‘It’s not a newspaper I’m going to deliver, Wayne, it’s an academic treatise. They want me to tell people about the Desert Land Act. But this is an example of the things I could teach you about the English language: a word can have several different meanings. You can deliver a parcel or a newspaper, for instance, but that’s a lot different from delivering a baby; and you can also deliver on a promise you’ve made someone as well as delivering a speech. It’s a simple word, but it has four different meanings. Shall I reiterate them for you?’
Wayne looked at Larry puzzled. ‘What’s reiterate mean?’
‘Say again,’ Larry explained.
‘What’s reiterate mean?’
It took a second or two before Wayne’s confusion dawned on Larry. ‘Reiterate means say again, Wayne. It’s another way of saying the same thing and this is something else I could teach you. I could help broaden your vocabulary.’
Wayne looked studious, as if seriously considering the proposition and Larry started to take heart. The breakthrough he’d hoped for, however, never came.
‘Will you take an umbrella with you when you go?’
Once again it took Larry a moment to find his feet in the conversation. ‘Oh, I doubt I’ll have any need for an umbrella, Wayne. Israel’s a dry country and the weather will be warm. October’s an ideal time to visit.’
‘I wish I could go there with you,’ Wayne said. ‘I’ve read about Israel in the Bible and I know it better than I do my own country. I’d go visit all the places Jesus visited and see where he was born and crucified. It would be like a pilgrimation.’
No doubt Wayne would conversate about Christianism on this pilgrimation Larry thought, but made no comment. After all, he had a favour to ask Wayne.
‘While I’m there, Wayne, I’d like you to do something for me. And it would be a paying job, too.’
The mention of money pricked Wayne’s interest. ‘As long as it ain’t no full-time job and don’t interfere with my shows then I’ll be glad to, Professor. What is it you had in mind?’
‘I’d like you to take care of Moses for me. I can’t stand the thought of him being cooped up in a kennel while I’m away. I know we’ve only recently met but I have a high opinion of you, Wayne, and I know Laura does, too. And you’re a natural with Moses. Look at the way he always comes up to you when he sees you and the way he’s curled up on your feet now.’
Wayne smiled and a blush came to his face. ‘I’d be glad to do that for you, Professor. We ain’t supposed to have pets in the house, but I could hide him someplace and feed him every day when no one was looking.’
‘Oh, there’s no need for you to go to all that trouble, Wayne. I was thinking you could move into my house while I’m away and live there. How does that sound?’
‘I’d have to get permission from the house, but if you came and explained it to them I cain’t see it being a problem. You’ve got a television though, don’t you? I don’t want to miss my shows.’
‘I have, Wayne. It’s not the most modern of sets but the picture’s clear and it gets all the channels. What shows do you watch?’
‘The ones on the Christian channels, Professor, and Saturday afternoons they show films. That’s what I’ll do after I’ve finished collecting cans. Go back to the house and watch a Christian film. You any idea why there ain’t many cans round today? I usually get more than this.’
Larry said he didn’t, but told Wayne about the two sacks of aluminium cans he had stored in his basement, cans he’d kept to remind him of Helen and never got round to throwing out. Wayne said he’d be happy to take them off his hands and so the two companions – Larry leading Moses and Wayne pulling a cart with eleven cans in it – set off for Larry’s house on Dent St. It would also be an opportunity for Larry to familiarise Wayne with his house.
‘How many windows do you say you got, Professor?’
‘Fourteen,’ Larry answered.
Wayne whistled. ‘I just got one,’ he said. ‘There’s probably another nine in the house, but if you divide the windows by the number of people living there it still comes down to only two windows each. And you’ve got fourteen all to yourself! If your Ma and Pa were alive I’d be guessing they’d be proud of you.’
Larry showed Wayne the upstairs rooms first and suggested he might want to sleep in either Rutherford’s old bedroom or Grover’s, both of which had televisions. Next he showed him the lounge, dining room and kitchen areas before leading him down a flight of stairs to the basement.
‘Moses sleeps down here,’ Larry said, ‘and I keep the washing machine and dryer here. I’ll go through everything with you before I leave, show you where the switches are and how things work, but what’s your first impression? Do you think you’ll be happy living here for a week or so?’
Wayne had grown strangely quiet since entering the basement, and it was difficult for Larry to know if it was the dog’s basket that had overwhelmed him or the utility appliances. He asked the question again: would he be happy living here for a week or so?
‘I would,’ Wayne replied, almost whispering. ‘And if it’s okay with you, Professor, I’d like to sleep down here.’
7
The Museum Attendant
‘You do realise Kevin’s dead, don’t you?’
This was news to Larry!
It was a Thursday night, early July, and Larry and Laura were sitting in a Mexican restaurant on M St eating burritos. Larry had been telling Laura of his plans to turn Wayne’s life around and had just confided a stumbling block: Kevin didn’t want Wayne to change.
Larry put down his fork and cautiously sipped the margarita Laura had insisted he try.
‘But Wayne speaks of him all the time, Laura – and in the present tense, too – and…’ He winced and a more disturbing thought came to mind. ‘I think the waiter’s brought me a dirty glass: there’s salt on the rim.’
Laura explained that the salt was there for a reason, and that this was the way a margarita was meant to be served.
‘Oh, I didn’t know that…’ Larry said. ‘But are you sure Kevin’s dead? Wayne led me to believe he’d met Tank – right here in Washington – and that he didn’t like him.’
‘Kevin was killed in Iraq, Larry, and only a short time after he arrived there. Wayne accepts this but keeps his memory alive by using him as a sounding board for any decisions he has to make. He bounces ideas off him. What Wayne is telling you is that he doesn’t like Tank and that he doesn’t want to change. It’s the same as another person talking about themselves in the third person: in the third person Wayne becomes Kevin. It’s a harmless coping mechanism, but it’s probably better if you don’t mention this to anyone. I haven’t spoken to Alice about it – you might have noticed she’s not very good at keeping confidences – and I haven’t mentioned it to Delores or Mike, and certainly not to Tank. They’d assume the worst and suppose him dangerous – which he isn’t. Wayne’s a human being with problems and I wish more people would respect this. I’m pleased that you’re making an effort to spend time with him. If more people spent time with him he’d probably have less need for Kevin.’
‘So Kevin’s like his security blanket, then?’
‘Yes, that’s a good way of looking at things,’ Laura replied. ‘Kevin provides him with a form of psychological comfort, and that’s probably no different from me hoping that St Francis will take pity on poor Repo.’ She remained silent for a moment and then asked Larry if he believed in miracles.
Larry chose his words carefully. ‘I don’t know if I believe in miracles per se, Laura, but I do believe that good things can happen when they’re least expected. Take me, for example. After Helen died I didn’t know what to do with myself but then I bumped into you and before I knew it I had Moses in my life. And through you I met Alice, Delores, Mike and Tank – and Wayne, too, for that matter. Unexpectedly my world changed for the better and
there’s no reason to believe that Repo’s world will be any different.’
Laura could have kissed Larry for his thoughtfulness. She’d invited him out without any real expectation of enjoying the evening herself. The meal was his reward for suggesting they play DVDs at the home, but unexpectedly his conversation was proving a bonus for her. And, apart from his overly-detailed rendition of the fall of Masada, the two of them had had a conversation. A two-way conversation! Miracles did happen, she decided. There was no other explanation for Larry’s change in behaviour. If there was hope for Larry then there was certainly hope for Repo!
‘It’s a pity Alice couldn’t have joined us tonight,’ Larry said. ‘I think she’d have enjoyed it here.’
‘I think she would, Larry, but she had to be in St Louis this week. That’s where her head office is.’
‘My head office is located on my shoulders,’ Larry smiled. ‘I used to have an office in the Intercultural Centre but when I retired they gave it to a wrestler.’ He then drained his glass and smacked his lips. ‘Ugh!’
‘You ought to drink more often,’ Laura laughed. ‘Alcohol doesn’t suit everyone, but it does you good. How about we have another?’
Larry agreed and Laura called the waiter.
‘I’ve asked Wayne to look after Moses while I’m in Israel,’ Larry said when the drinks had been served. ‘He’s going to live in my basement.’
‘Your basement? Why didn’t you offer him a bedroom?’
‘I did, but as soon as he saw the basement he fell in love with it. He called it a special room and said that Kevin would want him to live there. I didn’t quite understand what he meant at the time, but from everything you’ve told me this evening I suppose it means that he wants to live there.’
‘Well, I think it’s a laudable idea, but are you sure he’ll be able to manage by himself? I’d be happy to look in on him.’
‘That’s kind of you, Laura, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t. I want Wayne to feel as if he has full responsibility for both Moses and the house, and if he knew people were watching over him he might not get the full benefit of the experience. I’m hoping that independent living will make him more confident and, who knows, even help him find a full-time job. I still have hopes of that happening.’
‘Well, if you’re happy with the situation then I am,’ Laura said. ‘But who’s going to cook for him? Have you thought about that?’
‘He’s going to cook for himself, Laura, and he’s looking forward to it. He’s fed up with all the vegetables they serve at the house and he’s going to try something different.’
‘And you’ll be away for how long?’
‘Ten days,’ Larry replied.
‘Okay, but if Wayne has scurvy by the time you get back don’t come running to me. This one’s on your head.’
‘It would take more than…’ Larry turned sheepish. ‘That was a joke, wasn’t it? I’m afraid I’m a bit slow when it comes to getting jokes.’
Laura smiled. It was a triumph of sorts that Larry had let the subject of scurvy go by so easily. Three months ago he would have been detailing its symptoms, pathology and history and no doubt telling her of its impact on seventeenth-century shipping. Larry, she decided, deserved a reward: another chance to talk.
‘So apart from delivering your paper and visiting Masada, what else are you going to do in Israel?’
‘Oh, the usual tourist things I suppose, but apart from the trip to Masada I’ll probably limit myself to Jerusalem. I’d like to explore the Old City in depth, spend time at the Western Wall and on Temple Mount, wade through Hezekiah’s Tunnel and see if there are any tortoises in the Biblical Zoo.’
Laura’s instinct warned her against asking the question, but the mention of the Western Wall, Temple Mount and tortoises in the same sentence piqued her interest. ‘Why on earth would you want to see if there are any tortoises in the zoo? I didn’t even know they had tortoises in Israel.’
‘Oh they have them all right, Laura, but I don’t think the Israelis have ever appreciated them. They’re described in the Bible as unclean, lumped together with weasels and rats, and I’ve always found that unfair. They’ve got short legs and that’s why they have to crawl everywhere, but it’s not as if they asked for them, is it? Given a choice, I’m sure they’d have gone for longer legs.’
‘But why do you have a soft spot for tortoises? They’re not exactly cuddly and you can’t take them for a walk in the park.’
‘Because if I had to come back to earth as another living creature I think I’d want to come back as a tortoise. I’m not saying I believe in reincarnation but I do like to prepare myself for all situations and I’ve decided there are advantages to being a tortoise. First of all, you arrive with a ready-made house on your back; secondly you chew grasses and leaves and don’t have to eat insects; and thirdly, no one can ever tell how old you are. It would be like being Andy Warhol.’
‘You’ve lost me there, Larry. How can a tortoise be anything like Andy Warhol?’
‘Because Andy Warhol wore silvery-grey wigs from the time he was a young man. When he got older no one really noticed. That was his plan. In that sense he was like a tortoise, because no one could ever tell how old he was.’
It was easy to understand Larry’s developing friendship with Wayne, Laura thought. Listening to him was as strange as it was listening to Wayne, and sometimes stranger. It was as if both had embraced the oddness of life but only one from choice. Laura looked at her watch and decided it was time to call it a night. She caught the eye of the waiter and gestured with a tick. When the check arrived she paid with a no-frills credit card and left notes for the service.
Outside the restaurant Larry thanked her for the meal and reminded her of the full sets of The Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Rockford Files he had at his house. All she had to do was say the word and he’d bring them to the home. He waited while she crossed the road, waved goodbye and then headed home.
It had been a long time since Larry had ventured on M St. He and Helen had always felt out of place here, preferring the more down-to-earth neighbourhoods of Burleith and Friendship Heights. Theirs had been the world of Safeway, but here on M St it was the world of Dean & DeLuca’s, boutique shops bordering on the exclusive and of unnecessarily expensive restaurants and coffee houses. It was an area that favoured the young and the hip, people as far from death as the spectrum allowed. It was little wonder that Helen had always looked upon M St as one to cross rather than dally on.
Larry decided he’d mention this to Moses when he got home, but in the meantime kept his head down and passed the journey wondering if life as a Mediterranean spur-thighed tortoise would be preferable to that of a Negev tortoise. By the time he reached Dent St he’d decided: if given the choice he’d return to earth as a Negev tortoise. It would allow him to live in the desert.
The National Museum of the American Indian was located at the intersection of 4th and Independence. It was the youngest of the Smithsonian’s eighteen children, but bore little resemblance to its neoclassical siblings: it was curvilinear and domed, coated in rough Kasota limestone and looked like a weathered rock formation. It was built to celebrate the culture and history of the nation’s indigenous peoples, to let bygones be bygones and allow mainstream America to move on with its life. In a roundabout way it had also allowed Delores Bobo to move on with hers.
Although now a museum attendant, Delores had at one time been one of the West Coast’s premier hand models, earning up to $2,000 a day. She’d stumbled into this world by accident, the one positive outcome of a blind date with an advertising executive. The man had been arrogant and prided himself on speaking the truth. His exact words to her that evening were: ‘Your face isn’t up to much, Delores, but you do have beautiful hands. I’m not going to ask to see you again, but I think you should try your hand as a hand model. We’ll split the bill 50/50.’
&n
bsp; Delores’ hands had been beautiful, like those of a Victorian doll. Her fingers were long and straight, her thumbs exquisite and she had good nails and neat cuticles. The backs of her hands were narrow and unblemished and, most importantly, she had flat knuckles. She decided to act on the executive’s advice and the next day phoned a modelling agency.
For the next four years Delores made a living from holding things. She held yogurt cartons, packets of cheese, varieties of cleaning products, tubes of toothpaste and tubs of cosmetics; and hers were the hands that doubled for those of models whose facial beauty alone had won them leading roles in advertising campaigns. She travelled widely and worked in cities across the United States: Los Angeles, San Francisco, Houston, Chicago and New York. And then, one day, she walked through a plate-glass window and her modelling career came to an end.
Delores had been driving in Los Angeles at the time, nervously looking this way and that for the studio hired to shoot a scouring-pad commercial. Once she realised she was lost, and also late, she’d halted the car outside a small delicatessen and gone to ask for directions. The entrance to the shop comprised three identically-sized glass panes stretching from floor to lintel but only the middle pane was hinged. In a moment of flustered confusion she’d pushed her way through the left pane and found herself standing half-in and half-outside the shop, shards of glass falling on her head and blood dripping from her hands.
She stepped out of the broken pane, walked into the delicatessen through its door and said something to the effect of: ‘I think I’ve just walked through your window.’ The owners of the shop were only too aware of this and appeared more shocked than she was. They had the presence of mind, however, to phone for an ambulance, and the luckless Delores was whisked to hospital. There the nurses carefully brushed the powdered glass from her eyelashes; used tweezers to remove the glass still embedded in her hands and stitched her wounds. She’d left the hospital in bandages, taken a taxi to the airport and gone home to Portland.
Larry & the Dog People Page 16