The Dog That Whispered (12 page)

Darkness had settled over Squirrel Hill by the time Wilson came back downstairs. He had spent the last several hours lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, not thinking, not being angry, not being sad, not being scared, just staring. Just being, no feeling, no thought.

That skill of being “nowhere” had been developed over the years, and Wilson had grown adept at it.

Thurman was sitting in the kitchen when he entered.

Hungry
.

“I know, Thurman. It's after dark and you haven't eaten. I was afraid that you might have passed out from hunger by now.”

Thurman looked at him with a squirrel-tight face that Wilson interpreted as showing that the dog did not appreciate his sarcasm.

Thurman simply growled
Hungry
again.

“I get it, Thurman,” Wilson replied. “You hold grudges. Okay, I get it. You don't want to laugh and make up.”

Thurman shook his head and bounded to Wilson in a flash and had his paws on his chest before Wilson could react, and his tongue was out, trying to catch Wilson's face, an activity that Wilson did not really enjoy, which Thurman knew, but most often he could not help himself.

“Okay, okay,” Wilson said, running his hand over Thurman's head. “It's okay. We're okay. Now let me get your dinner.”

With that, Thurman hopped back and sat by his bowl, waiting with smiling joy for his usual kibble dinner.

He was not disappointed and set into it with enthusiasm.

As the dog ate, Wilson peered inside the refrigerator, wondering if he was hungry and wondering if he had any easily consumable food in there.

He did not.

But the search gave him the time to decide he really was not hungry, not really, so he took an apple from the fruit basket on the counter and sat at the table and began to eat.

Any biting or chewing brought Thurman to attention—that is, any biting or chewing that did not originate with Thurman. The dog stopped eating, looked up, and sniffed. He stared at Wilson, then decided that the thing Wilson was eating was not worth his effort to stop eating his real meal and investigate.

Thurman had tasted apples before and had decided that they were not proper food for dogs, or at least not for him, so if Wilson wanted to eat the entire thing and not share even a nibble with him, he was okay with that.

They both finished eating at about the same time. Wilson made coffee while Thurman ran his tongue over his mouth and nose and tried his best to remove all kibble crumbs from his snout.

When Wilson was seated back at the kitchen table, Thurman walked a little closer and sat down.

Emily
, he growled, or at least that was what Wilson thought he growled.

“What about her?” Wilson asked. “And why are you so interested in her?”

Thurman tilted his head to the side as if concentrating.

Then he smiled and growled,
Pretty
.

Wilson shrugged.

“I guess. In that Middle Eastern way. She's from Israel, you know. At least that's what my mother said. I think.”

It was obvious to Wilson that Thurman wanted to shrug at that information, but he lacked the proper shoulder blades and bone structure to do it well. Instead he simply stared back at Wilson. Wilson was fairly certain that dogs were not all that interested or knowledgeable about international geography.

Sad
, he growled.

Wilson looked at the dog.

I am going crazy
, Wilson thought to himself.
I am. Having conversations with a dog. I know it's just me…talking to me. Like Dr. Limke said. Pressure. Guilt. It's a toxic stew and I'm just reacting to that by talking to myself using the dog as a substitute for my own subconscious. I'm making this all up. To exorcise my demons. Right?

Thurman growled,
Not right
.

Well, Thurman, it's just me talking to me. And so what if it is?

“Why is she sad?” Wilson asked. “And how can you tell?”

Thurman made a point of lifting his snout into the air and sniffing loudly, for effect.

“You can smell sad?”

Thurman smiled, a half-smile, and nodded.

“It's all because of my mother, you know.”

Thurman smiled anytime Wilson mentioned his mother.

“When I came back…way back then…my mother tried her best. She thought an aspiring writer and a future college professor had to be matched up with someone. She thought it would help. You know…with adjusting. The first few years were difficult, Thurman. And she thought a wife would be a good anchor. Someone to mediate my problems. So, Thurman, there have been other ‘Emilys' over the years.”

Thurman appeared puzzled.

Emily
, he growled.

“They were all nice. But it never lasted. My fault, it has always been my fault.”

Thurman growled,
Yes
.

“Then my father died and my mother moved to Florida to escape the cold and came back a few years later to escape the heat.”

Why?
Thurman whisper-growled.

“She said it was too far, too buggy, and too old.”

Thurman smiled, but Wilson was pretty sure he did not know why he was smiling.

Probably just because I'm talking about my mother
.

“Then I got tenure. She moved to her apartment at the Cranky Old Jewish People's Heritage Square, and that was that.”

Thurman walked over and bumped his head into Wilson's thigh. It was his way of introducing a change in conversation, Wilson surmised.

Remember
.

“No. Thurman, you don't understand. It is simply too hard. And I don't want to.”

Thurman's face tightened.

Emily
.

Wilson could not help but smile at the dog's prunelike visage.

“Thurman, you are not a dog that discourages easily, you know that?”

Thurman's tail began to twitch and wag, leading Wilson to think that he had no idea of what “discourage” even meant.

H
AZEL SLID
the paperwork, after carefully signing her initials multiple times by the little yellow sticky-note flags indicating where they should go, back across the table to Mrs. Charlene Mason, a real estate agent she had met while working at the insurance agency.

“Mr. Shupp has been acting apoplectic since you walked out, Hazel,” Charlene said. Charlene, a middle-aged woman who could be best described as flouncy—in dress as well as mannerisms—waved the paperwork with a flourish. “He said you'll have to take him to court to get your vacation pay now, since you abandoned your position with not even a proper fare-thee-well.”

Hazel did not want to smile, but she did, and broadly.

“Apoplectic? Really?”

“I was at your office because of a claim on one of the agency's rental units. The receptionist…what's-her-name…the tiny blond woman with the squeaky voice…”

“Margie.”

“Yes, that's it. Margie whispered to me that Mr. Shupp had been storming about the office for days now and muttering to himself.”

“Really?”

Charlene leaned close.

“Didn't anyone ever quit before?”

Hazel tilted her head in thought.

“I guess. Maybe. They retired. They got fired. But not many people quit. Only one or two that I remember.”

Charlene nodded, adjusting her necklace.

“So you just walked out? No farewell party? No two weeks' notice?”

Actually, Hazel had given this whole leaving-at-that-very-moment some thought for much of that morning—the morning before she had taken action and walked out.

“I hate goodbye parties. Should you be sad that they're leaving? Or happy, because you never liked them to begin with?”

“True,” Charlene replied, and slipped the sale documents into her briefcase.

“And,” Hazel continued, “two weeks' notice is only ‘customary.' There's no legal standing for it. And while he does owe me for vacation time…I am not going to bother with going after it. And during those last two weeks, what do people do with you while you're still at work? It's like you're dead—but not just yet. A lot of sad, fake smiles. And then someone steals your stapler and tape dispenser.”

Charlene laughed. She knew that a good real estate agent does not probe too deeply, but could hardly help herself. There were a lot of whispers at the insurance agency—from early-onset dementia to a winning lottery ticket—as the cause of Hazel's unusual departure.

Charlene leaned closer and with an extended finger beckoned Hazel to lean closer as well.

“Was it the lottery?” she whispered as if a fellow conspirator.

Hazel had prepared an answer.

“Something like that,” she whispered back, with just a trace of an enigmatic smile. “Something like that.”

Charlene appeared to be only partially satisfied with the answer, but she also realized that it was all she would get.

“Well, then,” she concluded as she stood. “Your condo should sell quickly. Good location. Good condition.”

Hazel stood as well.

“And a good price.”

Hazel had priced it below market value. It was the only anchor that was holding her to Portland. Once it was sold, she would be free.

“There is that,” Charlene said. “I bet no more than a couple of weeks on the market. If that.”

“Let's hope,” Hazel replied, feeling more relaxed than she felt she had a right to be, but she was not about to let that delicious feeling evaporate too quickly.

The two women shook hands and Hazel walked out with a little smile, leaving Charlene, who forced her own smile, with a few unanswered questions as well.

The next four mornings, after Thurman greeted Wilson, after Thurman made his circuit around the backyard, after he came back into the kitchen, after he sat down and growled
Hungry
and just prior to setting into his breakfast kibbles, he would look at Wilson with some intensity and growl,
Emily
.

Wilson would respond by scowling perfunctorily and waving the dog's whispered growl off, as if batting away an errant but persistent moth.

Halfway through breakfast, Thurman had been given to stopping for just a moment, turning toward Wilson, and again growling,
Emily.

Wilson usually met the second
Emily
with just a grimace.

And Thurman would respond to Wilson's grimace with a whispered
Pretty.

“How do you know if Emily is pretty? I never thought of that before.”

Thurman appeared to seize up for a moment, then grinned.
Good
.

“So good is like being pretty?”

Thurman's grin expanded, and he nodded.
Good. Pretty. Good
.

When Thurman said
Pretty
, it stopped Wilson for a moment. Then he would shake his head in some manner of disbelief and return to the morning copy of the
Pittsburgh Tribune-Review
.

This morning proved to be no different than the preceding four.

Thurman stared at Wilson and growled,
Emily
.

Wilson appeared pained.

“I know, Thurman. My mother called again yesterday. She said the same thing. That I should call Emily. That we have so much in common. As if trauma and social disorders are some manner of bonding agent. I have to call her, she said, like she was expecting it. Maybe demanding it. Maybe my mother told Emily that I would call, and now I have to act to fulfill her end of the bargain—which I was not part of.”

It took Thurman a moment to digest the information, unexpected as it was. Then he stood and cha-cha'ed over toward Wilson, growling,
Good, good
.

Wilson did not appear to be nearly as happy as Thurman.

“She is a lot younger than me, Thurman. I told my mother the same thing. Ten years is a lot of years.”

Thurman appeared puzzled.

“I know you don't get time, Thurman. Years and hours aren't part of a dog's understanding. Dogs don't get time. I know that.”

Thurman appeared to be a little hurt by that assessment, making his face tighten up and his eyes narrow.

“It's true, Thurman. You don't care about years and oldness and age gaps. But I do. She is from an entirely different decade than me. More than a decade. That's a big difference in personal experiences.”

Thurman sat back down, making sure he was in the wide square of sunlight that filled a portion of the kitchen. Thurman loved the sunlight. It often warmed his black fur to a toasty, well-done temperature. Wilson wondered how he stood it.

And today, while he was sitting in that warm sunlight pool, Thurman's face slowly uncoiled, slowly relaxed, as if new ideas and concepts were gradually being understood, like a young man coming to faith, his eyes finally open to the glory all around him. That's what Thurman looked like. At the end, he was all smiles and acknowledgments and relief and happiness.

Think
, he growled.
Think. Emily
.

Wilson twisted his face in response to this comment.

“What do you mean, Thurman? ‘Think'? All I do is think.”

Thurman stood and walked out of the sunlight.

He closed his eyes as if trying to remember some arcane fact, some almost buried truth.

Not think
, he finally whisper-growled.
Stop think
.

Wilson leaned back in the chair, the metal legs making that scratchy metallic sound on the tile.

A very long moment passed, Thurman staring hard at Wilson, Wilson staring back, a little less hard, their eyes trying to communicate the uncommunicable.

Wilson took a deep breath.

“Maybe you're right, Thurman,” he said, his voice on the edge of relief, on the edge of acceptance of a sort.

Thurman wiggled, smiling and grinning and trying hard not to bounce and dance, his nails making small clickery noises on the floor, a hesitant yet happy sound.

“Maybe I should stop thinking and just do it. Maybe the years have changed me.”

With that, Thurman did bounce up, and his front paws landed on Wilson's thighs, the dog's mouth open, tongue lolling out, trying to make contact with Wilson's face.

Stop. Think
, Thurman growled, then added in a quiet whisper-growl,
Not think, do
.

Wilson put his hand on Thurman's head and looked into his eyes.

“Maybe, Thurman. Maybe I will.”

He looked at Thurman with a critical eye.

“And maybe you can stop sounding like Yoda. I never did like that movie, you know.”

Thurman responded by jumping back down and doing his happy dance, where his backside would slowly turn in a circle.

Not think. Do
, he whisper-growled, looking happier than Wilson thought a dog had the right to appear.

Hazel's small condo overlooking the parking lot was littered with boxes—a veritable jungle of boxes, box tape, wide-tipped markers, and a sense of urgency.

She had been correct: a low price brought out plenty of lookers, and two quick offers within the first week. The first was for asking price. The second was for a thousand dollars more than the asking price.

Hazel toyed with the idea of accepting the first offer, “Because they were first.” Charlene quickly disavowed her of that notion, and the condo sold, and a closing date in two weeks had been requested.

That date did not provide her much time, but she wanted it over and done with, and this would accomplish that.

In truth, Hazel owned much less than her mother had. Her condo was much smaller than  her mother's house; the only true storage area was a closet-sized cage in the basement that contained mostly Christmas decorations and an artificial Christmas tree that never stood quite perpendicular.

As the packing progressed, Hazel only packed up three larger cardboard boxes marked prominently with the words
HAZEL JAMISON/KEEP
written in bold block letters on the top.

Those few boxes, containing items with some sentimental value, were being sent to an indoor storage facility—licensed, bonded, fire-rated, and insured.

“This is just stuff that I would have stored at my mother's house,” Hazel explained to Charlene, who had brought over a sheaf of paperwork to be signed and initialed. “Nothing of real value. A few sentimental things. A couple of yearbooks. A few things I had when I was a child. Things that belong in a parent's attic or basement. Which are two locations I don't have.”

Charlene actually gave Hazel a hug after hearing this.

“I know it's hard, Hazel. It's hard doing this alone.”

Hazel accepted the hug but did not want to tell the Realtor that it wasn't really all that hard. She had been alone most of her adult life. She had been doing things alone for over two and half decades. This did not feel all that different.

True, my mother is gone…but we didn't spend all that much time together, did we? After I moved out, I mean. It was her choice, after all. She liked being alone
.

Box after box had been filled with things that Hazel really didn't like all that much, or had seldom used, and now that they were soon to be on their way to her church's resale shop, they would soon fill someone else's home.

The church that Hazel had attended, on and off, promised to send a few sturdy men to take all the filled boxes away, once Hazel gave the call.

She was close to giving the call.

“Be sure to keep a list,” the director of the resale shop had cautioned her. “So you can claim all of this on your taxes.”

Hazel did not tell her that she was keeping no list at all. A truckload of used merchandise was not going to substantially impact her tax expense this year.

Her personal banker was already at work attempting to shield as much money as legally possible.

“As long as it is legal,” Hazel had instructed Mr. Hild at Umpqua Bank.

He had nodded knowingly.

“We will keep everything legal,” Mr. Hild assured her. “But we do not want you to pay any more than what you legitimately owe. There are very legal maneuvers that we can take advantage of. Nothing gray or esoteric or exotic. Just run-of-the-mill tax strategies.”