Conversations with Saint Bernard

by Jim Kraus

  Maybe.

  49

  At the same time Irene was running from the voodoo shop on Bourbon Street, George and Lewis were driving west on Interstate 10.

  “There is nothing I want to see until we hit San Antonio. Okay, Lewis?”

  After leaving New Orleans, Lewis appeared to perk up. Maybe it had to do with the temperature and humidity, George thought, or maybe it had to do with something else altogether.

  “We’re going to San Antonio, Lewis. The Alamo. Know what the Alamo is?”

  Lewis looked over to George and wuffed.

  “Just the symbol of Texas, is all. And it was a great movie with John Wayne.”

  Lewis remained silent.

  “Yes, I know. No one knows who John Wayne is anymore. Used to be all kinds of old movies shown on TV to fill up the empty spaces between real programs. Now everyone watches what they want, anytime they want. Hardly any old movies on anywhere.”

  Lewis must have heard this opinion before because as George was speaking, he simply lay down on the front seat and closed his eyes.

  “So, today, we’ll get to the west side of Houston and stop. If it is still as hot as it was, we’ll go to a hotel. If it cools down, we’ll look for an RV park. Okay?”

  Lewis almost wuffed but instead offered a most muffled reply, like a wuff passing through a pillow.

  * * *

  George opted again for a hotel, an all-suites hotel again, with a powerful air-conditioning unit.

  This time he was proactive in presenting Lewis. When George got to the front desk, he announced to the young man behind the counter he was traveling with his service dog—a therapy dog—and inquired if they had a designated room for such arrangements.

  “We do, sir. And we are happy to accommodate our guests with special needs.”

  In the evening, in the cool of the hotel room, after bringing in dinner from a fast food restaurant, George also brought in all his sketchbooks—fifteen in total, so far.

  Using a white paint pen, he marked the cover of each one with the cities and locations included inside and added the dates they were visited and then numbered the books, starting with number one from Towanda, Pennsylvania.

  He tucked them all into a box he had brought along to fit them exactly. He figured he had room for one, perhaps two more books.

  “It will be plenty,” George said as he slipped them into the wooden box carefully and in order. “The Alamo. Maybe the River Walk there. A cable car in San Francisco. Maybe the street always photographed with the row of Victorians. Maybe Alcatraz. And the Golden Gate Bridge, for sure. And a couple of spots along the coast. And then I’ll be done.”

  Lewis had not been paying attention. He had eaten his kibble plus a plain hamburger patty from Smashburger and was now nodding off on the floor, snoring quietly.

  “These will be something for Tess to remember me by.”

  He closed the lid and latched it.

  “It will have to be enough.”

  * * *

  George stood on the street in front of the Alamo.

  “Looks just like the one in the movie.”

  Lewis looked at the building, then up at George, and wuffed politely, as if he felt the need to respond but was not sure of exactly what he was responding to.

  A low scud of clouds hovered above, and the weatherman had promised afternoon rain, but the morning had been predicted to be dry. A chilled wind blew in from the west, causing small eddies and swirls of dust to dance in the streets and along the sidewalks.

  George found a bench a short distance from the entrance, and Lewis knew the drill. He found a spot to sit and began watching the few people who passed by, as George took out his pens and pad.

  “Over 250 years ago, Lewis, is when the battle was,” George said as he began sketching. The building was not ornate or large or architecturally significant, but few other structures in America held as much mystique and history as did this one mission.

  George shaded the sky gray above and drew the few trees bent slightly because of the wind. After all these months, he felt more and more confident with his ability and technique.

  “I think it is odd, Lewis, we are sitting here, in peace and quiet, at the exact spot where perhaps one thousand men perished. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  Lewis wuffed softly. Like Gettysburg, this location brought Lewis to a more somber, quiet place. Normally, he would dance and smile and wuff as people came by, asking, in his own way, to be paid attention to. He did none of it this morning. He sat, quietly and solidly, just by George.

  As they both pondered the solemnity of this place, the front doors of the mission opened and a small group of young men came out, all wearing long brown frocks and some sort of rope belt, with hoods on the robe left folded to their backs.

  Lewis looked over and then back to George. He did it often when he was confused.

  “They’re monks, Lewis. I think they’re monks. Like a priest or pastor. Only more strict. I think.”

  They smiled and talked among themselves and walked down the sidewalk toward George and Lewis, and when they got to Lewis, they all stopped as a group, and two of them knelt down near Lewis.

  “Good dog,” one of them said.

  “His name is Lewis.”

  “Lewis, you are a good dog,” the other said, his words carrying a definite Texas twang to them.

  Ask questions . . .

  “I take it you are monks,” George said. “Forgive me if I’m wrong . . . but I don’t think I have ever met a monk before.”

  “Novice monks,” the one with the Texas accent stated.

  “From up at the Holy Archangel Monastery in Spring Branch,” the other said. “A bunch of us—well, the rest of this group here—had never been to the Alamo before. As loyal Texans we felt obligated to show them the true Shrine of Texas.”

  The rest of the group murmured a bit, none of which George understood.

  “Foreigners, mostly,” the first said. “Me and Brother Thomas are the only Texans in the entire novice class. I say if you’re here to serve mankind, you have to understand where you are now. And what better place to start than the Alamo—if you’re in Texas.”

  George thought by now he would be used to meeting the odd and curious people, drawn to him because of Lewis, but it was apparent he was not.

  “What’s the inside like?” George asked. “Inside the mission. Dogs aren’t allowed.”

  “Well, then, let us serve you a little today. You go inside. I noticed you drawing. Please, take your time and draw the inside of the mission. Your good dog Lewis will be in the capable hands of seven novice monks—two of whom are Texas-born and bred and know something about big—in dogs, as well as states.”

  George had become accustomed to the curious help he often received from strangers.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind? You sure you have the time?”

  “A monk’s time is God’s time. If we can serve you in some small way, it is our pleasure, and God’s pleasure, to do so. Now go in and draw, y’all.”

  George looked at Lewis.

  “Lewis—no trying to convert these nice young men, okay?”

  Lewis wuffed, obviously enjoying the attention.

  And George hurried inside the dark and close interior of the mission.

  * * *

  “He’ll stop at San Antonio. I would. The Alamo. He would have to draw it. It was on his list.”

  Irene was piloting her van along the interstate, growing tired of having to struggle against a persistent westerly wind.

  “Other vans are bigger,” she said once, “but this one is lighter than most. The wind just shoves it around.”

  The more miles Irene placed between her and the blackness she had felt out front of the voodoo shop in New Orleans, the better she felt.

  “Never experienced anything like it before,” she said to herself. “All my years. Never. It was as real as this wind. Maybe you can’t see it, but I sure as heck felt it.”


  She gripped the steering wheel harder than needed.

  “Maybe all the God stuff Eleanor and Douglas always talk about is playing tricks on me.”

  And two miles down the road and she thought, “No, maybe I’m just ready to hear what they have been saying.”

  She saw the sign reading SAN ANTONIO 225 miles.

  “And maybe the Alamo will lead me to the truth they always talk about.”

  And she wanted to add, “But I doubt it,” but she did not.

  * * *

  Inside the Alamo was dark and quiet and somber, plain, unadorned, and simple.

  Subdued light filtered through two large windows on the south side. George slowly walked in the dim light, trying to see if there was a vantage point to present a good spot for a sketch. But the simple nature of the inside of the mission did not present many opportunities. A brace of flags flew at one end, representing the countries from which the defenders had hailed.

  George stopped and stood and closed his eyes for a moment.

  People died here—for what they believed in—for what they saw as the truth. It was a fool’s mission. They knew their fate. They had to.

  In the end, after a long while, George decided against drawing anything in the interior.

  The space is too sacred for me trying to capture it.

  He came out and saw several people surrounding the group of monks, chatting away, Lewis in the center of it all, as usually occurred.

  When George came up, the Texas monk called to him.

  “We have to get one of these Lewis dogs. We have never talked to so many people before. Lewis is the best introducer I have ever seen.”

  “He does have a talent,” George said. “And I appreciate you watching over him while I was inside.”

  “It was our pleasure, sir. You should enjoy this life. It’s all we have here on earth. Enjoy what God gave us. Live our lives to the fullest. And serve God by serving man. Simple, right?”

  George waved to them as they departed, their robes sweeping along the dusty sidewalk. Lewis wuffed at them as they departed, then looked up at George and wuffed again.

  “I know, Lewis. I know. You want me to ‘get’ it. But I don’t think I can.”

  50

  In the late afternoon, Irene saw the first sign indicating her distance from San Antonio.

  “Only some two hundred miles. I can do it by dark.”

  He has to stop there for sure. And I’m sure I’m not far behind him. I know this is a fool’s mission—trying to catch him on the road. A needle in a haystack, for certain.

  She snapped off the radio, which only received AM frequencies, because she had grown tired of tuning and retuning to keep a station clear. Her efforts only seemed to last ten miles or so before the static began to build and the words became unintelligible.

  I’ll spend the night in San Antonio and get to the Alamo at first light. If he’s there, he would be there early.

  * * *

  George looked on his tablet, querying sites around San Antonio. There were many, but none of them intrigued him enough to stay an extra day.

  “We’ll leave tomorrow morning, Lewis. Okay with you?”

  Wuff.

  “And then we’ll head straight for the Grand Canyon. Since it is so far off-season, maybe it won’t be crowded.”

  Wuff.

  “I know you like crowds, Lewis. But I don’t.”

  Wuff.

  “It will be a long drive, Lewis. You okay with it?”

  Wuff. Wuff.

  “The tablet says it will take twenty-two hours. A long drive. Probably three days. We’ll stop a few times. If the weather stays warm, we’ll do RV parks. If it gets cold, we may do hotels. You mind hotels, Lewis?”

  Wuff.

  “Good. Just don’t blow our therapy dog cover.”

  Wuff.

  * * *

  The skies remained dark and overcast as Irene puttered into a parking lot just a block from the Alamo.

  “I’m not even sure if the Denny’s are open now, it’s early.”

  She locked the car and walked over to the front of the Alamo.

  “9:00? What am I going to do for . . .”

  She looked at her wristwatch.

  “. . . for two hours?”

  She looked around, trying to get her bearings. She walked west, toward a group of tall buildings. She saw a Marriot sign on one of them.

  “I can get coffee there for sure and wait in the lobby.”

  Two blocks west, she did indeed find the hotel and the lobby coffee shop open for business. She ordered a large coffee with extra cream and sugar and found an empty corner of the lobby and sat and began her two-hour vigil.

  * * *

  George found the route through Texas on the interstate a bit boring, as is the case with most interstates.

  “You think they could find something interesting out here, Lewis.”

  Today, Lewis was asleep in the back of the RV, on the floor. He tried sleeping on the couch once, but a sudden stop rolled him to the floor with an embarrassing thud, and he would not climb back up while the RV was in motion. George listened for Lewis’s wuff of agreement but instead only heard his soft adenoidal snoring.

  “I suppose the civil engineers planned it this way. Interesting views are probably more expensive, so why not build the road where no one is and no one wants to go—except through it.”

  Before leaving, he penciled out his route, with stops in Lubbock, Albuquerque, and somewhere around the Grand Canyon. He would still have to drive some eight hours a day, not his preferred mode of traveling, but if he wanted to get to San Juan Island on time, there would be no drawing stops, other than the few he had planned for on the West Coast.

  “So, we’ll just have to drive harder, Lewis.”

  Oh, I forgot. He’s sleeping.

  He looked out at the vast, empty plains.

  And perchance to dream.

  * * *

  At 8:45, Irene stood up, took her now empty coffee cup back to the coffee shop, and headed back to the Alamo. The sky remained overcast and gloomy, the sun barely apparent through the thickness of cloud.

  “Fits my mood, just fine,” Irene muttered to herself.

  She arrived at the western side of the mission just as a park ranger was unlocking the massive wooden door.

  “Good morning, ma’am. You’re our first visitor today.”

  She offered him a weak smile in return.

  She had not noticed any black RVs in the area, nor had seen George or Lewis camped outside, drawing.

  Maybe I missed them again. No. I did miss them again.

  She walked inside, her footsteps echoing in the empty space, echoing against the simple masonry and stucco-covered walls.

  “There’s not much to see in here, is there?”

  She saw a bench on one side, and since she was the only person inside, she sat down and looked up.

  “Where’s the cross? Isn’t there supposed to be a cross in here?”

  I’ll bet Eleanor and Douglas would expect a cross in a church building.

  The door opened and a single person came in—an old man, with a cane, walking slowly.

  Maybe since it was a fort back then, in the Alamo days, maybe they didn’t have a cross back then.

  The man walked past her and smiled and nodded his head.

  “Sacred spaces . . .” was all he said and continued walking.

  Sacred spaces?

  Irene tried to calm her inner voices. Her tension had been building inside, ever since she left Charleston, ever since Eleanor had spoken of forgiveness and guilt, ever since some sort of near-cold spark had been rekindled. She realized now she was searching. And she was not sure exactly what she was searching for. George and Lewis, for one—for sure—but there was something else now. Perhaps it had always been, Irene thought, but the spark had now become a flame—an uncomfortable flame.

  A flame she wanted extinguished—one way or the other.

  What do you
want from me, God? What do you want?

  She looked around, as if her thoughts had somehow been sounded out loud and had filled the quiet space. The old man did not stop or turn back to her.

  What do you want?

  She closed her eyes.

  Okay. I admit I am lost. I can do it. It’s obvious, right? Is this what you want? Eleanor said admitting one’s weakness was the start. Is this it?

  All the words that Eleanor and Douglas had shared with her over the years came bubbling back into her consciousness.

  Okay. I’m lost. It’s easy.

  She took a deep breath.

  Maybe this is the question I need to ask.

  She held her breath.

  Can you find me? Even now? After all this time?

  From outside, from the dark sky, from above, came a soft roll of thunder, slowly building upon itself until it filled the entire sky, as it were, like a freight train moving fast across the universe above.

  Okay, okay, I hear you.

  Then a strike of lightning lit up the southern sky, and the flash ghosted against the windows of the mission.

  Can you forgive me? It’s the question I don’t want to ask because I am afraid of the answer.

  Another roll of thunder twisted across the area.

  Under her heart, deep inside, came a gentle uncoiling, a gentle rebirthing. She gasped at the feeling, like a fish coming into the air for the first time—only this fish found it could actually live in the land of the air-breathers. She opened her eyes.

  You don’t do things in a small way, do you?

  And as she sat there, with the sound of rain pattering on the roof, she felt the weight slowly edge off her shoulders and edge off her heart.

  It has been decades since she had felt totally unburdened.

  And now, it was happening, life a flower opening, like a butterfly unfurling its wings, like a woman waking from a deep sleep, blinking her eyes to a new reality . . .

  Is this what forgiveness feels like?

  A lightning strike flashed again, with a roll of thunder as an echo.

  She looked up and, perhaps for the first time in years, smiled, an honest smile.

  Okay. Okay. Please forgive me.

  Please.

  51

  In Lubbock, they stayed at an all-suites hotel again. The larger room sizes suited Lewis well.