The Christmas Dog
The Christmas
Dog
The Christmas
Dog
M
ELODY
C
ARLSON
©2009 by Melody Carlson
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Carlson, Melody.
The Christmas dog / Melody Carlson.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-8007-1881-7 (cloth)
1. Christmas stories. I. Title.
PS3553.A73257C48 2009 | |
813.54—dc22 | 2009008745 |
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Contents
As Betty Kowalski drove home from church on Sunday, she realized she was guilty of two sins. First of all, she felt envious—perhaps even lustful—of Marsha Deerwood’s new leather jacket. But, in Betty’s defense, the coat was exquisite. A three-quarter-length jacket, it was beautifully cut, constructed of a dove-gray lambskin, and softer than homemade butter. Betty knew this for a fact since she had touched the sleeve of Marsha’s jacket and audibly sighed just as Pastor Gordon had invited the congregation to rise and bow their heads in prayer.
“It’s an early anniversary present from Jim,” Marsha had whispered after the pastor proclaimed a hearty “Amen.” As usual, the two old friends sat together in the third pew from the front. On Marsha’s other side, next to the aisle so he could help with the collection plates, sat Marsha’s husband, James Deerwood, a recently retired physician and respected member of the congregation.
Naturally Betty didn’t show even the slightest sign of jealousy. Years of practice made this small performance no great challenge. Instead, Betty simply smiled, complimented Marsha on the lovely garment, and pretended not to notice the worn cuffs of her own winter coat, a charcoal-colored Harris Tweed that had served her well for several decades now. Still, it was classic and timeless, and a new silk scarf or a pair of sleek leather gloves might dress it up a bit. Not that she could afford such little luxuries right now. Besides, she did not care to dwell on such superficialities (especially during the service). Nor would she want anyone to suspect how thoughts such as these distracted her while Pastor Gordon preached with such fiery intensity about the necessity of loving one’s neighbors today. He even pounded his fist on the pulpit a couple of times, something the congregation rarely witnessed in their small, dignified church.
But now, as Betty drove her old car toward her neighborhood, she was mindful of Pastor Gordon’s words. And thus she became cognizant of her second sin. Not only did Betty
not
love her neighbor, she was afraid that she hated him wholeheartedly. But then again, she reminded herself, it wasn’t as if Jack Jones lived
right
next to her. He wasn’t her
next-door
neighbor. Not that it made much difference, since only a decrepit cedar fence separated their backyards. It was, in fact, that rotten old fence that had started their dispute in the first place.
“This fence is encroaching on my property,” Jack had said to her in October. She’d been peacefully minding her own business, enjoying the crisp sunny day as she raked leaves in her backyard.
“What do you mean?” She set her bamboo rake aside and went over to hear him better, which wasn’t easy since his music, as usual, was blaring.
“I mean I’ve studied the property lines in our neighborhood, and that fence is at least eight feet into my yard,” he said.
“That fence is on your property line, fair and square.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “It’s the public access strip that’s—”
“No way!” He pointed toward the neighboring yards where the public access strip had been split right down the middle. “See what I mean? Your yard has encroached over the whole public access strip and—”
“Excuse me,” she said, shaking her finger at him like he was in grade school. “But the original owners agreed to build that fence right where it is. No one has encroached on anyone.”
He rubbed his hand through his straggly dark hair, jutted out his unshaved chin, narrowed his eyes. “It’s over the line, lady.”
Betty did not like being called “lady.” But instead of losing her temper, she pressed her lips together tightly and mentally counted to ten.
“And it’s falling down,” he added.
“Well,” she retorted, “since it’s on your property, I suggest you fix it.” As she turned and walked away, she felt certain that he increased the volume on his music just to spite her. It seemed clear the battle lines were drawn.
Fortunately, the weather turned cold after that. Consequently, Betty no longer cared to spend time in her backyard, and her windows remained tightly closed to shut out Jack’s noise and music.
Now Betty tightened her grip on the steering wheel, keeping her gaze straight ahead as she drove down Persimmon Lane, the street on which Jack lived. She did not want that insufferable young man to observe her looking his way. Although it was hard
not
to stare at the run-down house with the filthy red pickup truck parked right on the front lawn. Obviously, the old vehicle couldn’t be parked in the driveway. That space was buried in a mountain of junk covered with ugly blue tarps, which were anchored with old plastic milk bottles. She assumed the bottles were filled with dirty water, although another neighbor (who suspected their young neighbor was up to no good) had suggested the mysterious brown liquid in the containers might be a toxic chemical used in the manufacturing of some kind of illegal drugs.
Betty sighed and continued her attempt to avert her gaze as she slowed down for the intersection of her street, Nutmeg Lane. But despite her resolve, she glanced sideways and let out a loud groan. Oh, to think that the Spencer house had once been the prettiest home in the neighborhood!
As she turned the corner, she remembered how that house used to look. For years it had been painted a lovely sky blue with clean white trim, and the weed-free lawn had always been neatly cut and perfectly edged. The flower beds had bloomed profusely with annuals and perennials, and Gladys Spencer’s roses had even won prizes at the county fair. Who ever would’ve guessed it would come to this?
The original owners, Al and Gladys Spencer, had taken great pride in their home. And they had been excellent neighbors and wonderful friends for decades. But over the past five years, the elderly couple had suffered a variety of serious health problems. Gladys had gone into a nursing home, then Al had followed her, and eventually they both passed away within months of each other. The house had sat vacant for a few years.
Then, out of the blue, this Jack character had shown up and taken over. Without saying a word to anyone, he began tearing into the house as if he was intent on destroying it. And even when well-meaning neighbors tried to meet him or find out who he was, he made it perfectly clear that he had absolutely no interest in speaking to any of them. He was a rude young man and didn’t care who knew it.
As Betty pulled into her own driveway, she wondered not for the first time if Jack Jones actually owned that house. No one had ever seen a For Sale sign go up. And no one had witnessed a moving van arrive. Her secret suspicion was that Jack Jones was a squatter.
It had been late last summer when this obnoxious upstart took occupancy of the house, and according to Penny Horton, the retired schoolteacher who lived next door, the scruffy character had brought only a duffle bag and three large plastic crates with him. But the next day, without so much as a howdy-do, he began tearing the house apart. Penny, who was currently in Costa Rica, was the one who informed Betty of the young man’s name, and only because she discovered a piece of his mail that had been delivered mistakenly to her mailbox. “It looked like something official,” Penny had confided to Betty. “It seemed to be from the government. Do you suppose he’s in the witness protection program?”
Or he’s out on parole
, Betty had wanted to suggest, but had kept these thoughts to herself.
Out of concern, Betty had attempted to reach the Spencers’ daughter, Donna, by calling the old number that was still in her little blue address book. But apparently that number had been changed, and the man who answered the phone had never heard of anyone by that name. Even when Betty called information, citing the last town she knew Donna had lived in, she came up empty-handed. So she gave up.
Betty frowned as she bent to open her old garage door. The wind was blowing bitter and cold now, and she had forgotten her wool gloves in the car but didn’t want to go back for them. She didn’t usually park in the garage, but the weatherman had predicted unusually low temperatures, and her car’s battery was getting old. She gripped the cold metal handle on the single-car garage door and, not for the first time, longed for a garage-door opener—like the one Marsha and Jim had on their triple-car garage. One simply pushed the remote’s button and the door magically went up, and once the car was inside, down the door went again. How she wished for one now.
Her grandmother’s old saying went through her head as she struggled to hoist up the stubborn door. “If wishes were fishes, we’d all have a fry.” Oh, yes, wouldn’t she!
Betty shivered as she got back into her car. She still couldn’t get that obnoxious neighbor out of her head—all thanks to this morning’s sermon! But what was she supposed to do? How could she love someone so despicable? How was it even possible? Oh, she’d heard that with God all things were possible . . . but this?
She decided to commit the dilemma to prayer. She bowed her head until it thumped the top of the steering wheel, asking God to help her love her loathsome neighbor and to give her the strength she lacked. “Amen,” she said. Then she tried to focus her full attention on carefully navigating her old Buick forward into the snug garage, although she was still thinking about that thoughtless Jack Jones—if that was his real name.
The next thing she knew, she heard a loud scratching sound and realized she’d gotten too close to the right side of the garage door. She took in a sharp breath and quickly backed up, readjusted the wheel, and went forward again, but when she turned off her engine, she knew it was too late. The damage was done. And, really, wasn’t this also Jack Jones’s fault? He was a bad egg—and had probably been one from the very beginning.
