by Jim Kraus
Most of the time.
“You know, Lewis, I like you a lot, too. You are one easy dog to talk to. I like that in a dog.”
Wuff.
“I hear Alex talking to you at night. After you go to bed. I hear him whispering to you.”
Wuff.
“I’m glad. You know Alex is an only child. And I worried about him being lonely. Or I did. Since you’re here, not so much.”
Wuff.
Trudy took another sip of coffee. She found herself talking to Lewis a lot. And the oddest thing was that Lewis always appeared to listen intently.
It’s not the oddest thing . . .
Lewis listened, but the person doing the talking felt compelled . . . compelled might be too strong of a word . . . perhaps felt some manner of instinctual urge or a silent encouragement or a canine version of exhortation . . . to speak the truth.
A canine who desires honesty.
“Tell the truth,” Lewis appeared to say, “and all will be well. If not, I will be ever so disappointed.”
At least it is what Trudy imagined.
Something about his eyes . . . or his face. Hard to lie to his sweet, sweet face. He would be crushed if I lied to him.
And Trudy did not lie to Lewis. She often found herself unburdening herself to the noble and steady Lewis.
I bet Alex feels the same way.
“Alex was such a shy child, Lewis. I thought it was because he was so sick when he was small. So many operations and hospitals and doctors. I was so afraid for him. Lewis. You couldn’t know. So many scars on such a small little body.”
Wuff.
“And the truth is, Lewis, I still worry about Alex. A lot. I worry about every little thing. I worry so much. When he gets a cold or cough, I panic, Lewis. I do. We came so close to losing him when he was a baby. I couldn’t take it if something happened. So, now I worry. Lyle doesn’t seem to worry at all. He says he cares, but he doesn’t worry. So I have to worry for both of us, Lewis. It’s a lot of worrying.”
Wuff.
I’m talking to a dog, she thought. Like he understands.
“I just could not bear to lose him, Lewis. I just couldn’t bear it. I would simply die. And I’m not just saying it. I would cease to want to live. Honestly.”
Lewis did not speak but stood instead and walked to Trudy and placed his large head in her lap. He had never done it before. And then, moving only his eyes, he looked up into Trudy’s face, and he stared. It was a penetrating stare, a stare seeming to be more X-ray than normal vision.
And Trudy stared back and stroked his head . . .
And then the thought just erupted into my thoughts . . . like it came from somewhere else . . . I heard . . . “You have to trust, Trudy.” It’s exactly what I heard. It wasn’t me doing the thinking. It’s not something I would think of—it just isn’t. Trust? It’s not something coming from me. It was from someone else. Or from somewhere else. And then . . . in just the same way—another voice, another thought just entered my head, clear and almost as loud as gunshot, “God knows what He’s doing.”
Trudy stiffened a little and sat back and looked around the kitchen—as if looking for the source of the voice, the thought from somewhere else.
There was no one, no one except for her and for Lewis.
After another long moment, Lewis lifted his head from her lap and leaned back, just a little, and looked hard into her eyes. And just then, Trudy did feel a sense of peace, as if Lewis was telling her everything would be all right—no matter what was about to happen.
Trudy tried to talk, had trouble finding her voice, and then whispered, “Are you sure, Lewis? Are you sure?”
Wuff.
* * *
At 1:30, Trudy went to the pantry to get the potatoes out for tonight’s dinner.
“This is funny,” she said to herself, moving boxes around, peering up and down. “I could have sworn there was a bag of potatoes in here.”
She got down on her hands and knees and looked under the bottom shelf.
Nothing.
“Well, looks like we have to go to the store. Want to go for a ride, Lewis?”
After Trudy uttered the words “go for a . . .” Lewis had taken off like a rocket, albeit a slow rocket gradually gathering momentum, but once going, was simply a blur. He slid on the shiny wooden kitchen floor and shouldered into the back door with a furry thud, smiling, wuffing, practically prancing in a state of preride delirium.
Lewis loved going for rides.
No, it was more than love. Lewis was passionate about going for rides. Next to being with Alex, going for a ride was the absolute best, most wondrous, most thrilling thing Lewis could imagine. He literally bounced to the large and well-traveled SUV in the driveway, panting, juggling from paw to paw, looking like a smallish, furry circus elephant trying to do the fox trot.
She opened the door, and Lewis, agile for his size, launched himself into the front seat.
Once she got in and buckled, he wuffed, then looked at the closed window.
“Okay, Lewis.”
She switched the button, the window rolled down, and Lewis stuck his head out and greeted the outside with a huge St. Bernard grin, his tongue already lolling to one side, his nose wet with anticipation, his nostrils wide and eagerly sucking in as many scents as he could.
Lewis loved going for rides. Loved, loved, loved.
Trudy navigated the three miles to the market and pulled into the lot. Lewis looked disappointed. His face showed he considered the three miles as much too brief an excursion. She got out of the vehicle and locked the doors, leaving Lewis’s window open.
“You won’t let anyone steal you, will you, Lewis?”
Wuff. Wuff.
“Protect the car. I’ll only be a potato minute, okay?”
Wuff.
Within five minutes, Trudy had returned with a carton of sour cream, chives, bacon bits, and a five-pound bag of Idaho potatoes.
They all looked so good.
She could see Lewis’s head. A small crowd—well, two people—stood by the car. Trudy recognized one of them—an acquaintance who lived a few blocks away who Trudy sort of remembered meeting at a charity function.
Helen? Ellen? Helga?
“You have a wonderful dog here, Mrs. Burden. Alex brings Lewis by every so often. Such a sweet boy. And such a sweet dog.”
Trudy tossed the groceries into the backseat.
“Thank you. He is a good boy. They both are, I guess. I mean, both Alex and Lewis.”
Helen-Ellen-Helga smiled in response.
“What I would give for a dog such as this. But Myron here, well, he wouldn’t hear of it, would you?”
Myron shrugged.
“We’re retired, Mrs. Burden. A dog this size? Too big for a retired person. Helen is just dreaming. But for Alex, just right. Am I right?”
“You are indeed, Myron.”
She waved to them as she backed out, and Lewis wuffed at them twice, a smile on his face.
“You are just right, Lewis. Just right.”
6
Alex moved slowly across the freshly mown backyard, the rich, salad odor of cut grass near intoxicating, making his each step as soundless as he could, carefully placing his heel and rocking slowly forward.
His target, his intended victim, was his noble St. Bernard, Lewis. Lewis, at nine months, would keep growing for almost another year, but in height and length, he was within 80 percent of his full potential.
Lewis was big, but not truly huge. It became apparent he took after his mother, a St. Bernard of almost delicate proportions—as St. Bernards go—as if any 120-pound animal who tries to sit in your lap could be called delicate. And he was a dog who got semi-offended when the owner of said lap took umbrage with a 120-pound toddler climbing on top of his or her thighs. With fur. And nails. And often a severe case of dog breath.
From his first day with his new family, Lewis appeared to love basking in the sun, which is what he was doing as Alex slo
wly crept closer.
Alex had never once truly surprised Lewis. Every time he got close, Lewis would roll over or look up or simply wuff to let Alex know he knew where he was and was aware of his plans.
But not today, Alex thought. I think he’s asleep.
Alex took one more small step, then stepped big, almost a jump, and before anyone could blink, he had launched himself into the air, a sort of suburban, dog-attacking, self-taught ninja. His broad smile gave him away—there was not a hint of malice in his expression, just joy and abandon. Midway through Alex’s flight to Lewis, Lewis sniffed once, and in less than a heartbeat, the dog quickly lumbered over to his left side.
Alex clumped down hard on solid ground, missing Lewis by nearly a foot, and his breath escaped him with a wuff, a wuff to do a dog proud. Lewis shook his head, wuffed back at Alex, and grinned, as if to say no one sneaks up on a St. Bernard—not even when they are napping in the warm sun of a New England afternoon in late summer.
No one.
Alex knew he would try again. Just as he knew he would probably never be successful.
Can’t sneak up on a St. Bernard. Can’t do it.
Alex rolled to his side and draped his arm around Lewis’s shoulders. Lewis obviously liked being cuddled and leaned back against his young charge, wuffing almost silently, the sounds rolling deep in his throat, as if the sound was just for Alex and no one else, like heavy machinery operating somewhere in the distance, a thick, rolling wuffing sound.
“Good dog, Lewis,” Alex said.
And Lewis appeared to agree with Alex and smiled, a saintly smile.
It was then Alex felt something in his chest.
It sort of moved . . . or something.
As a four-peat operation survivor, Alex knew how to self-diagnose, even at his early age. He didn’t need to go on the Internet to type in curious symptoms. He paid close attention to what the doctors had told him. He knew what they looked for when they listened to his heart and his lungs and tapped at his chest. He had scars to remind him.
But this wasn’t like those. This was more like a hard tickle.
Lewis looked up and seemed to narrow his eyes at Alex.
Alex stared back.
After a long moment of silence between the two, Alex turned his head to the side and looked toward the house and the kitchen windows.
I know what you want, Lewis. But I can’t tell Mom yet. Tomorrow. Maybe something happened when I hit the ground. Maybe I just hurt a muscle or something. If it still hurts tomorrow, then I’ll tell her.
Lewis kept staring. His rolled wuffs sounded a bit louder.
“I know, Lewis. I know. I’ll tell her. Tomorrow, okay?”
Alex stood up and rubbed his chest.
“Okay, okay. Tomorrow. Sheesh.”
And then Alex brushed off his knees and his chest, the grass clippings snowing green, catching the sun like thin, fluttery emeralds.
Lewis stood as well. His eyes seemed to pierce Alex. And Alex did not look back at Lewis.
I can wait to tell her until tomorrow. Maybe it’s just a muscle or something. But it feels more like a tickle. It’s all it was. A tickle.
Lewis caught up with Alex as he walked toward the house. His head was now at Alex’s waist, and he bumped his hip with the side of his head, just to let Alex know he was there and would always be there.
And it was the truth.
* * *
Trudy and Lyle sat in the kitchen, after dinner, after cleaning up, after all the matters of the day were settled, and the house had drawn quiet. Trudy lifted her head and listened. She heard the water running in the upstairs bathroom. Alex often showered at night.
Then they both heard the now familiar clump-clump-clump—the sound of a large animal making his way down the steps, one step at a time, but two feet at a time, bouncing, as it were, down the carpeted steps.
It was a hesitant Lewis who descended, as if he might be afraid of tipping over headfirst. Trudy often watched as the dog paid careful attention to the placement of his feet just so and the bounce in his shoulders as he made his way to the main floor.
Then came the soft scratching of nails on wooden floors.
Trudy had insisted on rough planking for the main rooms, so even if Lewis managed to scratch the floor, no one would care—or notice.
Lewis made his way into the kitchen, sniffing, walking slowly. The only food in the room was the two cups of coffee on the table between the upholstered chairs in the alcove of the bay window, overlooking the garden and garage.
“Sorry, Lewis, no snacks tonight.”
Lewis remained standing, then stepped to Lyle, stopping when he reached Lyle’s knees. He looked up. He was not smiling. If Lyle had been asked, he would have said Lewis was staring as if he were expecting something—a word, a cookie . . . something.
Lewis was Alex’s dog first, then Trudy’s, and finally, Lyle’s. Lyle knew and understood the pecking order in Lewis’s life and was fine with it.
Dogs need an alpha male—and it’s Alex. No need to try and share the position with him.
But tonight felt different.
Lewis stood at Lyle’s knees. Lyle put his hand out and stroked the big dog’s head. Lewis tolerated it for a moment but then stepped back. This was uncharacteristic. Lewis never stopped anyone from pet-ting him.
“It will be all right, Lewis. Don’t worry,” Lyle said as he leaned forward, almost whispering.
Trudy appeared surprised.
“What?”
“I told Lewis not to worry,” Lyle said, now feeling a little foolish for having said it.
Trudy tilted her head. “Why did you say it?”
Lyle shrugged. “I don’t know . . . exactly. Lewis looked like he needed a word of encouragement.”
Trudy stared at the dog. Lewis did not look at her, just stared at Lyle.
“It will be okay, Lewis. You shouldn’t worry,” Lyle repeated.
And then, Lewis seemed to nod, retreated a few steps, circled the braided rug by the chairs three times, and lay down, his head facing the staircase in the next room, just visible through the open archway of the living room.
“How odd,” Trudy said. “Usually Lewis is the one who offers encouragement.”
“I know,” Lyle replied. “But it’s what he needed.”
Trudy looked at her husband, not sure if was simply trying to be funny, or if he meant it.
Lyle watched the dog and watched as his chest expanded and contracted, watched his eyes focused on the stairs, and wondered what in the world Lewis had to be worried about.
7
George closed the door of the small pantry in his refurbished RV. The pantry had rails on each shelf to prevent cans from sliding back and forth as the vehicle navigated sharp corners. George filled the first cabinet with canned stews, single-serving cans of soup, cans of tuna fish and chicken, instant coffee, powdered coffee creamer, a few cans of baked beans, a jar of strawberry jam, and two cans of fruit cocktail.
He looked over his accumulation of foodstuffs—all designed to remain fresh—or at least edible, probably forever, George thought.
The cabinet door latched shut with a solid click.
The evening before his maiden voyage, his first test overnight in his RV, George planned to purchase half-and-half, butter, bread, and orange juice.
His doctor, “the good doctor Beth” as he called her, said to stay away from fruit juices—“They’re just liquid sugar, George”—but George did not think he could face the morning without at least a small glass of juice, plus three cups of coffee. George never asked the doctor about coffee.
She never asked me about coffee, either. No sense in worrying her.
He selected Colonial Mast Campground and RV Park as his destination for the first trip. The campground was due north of Portland, Maine, no more 125 miles distant and most of them were freeway miles.
He pulled out a road map of Maine from a box marked “Maps” he’d brought with him from the old house.
The map was given to him, courtesy of Fred . . . “you now, the Fred who owned Fred’s Esso Station on Manchester Road”—which was now a fourteen-pump gas station and twenty-four-hour mini-mart with sixteen kinds of coffee and an entire wall of soft drinks nestling in a long bank of coolers.
George had been reminded of it when he bumped into Fred—from the no-longer-existing Esso station—while grocery shopping for his trip. Fred was ensconced in one of those electric shopping carts that stores have for those unable to make a walking circuit around the cavernous store.
“Hey, George,” Fred called as George slowly made his way down the soup and Hispanic food aisle.
George looked up and stared, not yet sure of who it was who had called him.
I don’t know anyone in a wheelchair, do I?
“It’s me. Fred. From the Esso station. I used to fix your car. You had a 1963 Buick LeSabre. Black, wasn’t it? Had trouble with the transmission.”
“Hey, Fred, how are you?” George replied. “It was indeed a Buick. A lemon, it was. Nothing but headaches.”
“Bad for you, good for me,” Fred replied, grinning, then coughing fitfully.
“Uhh . . . sorry you’re . . . you know . . . being in a wheelchair and all,” George answered, never quite sure of how to handle these interactions. His wife, Hazel . . . well, she always knew what to say and how to make people feel special. George did not have her ability, not at all.
Should I have said I’m sorry? Hazel would always know what to do.
George waited.
I miss her, he thought, then quickly banished the idea from his head.
Fred hesitated a minute, thinking, then finally grinned. “You mean this,” he said, sweeping his hand in an arc, obviously referring to his motorized shopping cart.
George shrugged in reply.
What do I say now?
“Oh, I ain’t crippled, George. Not me. I’m slow but not crippled. Bad knees, but not so bad. Too many days spent kneeling on cold concrete, changing tires. It was years before we got the hydraulic lift at the station. So, no, I can still walk. Slow, but I can get around.”
Fred motioned with his finger for George to come closer.
George did so and leaned forward.