Summer Light: A Novel (33 page)

“He doesn’t bite me,” Kylie said.

“Well, he bit me,” Jean-Pierre told her, pointing at his foot. “Last night he smelled so bad I kicked him right out the door. And he grabbed my foot—”

“What are you doing with a dog who bites?” Martin asked, staring down at the old hound. He was tied to a fence post, lying in a shallow hole he’d dug himself, his face creased with wrinkles. His fur was white around his eyes and muzzle, and when he panted, his tongue was so long it hung into the dirt.

“He used to belong to Anne’s father,” Jean-Pierre explained. Martin listened. He had gone to school with the man’s wife, Anne Duprée, and Martin vaguely remembered that her father had owned a small farm southwest of the lake.

“Did Mr. Duprée die?” Martin asked.

“Yes, last winter. We sold the farm, but of course the new owners didn’t want a mean old dog. He’s bad for business, growling at all the customers.”

“Poor old dog,” Kylie said, squirming to pull away from Martin. He couldn’t believe, looking into the hound’s droopy eyes, that he would bite anyone, but Martin wasn’t taking any chances.

“What do I owe you?” Martin asked, reaching for his wallet.

“Well, I’m going to give you a ten-percent discount,” Jean-Pierre said. “On account of the honor you’ve brought Lac Vert. Anne is very proud of you. Next year, even greater victory! You’ll win the Stanley Cup for sure.”

“Next year,” Martin said, letting Kylie go as he counted out the money.

She reached for the dog, and he licked her hand. Grabbing the rope, the nursery man yanked the dog away. “All I need is for this mutt to bite your girl,” he said.

“He won’t bite me,” Kylie insisted.

“He’s very old. Too old. The vet is coming soon, if you know what I mean,” Jean-Pierre said. Martin felt ice in his veins.

“You mean you’re putting him to sleep?” Kylie asked.

“He’s got arthritis, bad teeth, a terrible disposition,” Jean-Pierre Heckler said. “It’s for the best.”

“Can we adopt him?” Kylie asked.

“You don’t want this dog,” Jean-Pierre said. “Believe me. Now, you want a nice pet, I can give you a kitten from out back. Our big tiger just had a litter—”

Martin watched Kylie inch toward the old basset hound. He could smell the dog’s breath from where he stood. Kylie reached out her hand, and the hound craned his neck so she could pet his head. He squirmed under her touch like a happy puppy, and Martin heard himself ask, “What’s the dog’s name?”

“Thunder,” Jean-Pierre told them.

“Hi, Thunder,” Kylie said.

“The kittens—”

“She wants Thunder.” Martin watched the old dog slobber over Kylie’s hand. Kylie laughed and stroked his long ears.

“He’s a mess,” Jean-Pierre said quietly, so Kylie couldn’t hear. “Can’t control himself—goes all over the house. We let him sleep outside, and then he howls all night. He’s a one-man dog—turned mean and surly the day his master died. Believe me, Martin—let the vet do his work. It’s best for everyone.”

Martin thought back. One day Genny had taken her kids and Natalie to the Lac Vert dog pound, behind the municipal garage on Mountain Road. The Gardners adopted a young shepherd, and Natalie picked out an abandoned beagle, telling the woman in charge that she and her father would be back for him before the weekend.

She had begged Martin to let her get the dog. They could train him together, and he could keep Martin company when she went back to California. Martin had said no. The hockey season was long; the dog would be alone while Martin was on the road. His situation wasn’t like the Gardners’, with lots of people to play with the dog every day.

Natalie had been devastated. Sneaking away one morning, she had ridden her bike to the pound. She named the dog “Archie,” and all that summer she never stopped begging Martin to reconsider. One morning he got a call from the woman who ran the pound. Obviously not a hockey fan, she spoke to him with venom in her voice, telling him to pick up his child.

“These roads are dangerous,” the woman had said. “She has no business riding her bicycle up here by herself.”

“I’ll come get her right away,” he said.

“Don’t let her come back,” the woman warned. “This dog has been here all summer, and he’s being put down tomorrow. She won’t find him here again.”

When Martin picked Nat up, she started to cry, clutching Archie’s neck. Breaking her grasp, Martin had pushed the dog away, getting bitten on the hand in the process. With Natalie weeping inconsolably, Martin had driven away, aware of the woman’s cold stare.

Remembering Natalie’s sorrow and anger, Martin watched Kylie now. He saw her kiss the basset hound’s ear, and he watched the dog’s droopy-eyed gaze widen. The dog licked Kylie’s face, revealing gray-pink gums missing lower teeth.

“How about a new puppy, Kylie?” he asked. “Or one of those kittens?”

Kylie shook her head. “I want Thunder.”

“Okay, then,” Martin said. Then, turning back to Anne’s husband, “Would that be possible? I mean, it sounds as if you don’t intend to keep the dog.”

“We don’t, but neither do you—honestly, it would be an insult for us to give you this mangy animal—”

“
He’s not mangy,
” said the little girl, and although it was Kylie speaking, Martin could swear he heard Natalie’s voice.

“I’ll be happy to pay you for him,” Martin offered.

“That’s not necessary.” Jean-Pierre was shaking his head. He helped Martin load the last rosebushes into the truck, as Kylie climbed into the cab with Thunder.

“Why is his name Thunder?” Kylie asked.

“He had a brother, Lightning,” Jean-Pierre said. “Their names were sort of a family joke. All they liked to do was eat and sleep! Those big sleepy eyes, their short legs. They’d lie on the porch and birds would steal their food. Pigeons would sit on their heads.”

“What happened to Lightning?”

“My father-in-law went to the hospital and never came home, and old Lightning refused to eat or drink. Wasted away and died. Thunder and Lightning. They were quite a pair.”

“You miss your brother,” Martin heard Kylie whisper to the old dog. “And your master. That’s why you’ve been in a bad mood.”

“Got quite an imagination, that one,” Jean-Pierre said, pointing.

“She has a big heart,” Martin said, keeping an even temper as he climbed into the truck and backed down the driveway. Next time he wanted rosebushes, he’d visit Green Gardens, north on the lake road. Anne Duprée had been a nice girl in school. Martin couldn’t picture her married to someone who’d kick her father’s dog. No wonder the old hound had bitten him.

But then, a dog had bitten Martin once.

Overnight, May had a new rose garden and an old dog. Taking her coffee outside to watch the sunrise and walk through rows of just-planted rosebushes, she thought about life: how impossible it was to see around corners and up hills, how every day was filled with the unknown.

“Come on, boy,” she said out loud to her companion, the elderly and as yet unknown basset hound Thunder. Thunder padded through the recently overturned earth, sticking his considerable nose into furrows and under leaves, huffing and puffing as he walked at May’s feet.

The sun was peeking out from behind the mountain, spreading diamond light down the rocks and onto the lake’s green glass surface. Deer grazed in shadows across the lake, unseen by Thunder. May walked slowly, to keep from scaring them. Rabbits scattered into the underbrush, and she found herself thinking about the missing cross-stitch picture, wondering which sort of animals Agnes had stitched.

Sitting in the gazebo, May looked around. The old dog stood by the water’s edge, as if contemplating a swim. Martin had expected May to resist the dog: his bladder problems, his halitosis, his dandruff, his missing teeth, and his need for special food.

But May had seen only Kylie’s love for her new dog and Martin’s care for Kylie. It had touched her beyond words. Then Martin had told her about Natalie and Archie, how he had let the chance to let his daughter have a dog slip by once before. Thunder was a sweet old creature, saved by Martin from veterinary death, but what May found ineffable was how her husband and child had become a team.

“Here, boy,” May called softly now. “Thunder…c’mere, boy.”

Thunder looked over his shoulder, his eyes drooping and bloodshot. He had gotten stuck in the mud. Paw-deep and sinking to his knees, he gazed helplessly at his mistress’s mother.

“You can do it, Thunder,” May said, setting her coffee mug down on the gazebo bench.

The dog let out a mournful bay, then took a long drink of lake water. He shook off his ears and jowls, soaking May from ten feet away. She kicked off her sneakers and wondered how hard it was going to be to pull a sixty-pound basset hound—with a reputation for biting—out of the mud. Looking around, she happened to glimpse the rose garden.

The sun, half hidden by pines on the mountainside, was striking the rosebushes. A thousand new buds, in scarlet, crimson, vermilion, pink, peach, and pearl, were straining toward the light. They were tiny flames licking the sky, ready to explode into bloom. Martin had started planting them the minute he got home, and he hadn’t finished until after dark.

The smells of dirt, coffee, wet dog. May felt so happy, she couldn’t contain the feeling. Dew covered every stick of wood, each blade of grass. She started to roll up the legs of her jeans, but then she found herself taking them off. Peeling off her sweatshirt and blouse, wearing nothing but her underwear, she stood alone on the steps of the gazebo where she had married Martin.

Walking down to the lake, she felt the cool mud between her toes. Thunder wagged his tail as she approached. Reaching her arms around his torpedo-shaped body, May eased him out of the mud. She started to turn, to place him on the grass, but he started to whimper and point his nose toward the water.

“Want to swim?” she asked.

Thunder didn’t reply, but his front paws began to paddle. May slid him into the lake, and he glided forward with all the sleekness of a sea otter, a sailboat, or a very young puppy. May followed right behind.

She swam out from the shore, straight into the patch of diamond sunlight. The mountain lake felt smooth and cold, clean as dawn. Thunder stayed closer to land, paddling back and forth along the edge. When May turned, to look at her house and barns and rose garden, she saw her husband walking down the path.

She waved, but he didn’t wave back. When he came upon the pile of her clothes, he picked them up and held them against his chest. She watched him looking around, moving his head from side to side as if trying to see where she had gone. At the sight of Martin, Thunder waddled into shallow water, and Martin hauled him out. Martin’s shoulders were tense, and he never stopped scanning the lake.

“May!” he called.

“I’m out here,” May called back.

He nodded, and she saw him relax. He was barefoot, but now he undid his shorts and pulled his shirt over his head. May watched him place all the clothes on the steps of the gazebo. Standing there in his jockey shorts, he looked like a marble statue. The sun glistened on his skin, showing every scar, every muscle, every flat surface. He walked down to the edge, standing very still for a few seconds.

He dove in, and May thrilled with excitement watching him swim out. Could it be considered skinny-dipping if they were wearing their underwear? She opened her arms to embrace him, as he swam toward her. He grabbed her with such ferocity, it took her breath away.

“I couldn’t see you,” he said into her neck. “I found your clothes, and I saw the dog, but I couldn’t see you.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” she said, stunned by the intensity in his voice. “Thunder was stuck, and when I helped him I decided to swim.”

Martin nodded. She felt him moving his head, and then he let her go and backed away, treading water. They were face to face, swimming in the sunlight. She tried to read the look in his eyes: It was filled with confusion, relief, and something else.

“You couldn’t see me?” she asked.

“No.”

“I was right here.” They were just fifteen yards out; surely she should have been easily spotted from shore.

“The sun was in my eyes,” he said.

She nodded, feeling something like relief herself. But relieved of what? They swam in a patch of glare, making her squint and look away from the sun. Martin brushed her bare leg with his own, and she drifted into his arms. They kissed, ducking beneath the surface. When they came up, they heard Thunder barking. He let out a long, joyful yip, and Martin said into May’s ear, “He’s happy to be alive.”