‘Tu B’Shevat,’ Larry said. ‘It’s the 15th of Shevat on the Jewish calendar and usually falls in January.’
‘Isn’t it wonderful to be surrounded by such clever people?’ Delores said, seemingly to the less clever people at the table. ‘I could never have had these conversations if I’d stayed in Portland.’
‘If I’d stayed home in bed this morning I wouldn’t have had to listen to these conversations,’ Alice sighed. ‘And why do you suppose that Mike and Larry are more intelligent than the rest of us just because they know shit that we don’t? Sometimes shit is just that, Delores: shit! You don’t need to know it, and do you really think any one of us is likely to be in a future social situation where Tubshit is the topic of conversation?’
‘Tu B’Shevat,’ Larry corrected.
‘Okay, Larry, we get it. You know the word and I don’t.’
‘Oh I’m sorry, Alice,’ Delores said. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you and Laura were any less clever than Mike and Larry. I know for a fact that you’re not.’
‘Hey, how come my name’s missing from this equation?’ Tank asked.
‘That’s because you don’t fit into any equation,’ Laura smiled. ‘You’re a cat among pigeons, Tank, and don’t say you don’t know it.’
Laura had been largely detached from the preceding conversation, watching Repo and searching for signs of improvement. It appeared the pills were having little effect on his behaviour and the mention of St Francis of Assisi Day sparked her interest. It was a long shot she knew, but both time and hope were running out for Repo. The dog was slowly drowning in its own body, and for his sake Laura was prepared to clutch at any straw.
She’d been aware that St Francis was the patron saint of animals since childhood but now, for the first time in years, remembered the thick ceramic plate that had hung from her parents’ lounge wall. The relief had depicted the saint in a monk’s habit surrounded by rabbits, squirrels and a small fawn; birds perched on his shoulder and some feeding from his open hand. But other than this memory, she had no real knowledge of the man or his powers.
‘What do you know about St Francis, Mike?’ she asked, fully expecting – and for once hoping – that Larry would contribute to the conversation.
‘He’s one of the most super-chilled cats that ever lived, Laura: a saint in the true sense of the word. And it’s really neat how his life parallels that of The Buddha’s. Both of them were born into wealthy families and both of them took vows of poverty and chastity after witnessing suffering in the wider world. St Francis and The Buddha could have been brothers. But that’s Christianity and Buddhism for you: two peas in the same beautiful pod.’
Larry filled in the historical details and told the stories of St Francis preaching to the birds, talking to a wolf and founding the religious order that still bore his name.
‘Man, the dude would have dug waterfalls!’ Mike concluded.
Tank bristled at the drivel spilling from Mike’s mouth, bit the end off a cigar and lit it. As usually happened in these circumstances Delores started to cough and waft at the smoke but no one else appeared troubled, especially Laura who was keen to know if a patron saint was able to plead the cause of those he purportedly patronised.
‘I’m assuming so,’ Mike said. ‘The Catholic Church has always believed in the power of intermediaries. That’s why they hold the Virgin Mary in such high regard.’
Laura thought for a moment. She and Alice had always made a point of not taking Repo to the annual Blessing of the Animals service. She’d looked upon it as an unnecessary novelty act to swell the ranks of the dwindling congregation, and Alice as an occasion for overly proud owners to show off their pets. Besides, before now Repo had never been in need of any supernatural help; any complaints he might have suffered from had been taken care of by the vet. Now, however, it appeared that Jim’s treatments weren’t working.
‘Alice, can I have a quick word with you?’ she asked.
The two of them left the table and walked out of earshot. When they returned Laura announced to Delores that she and Alice would like not only to attend the service this year but also help her and the Pastor organise it.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful news, Laura. And I know the Pastor will be pleased to hear this. She’s always telling me she can use more help. I’ll let Patricia know, too.’
‘I don’t think Patricia will be playing the organ this St Francis’ Feast Day,’ Mike said. ‘It’s looking like I’ll be the organist.’
Patricia, he explained, was currently under arrest in the Netherlands. She’d been there on holiday, touring the canals and art galleries, and been detained by police after purchasing three grams of cocaine from an undercover narcotics officer.
Patricia – never Pat – had been the organist at the Church of Latter-Day Lutherans for nine years. She was in her late thirties and worked as a barista in one of Georgetown’s coffee houses. Until her arrest Patricia had been unaware that she had a drug problem. After all she was middle class and had never before had any dealings with the police, though, as she was now ready to admit, had probably had many dealings with those known to the police.
And neither had anyone at church ever suspected that Patricia might have a narcotics problem. The writing had always been on the wall they now supposed, but at the time it had been too illegible to read and open to misinterpretation. It had always been assumed, for instance, that Patricia’s slim form and nervous energy were the products of a healthy diet and the number of coffees she drank during the day, and that her sinus problems were the consequence of allergies. Similarly, they had dismissed her mood swings and occasional touchiness as the hallmarks of a gifted musician. What had been noted at the time, however, and never fully explained, was the rapid tempo she’d played the hymns which, on occasion, had shortened services by as much as five minutes and left some of the older members of the congregation quite breathless.
The arrest, however, had now clarified the situation for all, especially Patricia who had resolved to check into rehab once the unpleasantness of Amsterdam was behind her and she was allowed to return to the United States. The Pastor had already made it clear to her that the church was there to forgive and not judge her: this, after all, was what Christianity was all about. There was, however, an element of practicality to this decision as, since the unfortunate epidemic of the eighties when many male organists had stopped playing the organ forever, the Pastor was more than aware that church organists were thin on the ground. In other words the Church of Latter-Day Lutherans would not only forgive Patricia, they would also hold open her position until she was well enough to return. In the meantime, Mike Ergle, the neighbourhood’s popular waterfall tuner, would keep her organ seat warm.
‘Oh that poor, dear girl,’ Delores said. ‘What a dreadful time of it she must be having.’
Alice gulped. ‘I suffered a trauma of my own last week, Delores. I don’t know if Laura’s mentioned this, but I bought a replacement address book for my miniature Filofax and it didn’t fit! I only realised it once I got home, but two of the holes were in the wrong place. I thought I’d bought the wrong size or the assistant had made a mistake, but when I went back to the store I was told that the format of the inserts had changed and that my style of personal organiser was now obsolete. I wouldn’t have minded so much but I’d only had it fifteen years and it was a present from my grandma. I can’t begin to describe how much sentimental value it has. But it’s only when something like this happens to you that you can identify with the bad things that happen to other people. I can really empathise with Patricia. It’s like I’m sitting right there in the prison cell with her.’
‘Jesus H Christ!’ Tank spluttered, choking on his cigar. ‘You people ought to listen to yourselves: animal blessings in a church! Changed inserts for personal organisers! Empathy for some druggie in lock-up! You need to get your priorities sorted, and if you want something
worthwhile to do with your time then complain about the goddamn sidewalks in this town. They’re a disgrace!’
The cobbled pavements of Georgetown had long been Tank’s bugbear. For one thing they weren’t cobbled but bricked, and most of these flat, red paving blocks were loose and uneven, following contours dictated by tree roots and interrupted by small protuberant gas and water valve shut-offs. The whole neighbourhood was an accident waiting to happen, but for the sake of old-world humbug and tourism the residents’ concerns were being ignored. ‘If I was a goddamn lawyer,’ Tank said, ‘I’d get me the biggest shingle ever made and hang it outside an office on M St. I’d have clients queuing round the block and I’d become the richest man in Georgetown. But, you know what? I sure as hell wouldn’t stay in Georgetown. I’d move to a neighbourhood with proper sidewalks, ones you could roller-skate on.’
The other thing about the sidewalks that ticked Tank off was the ornamental gardens planted at the base of the maple and oak trees that lined the streets. There was no need for them, no room for them, and the planted groundcover was less than remarkable. And to make matters worse the authorities had surrounded the miniature plots of blue lilyturf with black iron railings that came to the kerb and made exiting a car on that side impossible. ‘If you don’t believe me count the door dents!’ he said.
‘Man, you gotta give up on the sidewalks, Tank. Georgetown wouldn’t be the same without them.’
‘I know it wouldn’t. That’s my damn point! And Georgetown wouldn’t be the same without you either, Mike. On both counts the place would be better off.’
Mike laughed and Delores told Tank not to be so mean. ‘Sometimes I wonder how a dog as nice as Sherman can live with a man like you,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be bringing Sherman to the blessing, will you?’
‘Damn right I won’t, but you’ll be glad to know I’ll be joining you at the museum exhibition next month. I’ve checked my schedule and I’m in town that week.’
‘Well that’s something, at least. It’s looking like we’ll all be there, and Petey’s coming down from New York for it. You don’t know of any other people who might be interested, do you?’
Tank shook his head.
‘What about your mother?’ Larry suggested.
Tank glared at him.
‘You have a mother?’ Laura asked surprised.
‘Of course I have a mother! How the hell do you think I got here; some passing stranger blew me up with a football pump?’
‘Stop being silly, Tank,’ Laura laughed. ‘You’ve never mentioned your mother before so I just presumed she was dead.’
‘Oh no, Laura, she’s not dead,’ Larry said. ‘She lives in Arlington, isn’t that right, Tank?’
Once again Tank glared at Larry.
‘Why don’t you bring her along?’ Delores said. ‘It would be nice to meet her.’
‘Believe me, Delores, it’s not nice for anyone to meet my mother. No one benefits from her company and I try and avoid it as much as possible. The hell I’m bringing her to the museum with me! I still don’t know why she moved to Washington in the first place. It’s not as if I’m her favourite child. Anyway, the good thing is that she’s old, so there’s a good chance she’ll die soon.’
‘That’s a horrible thing to say!’ Alice said. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’
Tank smiled to himself, pulled on his cigar and waited for the conversation to move on.
‘Did I tell you I’ve arranged to be buried in a pet cemetery when I die?’ Delores said.
For a woman who adhered to dog blessings, belonged to a K-9 rescue organisation called Operation Paws for Homes and helped organise the annual Howl-o-Ween adoption event, the news shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but as much for its morbidity as Delores’ choice of location the announcement did.
Delores had been thinking about this for some time, but had only made the arrangement after she and Petey had toured the Furry Angel Pet Cemetery the previous Sunday. The cemetery, located in Maryland, was an adjunct of a human cemetery, and the area designated for pets was adjacent to an area reserved for people of the Jewish faith.
Delores had always had more faith in dogs than people: their love was unconditional, their loyalty assured and not one of them, as far as she knew, had ever suggested that she was fat. She also believed that it would be a lot more peaceful resting in the ground next to the likes of Magnum, Ling-ling, Rusty and Fluffy than it would be Tank Newbold.
She and Petey had toured every square foot of the burial ground, reading the inscriptions on plaques decorated with hearts, small photographs and dog bones and occasionally shedding a tear. Sleep Little Lady until We Are Together Again; You Have Left My Life but You Will Never Leave My Heart; A Tiny Angel Dressed In Fur; Wait For Me On Your Side Of The Rainbow, Sweet Girl. There was so much more love to be found in a pet cemetery than a regular cemetery, where tombstone inscriptions were limited to dates and genealogies. It was reading the following inscription that clinched it for Delores: She Asked for Nothing but Gave Us Her All. ‘That’s me, Petey!’ she’d said excitedly. ‘That describes me perfectly. This is where I belong and this is where Button and I will stay together forever. It’s decided!’ (On closer examination of the plaque it turned out that the inscription had been written for a ferret called Snickers.)
‘Well, no, my body won’t actually be buried in the cemetery but my ashes will be interred there,’ Delores said in reply to Alice’s question.
‘And is the cemetery for all pets or just dogs?’
‘It’s for all pets, Mike. We saw plaques for birds, cats, rabbits and goldfish and I’m sure there were other pets there that we didn’t notice. It was like a Noah’s Ark.’
‘How about whales, Delores? Did you see any plaques for whales?’
‘Of course we didn’t see any plaques for whales. Who’s ever heard of anyone having a whale as a pet?’
Tank thought of Button but said nothing, just pulled on his cigar and smiled. Laura thought of the Middle East and wondered why the government had employed a person who brought so much discord to his own world to bring peace to that region.
An hour passed in such fashion. Occasionally one of them would rise from the table to throw a ball or fuss with their dog and then, close to one o’clock, Delores’ stomach rumbled. She looked at her watch. ‘It’s time I was going,’ she announced. ‘I only had four croissants for breakfast and I’m starting to feel peckish. Button! Button!’ she called. ‘Come to Mama, baby. It’s time for Mama to eat.’
Button ran to the table and jumped on Delores’ wide lap. Relative to its body the dog’s head was large, its round eyes protruding and luminous and its large ears pointed. It was the most fragile-looking of all the dogs in the park, but tended, unlike many Chihuahuas, toward the placid. Despite their difference in size Button and Delores made for ideal living companions: each was devoted to the other, neither liked exercise and both appreciated warmth. And Button was also perfectly sized for the small basement apartment that Delores rented on Prospect St. Its owners, who lived on the ground and first floors of the house, were an old married couple who read and then gave their daily newspaper to Delores, who would use the pages to line Button’s indoor litter box.
Delores plopped Button into her shoulder bag and de-wedged herself from the picnic table. Laura and Alice, who had to stand to let Delores out anyway, decided they too may as well be on their way and then Mike, whose gig at the church was now open-ended, decided that he’d better leave and start practising some new hymns. For a few minutes it was just Larry and Tank sitting at the table, but once Tank caught sight of a young man dragging a cart towards them he made his excuses. ‘You can deal with the weird kid, Larry. I’m leaving!’
It was the weird kid Larry had been hoping to meet.
Wayne Trout’s day hadn’t got off to the best of starts, but then again neither had his life
.
Wayne had grown up in Charles Town, West Virginia, a town founded by Charles Washington, the youngest brother of the more famous George. It was a small community, little more than 5,000 in number and had only one claim to fame: it was here, in 1859, that John Brown, the abolitionist and madman, had been tried and publicly hanged for raiding the federal armoury at Harper’s Ferry and killing seven men. His body was given no resting place in Charles Town but taken by train to New York. It now lies a-mouldering on the outskirts of Lake Placid.
Wayne was the youngest of three children, the product of carelessness rather than family planning, and his welcome to the Trout household was muted. Mr & Mrs Trout hadn’t bargained for another mouth to feed at this stage in their lives, and neither had their two daughters, Millie and Etta aged twelve and ten respectively, expected to share a bedroom. With time, however, the Trouts mellowed, and though never fully accepting Wayne as one of them at least got used to having him around the house.
Wayne’s birth had been premature, but there was nothing at the time of his delivery to suggest that he might be odd in any way. That he might be, only struck his parents once they realised he was taking a longer time than usual to reach his milestones. He was late sitting up, for instance, late standing and walking, and an entire age passed before he started to talk. And then, when he had mastered these accomplishments, it turned out he wasn’t very good at any of them. His gait was awkward and his balance poor. He tripped and fell easily, bumped into things and had trouble catching and hitting balls. He fell off bicycles, struggled with cutlery and could never fasten his buttons or tie his own shoelaces. The time came when Mrs Trout had to wonder if she’d been wrong to smoke during his pregnancy and she mentioned this to Mr Trout.
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Ma,’ Mr Trout told his fussing wife. ‘The kid’s just clumsy, is all. No law in the land says a kid can’t be clumsy.’
Larry & the Dog People Page 14