ignatius lived by, and, soon, he was sure, would die by. He had spoken to the pastor of his church and told him that if he hadn’t called him by Sunday, which was five days away, to come to the house, where the back door would be ajar, and to take Chalky for a few days. A friend of Ignatius would then collect the dog and provide him with a new home. Ignatius just hoped the pastor understood what he meant. He wanted no fuss and had made it clear that he wanted to die in peace and alone, except for Chalky. He wasn’t sure if the pastor had taken him seriously, and Ignatius, who never relied on anyone, wasn’t even sure if he could rely on his pastor. Anyway, he thought, he was sure it would be fine. Chalky was just as self-sufficient as his master was. Ignatius, before he had become bedridden, had opened up a large bag of dried food, enough food to feed Chalky for months, but no doubt it was now all scattered about the kitchen floor. He had also filled over fifty large bowls with water, enough to quench his friend's thirst for weeks. No, Chalky would not starve, nor would he become dehydrated, in the event no one followed his instructions.

  Ignatius had not left his bed for two days. His only forays were to the bathroom, an endeavor that caused even more pain and an abhorrent amount of time. He was a proud man, though, he would not dirty his sheets, and it was, of course, a matter of honor. Honor. That word again. What was honorable about dying alone in a bed? Where was the honor in that? Where was the honor in marking people for death? Where was the honor sitting behind a desk, instructing others to kill? The army had been different. He had had honor then. Not now. He had let anger, vengeance and greed dictate his twilight years. She would not have been proud of him, he knew that. She would have stopped him; she would not have condoned his second career. Ignatius sucked in air. He would not cry, he would not shed a tear for himself, his life and his chosen path. No, he may not have honor, but he had pride and he had integrity, and he felt sorry for no man, let alone himself.

  Ignatius Jackson had no fear of death. He had been surrounded by it all his life. Vietnam, Korea and other ‘operations’ that many knew nothing about. And then of course there was the ‘Organization’; dealers in death, and he had been a pivotal cog in the never ending machine of killing. His only concern now was for Chalky, and of course, the child. He had done all he could, and he hoped that no harm would come to the child. She was innocent, she was pure, and though he had no pity for others, he pitied the innocent.

  All Ignatius had now was his memories. Memories that to a degree relieved his suffering, memories that were still fresh in his mind. Memories that no one, not the ‘Organization’, not even cancer could take away. He closed his eyes and his mind drifted, taking him back, taking him back to another time, another place, another life….

  * * * * *

  “You are not on the base anymore, you do know that? You do realize that this is meant to be a time of rest and recreation. For the good Lord’s sake, rest man,” said May Jackson as she sat at her dresser combing her hair. “You know you don’t have to get up at six in the morning every day, there are no men to inspect, guns to clean, or whatever it is you boys do?” She smiled into the mirror and turned to face her husband. Ignatius Jackson smiled back.

  They had been man and wife for twelve months, and had married two days after Ignatius had returned from the war. For the past six
months he had been based at Hunter Army Airfield in Savannah, and the highly decorated Colonel and his new bride had recently found the perfect home to raise a family. Sure, it was big, too big. May often commented that they should have bought a smaller home, but they had both fallen in love with not only the house, but the neighborhood. Gordonston was ideal. The park, which their home overlooked, would be a perfect place for their planned children to play. They could watch them from the room in the turret that gave them a perfect view of the park, unobstructed by trees or bushes. They would even get a dog, a big dog, whom the children, when they came, would love and play with. They would spend many happy afternoons in the park, they were sure; children, a dog, maybe even a cat.

  “I can’t help it,” replied Ignatius. “It is a habit, and anyway, I feel guilty taking this leave while you have to go to work. I want to wake up with you so I can spend as much time as possible in your company, if you will permit me, ma’am?”

  May laughed. She certainly did not mind. She had married the man of her dreams. Handsome, strong, kind and a hero. Not only that, but two years ago, in 1975, at the young age of 30, her fiancé; now her husband, had become the youngest Colonel in the US Army and the first African American in his battalion’s history to attain the rank. Life was good. In a few months Ignatius would be transferred to Fort Benning, where he would take command of the US Army sniper school. As one of the military’s most highly accomplished and decorated snipers, it had been a dream post, and May, though a little perturbed that she would only see her husband at weekends and during his leave periods, was proud of him. It was a small sacrifice, and anyway, they had their whole lives ahead of them. And of course, she couldn’t leave her job. She wouldn’t. She loved it, and there was no way she was going to waste all those months of nursing college just to sit around being the Colonel’s wife. She was constantly amazed at those women, the other wives of the senior officers, who spent their days drinking tea and coffee, chit chatting about nothing in particular; it would drive her mad. Of course Ignatius was in full agreement. He knew his wife was a strong willed woman, so even if he did insist she accompany him on his posting, he knew that he would be wasting his time.