Say No More (17 page)

“After going to the literacy center, you mean? At that place with the cute little red and white umbrellas over the tables and the flowers out front?”

“An early dinner, if that’s all right. I have evening chores to do.”

She eyed him sideways, like she was trying to figure out the catch in his proposal. “Just the two of us?”

He removed his ball cap, mopped at his forehead with a sleeve, then put his cap back on. He gestured toward me. “The dog would have to come along. I can’t leave her in the truck this time of year.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

He nodded. “Maybe you can tell me some more about your family then. They sound like a colorful bunch.”

“I could, but ... I’d rather hear about you.”

“Not much to tell, really.”

“Oh, I bet there’s more to you than you let on.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. Instead, he just tipped his head goodbye and turned to go inside. I followed him this time.

I’m pretty sure Bernadette understood things about Cecil that he didn’t even know about himself. She was a lot like a dog that way. Maybe that was why I liked her so much.

T
he Old Man gripped my leash as we stood before what looked like four small buildings crammed wall to wall. Faderville’s library was born when the local historical society donated the log cabin of the area’s original settler to the town in the 1950s. Unsure what to do with such a small space, the mayor stored his collection of antique books in orange crates along the back wall. With no movie cinema in the county and nothing better to do, the more literate residents would borrow books from the unlocked cabin and return them on the honor system. Sometimes that was a few days later, sometimes a few years if they forgot about them.

Ten years later, an annex was added: a slightly larger room big enough for two rows of shelves, a librarian’s desk and filing cabinet for index cards. The library had been added onto twice more over the years, each addition reflecting the architectural style of the times, rather than aiming to achieve any sense of congruity or practicality. Turned out the ‘Literacy Center’ was the smallest of the wings, its purpose dedicated to housing children’s books and a collection of bean bag chairs.

We learned this because Bernadette told us the entire story on the twenty minute drive over. She knew so much about Faderville’s history that the Faderville Historical Society had elected her president over fifteen years ago. She’d been in the post ever since — an honor which might have held some weight if they met more than once a year and actually performed any functions in the community.

One thing I liked about Bernadette was that if no one else was around, she’d even tell me things, whether it was the tale of how Faderville’s first pioneers lived off possum stew their first year, current gossip like whether Ginny Holiday kept hundred dollar bills stuffed in her mattress, or commentary on the weather. None of it was truly earth-shaking, but it was the animated tones of her speech that held me captive. The way she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper in one sentence, then flailed her hands in the air the next. Her eyes alone told a story — lined in kohl, with her lids highlighted in shades of brilliant blue, glittery green or sometimes gold, it was hard not pay attention to them.

Where Cecil was all humility and minimalism, Bernadette was spontaneity and excess. They were like shadow and light, yin and yang, distinct entities, yet a perfect complement to each other.

Bernadette laid her hand on the Old Man’s forearm. “You’re going to strangle that poor dog, Cecil.”

He looked down at my leash, coiled tight in his hand. He let out some slack. I went to the end of the leash, gazing inside through the double glass doors, scanning the rows of shelves for small people. He tugged me back. “I just don’t know about this.”

“Are you talking about yourself or the dog? Because the dog looks just fine to me.”

When no one moved, I turned around to stare at him. One more minute of him standing there like a fence post and I’d have to bite
his
ankles to get him moving. I turned back around, pulled toward the door, and whined. Just a little whine. Their reflections in the window remained firmly planted. I whined again.

“See there,” Bernadette said. “She wants to go in. You’re the one who’s being a chicken. They’re just children, Cecil. They don’t have cooties.”

“No, but ...” He was looking down at the ground. His shoulders slouched. He had shrunk in height. “They read to the dog, you say?”

“They try. Sometimes I help them, but we usually have five or six of them. If you want to help them out, you can.”

“That, uh ...” His head disappeared into his shoulders with a prolonged shrug. “That might be a bit of a problem.”

“Why? Did you forget your reading glasses? I’d let you borrow mine, but unless you’re blind as a bat like I am, they’d probably only make things worse. Besides, leopard print would clash with your plaid shirt.”

“It’s not that.” He shifted from foot to foot.

“Then what? You don’t like children. Is that why you and Sarah —?”

“No! If we could have ...” He began to turn away, as if he were about to leave.

“That was too personal. I’m sorry.” Bernadette grabbed his arm to stop him, then quickly released him. “Why then? Why don’t you want to go inside?”

His shoulders twitched. “I get my letters mixed up. It’s been a problem long as I can remember.”

Realization dawned on her. “Cecil, a lot of the children who come here are dyslexic, just like you. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Tell you what — I’ll tell them your job is to make sure the dog minds and they’re not to ask you any questions. If you want, you and I can work on the reading alone together later.”

“I’m too old for that, Bernadette.”

She planted a fist on her round hip. “You’re never too old for anything, Cecil Penewit. Soon as you realize that, why the whole world opens up.” She reached out to latch onto his arm, but pulled her hand away as something behind him caught her eye. Her eyes lit up. “Oh look, there’s little Russell Stevens. Hi there, Rusty!” She waved at a mother and little tawny-haired boy as they turned the corner of the sidewalk a block away. She scooted in close to the Old Man and whispered, “I don’t know why they call him Rusty. He’s not a redhead.”

The little boy kept his head down as his mother pulled him along. From a distance, I might have mistaken him for Hunter. The hair was the same straight sandy blond, his frame slight. My heart bounded. He kicked at pebbles and leaped over the cracks in the sidewalk, as his mother swung his hand vigorously. But as he got closer and raised his face to take me in, I could see his cheeks were rounder than Hunter’s, his eyes a dark brown and turned up slightly at the corners, his lower lip slack with a string of spittle hanging down. This was not Hunter. Not at all. Still, there was something special about him, something very pure and uncomplicated.

As Rusty and his mother came near, she stopped to wipe his chin. “Say hi to Mrs. Kratz and her friends, Rusty,” she told him.

Lowering his eyes, Rusty scuffed his sneakers over the concrete. “Hiw.” Without looking up, he pointed at me. “Who dat?”

“I think he wants to know the dog’s name,” his mother said.

The Old Man tried to pull me in close to his leg, but I resisted. Bernadette finally nudged him with her elbow.

“Halo,” he said. “Her name is Halo, but she’s not used to —”

Rusty rushed forward and flung his arms around my neck. “Hiw dere, Hay-O.”

And just like that, I was smitten. The thing that had been missing in my life — it was a little boy’s love.

I licked his face clean as he giggled in my ear.

“Um, okay, Rusty.” His mom guided him toward the door. “Let’s go inside. It’s story time.”

Rusty collapsed like a rag doll. He started to scream. An ear-splitting scream that could have drowned out fire truck sirens.

His mother threw her head back and rolled her eyes. “I’m so sorry. He does this sometimes when he doesn’t get his way. I thought it would stop by the time he turned seven, but apparently not. Fortunately, he doesn’t do it as often anymore, but when he does ...”

“Poor thing. What’s he upset about?” Bernadette asked.

“The dog, I think. He likes dogs. His room is full of stuffed dogs. My husband painted puppies on his walls. He named every single one of them.”

“Bus-ther,” Rusty piped, his screams ending abruptly, “Thunny, Bo, Daidy, Luthy, Tham, Oliber —”

“His older sister is highly allergic,” his mom went on, pulling him to his feet, “so we can’t have one of our own.”

And the screams started again, this time with stomping feet as Rusty jumped up and down on the sidewalk.

“Oh, I hear you. I know all about allergies,” Bernadette said over the noise. “I carry antihistamines everywhere. Have you ever tried those with her?”

“I wish that was enough,” Rusty’s mother said, growing visibly tense. She pulled her son close, clamped an arm across his chest to keep him still, and stroked the top of his head, trying to soothe him, to no avail. “But she has asthma really,
really
bad. Between the two of them, we’ve had enough trips to the hospital to last us ten lifetimes.”

Rusty started bobbing his head as he wailed.

“Say there,” Cecil said, stooping down to Rusty’s eye level, which was a long way when you’re almost six and a half feet tall and talking to a seven-year old, “what if I let you read to Halo here today? That could be your job. She likes stories.”

Rusty stopped bobbing. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and nodded.

“You go on in with your mom and pick out a book. We’ll be right behind you.”

His mother mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ as Rusty darted inside.

When they were both gone, Bernadette laid a hand over her heart and said, “That was the nicest thing I’ve ever seen anyone do for that boy. He’s a special needs child — Down syndrome — so he has his moments.”

“Nice?” Cecil harrumphed. “I just couldn’t stand to hear him scream for one more second, that’s all.”

—o00o—

“You wead?” Rusty held the book above his head, as close to Cecil’s face as he could get it.

Cecil fought a scowl. “Why don’t we ask Mrs. Kratz to read that, so everyone can hear it?”

Still holding the book up high, Rusty pondered the suggestion. He didn’t seem convinced. He waved the book back and forth. “You wead.”

This time it was a direct command, not a request. Cecil craned his neck sideways to stare Bernadette down. When she finally looked his way, he raised his shaggy eyebrows in a plea for help. She bustled from behind her desk and wrenched the book from Rusty’s grip.

“Ohhh, would you look there!
The Misadventures of Sam Beagle
.” She fanned through the pages, then clutched the book to her chest. “Brook and Olivia love this book. And your friend Alex told me it’s his favorite, too.”

Upon hearing the name, a little boy with curly brown hair waved at Rusty from where he sat on the floor in a circle with the other children. They had all been instructed by Bernadette to treat me like a new kid: they were to be polite, to remain quiet, and they were not to invade my personal space. If they could follow these rules, Bernadette would teach them how to make friends with me. If that went well, I would return next week.

They may have kept their distance and their voices low, but they stared at me relentlessly. As if they’d never seen a dog before. It was more than a bit unnerving.

Bernadette combed Rusty’s hair with her fingers. “So, is it okay if I share this book with the others?”

He tugged at his lower lip and rocked on his feet. “Yaw, is okay.”

With a brush of her hand, Bernadette indicated for Cecil to take a seat just beyond the circle. As he trudged over to the chair, Rusty followed a foot behind, staring at my bobtail.

“Wha’ happen?” Rusty said, pointing to my nub.

His knees cracking as he sat, Cecil shrugged. “I s’pose she was born that way. You don’t have a tail ...” He turned Rusty by the shoulder to check his britches. “Or do you?”

Rusty giggled, then plopped down beside me. “Is boy?”

“Girl,” Cecil said, even though that fact had already been established.

“She pwitty.”

“I think so, too.” Cecil put a finger to his lips, then pointed at Bernadette. “Shhh.”

The children all fell quiet and went unusually still as Bernadette began to read. It was like she’d cast some spell over them. She held the book before her so the kids could see the pictures, looking over the top of the page as she read the upside down words. Gradually, they stopped staring at me to focus on Bernadette, her expressive eyebrows lifting and folding at turns, her lips drawing tight with tension on one page, then as she flipped to the next her whole mouth going wide in an ‘O’ of surprise. A few feet away, Rusty clutched his hands to his own mouth, then scooted closer to me. By the time Bernadette reached the end of the story, his elbow was brushing my fur.

He walked his fingers across the floor tiles, then tickled one of my toes. “Fwiends?”

I slurped at Rusty’s cheek, which elicited a giggle of delight. It reminded me of Hunter. Happiness exploded inside my chest like fireworks in the distance: bangles of color swirling against an expanse of sky, their booms reduced to muted echoes. Every time he laughed, smiled or touched me, however tentative, the same sheer joy filled me with that excitable, floaty feeling.

Later, Rusty ‘read’ the same story to Cecil and me. He didn’t get very far on his own. Cecil had to help him sound things out, even though Cecil himself stumbled over some words. Sometimes Rusty made words up or embellished on the story. But every once in a while, he got a few words right all in a row. The pride that beamed from his eyes was priceless.

Cecil displayed the same patience with Rusty that he always had with me, but the effort of dealing with a child seemed to exhaust him more. That didn’t matter to Rusty, though. As long as I was Cecil’s dog, Rusty would be firmly attached to him.

When Rusty’s mother gathered him up in her arms later and he flapped an arm to wave goodbye, I puffed my cheeks out in a sigh of contentment. This had been a good day. A very good day.