Conversations with Saint Bernard

by Jim Kraus

  “I don’t want to make my bed in the morning, okay? Simple.”

  Lewis liked sleeping on the other side of a big, soft hotel bed.

  A few hours and a few hundred miles west of Albuquerque, they did the same thing, finding the same brand of hotel within a stone’s throw off the interstate. Lewis appeared to be getting in practice sitting in front of the reception desk, looking genial and mildly therapeutic. No one seemed to register any note of concern or asked if St. Bernards were often used as therapy dogs.

  “It’s like at the movies or McDonald’s: no one wants to ask impertinent questions—like asking to see your ID to prove you’re a senior citizen. Besides, Lewis, every hotel staff we have met so far were no older than twenty, and to them, everyone my age looks ancient. And I guess I have a trustworthy face.”

  Lewis would smile at this—having heard it before, several times—and wuff appreciatively.

  From west of Albuquerque, George set a course to the Grand Canyon, directly. He thought about stopping in Phoenix and seeing his daughter but was afraid that might weaken his resolve. He did not want that to happen.

  “Only eight hours, Lewis. And then we’re there.”

  Lewis snorted, just a little.

  “Okay. Eight hours to the hotel. But it claimed it was only forty-five minutes from the canyon. Not too bad.”

  Wuff.

  * * *

  George woke feeling fairly miserable. His head hurt and his sinuses hurt, and he wondered if he were coming down with something potent.

  “Maybe it’s the dry heat in these places. Back home, in Gloucester, it is always sort of damp. Not like out here in the desert. Maybe it’s just—too dry.”

  Lewis snorted, then he did it again, three more times.

  “Maybe we both have it, Lewis. Wonder if there is a human and animal urgent care place combination around here.”

  Lewis looked up, a hopeful expression on his face.

  “Lewis, I don’t think such a thing exists.”

  George took three aspirin at breakfast and left the bottle out in the front of the RV, just in case. He only managed two cups of coffee and a single piece of toast.

  “Maybe I’ll feel better when we get to the actual canyon.”

  * * *

  Irene looked at the road atlas she’d purchased at a Shell station on the outskirts of San Antonio. Up until this moment, she had never once used a map; instead, relying on road signs and directions given to her by friends.

  Now she needed knowledge of the most direct route.

  She found San Antonio, then had to flip to several pages.

  “Good grief, that’s far. I forgot about New Mexico being there.”

  She went back inside to get a fresh cup of coffee.

  “Ever drive to the Grand Canyon?” she asked the older woman who sat on a tall bar stool behind the counter.

  “Nope. Not much of a nature lover, I’m afraid. But it’s a pretty far poke. Couple of days, anyhow.”

  “Ye gads. I thought I was closer.”

  “Gotta remember only the south side of the canyon is open. My son went a couple of years back. He liked it. But then he likes lots of strange things. The south side is where the Indians built the glass bridge out over the edge. I saw pitchers of it. Wouldn’t set foot on it for all the oil in Texas, I tell you.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  Irene puttered out of the station.

  A couple of days. I wonder if I could do what I did when I was in college and just do a straight drive with no stops.

  She considered the effort for a moment.

  Naw. I couldn’t. Not anymore. But maybe two days instead of three. Maybe.

  * * *

  George felt no better when he pulled into the parking area of the Grand Canyon. He looked out and saw more than twenty tour buses.

  “I don’t know, Lewis. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  Lewis stared outside.

  “And I don’t feel up to drawing anything today.”

  He pulled to the side of the road. He could see the rim of the canyon from where he sat.

  “It is overcast. And it looks like rain.”

  George put the flashers on in the RV and walked quickly to the path along the southern rim of the canyon. He looked out for a moment or two, then hurried back to the RV.

  “Lewis, it is impressive, but I don’t think I feel up to drawing anything today. And there are just too many buses here.”

  Lewis all but shrugged in reply.

  “Let’s just head to California. It will be warmer there. And sunny.”

  Wuff.

  * * *

  Irene had never felt so bedraggled as she did when she pulled into the vast parking lot of the Grand Canyon visitor center. The signs had encouraged everyone to park further away and take the complimentary shuttle bus to the rim, but traffic was light, and Irene figured she would be able to find a parking spot.

  She cruised through several lots, looking for George’s black RV. Then she parked in a lot close to the center, switched off the engine and let out a huge breath.

  “I am so tired of driving. How do truck drivers do it?”

  She got out, stretched several times, bending to the left and right, hearing the muscles or the joints or the ligaments in her back snapping and cracking and complaining.

  “He’s not here.”

  She walked toward the center, toward the facilities and coffee and maybe a couple of candy bars.

  “I’ve eaten more terrible food the last four days than I have in the last four years.”

  She sat with a cup of coffee and stared out at the groups of people following their tour guides, like sheep following a shepherd.

  I know the odds of finding him on the road were so remote. I know. But I had to try. And I had to go this direction anyhow. To get to San Juan. Maybe I’ll get to California and simply head north through the center of the state. It would be faster and then I could rest and recuperate on the island—and wait for him there.

  As she pondered her next move, she slowly unwrapped a value-sized Snickers bar and chewed it thoughtfully, not tasting its innate goodness nor feeling the slogan written on the wrapper: “Snickers. Satisfies.”

  * * *

  George pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel del Coronado. Usually, while parking, or getting close, George would explain to Lewis why the specific spot was noteworthy or historic. Today, he did not. He simply drove in and parked.

  Lewis got out, sniffed at the air.

  “Salt in the air, Lewis. Like back home. Where Alex lives. Remember?”

  Then, Lewis seemed to become much more animated, aware. He looked to the west, then offered his sedate St. Bernard dance, back and forth, left and right.

  “Yes, the ocean over there, Lewis. But first, I’m going to draw the main building. Then we’ll look at the beach, okay?”

  Lewis wuffed happily.

  George set up his chair on the far side of the circular drive by the main building, with its famous conical roof and windows circling the cone, and topped with a circular widow’s walk. It was a complex building, with lots of intricate detail. In the sun, in the sea air, with the desert behind them, George felt much better. His sinuses, if they had been the problem, seemed to be functioning as designed. His headache had left somewhere in the middle of the drive to California.

  Meant to live at sea level, I guess.

  It took George nearly two hours to finish the drawing. Of course, the palm trees and the various additions and wings to the original structure added time and complexity.

  He sighed deeply when it was finished.

  He stowed the drawing back in the RV and took Lewis toward the beach. When he got closer, he could see that the majority of the area by the hotel had been fenced off. The signs on the fences read: BEACH ACCESS FOR HOTEL GUESTS ONLY.

  In small print, underneath the warning were the following words: Public Access at Coronado Central Beach. Violators will be prosecuted.
<
br />   “Well, Lewis. I guess no walking in the surf today. Maybe later, okay?”

  Lewis appeared confused.

  “I know, Lewis. It doesn’t make sense. But we’ll get you to a beach soon enough.”

  * * *

  Irene took out the map for California and attempted to get her bearings.

  Too many freeways and way too many numbers.

  She traced the route with her finger.

  There. Up the middle of the state. Interstate 5. It will get me north as fast as anything else.

  She pulled back into traffic and began her watch for road signs bearing the number five.

  I’m tired of thinking I just missed him. This way I can simply wait for him.

  She pulled even with a Mack truck, the van shuddering just a little from the turbulence.

  If he is still going to where he said he was going. The island is sixty square miles with a half dozen campgrounds and RV parks and just about as many hotels and B&Bs. I can do a circle every day if I have to. Or wait by the ferry docks. I’ll find him. I will.

  52

  George found an RV park near Candlestick stadium. It was a longish drive into town on the scooter, but it was as close as George could get.

  “Hotels in a big city are very expensive, Lewis. And I bet they are fussier about therapy dogs. This will work out fine. We’ll drive in on the side streets. Okay?”

  Lewis seemed to understand they were settling in one place for a couple of nights, and it appeared to make him happy.

  Driving the scooter around San Francisco proved not to be the novelty it was in other locales. It appeared as if the local population were more than used to St. Bernards in sidecars, wearing helmet and goggles or not. As they scootered toward downtown, hardly a soul turned to give them a second glance.

  A few did, and it made Lewis happy. If someone yelled “Hello” or waved, Lewis took it upon himself to wuff back, in return, smiling as best he could with his headwear in place.

  George found several locations he deemed sketch worthy: Alcatraz from Fisherman’s Wharf, a pier laden with sunning sea lions, a cable car, Coit Tower, the Painted Ladies (the series of colorful side-by-side Victorians), the Palace of the Legion of Honor, Lombard Street, and the Transamerica Pyramid Building (which he did not like but found worthy of a quick sketch, nonetheless).

  Of all of them, Lewis appeared to enjoy the sea lions the most. The aquatic animals barked and wuffed as they flopped and lounged on the piers, and Lewis felt obligated to wuff back at them. A few of them looked up, perhaps weary at being shouted at by tourists and, apparently seeing no threat in Lewis, promptly fell back to a prone position.

  “No, Lewis, you cannot go out there and play with them. They are protected animals. It’s why the boat owners can’t get rid of them. But if I had a boat there, I could see why they’re frustrated.”

  After nearly a week in town, George had one more spot to draw: the Golden Gate Bridge. He wanted to catch it in the early light, so he and Lewis rose early and made it into town and to a small parking area at the south and east side of the bridge, looking up at the massive, yet delicate structure.

  George pulled the scooter to a stop and adjusted it just so. He did not have room on the scooter for his chair, so he used the scooter seat to sit and draw. Lewis usually lumbered out of the sidecar, walked around a bit, stretching and yawning, then sat down on the ground next to George and the scooter, apparently waiting for people to stop and chat.

  The early sun lit the bridge, making the orange hue of the structure glow red and gold.

  George smiled as he drew.

  “Magnificent bridge, isn’t it, Lewis? Makes the bridges in Pittsburgh look like Erector Sets, doesn’t it?”

  George was certain Lewis had no idea of what an Erector Set was.

  Do they still make Erector Sets?

  He drew a few more lines.

  I’m sure they do. Maybe they do it with plastic parts now.

  Lewis stood up and shook, then stared back down the parking lot.

  A young man, carrying a set of binoculars, was walking toward them. He stopped by Lewis.

  “I bet he’s friendly, right? A dog this big doesn’t need to bite anyone to be intimidating.”

  “He is friendly. He’s Lewis.”

  The young man bent down and scratched at Lewis.

  “It’s good, sir. Your drawing, I mean. If you don’t mind me saying. I see a lot of people down here painting or drawing this view. I would put yours up in the top five I’ve seen so far.”

  George stopped sketching.

  “Thank you. You come here often?”

  “A couple of times a week. For the last two years.”

  George turned to the young man. He was of average height, average looks, brown hair, cut short, brown eyes, a rounder, pleasant face, and wore a zippered sweatshirt with UCLA stitched across the front.

  “Are you . . . studying bridges? Or an architect?”

  “No. Nothing so good. I work at a Starbucks, actually. Don’t all post-graduate students in psychology work at Starbucks?”

  George smiled, not sure if it was a joke or if he meant it as a serious commentary on his economic situation.

  A smile seemed to be the appropriate response.

  George felt the urge, the nudge.

  Wait. He will tell you.

  “I’m Amos. Amos Nescot.”

  “I’m George. And you met Lewis.”

  Wait. And he will tell you.

  George, by now, was accustomed to these nudges. He still could not be sure if he was simply projecting or if Lewis had some sort of power. He had pretty much decided he was simply an old man who projected his feelings onto a dog who had no special power or ability—other than to encourage people to stop and chat.

  “I’m sort of on a mission, I guess. It’s why I come down here so often.”

  “A mission? Here? I don’t see any homeless people. Or anyone in need.”

  Amos shook his head.

  “Not down here. Up on the bridge.”

  George looked up. His drawing was half completed. He had the cables to add and perhaps the morning clouds to the west.

  “On the bridge? I don’t understand.”

  Amos appeared uneasy.

  “You know, I’ve never told anyone why I’m here. Your dog made me stop. He seemed to want to know why.”

  “And now, so do I, Amos. Who’s on the bridge? Who needs help from down here?”

  Amos took a deep breath, then stared off into the distance, before looking back at George.

  “You know over fifteen hundred people have jumped off the bridge since it was built? Every week, they say, one or two people jump.”

  “I had no idea.”

  Lewis snorted and stared up at them both.

  “There’s an allure to the bridge. Something hypnotic about it, they tell me. People, the ones who come out ready to jump, they stand in the middle of the span. Sometimes they pace back and forth. Sometimes they seem to be rehearsing what they’re going to do. Sometimes, they take off their backpack and set it down. Or a purse. That’s when you know they’re getting serious.”

  George was stunned into silence.

  “Two years ago . . . my brother jumped. He’s gone, of course. They never found his body. That often happens. The water is cold and the current is strong.”

  “But . . . what . . .”

  Amos nodded as if he anticipated the question.

  “I sit over there on the bench. Gives me a clear view of the walkway. On this side. Most people use this side. So they can see the city, I guess. I watch. If I see someone just standing there. Or walking back and forth . . . I call the police, I read about one police officer—Briggs, I think his name is—who has talked, like, a hundred people out of jumping. So I call the police, and they send someone out to try and talk them down. It doesn’t happen all the time. But in two years, I’ve been part of getting twenty people off the edge. One I didn’t. And it . . . well, it still haunts
me.”

  George could only stare.

  “I know. They should do something about it. The people who run the bridge. Make it harder to get over the ledge. But, George, well, it wouldn’t matter. People . . . desperate people would find a way. I guess I can only hope to save those I can save. Who are ready to be saved. Who want to be saved.”

  “Amos . . . I am astounded. I don’t have the words to express . . .”

  “You know . . . the way I figure it, if someone had seen my brother, if someone had talked to him, just listened to his pain, well, maybe he would still be here. There is always something to live for. There is.”

  “This is simply amazing. I am stunned.”

  Amos looked a bit embarrassed.

  “You know, I’ve never told anyone this. Makes me feel a little . . . weird, I guess.”

  Lewis wuffed.

  “Amos, we won’t say a word. And besides, after I’m done here, we’re traveling north.”

  “Well, it was nice meeting you both. Hope you have a good trip. And you draw well. I mean it. A gift.”

  Amos turned.

  “I need to get over there, okay?”

  “Sure. Good luck . . . I guess.”

  And Amos walked off, leaving Lewis to stare hard at George, wuffing softly, as if to say he needed to listen to the young man and hear there was always something to live for.

  George closed his sketchbook without finishing the drawing. He motioned for Lewis to get back into the sidecar.

  “Nice try, Lewis. Nice try.”

  But it won’t work. I have made up my mind.

  53

  Bejeebers . . . and I know no one says bejeebers anymore, but is it chilly here or what?”

  George and Lewis sat in the RV as it was ferried toward the Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. The rain in Washington turned cloudy, rainy, and cold.

  “Typical for this time of year,” the ticket taker at the ferry said. “Though they’re predicting some fine breaks tomorrow.”

  “Fine breaks?”

  The man stared and smiled.

  “You’re not from around here, I take it. Fine breaks—when the sun comes out. We expect to see it tomorrow. Occasionally. Hopefully.”