Noelle

by Greg Kincaid

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Hank. I don’t have anything against cell phones. But there is a cost. Why did we have to give up Santa Claus in order to get Anna Claus? Why do folks have to give up talking to each other, face-to-face, just because they can text each other?”

  “Well, that’s pretty much what I asked that young physical therapist after we drove past those kids. I think I said something like, ‘Don’t kids just talk to each other anymore?’ ”

  “What was her take on it?”

  “She just said, ‘Progress walking means figuring out how to have both one foot behind you and one foot ahead of you.’ Smart lady, my physical therapist, don’t you think?”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, George, don’t worry about Santa. He’s big enough to share the glow, and his job is big, too. Big enough to need the help.”

  “You’re right. It just takes some getting used to, that’s all.”

  After George parked the car, he got Hank’s wheelchair out of the trunk, as Hank did his best to lift one leg up and off the floor mat. “Today’s front foot will be tomorrow’s back foot. That’s how things keep moving ahead.”

  George helped his friend into his chair, and they went to find their places at the conference-room table with the others. As the meeting progressed, George found that it was hard to keep his mind on water meters, inadequate transmission lines, and bond issues. He was troubled by other problems.

  As he sat there he looked at the collection of aging men, Hank and at least one other in their wheelchairs, another using a walker, most of them limping with some arthritic stiffness. Was this his fate, then? Even if he didn’t wind up sick and ailing, getting old was a fact of life, as was the end of life. This was a subject that he knew he was avoiding, but common sense told him he needed to be more practical about his and Mary Ann’s future—the farm, whatever plans they ought to make for the house and property should something happen, all that stuff. Still, he couldn’t share his worries, at least not often enough, with Mary Ann; he just didn’t want to think about it himself, let alone come to terms with it.

  It had started a few years back with a less-than-stellar checkup. He was getting to be a little overweight, his blood sugar and cholesterol were way too high. There was plaque in his arteries. He had degenerative disc disease, from a lifetime of lifting too much, too often. The bad disc pinched a nerve, shooting pain down his good leg in frequent bouts of sciatica. That was all before he even got to his bad leg, the one that he hurt in Vietnam. Well, that was much worse. George hated to complain, to even talk about it. He refused to take the pain pills for fear that they might become habit forming. He tried to tough it out, but he wasn’t keeping up with his workload.

  The farm showed it in a hundred little ways. Fences sagging as fast as his own physique, equipment repairs put off way too long, livestock counts down, the need to shift to less intensive monocropping instead of crop rotation. He hadn’t told anyone, but the notion of selling the farm was more than just a passing thought. Soon, maybe not that many more years from now, it would be inevitable. He tried afternoon naps, vitamins, and a host of other things he’d be embarrassed to confess. He tried cutting back on the harder tasks. All that did was keep him from sinking quite as fast. He needed to have a long-overdue discussion with Mary Ann about their later-life years and what those needed to look like. What he could do and what he couldn’t do, not anymore.

  He sighed quietly. There was a sense of relief. After a few days of fussing over it, he’d figured out what might well be at the root of his resistance to Anna Claus: at a time when he was bailing as fast he could, he hardly needed Mary Ann taking on more water. Their boat was listing. But that was Mary Ann—she perpetually took on more than she should.

  What in the world could he do about it? The answer was, not much, which just brought the frustration back.

  Maybe in the grander scheme of life, it wasn’t the end of the world, but with the prospect of this holiday season possibly being one of the last holiday seasons on the farm, he wanted it to be a good one. Something special. That seemed like an unlikely outcome with Mary Ann on the road, pursuing her latest interest with such a passion. What was he supposed to do? Cook the turkey himself? Do all the Christmas shopping? Wrap the presents? Who would set out the decorations and do the tree? Host their annual Christmas party? George didn’t know where to start. It wasn’t so much that he minded the work. He just wasn’t sure he had the strength or the time to do it. Even if he could find the energy, he didn’t know if he could do it right—the way Mary Ann could do it. He trusted her to do these things. Now she wouldn’t be around.

  —

  Link wasn’t used to so much physical exercise. The winter weather was dark, the heavy clouds shrouding everything. If it were a little colder, it would be snowing. Instead they were getting a bone-chilling, damp gray mist. Depressing enough, and then you added his life into that wintry mix. Yuck, he said to himself.

  Fourteen dogs, a half mile each. Seven miles. He was exhausted, but at the end of the day he also felt better. Maybe walking dogs didn’t pay well—or, more correctly, not at all—but at least it made him feel useful. Particularly after he got into a rhythm, he caught himself enjoying it. Just like humans, these dogs had such a wide variety of personalities. He enjoyed observing, getting to know them as something more than simply some pooch in a cage. A few seemed to tolerate the walks as an unfortunate intrusion into their afternoon naptime. But other dogs, like Elle, acted as if they’d won the lottery every time Link rattled a leash.

  After several afternoons had passed, Link could remember the dogs’ names and discover what they seemed to enjoy the most about a walk. For some it was all about the sniffing. These dogs kept their noses to the ground. For the yanking-at-the-leash types, it was noses up in the air and lots of movement. But for most it was the companionship. Noses on Link. They relished their time with him, and, to his growing surprise, he felt the same way. It was nice being around a living thing that was excited to be with you, didn’t judge you.

  Link particularly enjoyed seeing the dogs being adopted. Unlike his own, these were families coming together, not falling apart. Hayley explained to him that these moments were when their dogs found their “forever homes.” It was what made their shelter jobs so special and what still brought tears to her eyes. She said that people like to crow about how they’ve rescued some unfortunate creature. “Truth is, Link”—she smiled and then continued—“the dogs do the real rescuing.”

  Link quipped, “I believe you. Could you find me a forever home?”

  Hayley joked back, “Are you housebroken?”

  Link grinned wide, like the Link that Hayley remembered from years ago, and said, “Depends on who you ask.”

  —

  It wasn’t much of a contest. Elle was Link’s favorite dog, hands down. Her personality reminded him of his own—stubborn, independent, smarter than the average dog, but somehow at a disadvantage. She was a little maverick of a mutt. Elle also had qualities that he knew he lacked, but ones he respected. He loved her determination and focus. The dog got what she wanted. She was a survivor. Never gave up. She also went nuts for Link every time she saw him. It wasn’t a big deal, he reassured her. “Walking you keeps me out of jail, so why not?”

  An afternoon of walking dogs gave Link time to think, and for him there was plenty to think about. The divorce, the kids, Abbey, his life, but most of all where his future might lie. He had to find a job. So far it had come down to one intriguing opportunity.

  A friend had pointed him to an Internet article about unpopular jobs in America—jobs that nobody wanted. Some of them paid well, but still there were not enough takers. Link focused on a particular industry: trash collection, where drivers, it seemed, were in short supply. Several cities were so shorthanded that trash was not being picked up on a regular schedule. The article described poor working conditions, long hours, lack of respect, but an average starting sala
ry of forty thousand dollars a year for experienced drivers. Best of all, in some of the more desperate communities a five-thousand-dollar signing bonus was common.

  Link could drive a truck. He went to the library and applied for several positions online. He was promptly invited to interview in a suburb of Dallas, Texas. It was a long way from Crossing Trails, Kansas. Except for the trip to Disney World, Link had never been more than a few hundred miles from Cherokee County in his entire life. Still, he needed to make changes, and this would be a fresh start for him. So he turned over the idea in his mind.

  Moving would mean seeing Keenan and Emily only sporadically. His relationship with the kids had been more than a little rocky lately—the DUI episode had been a disaster. He was so ashamed that he couldn’t even bring himself to apologize, though he knew he should. He wasn’t sure he could stand being so far away from his children. At this point it didn’t seem fair that he should have to give up the only two things in his life that mattered to him, just for a paycheck at a job he would hate. Link Robinson, Certified Master Trash Hauler. On the other hand, he joked to himself, it might be a step up from Chief Poop Scooper.

  Link ambled around the shelter grounds walking a black-and-tan coonhound named Jake, stopping to let the dog sniff along a fence line. He admitted to himself that there was plenty about the job that did make sense. The way things were turning out, it didn’t seem he would have much time with the children even if he stayed closer to Crossing Trails. The fact was, Keenan didn’t act like he wanted to be with him. This job could make things worse between them. In their case, absence would hardly make the heart grow fonder. No doubt Keenan’s would grow more distant, literally. Still, if Link could land a job with a signing bonus, he could catch up on his temporary child-support obligations, make some repairs to his truck, and get Abbey off his back about not working. When the divorce was over with, he’d have a little money to use for a fresh start. First things first, though—he needed to get past the interview.

  To make the interview happen, he’d have to borrow the money for the gas and for a hotel. If he could drive that far and back in one day, maybe he could avoid the hotel bill. If the interview went poorly and he didn’t get the job, how would he repay the money? If he did get the job, how would he come up with money for a security deposit on a new place? He sighed, unsure, and walked another dog, a border collie mix, a nose-up kind of dog named Mike, while turning over the possibilities and implications of every bend in the road. He thought about talking to his sponsor, Doc Pelot. Maybe Doc could point him in the right direction. Maybe Doc would even offer to loan him the money, without Link’s having to ask for it. That would be a big plus.

  Link hadn’t been to a meeting in a few weeks. Doc Pelot had called him several times since the last one he’d attended. Link assured Doc that he was fine, even adding the sordid truth: “I’m too broke to drink.”

  “So what’ll happen when you’re not too broke?” Doc Pelot asked.

  Link got his point. “Celebrate. Have a few beers.”

  Doc Pelot congratulated him. “Good job, Link. You’re starting to recognize what it means to think like an alcoholic.”

  “Yeah, quite an accomplishment.”

  “A big one. We call it the First Step. Remember?” Doc Pelot nudged him a bit further. “You need to come to the meetings.”

  “I will.”

  But he didn’t.

  —

  After he left the shelter that evening, Link showered and walked over to the courthouse for the final installment of the mandatory parenting classes. He grabbed a seat near the back, guessing that when she arrived, Abbey would want to sit near the front. Initially they’d sat together, but things were so strained these days that he figured the space apart would be easier for them both. That night, parents who’d been divorced for several years were coming to talk about what they did right, what they did wrong. Being a divorced parent isn’t so easy, the instructor had said at the last class. Everyone could learn from their mistakes.

  Link was so tired from all that dog walking that when he sank into the chair, he wasn’t sure he could get up again. He found himself slouching lower and lower and had to keep sitting back up again to stay awake. If he dozed off and Abbey happened to catch him, she would take it that he was uninterested. Bored. At the break he made for the vending machine before she could catch up with him, pushing four quarters into the slot and watching some thin black coffee being dispensed into a small white Styrofoam cup. He gulped it down and made a decision. He needed to find Abbey and get it over with.

  The class that night was focused on improving communication. Couples can’t deal with their children if they don’t talk to each other. Good communication requires trust. Trust that you’ll be listened to, heard, and not attacked. Link thought he’d give the lesson a practical application. He went back into the classroom and found her looking at her notes. “Abbey, I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Sure,” she said, barely making eye contact. “What’s up?”

  “I have an interview for a job. A good one.”

  Suddenly she came to life. She was so excited for him that she reached out and grabbed his forearm. “Link, a job! That’s wonderful. Tell me about it.”

  “It’s near Dallas.”

  She dropped his arm. Typical Link, Abbey thought. One step forward only to be followed by two steps back. She’d tried to be patient with him. But moving to Dallas? That seemed more like avoidance than good problem solving. Since that was what she was used to from him, it was hard to give him much credit. “So you’re just going to check out of the parenting business?”

  “Trust me, I don’t want to do this. I just don’t know what other options I have. That’s all.”

  “Link, the kids are already reeling from the divorce. If you leave town, they’re going to feel abandoned. Don’t do that to them. Can’t you see that’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been looking for work around here for months. Nothing. What else can I do?”

  “Link, you had a good idea to expand the job search past Crossing Trails, but you threw the net too wide. Surely you could stay within an hour’s drive, or two? What about Kansas City? Or Wichita? Those are bigger job markets. If you stayed around there, you could at least see the kids on weekends. Just keep your eyes and ears open for something closer. You must stay involved. You can’t up and leave them.”

  “So if I did that, when I come back to town on weekends like you said, where would I stay? In a hotel? I don’t have any family here. Not anymore.”

  “With my parents, or stay with my brother. If nothing else, stay in the house and I’ll stay somewhere else for a few days. We can work that out. Link, for the kids, we have to work it out.”

  Link put his hands into the front pockets of his blue jeans and stared down at his worn cowboy boots. He looked back up and shook his head. “Maybe you’re right. Let me at least look closer first. If I can’t find anything, though”—he borrowed her metaphor—“I’ll have to cast the net wider.”

  “Of course. That’s the right thing to do.”

  “You’ll work with me on this?”

  “Yes. No matter how you’re feeling about me these days or how I’m feeling about you, I want you in our children’s lives. They need you. I need you. I can’t do this all alone.”

  After class Link drove out to the McCray farm to pick up the kids for his first Wednesday overnight. The coffee had done the trick, and he felt energized. The idea of not seeing the kids or not knowing how much he would get to see them made the time with them more precious. It was already 8:00 p.m. At most he could help them get ready for bed. Maybe read them a story. Not much, but better than nothing. He put his truck in park but left the engine running. He was grateful when Abbey’s dad had given him some cash to replace the battery, but he went for a cheaper, used one and pocketed the savings to help pay for child support and rent. He didn’t trust the used battery completely just yet, as it seemed iffy, particularly on cold
nights. It would be embarrassing to have to ask for a jump start. Abbey had cautioned him that they might be down in the barn. The place was lit up, so he headed in that direction.

  There was a light illuminating a side door that he knew led to a small attached shop. He remembered it from when he’d helped George McCray with the hay. But George wasn’t there, so he moved into the central part of the barn. Emily was in Mrs. McCray’s arms looking inside the stall. Keenan was on the ground with an old black Lab and, to his surprise, Elle. She scampered out of Keenan’s lap and dashed as fast as her stubby legs would take her toward Link. Link laughed and bent over to greet his new best friend: “Another winning lottery ticket?” He picked the little dog up, and she started to whimper with pleasure. “Am I really that good?” He set the dog down and walked toward the others.

  “Hey there, Keenan,” Link said.

  Keenan said nothing in return, not even bothering to ask his dad why he seemed to know the dog, but before Link could ruminate over that, Emily wiggled out from Mary Ann’s arms and ran for her dad. Link picked her up and swung her around. She held him so tightly. Her little arms were like a salve for what ailed him. He looked at her, gave her a quick kiss, and asked, “Is this my mini-munchkin?”

  She smiled and nodded her head up and down. “Yes, Daddy, it’s your munchkin. I got to ride a horse, and we trotted. Really fast.”

  Mary Ann put her hand on Emily’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. “Yes we did, and you’re a very good rider.”

  Link set his daughter down. “Mrs. McCray, thanks so much for watching them. I can tell that they had a great time.”

  “Well, they’re welcome to come out whenever it works for you and Abbey.”

  She leaned over and whispered to Link, “Emily thinks tomorrow might work, but I told her that might be a bit soon.”