Harvey Comes Home

by Colleen Nelson

  Chapter 14

  Austin

  Lucky for me, Charlie is cheap. As soon as he found out how much it would cost to have a real therapy dog, he was happy to let Harvey hang out for free. I wasn’t sure who let him think Harvey was trained, but I wasn’t complaining. Neither was Harvey.

  Harvey jumped up from his bed behind the reception desk when I arrived at Brayside on Monday. After spending all weekend together, I missed him when I was at school. “How was he?” I asked Artie, who was stationed at the reception desk.

  “Took him out a couple of hours ago. He’s probably due to go out again. Any luck finding his owner?”

  “No luck,” I said and hoped he wouldn’t notice the guilty flush that spread up my neck.

  “By the way,” Artie said, “Mr. Singh bought an electric scooter. He takes the corners a little fast, so be careful. He almost mowed down Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski this morning.”

  “The Cobra GT4? He’s been talking about that thing for weeks!” With low-profile tires, an LED headlight, and a swivel captain seat, even I was a little excited to see it in action. Maybe he’d let me take a spin on it.

  “It goes ten miles an hour, which doesn’t sound fast till you see him take off down the hallway. I’ve been keeping Harvey close.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I didn’t want to think about what would happen if Harvey got tangled up under the Cobra’s wheels. Brayside roadkill.

  “Also, Mr. Santos left a message for you.” Artie pulled a yellow sticky note off the reception desk. “Nine Across. Video game icon, six letters. First letter: A.”

  “Avatar,” I said, figuring Artie probably knew the answer too. I took the sticky note and headed toward Mr. Santos’ door.

  Monday was usually the day Grandpa made me shine the silverware—the world’s most boring task. I was in no rush to do that, so after I delivered the answer for Nine Across to Mr. Santos, I took Harvey to the courtyard. Some of the old people in the games room watched through the window as I tossed the ball. He raced after it in a white blur of fur. I felt a pinch in my heart as I thought about what would have happened if I had let the shelter check his microchip. They’d have called his owners and I would have lost him already.

  When we came inside, Harvey sniffed at Mr. Pickering’s door.

  “Come on, Harvey,” I said and slapped my thigh. But he ignored me and sat down. “Really?” I said, exasperated. “Him? Of all the people at Brayside, he’s the one you want to visit?”

  To answer my question, Harvey lifted a paw and scratched the door. I thought about the pile of silverware and the smelly polishing cream, and how much I hated that chore. Grandpa would be happy if he found out I’d been hanging with Mr. Pickering, but after my last visit, I was worried he’d bite my head off again. I stared at the door, trying to decide. Polishing silverware versus cranky old man. It was a tough choice. The hook where the photo collage hung was still empty. If something happened to it, it would be my fault. I knocked on the door, half-hoping he wouldn’t answer.

  He opened the door a crack and peered out at me.

  “Hi, Mr. Pickering.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Austin, Phillip’s grandson. Remember? I hang out here after school.” I looked down at Harvey. “And this is Harvey.”

  “Since when are dogs allowed at hotels?”

  I wasn’t expecting that. “Well, uh, this isn’t a hotel. It’s Brayside. Harvey’s a therapy dog,” I said quickly, starting to believe it myself.

  “Did my wife call you?”

  “Your wife? Ah, no.” I realized this was a bad idea. “We’ll come back later,” I said quickly and turned to go.

  He opened the door wider. “I know you,” he said, and looked down at Harvey. “That’s your dog.”

  “Yeah,” I answered, relieved.

  “Do you want to come in?” He held the door open and Harvey trotted in like it had been his home forever. Mr. Pickering shuffled back to his recliner. Harvey put his front paws up on the seat and jumped up. Harvey’s got some guts, I thought as he cuddled up against Mr. Pickering’s leg.

  Mr. Pickering looked as surprised as I was. He frowned at Harvey like he wasn’t sure if he should shoo him away or just settle in and enjoy the company.

  I was still standing by the door, but it looked like we were staying for a while, so I moved in and perched on the edge of the couch. I was relieved to see the photo collage lying on the table beside a cup of tea. There was an awkward silence as Mr. Pickering patted Harvey.

  “Want me to hang the photo frame back up?” I asked.

  “I’ve been looking at it. Remembering.” He got a wistful look on his face, and for a second the grumpy Mr. Pickering was replaced with someone else.

  I wanted to know more about when he flew planes and got the medals, but it was the photo of him with the girl and the three-legged dog that I was most curious about.

  “Is that your sister?” I asked, pointing to the picture of the kids.

  Mr. Pickering cleared his throat. I half expected him to tell me to get lost, like he did the last time. “Her name was Bertie. She wasn’t my sister; she was my friend. And tougher than most boys her age, including me.”

  “She looked like it,” I agreed.

  “We got into our share of trouble—me, her, and General.” There wasn’t much padding on the arm of the couch and the wooden frame dug into my butt, but I didn’t dare move, worried that Mr. Pickering would stop talking.

  “How’d you meet her?” I asked.

  His eyebrows pulled together as he thought about it. “Must have been the summer of ’33, because the droughts hadn’t started yet. Or not so we were aware of them.” Harvey sighed, his chin resting on his paws, and I wondered if he could look more comfortable. “It was by the bridge at Shell Creek. She’d just moved to town. Her pa was a thresher, gone for harvest. She lived in a shack not far from the creek.”

  Mr. Pickering rested his head against the back of the chair. I thought he was done talking, and I was about to stand up and wake Harvey when he said, “That summer, me, my twin brothers, Millard and Nigel—holy terrors that they were—and little Eugene Aikins from down the road walked to our swimming spot on the Shell Creek almost every day. We’d strip down to our skivvies, or sometimes nothing at all, and spend a couple of hours playing in the water. I remember,” he said, turning his head my way, “there was a patch of wild strawberries along the shore, and we’d pick them when they were in season. Sometimes, we’d make a fishing pole with a strip of willow and dangle a minnow we caught or a worm we dug up in Ma’s garden. Wasn’t much to catch in Shell Creek, but we tried anyhow.

  “General would come along with us. He still had four legs back then. I don’t think I went anywhere without General. I had just turned ten in June, but I looked younger. I was wiry and small, and jealous of my brothers. They were stocky and no one pushed them around.”

  I was pretty scrawny too compared to some of the kids at school, so I knew how he felt.

  “What was I telling you?” Mr. Pickering asked, turning to me.

  “About how you met Bertie,” I reminded him. “You were swimming at Shell Creek. Summer of—”

  “Thirty-three. Right. General went to sniffing in the bush while the twins and Eugene speared crayfish. I sat on a rock that we named Big Yellow. It had streaks of ochre running through it. Biggest boulder anywhere around. Perfect for jumping into the water.

  “All of a sudden, there was a commotion in the bush, and General backed out, barking. I thought maybe he’d found a coyote; there were always a few hanging around the farm, hoping to steal some of Ma’s chickens.

  “Usually, General chased the coyote away, but with all the barking, I wondered if it was something worse, like a pack of wild dogs stalking us. Let me tell you, my heart was pounding when I stood up on the rock to get a look. A few kids and a farm dog were
no match for hungry wild dogs.

  “That was when I heard her. ‘Get your mangy mutt outta here!’ a voice yelled.

  “The twins and Eugene scrambled to the bank.

  “‘Who’s there?’ I yelled back, deepening my voice so I sounded older.

  “‘None of your dang business! That dog gone yet?’ From the shadows of the bush, I could see a skinny white thing.

  “‘His name’s General, and he’s right beside me.’ Next thing I knew, this girl stepped out of the forest. Her name was Bertie Gamache. She was skinny as a rail and wearing just her skivvies too. Freckles covered her skin and she had two long braids of red hair. She glared at all of us, her chin stuck out and eyes narrowed.

  “‘You all make a lot of noise. I thought there was twenty of you, not just four.’

  “‘Who are you?’ Eugene asked. I remember he stabbed his stick into the ground like he was staking a claim.

  “‘Bertie. Just moved here.’

  “‘What’re you doing in the bush?’ I asked, though I could see she was shivering and her hair was damp.

  “‘I was swimming, and then you lot came around like a bunch of hooligans. I was trying to get changed when your attack dog came after me.’

  “Well.” Mr. Pickering blew out a puff of air. “General was no attack dog. Not unless he had to be, but I didn’t want to let on to the girl. I didn’t want to be unfriendly to her either, ’specially since she’d just moved here. So I went about with the introductions. ‘I’m Walter and these are my brothers, Nigel and Millard. And our friend Eugene.’ I gave her the once-over. ‘Where’d you move to?’ Best I knew, there weren’t any vacant farms around, unless she’d been hired on by someone—but no one had money for that. Even at ten, I knew things were getting lean for people living where we did.”

  Mr. Pickering turned to me. “You know anything about the Dirty Thirties?” he asked me. “Or the Dust Bowl?”

  I shook my head.

  He grunted like he wasn’t surprised. “Don’t know what they’re teaching you in school,” he muttered. “See, farmers can’t make a living if the price of wheat goes down. Well, Number One Northern was what everyone was growing back then, and it fell below forty cents a bushel in 1932. I remember, because it was on everyone’s tongues—the price of wheat and the weather.”

  He looked at me like this was important and I better be paying attention, which I was.

  “We’d had two bad summers in a row. Hot, dry winds blew across the fields, carrying topsoil away. The sun had scorched that sprouting wheat and shriveled it. We didn’t look out on fields of green anymore as we rode into town. Instead, we saw only long stretches of barren land.

  “It was getting hard enough that some families had already left, so I wasn’t sure what Bertie’s family had been thinking coming to Wilcox. ‘Just up that way, along the creek,’ she said, pointing vaguely in a direction away from town.

  “The only thing up that way was an abandoned shack that fur traders had used back in the day. It was half fallen-down and stunk like rotten meat. All us kids were afraid of it and said it was haunted. We used to dare each other to stand inside and count the seconds before we burst out, terrified.

  “‘You mean the trappers’ shack?’ Eugene asked. No mistaking his surprise, not with the way he wrinkled up his face.

  “‘Got a roof, don’t it? And four walls.’ Her shoulders straightened and she puffed her scrawny chest out, daring us to say anything else. Water dripped off her dark orange braids and slid down her shivering shoulders. I figured anyone who could look that fierce half-naked and cold was no one to mess with, no matter how scrawny she looked. So I kept my trap shut.

  “‘You coming swimming, or what?’ Millard called to her. Bertie glanced at all of us, shrugged her shoulders, and took a running leap into the water, curling her legs to her chest and landing with a gigantic splash. The twins and Eugene joined in, and in seconds they had a water fight going. Bertie went after my brothers like a banshee. It took me a minute longer to decide I wasn’t playing the role of big brother today, and then I jumped off Big Yellow to join them.”

  I couldn’t tell if Mr. Pickering was done or just taking a break. I waited a minute, hoping he’d tell me more. Then I heard a snore. I guessed he was worn out from talking so long.

  I went to the door, expecting Harvey to follow me, but he didn’t budge. “Harvey,” I whispered. “Come here.” I had to call him two more times before he jumped off the recliner and followed me into the hallway. I shut the door quietly behind me.

  Grandpa was at the reception desk, chatting to Mary Rose. “Where were you?” he asked, looking at his watch. It was almost quitting time.

  “With Mr. Pickering,” I said. The two of them exchanged a look as if they didn’t believe me. “You were right. He’s got some good stories about when he was a kid.”

  A slow smile spread across Grandpa’s face. “So, you cracked the shell of that old nut, eh?”

  Beside him, Mary Rose snorted. I grinned too, but I knew it was more Harvey than me that got Mr. Pickering talking.

  Chapter 15

  Harvey

  When Harvey sits beside Mr. Pickering, he drifts off into a place of contentment. It is different than his sleeps at Austin’s house. The boy moves a lot, even in his sleep. Harvey is often woken up by an unexpected leg spasm that forces him to circle till he finds a new spot. But this man beside him now is still. Harvey likes the deep, musky smell of the room, soothing his overworked senses. There is a lot of coming and going at Brayside, but Harvey has learned that he doesn’t have to alert anyone. In such a busy place, it is better to rest behind the desk until Austin reappears, so that is what he does.

  Austin is kind to him. He feeds him and takes him out and comforts him. Harvey repays the care with loyalty. He will follow Austin and listen to his commands because he has been trained this way. But in his heart, Harvey wishes he could stay on the recliner beside Mr. Pickering.

  Chapter 16

  Austin

  On Tuesday, I stood outside Mr. Pickering’s door, debating whether or not to knock again. Harvey wanted me to. His tail was sticking straight up, his nose as close to the door as possible without going through it.

  What if Monday was a fluke?

  But what if it wasn’t?

  What if all Mr. Pickering needed was someone to listen to his stories, just like Grandpa thought? So, I took a deep breath and rapped my knuckles on the door.

  I heard the creak of the recliner and a few muttered curse words on the other side of the door.

  The door opened a crack. “You again,” he said.

  “I—uh…”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Lightbulbs. I wanted to make sure you didn’t have any more burned out.” It was a lame excuse, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he shut the door in my face. But he didn’t. He opened it a little wider and Harvey scooted inside.

  Mr. Pickering watched Harvey jump onto the recliner. He didn’t snarl that dogs weren’t allowed at Brayside, or scold me for not being able to control Harvey. Instead, he shook his head like it was a losing battle.

  “What’s his name?” Mr. Pickering asked. He walked back to the recliner, so I guessed that it was okay if I followed him inside the apartment.

  “Harvey.”

  He grunted. “You gave a dog a man’s name.” I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

  “It was the name he came with,” I said. “What about General? Who named him?”

  “All our dogs were named General.”

  “Which one was with you when you met Bertie?”

  He nudged Harvey aside so he could sit down and then looked at me, confused. “Did I tell you about that?”

  I’m used to old people being a little forgetful. Like Mrs. Gelman with the stories about her grandkids. Mr. Singh had alre
ady showed me the features of his Cobra GT4 three times. “Yeah, yesterday. It was a good story.”

  “Did I tell you about the day we walked to Hackett’s?”

  “Nope.”

  Mr. Pickering relaxed into his chair and rested his head against the back. His hand fell on Harvey’s back and it stayed there, as if it were totally normal for Harvey to be sitting beside him.

  “General came with me everywhere back then. So did Bertie, come to think of it. This one day, we were walking to Hackett’s, the only store in town. We’d managed to escape Millard and Nigel for an afternoon. My older sister Amy watched the twins because Ma thought Wilcox was too far for the boys. They begged and pleaded, but thankfully Ma stayed firm and offered to belt them if they kept complaining.

  “See, Ma wasn’t one for messing around. She had a farm to look after, five children, and a husband who left her in the winter to work in the bush. Soon as the wheat was harvested and taken to the grain elevator, my pa would head off to work for the MacDonald Lumber Company. His days at home with us were numbered. Not that he was home much anyway. This time of year, he was out in the field, overseeing the harvest. I should have been there too, but Ma needed groceries to feed the field hands and she didn’t have time to go, so the job fell to me and Bertie.

  “First time Bertie came calling around the house, Ma looked at her through the window. ‘That child’s poor as dirt,’ she muttered. She put some biscuits in a kerchief and handed them to me. We didn’t have much either, with seven of us to feed, but Ma was always one for showing kindness. ‘Give these to that girl.’

  “I took them, and snuck one for myself as I walked out to greet Bertie. We’d been playing together all summer. The twins were crazy about her; she was as wild as they were. Sometimes I tried to be the voice of reason, but most of the time, it was easier to just go along with their antics. Our latest activity was shooting with our slingshots.”

  Mr. Pickering paused and looked at me. “You know how to make a slingshot?” I shook my head.