by Ed Kavanagh
I looked at Peg. “Hero? Is the dog’s name Hero?”
“No,” she said. “He’s saying hello.”
“He can’t talk?”
Peg laughed. “Oh, he can talk. Can’t you, Michael? You’ve just got your own special accent.”
“He-ro,” Michael said again.
“What’s your dog’s name?” Peg said, polishing his apple on her knee. “What’s your collie’s name?”
And when he answered, I knew right away what he was saying, even though the words came out all thick and lumpy like Mrs. Wilkinson’s gravy.
“I got a dog,” he said.
“Yes, but what’s his name?” Peg said. Michael just took his apple and stared across the schoolyard. Peg grinned at me. “I’ll have to find out.”
The bell rang and I got up. “I should go,” I said.
“Well, see you,” Peg said. “Nice to meet you.”
I walked away but then I stopped and turned back. “Bye, Michael,” I said.
He bit into his apple and looked at me through his thick glasses. “I got a dog,” he said.
I know, I thought. You certainly do.
It turned out that Howley Place is practically in my backyard, just about a two-minute walk from the Wilkinsons. But it’s kind of hidden: a cul-de-sac. Mrs. Wilkinson pointed it out for me when we were driving to church the next evening. We always go to the five o’clock Saturday mass at Corpus Christi. Both of the Wilkinsons are pretty churchy—Mrs. Wilkinson, in particular. There’s a big picture of Jesus in the kitchen: the one where he has those dreamy spaniel eyes and he’s pointing at his bleeding heart. Mrs. Wilkinson always blesses herself whenever we drive past a church or a graveyard. I’ve even seen her kneeling by her bed, praying with her rosary beads, just like a little child. Once I stopped outside her bedroom door and listened. I think she might have been praying for me. I definitely heard my name a couple of times.
I rode over to Howley Place the first thing Sunday morning. It’s public housing: about twenty cookie-cutter duplexes. I could just picture Mrs. Wilkinson turning up her nose. And the houses were pretty rundown—actually, the whole neighbourhood was: broken hockey nets, shopping bags snagged on the skinny maples, a rusty van up on blocks with its guts scattered all over the little lawn. But there was no one around. Maybe they were all in church.
I didn’t even see a mutt, let alone a miniature collie. Cats, yes. Every second window had a cat staring out. But no dogs. And no Michael Dillon.
The next afternoon I biked over to Howley Place again. It had dawned on me that it would take the little bus a lot longer to drop everybody off, and I was right. I was waiting for about twenty minutes when it finally pulled up. The driver helped Michael out and led him up to number nine. The door clicked open, and a grey-haired woman took Michael’s bookbag and led him inside.
And then a little girl—she couldn’t have been more than four—peddled madly up to me on her tricycle. “Who are you?” she said. She shoved a crumpled bag of Doritos at me. “Wanna chip?”
I told her no thanks and that my name was Callie. “Do you know Michael Dillon?” I said.
She swivelled around on the tricycle seat and pointed at number nine with the Doritos. “Michael who lives there?”
“Yeah,” I said.
She nodded. “Him and his mom live there.”
I asked her if she knew his dog’s name and she told me her name was Alex. “It’s really Alexandra, but nobody calls me that except my mom.”
“That’s nice,” I said. I was just about to ask her the dog’s name again when the door to number nine opened, and the collie jumped out onto the step and shook himself. Michael followed with the leash.
I could see right away how beautiful the collie was. He was mainly black and white, like I remembered, but there was a lot of tan, too—especially on the chest. You could tell he’d probably been indoors all day. He was wagging his tail like mad—just going crazy. I was worried he was going to throw a hip out. That happens a lot with miniatures. The encyclopaedia says it’s because their legs are so short.
“That’s Prince,” Alex said.
Prince. How original. Sergeant, Greyun, Prince— doesn’t anyone know how to name animals anymore?
They started walking down the sidewalk towards us. When they drew up close I got my first good look at Prince. Like I said, he was beautiful. But his coat needed a good brushing and his eyes were a little rheumy.
“Hi, Michael,” I said. “Remember me?” He glanced at me but kept walking. I watched as they circled the cul-desac, staying carefully on the sidewalk. Once. Twice. They were going around for the third time when I asked Alex if they ever went anywhere else.
She stuck out her lower lip and shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “Michael’s not allowed. I’m not either.”
It was weird how they kept circling the cul-de-sac. Just like a carousel. Michael ignored Prince; he didn’t even seem to know the dog was trotting behind him. He didn’t speak to him or even look at him—didn’t even stop to let Prince smell anything. They just walked together. In circles.
Riding home, I thought a lot about that little collie. I wondered if he got bored going around in circles, if he knew that his coat was supposed to be given a good brushing at least once a week. I wondered if he got upset because Michael never talked to him or even looked at him. I’d talk to him—I mean, if he was my dog. I’d make sure he was brushed properly. It’s not good to neglect a dog. That’s why strays are so skittish and sad-eyed. Everyone knows that.
Not every day, but most days I’d go to Howley Place and watch them. It was a couple of weeks later when it happened. As usual, Alex was there. God that girl can talk.
“Callie,” she said, “have you got a dog?”
I told her I didn’t.
“Me either,” she said. “But I got a goldfish named Henry. There used to be Henrietta, but she died. It might have been Henry who died. It’s kind of hard to tell a boy goldfish from a girl goldfish.”
Then Michael came out with Prince and they started on their route. I sat on my bike and watched. They’d only gone about twenty yards when I saw something was wrong. Prince was pulling hard against the leash, biting at it, tossing his head. But Michael just kept walking. He just kept walking while Prince tugged on the leash, whining, trying to back up. Then I saw what was happening: Prince was raising his leg, trying to pee. But Michael kept walking. And he may have Down’s, but he’s strong. And that little collie didn’t weigh more than fifteen pounds. Michael was pulling Prince sideways along the sidewalk and he didn’t even know it. I could see little jets of pee squirting out of Prince.
I jumped off my bike and ran up to them.
“Michael!” I said. “Stop. He wants to pee.” Michael pulled up and frowned at me. But then he started walking again. I pushed my palm into his chest. “No,” I said. “You’ve got to stop. Look.” I grabbed him by the shoulder, but it was like trying to move a block of cement. I finally got him half turned. “You have to stop if Prince wants to pee. Do you understand?” Michael screwed up his face and pushed back his glasses. Prince had finished his business and was jumping up on me and barking. Alex ran over; for once, she didn’t have anything to say.
Suddenly the door to number nine opened and the grey-haired lady was standing there, staring at us. She had on a dressing gown and a pair of crazy, fluffy slippers, but she started coming down the sidewalk anyway. By the time she got to us, she was looking pretty pissed.
“What’s going on?” she said.
The first thing that struck me was how old she looked—old enough to be Michael’s grandmother.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “Did Michael fall?”
“No, Mrs. Dillon,” Alex said. “Prince was trying to pee but Michael wouldn’t let him.”
“What?” she said. She looked at me.
“He didn’t know,” I said. I tried to explain but she cut me off.
“Why are you hanging around here lately?” she sa
id. “Did you move in this way?”
“No,” I told her. “I just . . .” But I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Her name’s Callie,” Alex said. “She likes Prince.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “Prince wanted to pee, but Michael . . . I thought he was hurting him.”
Mrs. Dillon stepped back and sized me up. “Michael wouldn’t do that. He’s dyin’ to the world about that little dog.”
“Well,” I said, “it’s just that . . . he didn’t seem to know.”
“He didn’t,” Alex said. “Prince was peeing on himself.”
Michael was staring at me, humming and rocking from foot to foot. Prince leaped up and licked his hand, pulling at the leash.
Mrs. Dillon looked at her open door. “I usually let the dog out back to do his business,” she said. “I guess . . . I guess I forgot.”
“I better go,” I said.
I got on my bike and pedalled away.
Mrs. Wilkinson may not be my real mother, but she’s still got that mother-daughter radar I’ve heard about. At supper, she took one look at me and said, “What’s wrong, Callie?” But it was hard to talk about it. I made some excuse about a bully giving me a hard time at school. But all the time I was talking, I was staring over her shoulder at that picture of Jesus. Him with his dreamy eyes and dripping heart, and the lambs curled up at his twisted feet, and the doves circling his thorny head. I wanted to say, Why did you give that beautiful little dog to a boy like Michael Dillon? He can’t take care of him.
“I’d take care of him,” I said.
“What?” Mrs. Wilkinson said. Mr. Wilkinson raised his eyebrow and looked at me over his teacup.
It took a second before I realized I’d spoken out loud.
“Nothing,” I said.
I wanted to go back to Howley Place, but I forced myself to stay away. One day at school I saw Michael sitting at the picnic table. Jackie-Josie must have been sick again because Peg was with him.
She waved me over. As soon as I sat down Michael started staring at me and humming. I figured he was finally beginning to recognize me.
“It’s Prince,” Peg said right away. “Michael’s dog is named Prince.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
She asked me how I found out. Well, I just didn’t tell her that; I told her everything. Peg didn’t say a word, just passed Michael his sandwiches and looked at me the way Sergeant used to.
When I finally shut up Peg looked at Michael and then smiled at me. “Callie,” she said, “don’t you know what’s really happening on those walks?” The bell rang and she started gathering Michael’s Tupperware.
“What?” I said.
Peg leaned across the table and squeezed my shoulder.
“Think about it,” she said.
I went back to Howley Place one more time. It was a warm evening, and people were lounging on their front steps. I was later than usual: Michael and Prince were already on their route.
Mrs. Dillon was sitting on her step, smoking, watching them. I rode up and said hello.
“Where have you been?” she said.
“Oh, around.”
Mrs. Dillon ground out the cigarette with her slipper. “Listen,” she said. “I didn’t mean to give you a hard time the other day. I know you were just lookin’ out for the little dog. Don’t stay away on my account.”
“I won’t,” I said.
“So you like Prince, hey?”
“Yeah. He’s beautiful.”
She nodded and lit another cigarette. I asked her where they’d got Prince.
Mrs. Dillon shrugged and I thought her bony shoulders were going to come through her dressing gown. “Bought him,” she said. “I thought a dog might be good for Michael—give him some company. But I didn’t know what kind to get. I don’t know too much about dogs: their temperaments and all that. We were a cat crowd, growing up. Anyway, I was looking through a dog book one day— Elsie next door loaned it to me. Michael was watching. And you wouldn’t credit it, but as soon as I turned to the page that showed the little collies, he started pointing at them. And he would not give it up. I was worried he was going to poke a hole in the book. Did he point at some crackie I could get for next to nothing? No. It had to be the fancy one. And, well . . . I can’t do too much for Michael. But this one time I figured I’d give him what he wanted.” She shaded her eyes and looked down the road at them. “I know Michael’s not perfect with Prince, but in his own way he loves that little dog. And Prince likes him too. Sure he goes bloody mad when Michael comes home from school.” Mrs. Dillon smiled at me as if she was hoping I’d believe her, or understand, or something.
But I didn’t. Not completely.
I couldn’t sleep that night: my mind was moving in circles just like Michael and Prince. I wondered about the Wilkinsons and why they’d taken me in. Was it just to stay on the good side of Jesus? Was I a stray they were giving a home to? Was Michael a stray? And it struck me that, if he was, maybe with Prince he was a little less of a stray— kind of like me with the Wilkinsons. And I suddenly knew what Peg had meant that day: Michael wasn’t taking Prince on those walks; Prince was taking him.
And I remembered the time at the Hanlons when we buried that poor old cat thinking it was Greyun. And Lizzie saying those prayers over him in the dark woods and how foolish I thought that was. But now I’m not so sure. Maybe the world is not divided up so easily. Maybe we’re all strays. Maybe we all need a few prayers. And, if we do, I don’t suppose it makes much difference who says them.
Seagull Dreams
Raymond Whitten has been living in Toronto for fifty-seven days. On the tenth day he moved into his own place—a raucous boarding house run by an affectionate Italian woman. Before that he stayed with his cousin Rose and her husband. They both work in the same shoe factory.
On the twelfth day Raymond found a job. Now he also works in a factory, a chemical factory, and the smell is very bad. He works with huge vats of fly repellant and lock de-icer. He feels the air must be unhealthy, but the foreman assures him this isn’t so. He invites Raymond into his air-conditioned office to tell him this.
The foreman is a blunt man of few words, but he softens when he discovers that Raymond is from St. John’s. He is also from St. John’s, and most of his people are still there.
“Where ’bouts you from?” he inquires.
“The Battery,” Raymond replies.
“Oh,” the foreman says, “then you know the Kennedys and the Mahers.” He says this with a certainty that irritates Raymond. But, yes, Raymond does know them: Lorraine Maher had been his steady girl in Grade 10. The foreman mentions other Battery families and Raymond nods dutifully.
“They closed down the plant, eh?”
“Yeah. Well, they’re gonna do a bit of shrimp.”
The foreman snorts. “Shrimp! Jesus.” He chews the end of his pencil and looks at Raymond intently. “So you decided to pack it in?”
Raymond nods. The foreman swears and picks up his clipboard indicating their chat is at an end.
Raymond likes books and when he isn’t working he browses the Queen Street bookstores. When he was younger he once won a school poetry contest. His family call him the dreamy one. This goes back to when he was eight years old. It had been one of his first times on the water—certainly the first time at night. There had been no wind and the August sky was streaked with shooting stars. The boat was loaded with cod, the bottom slippery with scales and blood. When they came through the Narrows the stars and the lights of the city were reflected in great pools in the harbour, and Raymond had pointed and cried, “Look at the city in the water!” When they got home his father told his mother what Raymond had said. “Sure I always knew he was the dreamy one,” she said, smiling.
Now Raymond begins to think his family is right: he is the dreamy one. Not long after he starts work at the factory, he begins to have dreams. At home he rarely remembered his dreams, but now they are long and vivid and
he remembers them all. He mulls over this new development. He wonders if when he was fishing he’d been too tired to dream: his sleep had been too sound. Or maybe it’s the factory, he thinks. Maybe I’m having chemical dreams. Maybe this is what it’s like to be on LSD.
One night Raymond dreams he has killed all the fish in the ocean, and for this murder he has been given a life sentence in Toronto. He dreams of seabirds. In his dreams storm petrels pitch on his boat at night, waking him with their dark musical cries and leaving an elemental musky scent. He dreams of clusters of kittiwakes huddled against the sides of cliffs, their pretty heads tucked beneath ashgrey wings. But mostly he dreams of the soaring herring gulls. He sees them screaming and wheeling above the harbour. All his life he’d woken to their cries. Now he wakes to shouts and snatches of songs in foreign tongues. He remembers a line from a song, “The St. John’s Waltz”: And the seagulls are all dreaming seagull dreams on Amherst Rock . . . Raymond could see Amherst Rock from his bedroom window. It was always white and alive with gulls.
At the beginning of his second month in Toronto, Raymond meets a woman at work. Her hazel eyes are moist and clear and she is not beautiful. They drink coffee together in the lunchroom. She says her name is Tillie and she is from Toronto. This surprises Raymond who hasn’t considered that people are actually from Toronto. Tillie smiles at him with her bad teeth, and Raymond finds himself smiling back. She dabs perfume behind her ears. “No one can smell it in here,” she says, giggling, “but it helps psychologically.”
Soon they are spending time together and one night they make love. Beneath his fingers her flesh is foreign and strange and she is sexually aggressive and forward. “We’d better tone it down,” Raymond says. “With all the chemicals we’re around, we might ignite.” Tillie laughs and Raymond realizes this is his first attempt at a joke since he arrived in Toronto.
One night Raymond goes to the Newfoundland Club with a man from work, another Newfoundlander named Phonse. Raymond has been looking forward to it. He’s shy but he likes to socialize and he’s been working a lot of late-night shifts. He thinks he may see someone he knows.