The Dog That Whispered (11 page)

“But I would like to put some of it into a checking account. Like maybe fifty thousand dollars?”

Mr. Hild appeared to breathe a great sigh of relief, without wanting to, without wanting to express his true emotions, which were obviously delight and relief.

“I want to buy a new car. And I want to sell my condo.”

“Well, fifty thousand dollars would buy a very nice car, Ms. Jamison.”

Hazel began to grow more comfortable with the whole stock-rich-personal banker sort of feeling.

“Actually, I just want to get an older delivery van. Reliable. But used.”

Mr. Hild nodded and probably would have asked why, but that also might be a question that personal bankers don't ask their newly wealthy clients.

“I'm not going to make deliveries, of course. But I want to put a bed in back, and maybe get a little stove where I could make coffee.”

“So you'll do some camping, then?”

“Heavens no,” Hazel replied. “I just want a place to rest. If I get tired driving. I plan on doing some traveling. My mother always said she wanted to travel and never did, not really.”

Mr. Hild looked a little jealous, or envious, as she spoke of her plans.

“So you'll go out and explore America?”

“Something like that,” Hazel said. “I want to look for the truth.”

And after a moment, Mr. Hild took the envelope with the Apple stock.

“Let me get you a receipt for this. And then I'll call the bank's stock traders. We'll have an accurate amount of the total for the sale within a few hours, probably. This sort of stock sells quickly.”

Maybe I don't know what's it is like coming back from a war
, Wilson thought as he stood by the coffee maker waiting for the little light to show up that would tell him the unit was ready to brew coffee.
Maybe I've forgotten. Maybe I never remembered
.

He jabbed at the button on the coffee maker, missing it on his first attempt.

Maybe I don't want to remember
.

Thurman continued eating as Wilson spoke his internal dialogue. Obviously, he had watched Wilson as he stormed about the kitchen that afternoon.

Wilson would not have called it “storming.”

Something much less than storming. Maybe a little disturbed. But not tempestuous. Or raging. Perturbed. That's it. That's the word. Perturbed
.

Thurman was having none of it, apparently, and as he finished his dog treats he sat by the refrigerator and stared at Wilson, a most…disappointed look on his face, if disappointment was a possible emotion for a dog to exhibit.

Thurman appeared to have that ability, however, to reflect whatever emotion he was feeling, from disappointment to joy, from melancholy to choleric, from unctuous to felicitous.

Wilson pretended to glower at the dog, and wondered if a less literate owner would attribute any of those complex emotions to a mere canine companion.

Probably not
, he thought and slumped at his usual chair at the kitchen table.

Thurman simply stared at him.

Then he growled,
Emily
.

Wilson's glower did not abate.

“Emily? You're asking about Emily?”

Thurman growled again.

Maybe
.

Wilson pushed his coffee cup to one side.

“I don't see why you're asking about that. Or her, I should say.”

Thurman shook his head, then snorted, and whisper-growled.

Past
, he growled, looking over his shoulder. Then
Not past
, staring hard at Wilson.

“What? What are you talking about?” Wilson said, his voice more forceful than it had ever been since Thurman's arrival. And louder. Not a shout, not yet. Wilson was not a man who shouted, but these words were hard-edged, and louder than Thurman liked. But Thurman was not cowed, not in the least. He would not slink off thinking he had done something bad, because he had not. He met Wilson's glare with his own focused stare.

“What? What do you want from me?” Wilson asked, gesturing wide with his left hand, something he seldom did—gesturing at all, with any hand.

Thurman waited a long time. Then he stood and growled a long, nuanced growl, with stops and starts and peaks and valleys.

Past. Now. Move. Deal
.

Thurman stood up and walked to Wilson. He butted his head against his thigh.

Hiding
.

Wilson looked down at the dog. He didn't want to soften, but there was something about those big golden liquid eyes that drew the truth out.

“But I don't want to remember. It's too…hard. Too much pain.”

Thurman nodded as if he understood.

Then he turned his head up and stared, not at the ceiling, but at the heaven beyond the ceiling. The dog's eyes seemed to focus on something far away, something that reflected peace and calm.

Wilson knew what he was looking at. He could tell from the tilt of his head and the comfort he could see in those dark eyes.

“God?” Wilson said. “You're talking about God now? Some sort of comforting divinity?”

Thurman smiled. It was not a joyous smile but a smile of comfort.

Wilson shook his head this time.

“No. Don't you start on this go-to-church-and-find-peace bunkum too. My mother has mentioned that I should just go ahead and take advantage of some manner of divine relief more than enough times over the years. I think she actually believes that it could happen—that I would suddenly be ‘better' if all I did was turn to Jesus. That's not going to happen.”

He stood up and left his coffee on the table, a half-cup remaining.

“I don't want to remember, Thurman. And I won't.”

Thurman had not backed away. He waited until Wilson was out of the room, but still within earshot.

He ambled to his bed in the den, growling. Growling louder than he normally did, in order that someone else in the house would hear his admonitions.

Remember. Talk. Remember. Talk. Remember. Talk
.

By the time Hazel had lunch at Denny's, walked down to the park along the Willamette River, and came back to the bank, her stocks had been sold.

They actually sold for more than what Mr. Hild had first quoted only a few days before.

“Stocks go up. Stocks go down. No one really knows why,” Mr. Hild said. “You happened to sell when they were up. Good news for you.”

She signed all the paperwork, set up a checking account with a small portion of the proceeds, and placed the rest into a series of certificates of deposit.

“They're insured, aren't they?” Hazel asked. “Just in case, you know…”

Mr. Hild nodded.

“We actually use an outside insurance group for sums of this level. A little more expensive for the bank, but these agencies do not set limits on the amount insured. So all your funds will be safe…in case something untoward was to happen here at Umpqua. Which it won't.”

Hazel had no idea if any of this was standard protocol. And she had no idea of what an “untoward” event meant in the world of Umpqua banking. But she had not worried much about banking and finance and the security of deposits before this moment, and probably would not start worrying about any of those things in the future.

Hazel was not a worrier by nature.

She now had a
personal
personal banker, who knew her name and who had fetched, or had some other lesser personal banker fetch, a chilled bottle of water for her so she would stay hydrated during the process of signing her name many multiple times.

And now, after all that, after all the newly rich financial dealings had been concluded, she returned to her small condo, dropped her purse on the dining table, and looked around—this time with a more critical eye. It was not as if she was finding fault with where she lived, or looking now with disdain on her modest dwelling or modest possessions in particular. It was that she now had the freedom to leave this place…forever, if she wanted, and not have to worry about coming up with the means of financing another place to live.

She walked to the window in her living area, which also contained her dining area. The window faced west, toward the ocean, sort of, though the ocean was more than two hours distant. What she could see most clearly was the parking lot of a strip mall with a convenience store, a branch bank, a dry cleaner, and an outpost of a chain sandwich shop.

She had her couch placed facing away from the window.

Sunsets were usually pleasant, until you came close to the window and were faced with too much local detail.

“Maybe I could find a place on the ocean. Or the river. Something small. I don't need much.”

The sun was midway to setting.

“When I come back, that is. When I come back to Portland.”

A large semi truck pulled into the parking lot below, sounding its horn several times, for no apparent reason.

“If I come back to Portland.”

She thought about making coffee, but decided against it. She thought about having a glass of wine, as a celebration, but realized that the one bottle of wine she owned was nearly three years old and left over from a “buy some of our overpriced jewelry” party that she had cohosted with an acquaintance from work.

She didn't take that idea any further, realizing that she did not own a corkscrew. And she had never developed a taste for wine.

Instead, she decided on tea.

“Something to calm my nerves.”

She rummaged about and found a dry, wrinkled, probably old chamomile tea bag.

“Better than nothing,” she said as she switched on the electric kettle.

The tea brewed and Hazel sat at her dining table, looking to the west. Her computer sat on that table as well.

On the wall facing her was a framed diploma, representing her two-year stint at the Portland Community College. From there, she had migrated to the insurance agency, which brought her to today.

“Not much of a life's arc, is it?” she said, with a touch of regret.

Hazel was not a person who let regrets fester. She considered herself a realist. Maybe an optimistic realist.

There had been a boyfriend, right after her community college days, a boyfriend of almost four years. There must have been reasons why they drifted apart, but Hazel could not recall any of them at the moment. There were other dates, and a few other ill-suited suitors over the years.

“You don't encounter many options working at an insurance agency.”

The computer sat there, dark. She had resisted going online to meet a man. She resisted being set up—or at least resisted the few times a friend asked her about going on a double date with “a really nice guy,” as they would tell her. “And he's almost done with his parole and/or community service and/or anger management counseling and/or contentious divorce proceedings.”

She wondered if she had been described as having lots of “spirit” and being “loyal,” like a middle-aged dog put up for adoption.

She sipped at her tea.

“So what do I do now?”

Whatever closed doors and out-of-reach options had existed before this moment were now open. Finances? No longer a problem. Dead-end job? Not any longer. Confusion over her past?

“Well, that's still there.”

Hazel slipped around to her computer, switched it on, and waited for the machine to whirr into life.

Why didn't you sell that stock, Mom? You could have had such an easy life.

The screen blinked once and Hazel tapped in her password, which was “HAZEL.”

How many people are named Hazel these days? I think not too many.

Were you doing some sort of penance for having an “illegitimate” baby? But you were married, right? Surprise, surprise. Or maybe there was someone else?

She tapped at the keyboard and Google came up.

“I don't get it. Not at all. None of this makes sense, Mom. None of it.”

She sighed, then began to type “f-a-c-”…and Google decided that she was looking for the Facebook website, almost before Hazel knew it.