A Lowcountry Christmas

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Remembering the dog, I turned on my side and rose up on my elbow to peer over the mattress to his dog bed on the floor. I couldn’t believe what I saw and stifled my laugh of surprise. On the floor in the enormous dog bed I saw Miller sleeping with his arm around Thor’s neck. My frozen heart cracked.

  I quietly, carefully, snapped a photo with my phone. I didn’t think anyone would believe me if I told them. It was the very image of innocence. I wanted to remember this moment always, to look at it when I needed something good to hold on to. Lowering the phone, I thought of my mother and her wise advice. She’d always been there for me. Even when I was at my worst. She made me want to be a better son.

  I rose to sit. Immediately Thor reacted and climbed to his feet to check on me. I felt the intensity of those dark brown eyes searching my face. I reached out to pat his head.

  “I’m okay, boy,” I told Thor with a fond chuckle at the spectacle of Miller’s having been tossed and awakened on the floor.

  Miller sat up and rubbed his eyes while yawning.

  “You must be freezing.” He wore socks, but he’d slept on the floor without a blanket.

  “I’m okay. Thor kept me warm.”

  “So . . . you like him?”

  Miller nodded. “Yeah.” He released a reluctant smile as he reached out to pet the big dog’s back. He was rewarded with a sloppy kiss from Thor.

  “He likes you.”

  “Yeah.”

  I caught Miller’s grin. I rubbed my palms together and gathered my thoughts. “I didn’t intend to get him before Christmas. I know how much you wanted that puppy. The timing just worked out this way.”

  Miller kept his gaze on Thor as he continued to stroke his back. He didn’t respond.

  “You see, Thor is specially trained to help me with my PTSD.”

  “I know,” Miller said in a monotone. “Mama explained all that to me.”

  I looked at his hurt expression. “But that doesn’t really matter, does it? You still didn’t get a dog. It still isn’t fair, is it?”

  Miller tightened his lips and shook his head.

  I exhaled a long breath, making my decision. “I didn’t think so. So, I’ve been thinking. I have a responsibility to the dog. And the dog has a responsibility to me. I can’t give you Thor. But I also have a responsibility to you. My brother. Now,” I continued, “there are rules on how to behave with service dogs we must follow. But I was wondering if you would help me take care of Thor. If you would be his friend.”

  Miller swung his head up to look at me. “What? Sure!” He leaped up and hugged me tight. “You’re the best brother ever,” he choked out.

  I hugged him tight, not feeling the least bit nervous or uncomfortable with the touch. After another tight squeeze I released him. Miller slid back to the floor and began petting Thor with a proprietary relish.

  “He’s a great dog.” Miller beamed. “When I came in last night, he came right up to me and sniffed me. Then he licked my face. Right off the bat. That’s a good dog, right?”

  “He’s the best.”

  Miller pet Thor a while longer, lost in thought. “So, we’ll both take care of him?” he asked, wanting to be sure he got it right.

  “He’s big enough for two.”

  Miller laughed at that. “Yeah, he sure is.”

  “There is a lot to do,” I said, warming to the idea. “Feeding twice a day, walking him, grooming him. And of course, the training. Oh, about that,” I said, thinking of Clarissa. She would not allow Miller to train in class. “Since he’s a service dog, I’ll have to do the formal training in class.”

  “No problem. I get it.”

  This is a good start, I thought, taking heart. I was talking to my brother again. I knew he loved me. But I had a ways to go before earning back his pride.

  Never underestimate the value of good sleep. I was more focused, less angry, and willing to get out of my room. Things went smoothly the next few days as Miller, Thor, and I fell into a routine. We fed and groomed the dog together. Most significant, we also took Thor for walks together. These were important forays for me out of the house. I recalled what Clarissa had said about Thor needing his own time. When Miller and I took him out in the woods, we stopped at an open field and released his leash. Thor ran the length of the field, relishing his freedom. The air was crisp and the sky was clear. The wind had a bite so we pulled up our hoods over our ears as we watched our dog prance like a racehorse. When I called him back, he returned with speed, moist from the exertion but with what Miller and I agreed was a grin.

  On the third day the sky continued to be clear. It was colder so we wore hats and gloves and scarves and decided to walk into town to do a little Christmas shopping. All in all, our outings were going pretty good. A big step for me and proof of how Thor was helping me get up and out. I hadn’t purchased gifts for anyone, and neither had Miller, he’d confessed. Christmas was just around the corner. Miller and I compiled our lists and took off with Thor at our sides. It was late afternoon and already a sienna sunset streaked the sky.

  “We’re the Three Musketeers,” Miller said, patting Thor.

  “More like the Three Stooges,” I quipped, and was pleased to hear Miller guffaw.

  McClellanville wasn’t a big city and there weren’t crowds to navigate—two triggers for me. With only a few modest shops it was a perfect choice for my first outing in public with a service dog. Still, we would confront strangers and possible congestion on the sidewalk. Thor sensed my apprehension and walked close to my side, looking up at me frequently. I held the leash tight in my fist as we approached the shops along Pinckney Street. With Thor at my side my mind didn’t panic, but I was feeling the tension mount. I was usually hypervigilant, checking over my shoulder or the tops of buildings, looking for snipers. Thor kept me in the moment as we walked. I knew he had my back. Plus, I had to think about him, where he was, and where Miller was.

  The village was all decked out for the holiday. Some of the great old houses, white grandes dames with double porches, shone nostalgic with graceful boughs of greenery encircled with red ribbon draped between the pillars. White electric candles flickered in the windows. As we walked by, Miller and I looked at all the different decorations, some simple and natural, some wildly imaginative and electric. Every door held a wreath. The excitement in the air was contagious. Christmas was suddenly becoming real to me.

  One couple stopped to admire Thor. Even though he had his service dog vest, they reached out to pet him. Clarissa had pounded into my head not to let people touch the dog. Especially not in the early few weeks of training. I wanted to tell them to stop, explain that my dog was working. People should ask permission to pet any dog, but especially a service dog. But this being my first time out with him, I felt tongue-tied. I didn’t know the words to say, didn’t want conflict, so I kept silent. Miller didn’t help, either. He was by nature gregarious and enjoyed telling the strangers the dog’s name, beaming with pride. To his credit, Thor bore it all with his usual aloof calm, neither licking the strangers nor fawning. I was proud of him. After we moved on, I knelt down beside him to praise him and give him a treat. Next, I explained the service dog protocol to Miller.

  It was a good lesson to learn for all of us. Feeling buoyed with confidence, we went on to the first shop. The cute pink cottage was filled with handmade, handcrafted items.

  “I’m sure we can find something for Mama in here,” I said to Miller. I knew I had the right to go into the store with my service dog, so, taking a breath, I pushed open the windowpaned door swathed in a bough of pine. A small bell tinkled as we stepped inside, where it smelled of cinnamon and pine. It was a sweet shop, feminine, with a decorated Christmas tree, lights everywhere, and jammed with a potpourri of gift items. The shopgirl, a pretty brunette wearing a red-and-green apron, looked up from the counter with a smile, then, seeing the dog, her smile faltered.

  “I’m sorry, but no dogs allowed inside.”

  “It’s my service dog,” I
replied, standing awkwardly at the door.

  She looked puzzled. “I still don’t think it’s allowed.”

  I could feel the tension building in my gut. “It is,” I told her through clenched teeth. “It’s the law.”

  Worry flickered across her face. “I . . . I don’t know. I have to check. Can you wait a moment, please?” She hurried to the back room.

  I could feel my temples begin to throb. Thor stood beside me, calm and patient, awaiting my next command. I removed my gloves and stroked his velvety fur and ears, finding comfort there.

  The three other people in the shop turned around to openly stare at us. I didn’t like being the center of attention and my tension mounted. I could feel sweat pooling. Miller shifted his weight and grew uneasy. “Come on, Taylor,” he said in a low voice. “We don’t have to go in here.”

  “Yes, we do,” I ground out. This was our test. Clarissa had warned me there would be times like this, and I had to remain calm but firm.

  A moment later the shopgirl returned with an older woman, probably the owner. She, too, wore a red-and-green apron. She came around the counter and approached with a smile, but her sharp eyes were taking in the situation.

  “Hello there,” she said cheerily. “You say this is your service dog?”

  “He is.”

  She looked at Thor’s red-and-black service vest, which was clearly marked SERVICE DOG.

  “You don’t look like you have a disability,” she said, eyeing me.

  “I didn’t know there was a look,” I replied without humor.

  My tone was having a negative effect on the woman. “You know, a lot of people are faking those vests these days.”

  A couple in the store leaned toward each other and whispered.

  I felt my cheeks flame. “Are they?”

  “Yes. You’re not blind. I don’t see your injury.” Her tone was getting hostile.

  Miller was getting agitated. He spoke up on my behalf. “He’s got PTSD.”

  I cringed. I didn’t feel I had to give my name, rank, and diagnosis.

  Suddenly, understanding flooded the shop woman’s face. “Oh, my, you’re the McClellan boy, aren’t you? For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say so? Come on in. I’m sorry to make you wait. We’re so glad you’re back home! Why, we just love your mama.” She shuffled me into the store. “Oh,” she added in a serious tone, “we thank you for your service.”

  My hands were shaking and my headache pounded. All I wanted to do was get out of the shop and gulp deep breaths of fresh air. But I forced a smile and shook her outstretched hand. “Thank you,” I replied.

  The three other people in the store were McClellanville residents. They smiled sweetly and came forward to introduce themselves, all thanking me for my service.

  I nodded, mumbling my thanks.

  One woman reached out to pet Thor, but her companion, an elderly man, stopped her, putting his hand on her arm. “You should ask if you can pet his dog.”

  She looked up at me with embarrassment, pulling back her hand. “Oh. Sorry!”

  “He’s a service dog,” I told her. “He shouldn’t be distracted.”

  The woman nodded quickly and with a wobbly smile escaped behind a wall of pottery.

  I sighed and wanted to leave, but Miller was busily looking at more pottery across the store. When he looked up, he waved me over excitedly. Walking through the narrow aisles, all I could think about was Thor’s mighty tail sweeping off the contents of a lower shelf with one swish.

  “I think Mama will like this,” Miller said, showing me a small hand-painted dish meant to hold a spoon on the stove. His eyes sought my approval.

  I basked in his gaze and took his quest seriously. I checked the price and it was appropriately low, something he could afford. “It’s perfect.” I looked at the array of matching pottery dishes in the set. They were cream colored, trimmed in red, shellfish themes, notably crabs and shrimp. “I’ll get the matching casserole dish.”

  “That’s great!” Miller was thrilled that we were giving something together.

  When I saw the doggy bow ties in Christmas motifs, I bought one for Thor while Miller hooted. We gathered our items and checked out. The now overly friendly shopgirl offered to wrap the presents, which we were both grateful for. I had two left thumbs when it came to wrapping presents and I was out of practice. She used gold paper printed with holly berries and tied it with glittery gold ribbon. Thanking her profusely, we moved on.

  Outside the store, Miller and I looked at each other and laughed. It was a great release.

  “I thought for sure I’d be buying a bag full of broken glass and pottery,” I said.

  “Yeah.” Miller laughed. “Thor barely made it through the aisles.”

  We passed a few women’s clothing shops with beautiful sweaters and scarves in holiday colors. I gazed at a creamy cashmere sweater in red and thought my mother would look beautiful in it with her dark hair. But alas, I’d already purchased the casserole dish and moved on.

  I thought I could handle one more shop. We went next to the Arts Council, where historic and handcrafted items were for sale. Peeking in the window, I could see no one else was inside. I don’t know if word had spread or with its being a public building they were educated in the laws concerning service dogs, but we didn’t have any trouble entering. Relieved, I left Miller in the shop and sauntered over to the adjoining gallery, where paintings by local artists were on exhibit. I’d always enjoyed art and thought someday I’d try my hand at it. I wasn’t a van Gogh or anything, but I’d done some art therapy in the hospital and enjoyed it. I wasn’t too bad at it, either. A lot of talent was on the walls, I thought as I strolled past. Thor was at ease in the large, empty room, keeping his gait even with mine. I stopped before one painting, an oil on canvas that depicted a few shrimp trawlers at dock. The sky was a vivid blue with white cumulus clouds, and great green nets hung from the rigging like folded butterfly wings. The artwork was masterful, but what struck me was the name on one of the boats. The Miss Jenny. I felt a sudden stab of wanting. I glanced at the small white card to the lower right of the painting. I didn’t know the artist and the price was reasonable for an oil, but still out of my means. Yet I continued to study the small painting for some time.

  “I found something for Dad,” Miller called from the entrance to the gallery. He had a book in his hand.

  I dragged my attention away from the painting. Thor and I walked out of the gallery back to the shop to inspect. It was a history book about McClellanville, complete with photographs.

  “Dad likes history,” Miller said.

  The salesman overheard us. “That’s a new one. Just came out this year. And you can return it if he already has it or doesn’t like it.”

  “He’ll like it,” I assured Miller, and knew our father would never return Miller’s gift even if he did have a copy.

  I was getting weary and ready to head back. It was the longest I’d stayed out for weeks. I browsed through the store looking for something for my father. I didn’t have much time left to shop. There were photographs of old McClellanville he might like, a few woolen scarves that he would never wear, jewelry he’d put in a drawer. The painting was niggling my thoughts, calling me back. I guided Thor back into the gallery and went directly to the painting of the shrimp boats. Damn, but I liked it better now than before. It spoke to me and I knew my father would not just like it—he would love it. I could visualize it hanging over his desk in his office.

  “Wow,” Miller exclaimed at my side. “It’s the Miss Jenny! You’ve got to get it! How much is it?”

  “A lot. At that price, it’s an investment.” Then deciding, I reached out to lift the painting from the wall. It was heavy with the driftwood frame, a nice heft to go with the price. “But worth every penny.”

  As I carried it to the counter, I felt enveloped in the spirit of Christmas.

  “Oh, that’s a nice one,” the salesman commented. “A lot of people have had their ey
e on it. To the swift goes the race, eh?” He winked.

  I watched with confidence in my purchase rising as the salesman wrapped the painting in thick brown paper. The old saying It’s better to give than to receive never rang more true than it did now.

  “Dad’s going to flip out when he sees that,” Miller said. I knew he felt a sense of ownership by virtue of taking part in the decision to buy it. “It kinda goes with my present, too,” he added with authority.

  “Yep.” I bought some wrapping paper, ribbon, and cards. Miller picked out a few craft ornaments that would appeal to our mother. With that, we were done. Or almost.

  “I still have to get you something,” I said.

  “You got me something already. Thor!” Miller reached out to stroke the dog’s head.

  Thor took the moment to lie on the floor by our feet. He was so big and took up so much floor space, I thought it was a good thing no one else was in the shop.

  “I can’t wrap him up with a bow on Christmas morning. What else do you want?”

  Miller shrugged and looked away. “Nothing.”

  I saw the swift shift in emotion and knew that he was thinking of his puppy, Sandy. There was nothing I could say so we remained quiet, waiting for our packages to be tallied and bagged. I pulled my wallet from my pants pocket and paid the bill.

  We left the shop calling out our thanks. I still had to get something for Miller, but the sky was already darkening. It had been a long day for Thor, and Miller and I were both eager to get to our rooms and hide our treasures.

  Suddenly a car backfired. I plunged into a crouching position with my back against a brick wall. I was back in the war, my eyes wildly searching the roofs of buildings, my heart pounding in my ears. My blood raced and the whole world started spinning. I swung my head from left to right in a panic, seeing my Marine brothers’ faces, hearing explosions in my head.