by Jim Kraus
“I simply pay attention, Mr. Gibson. I will call for tea—and coffee.”
* * *
The silver tea set, plus a silver coffeepot, glistened in the pale afternoon sun, only a few shafts of direct sunlight coming through the south-facing windows. The service appeared old and, most likely, valuable—very valuable.
Eleanor busied herself with pouring and serving and then offering a delicate tea cookie to Lewis.
George took a seat on the leather couch just by the coffee table. Lewis took up his position between his hostess and George, staring at them with hungry but polite eyes.
They all heard the snaffling sound of a dog carefully approaching the room, paws sounding and clacking on the polished hardwood.
“Oh, please, do come in, Burby. I have already fed Lewis. He will not eat you.”
Burby peered around the end of the couch. Keeping his eyes fixed on Lewis, in case of sudden attack moves, he slunk toward Mrs. Parker and then jumped into her lap.
“Good Burby,” she said, petting him. “I understand from Irene that their first meeting did not go smoothly.”
George looked over to Lewis and gave him a stern look, tempered with a smile.
“I think the juxtaposition of large and small was intimidating.”
“Completely understandable. Burby was supposed to be . . . well, he is a miniature schnauzer. But he is a most miniature, miniature schnauzer. The breeder said he was destined to be the runt of the litter, and even she was surprised to see how small he has remained. But he is a tender soul. Just not the feisty dog Douglas assumed him destined to be.”
Eleanor took a sip of tea, from a bone-white china cup, delicate and antique. George must have been watching.
“Yes, the cup is old, Mr. Gibson. Produced in England just after the war, actually,” she said. “The great war of secession, you know.”
George smiled.
“I have never traveled in the South, Mrs. Parker, but I can see history is more alive in some places than others.”
“And I have found living among old things is a dead experience, unless you make use of them. No sense in storing the ‘good china’ away. But please, if you run across my mother-in-law, you must not tell her I am serving cookies to dogs from her wedding china.”
They both laughed, but George wasn’t sure if he was in on the joke.
Lewis stood up and walked carefully to Mrs. Parker. Burby noticed immediately and stood, adjusting himself to the unevenness of Eleanor’s lap. Lewis stopped a few inches short and sniffed and appeared to be smiling, in a most calm, conciliatory manner. Burby leaned back, then slowly forward, his front paws trembling just a little. After a moment, Lewis snorted, Burby almost fell off Eleanor’s lap, and Lewis, now satisfied, sat back down and stared up at Eleanor, since George was not forthcoming with any cookies at all.
“I know, Lewis. I am the soft touch in the room. It has always been this way.”
She broke a cookie in half and gave the slightly smaller half to Lewis, the other to Burby. Lewis simply swallowed. Burby chewed for a long time.
Obviously, both enjoyed the treat.
“Irene tells me you are drawing your way across America, Mr. Gibson.”
“I am, sort of,” George replied and explained a little of what he and Lewis had been doing for the last several months.
“It sounds so delightful. It is something Douglas would have loved to do. If he could draw. Which he could not.”
George sipped at his coffee. He reminded himself again to ask whoever was responsible for the coffee for the brand or the process. It was among the two or three most delicious cups of coffee he had ever tasted.
“Irene said Douglas was an engineer. Most engineers have some drawing in them. Straight lines, anyhow.”
Eleanor smiled.
“Douglas was a chemical engineer. Less drawing there, than most. And soon enough, he started his own consulting firm. Then, no drawing at all, just managing and selling.”
Lewis and Burby busied themselves with staring intently at Eleanor and then to the neatly stacked cookies on the silver tray on the coffee table.
“And then, well, he was diagnosed, and any chance of drawing . . . or traveling . . . vanished.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Parker. My wife . . . she passed on several years ago. She shared the same diagnosis as your husband.”
“Irene let me know. So I would not be surprised, I think. A Southern gentlewoman attempts never to be surprised. And Mr. Gibson, I do feel sympathy for your loss—as well as your long travail.”
Outside, in the harbor, a ship, a large container ship, slowly headed out to sea. George heard the horns and bells as it slipped closer to the open waters.
“It is an active harbor. But a ship laden with trailers simply does not have the same mystery, or panache, of a traditional sailing vessel, don’t you think, Mr. Gibson?”
“I do. Living in Gloucester since I was a child, I still remember the mystery of a closed ship steaming into port. When a ship still looked like a ship.”
Each dog got another half of a tea cookie. Burby appeared nearly sated. Lewis, well, Lewis—not so much.
“Mrs. Parker, I do not want to appear inquisitive.”
Eleanor smiled.
“Irene said you were related. I think it’s what she said. I guess I’m curious as to how.”
“Then it is not inquisitive, Mr. Gibson. Inquisitive is asking about a lady’s age or weight. Relatives . . . should be an open book. And Irene is my sister-in-law. Or was. I’m not sure of the etiquette and proper terminology involved.”
George nodded.
“My younger brother was her first husband. Many years ago.”
George held his coffee cup and wondered if he should pour a third cup of coffee.
“He perished from the results of a car accident.”
George did pour his third cup.
“They had been drinking. Irene and my baby brother.”
George sipped quietly. He did not ask for the information, he did not solicit it, but also he did not want to interrupt his hostess. She seemed to want to open this page of this book.
It is the intimacy of strangers. The mystery of sharing without foreknowledge.
“He crashed the car into a utility pole. And was paralyzed from the neck down. A tragedy for all concerned.”
George watched as Lewis ate another half cookie.
“Irene gave everything up to care for him. He lived for two more years. She was with him every moment of every day. She had to do everything for him. Everything.”
Eleanor put down her teacup and looked out toward the harbor. The ship had slipped from view.
“Now, we see her every year or so.”
Eleanor picked up a cookie crumb from her lap and placed it on the tray.
“You are on a journey, just like Irene, it seems. She feels guilty, after all these years, after us offering complete forgiveness to her, yet she still harbors guilt. I can see it in her eyes, Mr. Gibson.”
She reached over and patted Lewis on the head. He offered a soft wuff in response.
“Lewis wants to hear the truth, doesn’t he, Mr. Gibson?”
“He seems to.”
“Dogs and I seem to have a bond.”
She drew in a deep breath.
“Irene appears to be on a journey to find forgiveness. To find peace. I have told her what she seeks is not on the road. It is inside.”
Eleanor tapped at her heart.
“It is inside, Mr. Gibson. Only through faith can you find forgiveness.”
Lewis wuffed and stood and placed his right paw on her arm. Burby snarled softly, theatrically, but remained on Eleanor’s lap.
“Only through faith, Mr. Gibson.”
Lewis looked up at Eleanor, then over to George, with a look approaching pleading.
Then Eleanor stroked his head.
“Lewis, I must change for dinner. We will dine at six, Mr. Gibson. And I am not dressing up—I am slipping into a c
omfortable pair of old jeans. The setting may be formal, Mr. Gibson, but it does not mean I must be.”
42
Nearly two weeks had passed, and George had filled an entire sketchbook with drawings using Charleston and the city environs as his models. He and Lewis took the scooter up and along the waterfront, sketching ships and smaller pleasure craft. He and Lewis walked in the historic district and sketched out dozens of the old stately homes dotting the area. The two of them scootered outside the city and sketched the view from Patriot’s Point and Fort Moultrie and the USS Yorktown and the seashore on the Isle of Palms and dozens of other small and large sites. Lewis seemed to love the salt tang in the air and would hold his mouth open as George piloted the scooter, as if to consume the scent and aroma of the nearby sea.
Wherever the pair of them went, people would stop and talk and pet Lewis and tell George details of the lives—more details than George wanted to hear, but details nonetheless.
While staying in Charleston, while in the Parkers’ massive guest bedroom—one of several, which was at least twice as large than their entire RV—George’s troubling dreams seemed to have abated. Even Lewis slept better as a result of George’s calmer sleep habits.
Both Eleanor and Douglas appeared to thrive on having company. Some of their evenings were spent playing board games or bridge while Burby pretended to stalk his elusive prey, the lumbering Lewis.
Lewis, with his genial nature, played along with the small dog and did not even seem to mind the high-pitched yapping as he mock-attacked.
One afternoon, Irene made a special request of George.
“The park down the street. The small one with the fountain. The one on the water . . . could you do a drawing of it? For me?”
George quickly agreed.
“But . . . I want to be in the drawing. With Lewis. Could you do it?”
George wanted to say no but did not.
“I can. I’m not good with people. And I’m not sure if I can do justice to Lewis, either. But if you want, I’ll try.”
Irene beamed.
“I would like for you to.”
So in the afternoon, the three of them walked the few blocks to the park. Irene arranged herself in a bench near the fountain. George instructed Lewis to sit beside her. He set up his chair several dozen feet away and began sketching. Lewis got up several times and hurried to George’s side, and each time, George would walk him back to Irene and instruct him again to stay put.
Obviously, Lewis was unsure of the meaning of “stay put.”
As he drew both Lewis and Irene, George surprised himself with the fluidity of their drawn images.
I never thought I could do this. I never thought I could draw people.
When he showed his finished work to Irene, she examined it closely, then looked up at George, obviously touched by his work.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice almost cracking. “It has been a long time since someone caught who I was. Inside.”
Lewis sniffed at the drawing and looked up at George, a bit confused.
In the picture, with just a few pen strokes, George had captured her facial expression—something between hope and despair, something between joy and sorrow, an emotion on the cusp, as it were, with neither the positive nor the negative dominating.
* * *
The following morning, at breakfast, usually served in the bright solarium on the third floor, Douglas set down his coffee cup, his hands only shaking a little this day. He carefully used his napkin and then turned to face George.
“I have a favor to ask you, George.”
“Whatever, Douglas. I owe you for letting Lewis and I stay with you. I never would have captured so much of this city had we been here on our own.”
“Then I am glad. This morning, I think my favor is a simple matter.”
Douglas drew in a deep breath. George had estimated the stage of Douglas’s disease by recalling the progression of labored breaths during the last days of his wife’s life. As her end grew near, each breath became a harder and harder commodity to purchase. Douglas had appeared to steel himself before breathing in—especially when he chose to speak above a whisper.
George surmised he had months, rather than years.
“I would like to go for a scooter ride, George.”
George responded with a quizzical look.
“A scooter ride?”
“Yes,” Douglas said, his voice soft again. “In your scooter. I see Lewis sit there and . . . enjoy himself. I want to feel the wind again.”
George knew the pain Douglas must face and knew how hard it was to simply move from one room to another. Again, he had experienced all of the pain and watched all of the pain reflected in his wife’s face all those years ago. Once you see it, George said to himself, the feeling never leaves you.
“Are you sure, Douglas? Are you up to it?”
George wanted no part of adding to anyone’s pain or discomfort.
Douglas looked over at his wife, then to George.
“If it kills me, would it be so bad?”
George’s face must have shown his surprise, or shock, or dismay.
“I am joking, George. I assure you I do not have a death wish.”
George struggled to find a cogent reply.
Douglas drew in a deep breath.
“George, if I wanted to end things, pitching myself off a third-floor balcony would do it nicely. And even I could accomplish it. Slowly, perhaps, but it could be done. Yet it is something I would not do. So take courage, my friend. Take courage.”
He slumped a bit after finishing the statement.
“But this is true: I am closer to contentment than I have ever been.”
Eleanor remained silent, then stood. She looked every bit as elegant as always, even wearing jeans and a starched white blouse.
“Would it be acceptable with you, George? To take Douglas for a ride? He has spoken of little else for the last several days.”
“Sure. I mean . . . I guess so. If it’s okay with the both of you . . .”
Eleanor brightened.
“Splendid. I shall call for Tony. He will assist Douglas in getting into the sidecar.”
Lewis wuffed softly from behind them. Burby growled whenever Lewis spoke.
“Lewis,” George said. “You will have to stay here and guard the house, okay?”
Lewis appeared perplexed. George had never taken the scooter without taking Lewis.
It took some delicate maneuvering on Tony’s part, but soon enough, Douglas was seated in the sidecar.
“No helmet, George. I want to feel the wind.”
George started the scooter and carefully pulled away from the curb. He could hear Lewis inside the house, at the large windows on the first floor, wuffing and yelping, calling George back to pick up his regular passenger.
“A devoted dog you have there, George.”
George nodded. He had not told them much of how he and Lewis had come to travel together, and like the Southern aristocrats of old, they refrained from asking a single additional question about the subject, sensing their guest’s reluctance.
There is no reason not to tell them . . . but somehow, I wanted to keep it private. I want them to think I wanted to travel with Lewis—not as though he was thrust upon me. It does not sound noble.
George drove along the waterfront and headed toward the easternmost point of the city—the White Point Gardens, framed by the Ashley and Cooper rivers. He continued on Murray Boulevard and then returned into the historic district.
All the while, Douglas held on the padded edge of the sidecar and grinned. George could see he wanted to wave at people he passed but was too weak to let go and raise his hand in greeting.
After thirty minutes of touring the downtown area, George pulled over.
“Where else?”
“Back to the gardens at the bottom of town,” Douglas said. George had to lean close to hear him. “If you have the time.”
George head
ed toward the point and stopped at the edge of the park, the greenery and flowers, full and lush, almost glistening in the afternoon humidity.
“I love this town, George. Despite the heat and oppressive humidity, I still love it.”
“I can understand why. It is a remarkably beautiful place.”
Douglas stared out toward the water.
“I am having a wonderful time, Douglas.”
George turned the motor off. The engine clicked and popped as it cooled.
“You seem to always be happy, Douglas. How do you do it?”
“What is the alternative, George? To be miserable? I had a wise uncle, who drank himself to an early grave, but no matter, and he said if you spend your days complaining, you will get the miserable life you deserve.”
Douglas slumped an inch or two after speaking for so long. But the color in his cheeks was good, more pink and robust than George had noticed during the last two weeks.
“George, we all wear masks sometimes. But this is not a mask. I am happy.”
George got off the scooter and walked to the other side so he could sit on the curb and more easily talk to his passenger.
“But why? You are living with a death sentence. What you have killed my wife.”
“I heard, George, and you have my deepest sympathies. It must have been a trial to endure it with her.”
“It was, but what makes your experience different?”
“Did your wife have faith?”
George looked away.
“She did. But can anyone be totally sure?”
“With faith, yes. I know where I shall spend eternity. Makes this pain simply a temporary thing.”
George stood up. His knees popped in protest.
“But aren’t . . . you know . . . aren’t ‘His followers’ supposed to be spared pain? Doesn’t the Bible say so? Maybe not the no-pain part, but the no-sadness part? ‘I will give you rest.’ Right? I’m right, aren’t I?”
Douglas worked at screwing his face into a lemon.
“George, life cannot be easy. The Bible promises us we will suffer. And even without faith, a man’s life without care . . . would be boring and stagnant. One cannot have contentment and peace without having tasted pain and defeat.”
George turned away and stared out through the trees to the water beyond.