The Dog That Talked to God

by Jim Kraus

  Perhaps since I’ve matured, I might do better.

  Perhaps.

  That first night I told Rufus about buying the house. I had been pretty sure he understood what I had done. But I could never be sure how much language he had paid close attention to during the day. He became a regular dog during the daylight hours. He became sort of a literate vampire canine by night.

  “I know. I paid attention today. You seemed excited,” he said, as we walked, skirting the edge of the night’s waves. The wind grew a little stronger, a bit more robust this evening, so the waves charged at us a little faster. Rufus would jump out of the way when they got too close. I think he took my admonition about not drinking the water to heart.

  “What about hurricanes?” he asked right off. “That lady with the silver hair said there were hurricanes here. I don’t think I like hurricanes.”

  I told him that he needn’t worry, that hurricanes don’t sneak up on anyone. I told him that if one comes, The Weather Channel knows about it days in advance and we could get out of the way. I said hurricanes are not at all like horses that sneak up on dogs.

  “Then, that’s good,” he said, his words firm and solid.

  I wanted to ask him if he had spoken more with God, if he had prayed about this house, or this town. I wanted him to tell me that I made the right decision. I wanted God to pat me on the back and tell me that I had passed the test and my life would be getting easier from here on in. I wanted Rufus to tell me that everything would be fine and I would no longer feel alone and abandoned. I wanted to feel whole again and I wanted God to tell me that I was whole again, that he would heal the split in my heart, that he would patch the terrible gash that felt like a permanent affliction on its muscles.

  I wanted all that, and none of it came.

  I didn’t ask the poor dog any of these questions. I knew what his answer would be, or at least surmised what his answer would be. He would say something about free will and us making our own choices and trusting God—providing that we prayed to God and had a relationship with him.

  I don’t think I had that. No, I take that back. I know I didn’t have that relationship with God. Even now. Even after moving halfway across the country on the merest nudging of the Divine—as interpreted by a dog, of all creatures. I hoped for a symbiotic spiritual relationship—that the person, or creature that I now lived close to . . . that he lived, spiritually speaking, close to God and in order to bless and protect him, I would gather at the edges of that protection and be protected myself. I figured this was a logically foolproof plan. In order for Rufus to have a stable home and environment, I would have to have the same things. I would warm myself on the edges of Rufus’s celestial protection and blessing. How could it not work? If I were to have made the wrong choice—and everything here went horribly wrong—then Rufus would suffer. God wouldn’t let that happen, would he? He sees the sparrows fall . . .

  Like a wayward husband basking in the spiritual strength and calm of a believing wife. That is the way it works. At least, that is the way I hoped it would work.

  17

  Ten days later, the house stood complete and ready for occupancy. Well—almost complete. The granite countertop for the kitchen hadn’t been cut yet. The granite people planned to install it in a week, and promised they could do so with a bare minimum of disruption and hardly any mess.

  The house turned out glorious. The newly refinished floors gleamed, and the bathrooms, all fresh and white, with new tile and fixtures, smelled of adhesive and grout. The paint on the wood trim glistened, the walls were renewed, and the new stainless steel appliances in the kitchen shined in the afternoon sun. I purchased one small sofa at a warehouse store, one area rug for the bedroom, a pair of chairs for the eating counter in the kitchen, a wicker sofa and chair with summery-striped cushions for the screened porch, and an antique wooden bed frame from a consignment shop in Morehead City, and filled my car with groceries.

  The cable people came and installed my Internet connection and I sent an “all” e-mail to every friend and relative I could gather on my e-mail list, telling them of my new address and phone number. I sent a postcard to Bernice, just to be sure she got word. Their e-mail might still be down.

  I left the upstairs empty. With just one large room, I could eventually place a few beds up there. I might, come summer, when guests arrived. But for now, I just loved the barrenness of the large, empty, clean space. I made a vow with myself never to allow this house to become cluttered with anything. “Keep things sparse and simple” became my new mantra. Or motto. “Mantra” may imply some oddball Eastern religious sect—and heaven knows, we can’t have that.

  I called the moving/storage company in Wheaton and told them where to ship my crated possessions. I almost wished I could have said to simply dispose of them all, that I intended on starting over from scratch, that I wouldn’t need three boxes of sweaters and winter coats anymore. But I couldn’t do that. There were some possessions—pictures and mementos—that I wanted to keep. That I needed. A good thing about living in Atlantic Beach is that the cost of taking away unwanted furniture and assorted detritus of life appeared to be very inexpensive.

  Rufus and I sat on the screened porch that first night, enjoying the warm spring evening. The screen door allowed Rufus to lie down on a new sisal rug I’d bought, and watch the street. He’d never had that opportunity back in Wheaton. Most of the windows in the front of our old house were blocked by furniture, or the view obstructed by bushes. Here he had a clear sight line to the street and the sky over the ocean beyond.

  I felt settled. Mostly settled. Mostly to partly settled.

  That night, Rufus said again that he liked the house, he liked the beach, and he liked the warm water (he once walked in up to his knees). His happiness made me happy—though I was not completely settled. Almost.

  I dialed a number on my cell phone. Ava answered on the first ring.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “Now, I have a place on the ocean to stay at for free.”

  “You do. And you’re welcome anytime.”

  I gave her the rundown of all that had transpired—the work on the house, my purchases, my being pleased with what had occurred, being happy that I found an affordable place so quickly.

  Ava waited.

  “Then what’s wrong?” she finally asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I countered. “Everything is hunky-dory.”

  I thought I had learned how to lie well, to hide my true emotions behind a mask of cheeriness. A few years of widowhood and you get good at it.

  Ava would have none of it.

  “Don’t lie to me. There’s a hitch in your voice. Something’s going on. Rufus hates it, right?”

  “No,” I replied. “He seems to really like it. He likes walking on the beach. He wades in the water and looks happy.”

  “Then you hate it, right? Like those $400 shoes you lusted after for months and then bought and when you wore them for the first time on a date, they hurt your feet and made your calves look misshapen.”

  “I never bought $400 shoes.”

  “Oh, yes . . . that happened to me, didn’t it? But the principle is the same. You want it until you get it, right? Then you don’t want it.”

  I sighed. I don’t like sighing.

  “I don’t know. I think everything is fine. But I don’t feel like all the pieces are in place. Like I’m still missing something. I can’t explain it.”

  “Well, when you start making friends, maybe get a job, things will be better.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t think friends and a job are what I’m missing. I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it will pass. It has been a pretty hectic few weeks. Things will get better, right?”

  “They will. Trust me on that,” she said.

  I didn’t trust her at all.

  My granite guy/kitchen contractor made arrangements to install the countertop—mostly black, with some greenish-gray veins—on Friday.


  “You’ll be there Friday morning to let us in, Miss Fassler?” asked Billy B.

  “I will. I get up early, so any time after seven is fine with me.” I was eager to have everything totally done. I don’t understand how anyone could put up with months and months of interior remodeling while living in the house. I had one item left to do and it bothered me to the point of distraction.

  Billy B proved himself a man of his word. He and his crew showed up at a few minutes past seven. Rufus made a point of barking loudly, bouncing up and down at the door to the screened porch. I opened it, and it still squealed.

  “I’ll put some oil on the hinges, Miss Mary. Or sand off the bottom sill a bit. Fix that for free, if you’d like.”

  “I would. Thank you so much.”

  He touched the brow of his baseball cap, which had Billy B William Interiors stitched on the crown.

  His team of workers heaved and strained as they carried in the massive, polished sheet of granite. It looked spectacular, if I have to praise myself for a fine job of selecting interior finishes. The old countertop came off with a minimum of fuss, and the new one slipped into place. A new stainless steel sink with new faucets was installed.

  Half the crew took off, and the remaining three workmen tidied up while Billy B supervised.

  I stole a glance at him. I had to—he wasn’t married—and I gathered that he and I were about the same age.

  I’m pretty sure he wasn’t married. He wore no ring. But perhaps he wore no ornamentation because of work hazards, like getting the ring caught in some sort of machinery.

  “Looks very nice, Miss Mary,” he said, as the crew packed up.

  “Thank you.”

  Billy B stood thin as a whippet. Maybe a middle-aged whippet. A few pounds north of a whippet. But sinewy. Like he worked hard all his life. He was blond. He might have been bald, but I had never seen him without his company baseball cap. He had features . . . I want to say chiseled, but that is such a cliché. Yet they were chiseled. Prominent cheekbones. Angular jaw. Warm, green eyes. Broad shoulders . . . for a whippet. And a permanent grin. He may not shave every day, but when you’re hauling five hundred pounds of granite countertop, you don’t really require a close shave, do you?

  “I wasn’t sure when you picked this stone at the yard. I thought . . . well, I thought it might be too dark for a small kitchen. But no, you were right. It just works in here with the white cabinets and stainless steel appliances, doesn’t it? You have a flair for this, Miss Mary.”

  “I think it does work well, doesn’t it?” I replied, proud of being praised for my immaculate sense of design, my flair.

  Billy B took off his cap. He was not going bald. Not at all. He had a thickness of blond hair, appearing as if it had been styled under his cap, askew in just the right way, tufts and peaks, looking very, very chic.

  “Miss Mary, I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward here . . .”

  How do you answer a statement like that?

  “But I was talking with Miss Janet over at Star Team Realty. Well, she did tell me a little of where you all came from. And why. And all that. Sorry to hear about your loss. I know that must have been hard on you.”

  He said it, not in a sympathetic manner, but simply acknowledging the truth of my past. I liked that. It hadn’t happened quite this way before. Not that I could remember, at any rate.

  “Thank you, Billy B. I appreciate that.”

  He gave me the wryest grin in return, like he knew that it had been the right thing to say, and that he said it just at the right time, and that I would be almost charmed by his down-home charm and innocence.

  And, darn it, he was absolutely right.

  “Can I ask you a question, Billy B?”

  “You can ask me anything, Miss Mary.”

  Again, his answer did not sound smarmy, or sexual, like some men would sound, leering ever so slightly to see if I reddened at all, seeing if that flirt . . . worked.

  “What does the B stand for?” His company name appeared as Billy B William Interiors. I had already figured that it might have been a family name. If Billy was a nickname for William, then he would be William B. William. Odd. His lead carpenter was named Ransom.

  “Well, funny you should ask, Miss Mary. Folks usually ask right off, or they never do. You waited a good while before asking. Polite, you know. I like that in a woman.”

  I wanted to blush, just a little, but I don’t think I did.

  He likes that in a woman. Well . . . he noticed. That’s a good sign.

  “Well, Miss Mary. I could drag this story out. But I have another job to head to after here. The B is a nickname for William. You know, Billy gets turned into a B because a B is simpler for a baby sister to say when learning to talk.”

  I nodded, as if I understood, but I didn’t.

  “So . . . why Billy B?” I was confused.

  He looked down at his shoes.

  “The first Billy is for William. The B is for William as well.”

  He looked up, and he waited.

  I suspect he saw my face drawn up tight in confusion, then slowly open, like a flower blossoming.

  “So . . . you’re William William William?

  He grinned again. This time it was knowing and playful. He must have been used to it.

  “Yes, ma’am. My parents had one odd sense of humor, I guess. My mother joked that she always had to call me three times until I listened to her. So that’s another reason for their choice. But all my life, I’ve been Billy B, so no one has paid much mind to it.”

  I could not help laughing. A little.

  “It is funny, in a weird southern gothic way, isn’t it, Miss Mary? Something out of Faulkner. Or maybe James Dickey.”

  “It is. But I love it.”

  He obviously is well read. And very intuitive. I like that in a man.

  He waited a short moment.

  “I know this might not be all proper and everything, Miss Mary, but would you like to have dinner with me sometime? Maybe next weekend? I know a great shrimp place up by New Bern. Off the beaten path, as they say.”

  I tried not to look surprised. Or pleased. I was both. A lot.

  “Billy B, I would like that,” I replied. “I would like that a lot.”

  He slapped his hat back on his head.

  “Well, capital then, Miss Mary,” he answered, in the best North Carolinian interpretation of an English accent I have yet heard. “Capital indeed. I shall call you midweek with details.”

  “And I shall wait, anon,” I said, wondering if I used the word anon in the right way. I probably didn’t, but Billy B was too much a gentleman to pay heed to my possible gaffe.

  The shrimp tasted fantastic. They must have caught it that day, or even as I ordered them. I don’t think I have ever tasted shrimp quite as fresh as these.

  And Billy B had been right. The restaurant, Captain Ratty’s, was a place I never would have gone to—probably from the name alone. But it proved to be delightful. Billy B seemed to be a well-known customer. At least they all treated us with great charm.

  I took easily to calling Billy B just that. It sort of rolled off one’s tongue, didn’t it?

  Yes, I was on a date. With a man. After Brian, I thought in my darker moments, that such things would never happen to me again. But within a few weeks of moving to Atlantic Beach—well, there was a man.

  And I liked him. He was funny and self-deprecating and very, very intelligent. He said he had graduated from North Carolina State University here in New Bern with a degree “in nothing useful” and started working on remodeling to pay off his student loans. And twenty years later, he surprised himself to still be doing remodeling, still enjoying it, and doing “pretty good.”

  Of course, I told him a little of my own story as well. You already know it, so no need to repeat any of it.

  After splitting a piece of Key lime pie (I would have preferred the whole piece for myself, but I tried to look like a lady) Billy B drove along
the coast, on some back roads, toward Atlantic Beach. Much of the drive went through the Croatan National Forest. Billy B remarked that this was the only coastal forest park on the East Coast, and magnificent stands of pine lined the road. I would have called it romantic, but romance remained a bit farther away. We would have time to get there . . . later.

  We pulled into my gravel driveway. I could hear Rufus from inside the house, scrabbling up on the one chair that faced a front window and afforded him a look at the street. He barked—not an angry, warning bark, but one of recognition.

  Billy B escorted me to the front door, the door to the screened porch.

  Do I turn and face him here . . . or at the inside front door?

  “Well, it is late, Miss Mary.”

  He called me Miss Mary. I think southerners have a thing for two names. I liked his calling me that. Respectful and playful at the same time.

  “Are you sure? I could make coffee. I am good at making coffee.”

  He smiled.

  “I am sure you are good at lots of things,” he said, and I did not read even the remotest reference to sex into his comment. How does he do that?

  “But I need to get up early. Church and all tomorrow.”

  “Oh, sure. I understand.”

  I hoped he did not read into my response that I had no intention or plans to get up early tomorrow and look for a church.

  “I had a real nice time. I’ll call you this week. Wednesday, probably. Not too soon, and not too late, right?”

  I laughed. That is what I was thinking.

  And then, as natural as can be, he bent in toward me, loosely slipped his left arm around my waist, and kissed me. It didn’t last long enough to be considered a long kiss, nor a short peck. It was just long enough to leave me wanting more, and beginning a mental countdown to Wednesday evening.

  “I would like that Billy B. I really, really would.”

  And I meant that.