by Jim Kraus
I leaned into him, just a little. Not much. But touching, we were, more or less.
I really liked it. My heart beat like crazy. How’s that for a literate metaphor? Like crazy. The words, the good ones, were all locked up tight in my head, and the electricity prevented any of the smarter, fancy words from escaping.
He kissed me—a kind and gentle kiss. I expected it, and I wanted it. It felt so nice. I put my hand around his neck, offering my silent encouragement.
I felt his hand on my side, and I did not object or move, or try in some manner to avoid it. His hand remained there, on my ribcage, and I enjoyed the delicate and tentative pressure on my body—a place where no man had touched me for years now. At the moment, I felt pretty sure I knew where his hand was headed and I was pretty sure I was not going to do anything to stop him. Kissing him was just too pleasant to think of objections or reasons to slow down. Here I am, a widowed lady in her mid-forties, and I had no reason to slow down. If not now, when?
I liked his hand there on my body. I hadn’t been touched there for years. My doctor, maybe, but she didn’t make a habit of placing her hand flat against my side like that. I am pretty sure I would not object if Brian moved his hand farther afield on my personal geography.
Good heavens, what terribly infantile metaphors . . . or similes . . . or whatever they are.
Stopping, just for a second, and looking at myself as I sat on the sofa, next to a man I hardly knew, his hand in a more intimate place than any other man other than . . . Jacob . . . I . . . decided to just relax. I had been starved for so long—I could see that now. What harm could there be to finally get to enjoy life, to feel my heart race again—because of pleasure, not terror.
I would let him do with me what he would. Sort of.
And his hand moved, just a millimeter, and I felt fireworks. Well, maybe not fireworks just yet, but as if someone held a match closer and closer to the fuse.
Our actual fire in the fireplace sparked loudly, and I could see, even though I had nearly closed my eyes in pleasure, Rufus jump a bit, and then he turned to me, to the two of us, I guess, and stared hard. I tried not to see his eyes or watch his inscrutable expression. He stood up and ran at us, actually ran the few feet. He sort of threw himself at my leg, his front feet on my knee, his back feet bouncing up and down, like a small boy needing to go to the bathroom.
I knew what he wanted. Either a treat or to go out.
“Rufus,” I hissed, not wanting to break the mood, “go away. Later.”
That would often be enough to stop him. He would get back down on all fours, stare another moment, then slink away, his task unfulfilled.
But this night, he kept dancing, bobbing and weaving, and making almost inaudible “wuff” sounds, nearly prancing, his nails, which needed trimming, digging into my knee.
“Rufus,” I hissed louder. “Later!”
His dance went on undiminished.
I heard Brian chuckle.
“Ignore him,” I instructed Brian. “He’ll get tired of it and leave us alone.”
We both waited, neither of us humans moving. Just the dog moved, bouncing up and down, wuff, wuff, wuff, a breathless sort of bark.
“It’s not working,” Brian whispered.
“He’ll stop,” I insisted.
Brian moved his hand.
Don’t move your hand! Please! Keep it there!
“If he has an accident, that will be worse,” Brian said. I had to agree with him.
“He needs to go out.” I sat up, smoothed my blouse, and watched with pleasure as Brian watched me smooth my blouse. “I’ll take him to the end of the block. That should be enough.”
Brian sat up straighter and looked me in the eye.
“And I should wait here, in the warm house, by the fire, waiting until you bring the dog back? No man worth his salt could agree to that. I will take him out. You stay all warm and toasty.”
“No,” I replied. “I couldn’t impose on you like that.”
He placed his fingertip on my lips, a gentle touch, turning my words into silence.
“Please. Just give me the leash. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
I snapped the leash in place, gave Brian a plastic bag and a few dog treats, a quick recap of instructions, and closed the door after the two of them. As the door closed, Rufus turned around and looked at me. I read his look as nervousness—after all, he stood there, waiting, with a new walking partner. Or maybe I saw something else, something more nuanced than that, a look more akin to weariness, or surrender, or divine acceptance. I was put off for a moment, trying to find an interpretation that fit the dog’s appearance.
Divine acceptance? Where had that come from? Yet that is what his furry little face displayed.
I could never have been prepared for the terror I would face in ten minutes.
How could anyone be prepared?
Five minutes passed. I sat on the sofa and watched the fire, contemplating if I should add another pre-fab log to the flames. I closed my eyes and imagined Brian’s hand on my side again and wondered if he would resume the position when he returned with Rufus. I wondered what he might do next and if I should rehearse my whispered response.
Good heavens, I had become a seventeen-year-old again, out on her first date.
But with a lot more knowledge than I had at seventeen.
Now seven minutes passed. Then ten. And I became worried. Did Brian lose his way in the neighborhood? I told him to go to the end of the block and come back. Obviously, Rufus had led him off that course. Maybe Rufus had become shy, or obstinate, or fussy that night. I don’t know what criteria Rufus used to select a spot. He presented no discernible pattern as far as I could tell.
Perhaps Rufus got loose and ran off. If he quickly backed away from me, his leash could slip off his neck. He never did it intentionally, and when it happened, only once before, he stood there, surprised, not the least bit aware that he had broken free. He simply waited until I slipped the leash back over his head.
What would happen if Brian fell and broke his ankle? Was he carrying a cell phone? He did not always carry one, which I found charming. But he could have gotten hurt.
I got my coat and walked to the front door. The snow came down—great, fat, wet chunks of snow that sounded like a moist kiss as they landed.
Rufus would be soaked when he returned.
I squinted into the snow and looked up the street. No cars were out, the streetlights were nearly hidden in the glittery snow, the neighborhood hushed and still. Then I saw them, coming down Glencoe, from the north. I seldom went that way. Rufus might be scared from the new route.
I saw Brian wave broadly. I think he grinned. I waved back, happy now that my two men have returned safely. Then Brian bent down to Rufus.
Why would he do that?
I think he was unsnapping his leash.
“Go ahead, boy. Run back to Mary,” he said, his deep voice catching and faltering through the falling flakes.
I would never do that. I had never done that. Rufus would never run off, but still . . .
Rufus did see me, and broke into what I thought was a grin. Maybe it was my humanizing the little dog. Rufus had said before that schnauzers do not grin, or could not grin, I’m not sure I remember which. I’m not sure why my head filled up with such prattle when I should be terrified instead.
Too many bad things happen when people are untethered from me.
Of course, Rufus saw me, heard me, recognized his home, and took off at a run toward me, down the block.
As he passed by the Turners’ house, I saw the faintest of lights, of headlights, and I began to process a terrifying geometry of coincidences, of fate, of God’s hand in the rustling and turning of the world, down to the mundane life and death of a dog, his dog, God’s follower here on earth.
The car came down the hill, off Wakeman, and did not slow at the stop sign. A driver could see for the entire block in either direction, and if no one was coming—why stop?
I did it myself more than once, though I usually slowed a little—a little safer that way.
The snow prevented any rumble of tire on pavement or asphalt; sounds were muted to just the hushing whisper of a car gliding over a thick, wet pack of snow. No sound, just a whispered deathly swishing hush as the car bumped onto Glencoe and continued straight down Wakeman—my street, our street—windshield wipers clacking at the snow.
The car was at the end of the block. Rufus was mid-block, on the other side of the street. Just as small animals and squirrels have no concept of a fast-moving vehicle, neither did Rufus. Maybe some dogs knew of the danger of a speeding car, but if some dogs were aware, Rufus was not. He jumped over the snow-packed curb, a swell of snow left by the snowplow’s visit an hour earlier, and slid onto the road, his small black body lit by the harsh swing of the car’s headlights.
Oh, God, it was happening again.
I screamed. I think I screamed. I don’t know. My world began to crash before my eyes, those eyes already welling up with tears, my throat already swelling shut by grief. It was all so familiar; it was all so foreign.
Rufus had not looked. He had no reason to look. I had always kept him from harm. I had always tugged his leash tight to me when a car approached our path. I had always kept a lookout for the blister of headlights on our path, from behind, from our side.
Rufus had not looked.
Maybe he did, once, a slight turn of the head toward the danger, but he did not stop.
The driver of the car, a neighbor, a nice neighbor with children and a good job at a food brokerage house, slammed on the brakes. But that would do no good—even with the automatic braking systems now in cars. It would slow and eventually stop, moving in a straight line, but even a computer could not override the elementary laws of physics and mass and inertia and slick roads glazed with a thickness of snow.
No, nothing could stop the events about to unfold.
My hand went to my mouth as I screamed and I shut my eyes. I could not bear it.
I heard the yelp, the terrified squeal of a dog, my dog, my sweet and helpless Rufus, as the three thousand pounds of metal and rubber and plastic hulked over the poor, doomed animal.
The car slid into my mailbox with a crunch, the mailbox canting to the parkway, my neighbor jumping out of the car, shouting that he couldn’t stop and he didn’t see the dog until the last minute and that he’s sorry and so very sorry and Brian is sliding and running toward the car and the death and the snow and me screaming and sobbing and sliding down the driveway like a woman possessed and hysterical and Brian running up to me saying he is sorry and that he didn’t see the car and that he would never have done that if a car had been nearby and that he would get me another dog to replace Rufus and that I could start over with a puppy for Christmas . . .
And that’s when I balled my right hand into a fist. I don’t think I have ever struck anyone in my life. I grew up as an only child, so no sibling fisticuffs ever occurred. I was a nice girl and nice girls do not get into catfights at school. I did not excel at sports, so there were no competitive squabbles over a field hockey game.
No, I was nice and gentle and understanding and accepting . . . until this very moment.
Brian, now at my side, prattled on about a new dog, something white and fluffy, and I made a tight fist, so tight that later that evening, I saw little crescent slice marks, complete with half-moons of dried blood, in my palm, caused by my newly manicured nails. With that tight fist, I coiled back and threw the punch. I aimed for his jaw—just to shut him up—to prevent him from already forgetting about Rufus and moving on—but I missed. He stood taller than I thought, and my punch hit him square on the throat and he fell backward from me, maintaining his balance for a moment, then stumbled and tripped, like a pratfall in a movie, onto his backside, and then slid backward several feet.
I turned to my neighbor, who had sprung from his car, his face torn by guilt. “It’s not your fault, Mike,” I said. “The dog . . . Rufus . . . he ran out in front of you. I know. You couldn’t stop. It’s not your fault.”
A wash of relief came over him, almost like an angel had forgiven him of a sin he did not know he had committed, providing absolution to an innocent man.
Perhaps I could find solace in his peace, in his forgiveness.
But maybe I couldn’t. Now I had to retrieve my sweet dog and . . . plan for a burial in the hard frozen ground. I began to sob again.
I gasped for air. I saw Brian struggle to his knees, coughing and holding his throat. I hoped I hurt him.
Then, oh my Lord, and then, I heard it.
A yelp. A whine. And a rustle, swish, rustle, like a broom being dragged from under a car.
I saw his eyes first, wide and scared, but open and responsive.
Rufus was dragging himself out from under the car, on the passenger side, toward the rear. Dragging and whimpering and looking and searching for me.
I dived down into the snow and slush despite the fact that I wore new, expensive wool pants. I dived down and a trembling, greasy, wet, bedraggled dog managed to limp into my arms.
It was the single most clear, pellucid moment of joy I have ever experienced. Giving birth was different—better—and longer. That moment of joy came after ten hours of nasty labor, and the outcome entirely expected.
Being married was joyful—but again—the outcome all but assured.
This moment seemed to transcend all of that and more. I fully expected to retrieve a mangled dog carcass from under the bowels of the car.
And I didn’t.
Rufus was alive—injured but alive. If he died, at least it would be in my arms. He would be held by someone who loved him, cared for him, and would mourn for him after he was gone. But Rufus did not seem like he was about to die. His body was unmangled, uncrushed. He was alive.
Mike came over beside me.
“I must have missed him. I mean—the tires—he didn’t get run over. I didn’t run him over. He must have slid under the car.”
Brian stood up now, coughing and trying to speak. He croaked, froglike, whispery and thick. I paid no attention to him.
I unwrapped the coat from my shoulders, wrapped it around Rufus, and cradled him to me. He whimpered loudly when my hand touched his right front leg, but that was all. I saw no blood. His eyes remained clear and focused. His breathing seemed normal.
I stood up and hurried to the garage door, punched in the code and the door clattered up.
“Get your keys, Brian, and go home. I’m taking Rufus to the vet.”
“Nonsense,” he croaked. I think that’s what he said. “I’ll take you.”
“No,” I replied, my voice steady and clear, angular and ice sharp. “I will. You go home. Get your keys and go. Now.”
He must have seen my eyes—the deadly, cold resolve in my eyes—and nodded.
“Help Mike get his car off my mailbox and go home,” I said sharply, and laid poor Rufus on the front seat, bundled thick into my coat. My keys were already in the ignition. That’s where I leave them. I know—it may not be the safest place, but in the last three years, I have never once misplaced my keys. So who’s the foolish one now?
The car rattled to a start, Brian came out of the house with his car keys, I backed out of the driveway, and opened the window.
“You’ll be okay, Mike?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think I even dented my bumper. I’ll come back tomorrow and try and fix your mailbox.”
“Thanks,” I replied, and did not look at Brian. I pressed the gas and slowly left the scene of my Christmas miracle.
The wonderful thing about living in a metropolitan area is that your choices in services were multiplied. Not only did I have a hundred vets to choose from, I also had two vet hospitals within ten miles that were open all night and offered emergency walk-in services.
Forced to drive slowly because of the snow-packed roads, I found it easy to put a hand to the face of the scared dog, trying to reassure him.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. “We’ll be at the vet’s in a few minutes.”
I could not watch Rufus. The snow made it imperative to really, really pay attention to my driving.
“Dr. B?” Rufus asked.
This was the first time he spoke in an enclosed space. His voice, richer and deeper than I could hear at night, out in the open, surprised me a little.
“No, not Dr. B. I have to go to the all-night emergency vet up on Roosevelt Road.”
“Is she nice?”
“I’m sure she is,” I replied, not knowing if it was indeed a she, or if the doctor was indeed nice. Regardless, though, Rufus would be tended to; he would be repaired.
He would not die! He would not die!
“My leg hurts,” Rufus said.
“It might be broken.”
“Is that bad?”
“Lots of kids break arms or legs. Doctors fix them all the time. Does anything else hurt?”
Rufus must have run a quick check on himself.
“My neck hurts a little. Not much. My leg hurts a lot.”
“The doctor will fix you up,” I replied. “Hang on. We’re almost there.”
I pulled into the vet’s driveway. Before I undid my seat belt, Rufus spoke again.
“Is the ocean a warm place?”
I could have told him about Maine and Canada and the snowstorms there, but I didn’t. Instead, I replied, “Yes, the ocean is warm.”
“Then, okay. We should move to the ocean. God says I should move.”
I saw his jaw move. I did not imagine his speech. He talked. He talked to me.
“God said to move?”
Rufus couldn’t lie—or at least, not well. And why would a dog lie?
Rufus looked away. It was a guilty turn of the head.
“No. I made that up.” His words were thick with apology.
“When? Why?”
“While I lay under the car. I wanted God to say that I needed to be warm.”
“Why?”
“Because my leg hurts and I want to be warm.”
“And you think we should move?”