Old Dogs and Children

by Robert Inman

  It was an afternoon more than a month after the shooting. Dorsey was propped on a mound of pillows, eyes closed, as Bright sat next to the bed feeding him from a soup bowl, his mouth opening automatically as the spoon touched his lips. Outside in the Putnams’ yard, she could hear the shouts of a gang of boys playing tree tag, their voices mocking each other. Summer would soon end and school would start and she would have to leave him for most of the day. She felt a pang of grief. Then Dorsey’s eyes suddenly snapped open and he said in a hoarse whisper, “Where’s my lumberyard?”

  Bright stared at him. She said, “Why, it’s down by the river. Right where you left it. Did you think it was going to float off downstream?”

  “Get Hosanna,” he said, and she sat the bowl on the bedside table and flew down the stairs.

  “What’s going on at the lumberyard?” he asked when the two of them had returned.

  Hosanna gave him a long appraising look. “They makin’ lumber,” she said. “Same as always.”

  “They’re working?”

  “Course they workin’.” She crossed her arms over her bosom. “Humph. You ain’t the only man in the world knows how to cut down trees. Only difference is, they ain’t selling nothing. You the one does that. You better get yo’self up off that sickbed, Mr. Dorsey, or else they ain’t gonna be no place to stack all that stuff they haulin’ in.”

  “God bless ’em,” he said weakly.

  “God’ll bless ’em just fine. But God ain’t paid ’em.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. Then he said, “Get Elise.”

  When she had been summoned and stood at the foot of the bed, he asked, “Do you know how to write a check?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “Go to Pegram Gibbons. He’ll help you pay the men.”

  “How much?” she asked, bewildered.

  “They’ll tell you how many days they’ve worked.”

  Elise glanced over at Hosanna. “How do you know—“

  “Because they’re my men,” he said, cutting her off, and Bright could hear just the tiniest little bit of steel in his voice. She wanted to hug his neck, but she stood there silently, watching them. Dorsey gave a tiny wave of his hand. “Now go away.” He closed his eyes, exhausted. “Tell ’em I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  Of course, that was foolishness. It was another two weeks before he could even sit up on the side of the bed. But Elise went straightaway to Pegram Gibbons at the bank and then to the lumberyard, and to everyone’s astonishment she began to take over.

  First she paid the men and gave each of them a five-dollar bonus and told them to keep doing whatever it was they did. If they had a question they were to bring it to her, and she would get an answer from Mr. Dorsey. Then she opened all the mail that had been accumulating on Dorsey’s desk and separated it into neat piles: bills, orders, correspondence regarding land transactions, miscellaneous matter. She handwrote a letter to each of Dorsey’s customers, advising them that the business was very much in operation despite his misfortune, and inviting their continued patronage. Return mail brought a flood of orders.

  Elise rose early each morning, ate a hearty breakfast, and was driven to the lumberyard by Hosanna’s husband, Mose. She returned at midafternoon with a stack of notes and mail and took it straight to Dorsey’s room, where she sat at his bedside and went through each item. School began, and Bright would rush home to find them there together, Elise prim and straight-backed in the chair, brow furrowed in concentration, her voice lively and precise as she talked of board feet and skidders, Dorsey sitting up with a mound of pillows at his back, eyes twinkling, watching her with an air of slightly amused fascination. Bright was riven with pangs of jealousy at first, but Dorsey invited her to stay, tried to involve her in the conversation. So she pulled up another chair at the foot of the bed and sat listening, making an occasional comment. She knew the lumberyard almost as well as her father, at least the rhythm and feel of the place. “My lumberwomen,” Dorsey began to call them. “By God, Elise,” he groused, “they won’t want me back. Enough of this bonus business. The men will rise up and elect you president of the place and then I’ll have to spend the rest of my days rocking on the front porch.”

  Bright felt her heart softening. Her mother blossomed, and as she did she seemed to reach out for Bright. The piano lessons resumed in the music room at night, and even when the evenings began to turn cool, they left the windows open so Dorsey, in his bed just above them, could hear. The house quickened with their music and as fall deepened it seemed to Bright that they were all surrounded with rich, vibrant color that glowed most brightly in Dorsey’s cheeks. He mended swiftly now, sitting first on the side of the bed, then in a comfortable chair next to the window where he could look out and see the occasional traffic on the street in front of the house and the play of the children in the Putnams’ big side yard next door.

  The twinges of pain came less frequently now in his left shoulder. The wound itself was healing, the blasted flesh scabbing over and then giving way to bright pink scar tissue, thin and wrinkled like a newborn infant’s skin. The arm was saved, but it was wasted and withered and Dr. Tillman told Dorsey he would never have use of it again. Too much of the flesh and sinew were simply ripped away. As the healing progressed, they fitted him with a leather contraption that buckled about his torso like a corset and held the arm securely at an angle against his side. The first time they strapped it on him, he winced with pain and sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. He gave it a long look and said, “I am half man and half satchel.” There was no mirth in it. And Bright thought to herself, This may be the hardest part of all because it will never go away.

  When October came, he began to walk. There was nothing wrong with his legs but atrophy, and as soon as he got his balance and began to work the muscles, he gained strength and confidence quickly. At first he took a few slow, shuffling steps from the bed to the doorway and back, always with someone at his elbow. Then he ventured down the hallway alone, leaning for support on a cane. And finally he negotiated the stairs and went outside to the front porch, where he sat in a wicker chair in his bathrobe and slippers and waved to passersby.

  On the morning of All Hallows’ Day, Dorsey presented himself at the kitchen table at six-thirty, dressed in khaki and wearing his tall brown leather boots, still speckled with tiny brown flecks of his own blood. Bright, dawdling over a bowl of oatmeal, leapt gape-mouthed from her chair. “Papa!” she cried, half-afraid he would collapse at her feet, then seeing the way he held himself very erect, very carefully under control. It must have taken a great effort to prepare himself, she thought.

  “What on earth you think you doin’, Mr. Dorsey?” Hosanna scolded, setting a pitcher of milk on the counter by the sink with a clatter. “Exertion done gone to yo’ head.”

  “I’m going to work,” he said simply.

  “No, you ain’t!”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Yes, he is,” Elise said from the doorway, and they all turned to look at her. She had a strange look on her face, Bright thought, something wistful there. She tried a smile, but it didn’t quite work. “Perhaps for just a little while,” she said.

  “I’m a lumberman.” Dorsey nodded. “I’ve got to get my business back in order. Might as well start today.”

  “Can I go?” Bright said, pulling at his sleeve.

  “Course not!” Hosanna broke in. “You needs to be in school. First report card say you needs heaps of work at figurin’.”

  “We’ll have her there by ten o’clock,” Dorsey said evenly, looking Hosanna straight in the eye. “I think just this once won’t hurt.”

  Hosanna, miffed, turned back to the sink, mumbling darkly. But within a half hour she was helping all of them settle into the car. Mose had put the top back so Dorsey could see everything, and Hosanna bustled about, tucking a lap robe around his legs, instructing Mose on how to drive. “This here is a big day,” she said. “You steer clear of potholes, you hear. Don�
�t rattle Mr. Dorsey’s bones.” As they pulled out of the yard, Bright turned from her place in the front seat and looked back at Hosanna, standing next to the curb in flour-sack dress and bright white apron and slopped-over shoes, waving them off like a brood of mischievous children. Bright gave her a wave and then she looked at her father, sitting very straight in the back seat, hat clamped firmly to his head, coat buttoned over the leather corset that held his wasted arm. The bright morning made the lines and angles of his gaunt face seem very sharp, the skin very pale. He had aged a great deal, she thought. But he was here, there was a determined set to his jaw, and he was going back to his lumberyard. He gave Bright a big smile and then he took Elise’s hand and gave it a pat.

  Word had preceded them. The men were waiting in a crowd by the tiny office and they began waving and shouting as the car turned in at the gate by the river. There should be a band, Bright thought, trombones and a big oompah bass playing Sousa. Mose took a wide turn around the lumberyard, past the triangular stacks of fresh-cut, drying lumber, the planer mill, the sawdust pile, the big steam engine. And as the car drew up in front of the office building, one of the men let loose with a long, wailing blast of the steam whistle—the first time it had ever sounded at any time but noon and day’s end. Dorsey drank it all in like a man slaking his thirst after a long agonizing trek across a desert, a big grin wreathing his face.

  When the echo of the whistle died away, he raised his hand for a moment until the crowd quieted and the men moved in close around the car. Dorsey looked slowly around the gathering, lingering on each face, and then he took a long, deep breath. “I feel like the president of the United States,” he said. Then his voice broke and the tears came and ran down his cheeks. He wept unashamedly and the men averted their eyes, giving him a moment to compose himself. Bright thought suddenly, This has all made him very fragile. Elise took a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to him, and he blew his nose loudly and then cleared his throat. He looked again around the circle of men. “Well, I am raised from the dead,” he said, and a ripple of “Amen’s” went through the crowd. “I am here by the grace of God and the love of my dear family and all of you.” He looked around the lumberyard again, his gaze lingering here and there. “It looks pretty good to me. It has not only survived, it has prospered. I have all of you to thank for that, for carrying on in my absence.” He stopped, thought for a moment. “I’m going home to rest in just a moment, but I will be back for a little longer tomorrow, and more the day after that. Before I go, I’m going to make you two promises.” His face was grave now, and they were all very quiet, waiting for him. “No man but I will ever run this lumberyard as long as I live. There will be no more foremen from outside. And ten percent of the profits of this business will go into a bank account for your future. If you stay with me, if you continue to give me the same kind of loyalty you have given during these past few weeks, then when you decide it is time to retire, the account will pay you a modest wage for the rest of your life. So every time you fell a tree, every time you tote a board into a boxcar, you’re putting money in your own bank account. This is our business.” His voice was strong and clear and there were echoes of the old Dorsey Bascombe. He would be back in the woods before long, the tall leather boots striding over the fallen logs, the old smile creasing his face. Perhaps, Bright thought, he might even become a giant again.

  “God bless you, Mr. Dorsey,” Mose murmured from the front seat next to Bright, and the crowd pressed in on him then, murmuring their thanks and pressing his good hand, patting him on the shoulder. Bright sat and watched and she thought for a moment that her heart would burst. It was a dazzling day, the air cool and sharp with the sweet smell of wood, the duskiness of the black men, the tang of autumn. Mose started the car again and the engine throbbed beneath them, a deep rhythm. Music welled up in her, high and light, filled with wonderment and magic, life and hope renewed.

  And then she turned in the seat and looked back at her mother. Elise’s mouth was open slightly and there was a look of perplexity on her face. And hurt. Her hands were in her lap, clasped tightly, the fingers kneading each other. She stared at them, unseeing. Then she looked up at Bright, forlorn and lost and frightened, a small girl again. She turned her head away with a jerk and Bright realized suddenly, He didn’t say anything about her, about all she’s done. He didn’t mention her name. Oh, Mama! she wanted to cry out. But she could not, not here in front of the men. Did they see? Or did they see only Dorsey Bascombe? And what did Dorsey see? If he turned to Elise just now he would see that she was drifting away from them before their eyes, drifting into a gray silence that would soon entomb the house, their lives. But Dorsey did not turn to her. He seemed to grow in size and she to shrink beside him. He was enveloped by the touch of his men, his life reaching out to touch him and welcome him back. Bright felt a rush of cold dread, spoiling everything. It should have been so fine, so perfect.

  “Time to go now,” Dorsey said, and his voice sounded hollow and far away. “I’ve tuckered myself out.” The men drew back as Mose eased the car into gear and pulled away, making another swing about the lumberyard as the whistle let loose with another long, powerful blast. It was not until they were out the gate that Dorsey finally turned to Elise. “Well, that was just bully!” he said. “By God, it’s good to be back!” Elise did not answer and he did not seem to see what Bright had seen. How could he miss it? “Mose,” he said, turning again to the front, “that pine in the number-ten stack. Where did it come from?”

  “We took it out the place up near Harmony Springs, Mr. Dorsey, that three hundred acres you bought last summer,” Mose answered from the front seat. “Some them trees so big you couldn’t walk around ’em ’fore dinnertime.”

  Dorsey laughed. “We’ll go take a look tomorrow. It’ll do me good to get out in the country.”

  They chattered on about the lumberyard, he and Mose, while they left the road by the river and puttered through town on the way to drop Bright at the schoolhouse. Bright turned and sat deep in the seat, losing herself in the rumble of the car’s engine. She could not bear to look into the back seat again. From there, she heard the profound emptiness of disappointed silence, the sound of ashes.

  >

  They took Elise to the train station in Columbus in early December. She would ride all day, down through the South toward New Orleans, pulling into the station at midevening. Her father, the cotton broker, would be waiting for her with a carriage and a servant to handle the big steamer trunk that contained Elise’s clothes. Traditionally, it was the one time each year when all three of them went—Dorsey taking time from his business, a week with Elise’s parents in the big house off St. Charles, then back in time for Christmas at home.

  This time, Elise would go alone.

  “I’m afraid I’m not going to make it to New Orleans,” Dorsey had said at Sunday dinner two weeks before. “There’s just too much catching up to do.”

  Elise looked down at her plate, poked at her food, then nodded at him. “I understand.”

  Dorsey shifted about in his chair, wiped his mouth with his napkin. “And perhaps Bright should stay here with me.” He said it so casually that she wondered for a moment exactly what he had said. It hung there in the air over the table and Bright realized how terribly quiet it was. Not a sound from Hosanna in the kitchen.

  Then Elise said simply, “As you wish.”

  And that was all she heard, though she wondered what her father and mother said to each other in the privacy of their room, in the unavoidable intimate moments when there was nothing left to do but confront each other.

  They rode to Columbus in silence on an overcast, blustery morning with wind gusts nibbling at the isinglass flaps over the car’s windows. Hosanna had kept her own counsel when Dorsey insisted on driving himself and he was preoccupied with the car, fussing one-handedly with the gearshift and steering wheel, back and forth, brow knit in concentration. Bright sat in front with him, her face and ears tingling with
cold, the rest of her warm under the rough wool of a lap robe, alternately watching Dorsey and the countryside. The fields were plucked bare except for meandering rows of corn stubble, the river a slate-gray ribbon through the barren trees until the road curved away from it. The wind and the car made music, an odd dancing tune played by panpipe and kettledrum. In the green-on-gray pine forests on either side of the rushing car, she imagined strange and mystical animals that heard it too, pricked up their pointed ears and looked about them with small almond eyes, searching for the panpiper—half man, half beast, thumping a drumbeat on his round, full tummy while the music-smoke from his pipe made a wreath about his head. Bright let the notes carry her—now sweet, now harshly discordant. I know, they sang. I know.

  Elise looked very pretty, standing on the platform at the train station. The cold air brought out the color in her cheeks and the wind nibbled at the soft strands of hair that peeked from under her crushed velvet hat. She and Bright stood together next to the car where Elise would ride while Dorsey saw to the handling of the steamer trunk. The train wheezed softly, the big engine emitting tiny puffs of steam that hovered for an instant above the gravel of the roadbed before the wind snatched them away.

  “I suppose you’ll have a grand time in New Orleans,” Bright said.

  Elise looked down at her, buried her hands deep in the wool muff she carried. “Yes, I think so.”

  “I imagine Grandma Poncie will have the house all decorated,” Bright said. “She likes to put up the Christmas things before the Thanksgiving turkey is scarcely gone. I think she hopes it will turn cold, but it never does.”