Say No More (19 page)

Gripping the edge of the stone, he pulled himself up. “I’m about to remedy that. If Bernadette will have me, that is.”

She will.

I nuzzled the back of his knee until he reached down. He stroked my neck, smiled in that steady, gentle way of his, and said, “I’ve never admitted this, but there were times just after Sarah died when I could’ve sworn she was standing right behind me. I couldn’t hear her speak, but I always got the sense she was trying to let me know she was doing just fine and I should stop moping.” He laughed at himself, and then slapped the dust from his knees. “Crazy old man.”

Not crazy, no. Not at all. In fact, we had more in common than he’d ever know.

—o00o—

Thunder shook the windowpanes. It had been like this most of the day: bursts of downpours, clouds so black it looked like midnight, flashes of lightning that danced across the sky in jagged tines of white. The sheep had stayed in the barn, and Cecil had remained glued in front of the TV. Every fifteen minutes, he’d flip to the weather station, then back to another station. Nothing held his interest for long. He never watched much television. There was always too much work to be done.

Finally, when Dr. Oz came on the TV, the phone rang.

Cecil flinched at the sound, and then stared at the phone as if trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. After five rings he got up from his recliner and shuffled toward the phone. He placed his hand on the receiver, gathered a breath, and picked it up. A couple more seconds passed before he spoke.

“Hello?” His breathing was audible. A soup bone braced between my front paws, I watched him from beneath the table. His face, pale as a drift of snow, was long with worry. “It is... Oh, I see. Well, that’s too soon... No, I can’t make it then, either... I understand, but there’s something I can’t miss that day... Sure, I’ll talk to him.” Cecil walked slowly over to the kitchen table, the cord stretched so long the curliness of it had disappeared. He pulled out a chair and sank into it. “Dr. Detwiler, hello... Fine. Never felt better, in fact... Uh huh... Uh huh... Ah, I didn’t know... Yep, I understand. But can it wait another week?” A bolt of lightning flashed outside. His gaze jerked to the window over the sink. “I will. You have my word on it ... Thank you. See you then.”

He clicked the phone off and laid it on the table before him. His hand drifted to his chest, grazed his breast pocket briefly. Then he looked up at the ceiling. The whites of his eyes, riddled with veins, were more gray than white, but his irises were still as blue as the sky on a summer day.

“You gave me this long, long enough to find her, but I just need a few more days to make it right, y’hear?”

A few more days for what? And who, exactly, was he talking to — himself?

I pulled the bone in closer and went to work licking the marrow clean.

—o00o—

Four days later we put the sheep out to pasture before daylight. That alone was confusing, because we always ate first, but there were several things about today that were distinctly different. For one, Cecil ironed the new shirt that he’d bought at TSC the night before last when we picked up mineral blocks for the sheep. I wasn’t even aware he owned an iron until then, although I’d seen Lise use hers many times. Then he draped the shirt on a hanger and hooked it on the bathroom doorknob. It was royal blue with white piping around the breast pockets and had faux mother-of-pearl buttons all down the front. It was the first time I could recall him wearing something other than plaid. Cam used to get new shirts for special occasions, but Cecil hadn’t really had any special occasions since I’d known him. Except for winter when he wore his coat, Cecil’s wardrobe had pretty much been the same every day for six years.

He stood in a clean white undershirt and his best jeans in front of the hall closet. From the top shelf, he took an overturned white hat. It was a cowboy hat, like the kind Cam wore in his show cattle pictures, with the brim neatly turned up and a black band studded with sterling silver medallions around the crown of it. Before he flipped it over, he dipped his hand inside and drew from it a small box covered in dark green velvet. He flicked the lid open. A beam of yellow sunlight played through the lace curtains at the end of the hallway and danced off a jeweled gold ring.

“You think she’ll like it, Halo?”

Honestly, it looked a tad modest for her tastes, but she loved all things glittery. I wondered if it had some symbolic meaning? We dogs are simple creatures. We have our basic needs, but if we can’t eat something, sleep on it or play with it, it might as well not exist.

On the shelf beside where he kept this hat that I’d never seen him wear before were half a dozen trophies. I couldn’t read what they said — how I wish that I could — but he traced his fingers over the gold plaques on the front and said quietly, “Halo and I are going to make you proud today, Luke.”

Something was definitely strange about today. As much as I liked knowing what to expect every day, it also bored me. Our trips to the library over the past month had given me something new to look forward to. I’d even sensed Cecil anticipating Mondays by the way he made sure his clothes were clean and that our chores were done extra early. After visiting with Rusty and the other children, we’d go to the outdoor café with Bernadette for dinner. Cecil always ordered the meatloaf, but Bernadette had something different almost every time. One day it was breaded catfish, the next it was a rib sandwich. The waitress, Amanda, became so used to seeing me that she kept a tin of dog biscuits in the back room and always brought me two — one for dinner and one for dessert.

Today, however, was not a Monday. Cecil stood in front of the bathroom mirror in his undershirt. He dispensed shaving cream into his palm and slathered it on his face, then shaved. After that, he put on his new shirt and slipped a braided lanyard beneath his collar. He’d just finished combing his hair when I heard the whoosh of the back door.

“Morning, you two early birds,” Bernadette chimed. She no longer knocked. Cecil had told her there was no need, that she might as well make herself at home.

He took the little box out of his pants pocket. He looked inside, then snapped it shut again and stuffed it into the side pocket of his jacket.

I raced down the hallway, turned the corner, and skidded across the kitchen linoleum, nearly plowing into the refrigerator door. Bernadette had the door wide open, digging for something inside.

“Careful there.” Holding a carton of eggs, she emerged from the arctic depths. “You have a big day ahead.”

Ohhh. Maybe we were going to breakfast at the outdoor café? But why would she be getting the eggs out then?

Cecil nodded a ‘hello’, pulled out his chair, and rifled through the morning paper that Bernadette had brought in for him.

“You, too,” she said, as she put the iron skillet on the stove and laid strips of bacon side by side. Bacon? This was better than the café. In another skillet she cracked two eggs.

He flicked to another page. “I’m not expecting anything, really.”

“That’s the biggest boldfaced lie I’ve ever heard you tell, Cecil Penewit. I’ve seen you out there training your dog from daybreak to dusk. I hear tell the trial you did over in Rowan County went well. Got a few fancy rosettes, didn’t you?”

He huffed a little snort of humility as she laid out two place settings. We’d been to two trials in the past two months: one just over the state line in Indiana and another up northeast. We had sailed through the Started and Open levels, taking first place all but once.

I stared at the stovetop, the tantalizing aroma of bacon fat filling my nose. I practiced my sad, hungry eyes, waiting for Bernadette to toss me a piece. Licked my lips. Groaned softly to convey the tightening hunger in my belly. The strips popped and sizzled, taunting me, as she grabbed each one with the tongs and turned them over. Still, she kept her back to me. I scooted closer. Whimpered.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Cecil?”

He gazed at her over the top of the newspaper. “What was I supposed to tell you?”

“About the trials you used to do.” A full plate of bacon and eggs in her hands, she waddled over to the table and sat down. I followed her and claimed my usual spot underneath. “I was going through the microfiche at the library, looking something up for a patron when I discovered one of the articles. You were good.
Really
good. A local legend. The pride of Adair County. You suppose that Clancy knows anything about how you were state champ three years in a row?”

Eyes lowered, Cecil folded the paper up and laid it aside. “That was over thirty years ago. He was probably still in diapers. Besides, a man forgets a lot in thirty years.”

“Why did you stop going to trials? You’ve had other dogs since then to help you around the farm, haven’t you?”

“Trophies don’t mean much at the end of a long day of chores, Bernie. The dog either does the job or they don’t.” Shrugging, he set his paper on the table and loaded his plate with bacon. “And maybe I just haven’t had a dog as good as ol’ Luke since then. Until now.”

The coffee maker beeped. As Bernadette got up to pour two cups, Cecil dropped not one, but two pieces of bacon next to me. I snapped them both up before she ever turned around.

Bernadette set Cecil’s cup in front of him. “You’re going to make that dog sick, Cecil.”

He opened the paper, folded it in half, and sipped his coffee. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

T
he Adair County Fair was just waking up when we arrived. Rows of crisply painted white buildings flanked a central paved area, where carnival rides and food vendors were arrayed. There were more smells in that one place than I have ever in my life smelled: popcorn and candy apples, barbecued ribs and crispy onion rings, pine shavings and straw, and so many new smells that I didn’t yet know. In small aluminum trailers curtained by striped awnings, the workers were just arriving to begin cooking. Fishing a ten dollar bill from her purse, Bernadette went up to one of the trailers. “Two, please.” A bearded black man drizzled batter into a vat of oil, humming to himself. A few minutes later, he pushed two enormous elephant ears dusted with powdery sugar at her.

“Best part of the fair,” she chirped as she handed Cecil his. “That and the freshly squeezed lemonade.”

No, the French fries were. And if someone didn’t give me some soon, I was going to throw myself down on the ground and refuse to move. Heck, I’d settle for some squashed, day-old, grit-encrusted ones off the asphalt if Cecil would ever lighten up on the leash and let me dive after them.

Mindless of my agony, they strolled down the midway, stepping carefully over the many electrical cords crisscrossing the thoroughfare, close enough to brush elbows occasionally, but not holding hands. They weren’t yet ready for that public declaration.

I kept my eyes on the ground, looking for stale hamburger buns or smashed fries, a kernel of popcorn or a forgotten Skittle. Humans are unbelievably wasteful creatures. Even though my stomach was satisfied from my morning meal, I would have gladly cleaned up the thoughtlessly tossed food remains, but Cecil kept my leash tightly looped at his hip, restraining me from the smorgasbord of my dreams. I did manage a few nachos, although they were slathered in a cheesy sauce with tiny chunks of peppers that made my nose and eyes burn.

At the tallest and biggest of the amusement rides, Cecil paused. The brim of his hat shading his eyes, he leaned back to gaze up at the giant wheel. A fresh coat of blue paint concealed a scattering of rusty pockmarks. Unlit bulbs dotted its outer framework. Bench seats swung precariously all the way up to the top, their red vinyl faded from the weathering of many years.

To me, the thing reeked of grease and gasoline. I failed to see its purpose. No dog in his right mind would go up in that thing. Humans, though, do very senseless things at times.

“This was always my favorite,” Cecil said. “I was thinking — maybe later today, before we leave, we could take a ride? If you’d like to.”

“I’d like that very much,” she said, her sight also fixed on the apex of the tall wheel. They stood like that, transfixed, for a full minute before the sputter and hum of a generator sounded behind them. Bernadette touched Cecil on the arm and leaned her head toward the stands of the arena at the far end of the midway.

He nodded. “I s’pose we should head that way.”

They turned and began walking. Halfway there, Bernadette’s steps slowed. She glanced at him, then turned her gaze ahead. “Being here, with you ... it makes me feel young again. Like, I don’t know ... like nothing else matters but right now.”

His foot skipped over a stone, sent it bouncing across the cracked asphalt and under the trailer of a cotton candy vendor. He caught her hand in his and swung it, his wrinkly cheeks pressed into a wide grin. “Know what you mean. I feel the same way.”

—o00o—

We had drawn the second to last run of the day, and there had been more entries than in previous years, so the runs had started in the relative cool of morning, only to stretch endlessly into the sweltering heat of late afternoon. Most of the dogs trialing were Australian Shepherds, but there were also a smattering of other herding breeds: Border Collies, Shetland Sheepdogs, a German Shepherd and a low-slung shaggy thing that even Cecil didn’t know the name of. For a while, Cecil paced nervously behind the stands while I slept in their shade, but eventually the waiting had worn on him, and he left me with Bernadette while he went off to rest somewhere quiet.

“Oh my. I think I’ve died and gone straight to heaven.” Bernadette’s friend Merle fanned her face with the trial program. Slight-framed, she was as lively as a hummingbird, even though she was probably a good ten years older than Bernadette. The frames of her glasses were huge and round, giving her the appearance of an owl. We were sitting at the bottom edge of the arena stands, close to the action, which meant we were constantly breathing in a cloud of dust. “That one looks
just
like George Strait, don’t he?”

A man with a dog at his side leaned over the gate that led into the main arena. Something very subtle indicated he was different from the rest who had stood there in the hours past. Maybe it was the tilt of his hat or the casual, yet confident stance. More likely it was the gleaming silver buckle fastened at his waist, imprinted with the design of a dog in full stride trailing after a compliant flock, a clarion of his conquests. It was probably not the only silver buckle he owned. He was neither old, nor young, but that golden age in between, still possessing of youth’s vitality, yet with enough experience under his belt to command respect from the life-ranchers and a fan-girl sort of admiration among the hobby trialers. Arms crossed, he drummed his fingers idly against his biceps. He didn’t carry the carved crook of the more serious handlers or the rudimentary stock stick of the neophytes purchased from TSC. He didn’t need such crude implements. In his world, they were a symbol at best, a crutch at worst.