The Dog That Whispered (14 page)

Pastor Coggins gestured for her to come into his office.

“No. That's okay. I just wanted to say goodbye. I'm leaving the Portland area. And I wanted to drop something off with you. I don't want to interrupt your busy schedule.”

He leaned a little closer to her. He smelled of Old Spice and coffee.

“Ms. Jamison, I'm stuck on point two of this week's message. Your interruption is a godsend, actually.”

Hazel tried to think of something to say in reply, but nothing came to mind that wasn't sort of silly or awkward.

“So, then,” he continued. “Where are you moving to?”

And again, Hazel was not sure of what to say. She had not formulated a concise answer to that question.

“Well, I'm going to be traveling for a while. And I'm not really sure where I'll stop.”

Pastor Coggins's face warmed and his eyes seemed to be alive with compassion and understanding. Hazel realized how corny that sounded in her head, but that was how he looked.

Maybe I should tell him a bit more than that
.

“You see, my mother passed away a little while ago…”

Pastor Coggins reached out and took her hand.

“I am so sorry to hear that. Did she ever come here to church with you? Had I ever met her?”

Hazel glanced into his office and he read the subtle sign.

“Please, let's sit for just a minute,” he said.

He did not sit behind his desk, with a stack of open books piled in several mounds, but instead took the other guest chair in front of the desk.

“She was not a churchgoer, Pastor,” Hazel began. “She never seemed to have any sympathy for it. I told her about it—faith and all that—but she sort of dismissed it. I mean, she listened to me. She said she understood. But when I'm being cynical, I think she was simply placating me. But maybe she did get it. Maybe.”

Hazel felt the hint of tears and pushed them aside.

“She was kind of an old hippie…Mother Earth and nuts and berries and all you need is love, you know?”

The pastor nodded.

“I have a brother much like that. A free spirit, he claims, but he is the least free of any person I know, because he keeps having to find freedom again and again. Nothing stays. He's always searching.”

Hazel nodded.

“But that's my story, not yours,” he said.

Hazel wiped at her cheek, preventing the one tear that escaped from streaking down her face. “Then you understand.”

The pastor did not say a word but waited for Hazel to speak, and then she did, and in a torrent she told him of her life and her mother's death and finding the stock and quitting her job and finding the picture of her mother's wedding when all these years she had been told that she had never married, and about Hazel's quiet…no, boring life at the insurance agency, and now that she had money, she was going to travel like her mother always wanted to and maybe find out more about the man in the wedding photo, and if she could do that, then maybe she would come back, or maybe she would just settle down wherever that happened to be and start over.

The pastor listened, his eyes not condemning or judging, but just listening, the hint of an understanding smile on his face.

“So I sold my condo—it closes tomorrow—and then I'm driving down the Pacific Coast Highway. I can't believe it is so close and I have never seen it.”

Then Pastor Coggins did smile.

“You'll love the drive. It is beautiful.”

And Hazel reached into her jacket and pulled out the envelope.

“I want to give this to you. In memory of my mother, I guess. She wouldn't have done it, but I want to do something for her. Maybe you could use it for those apartments you have for…is it…the homeless?”

“Low-income, actually.”

“Yes, those.”

He took the envelope and slipped his finger under the flap. Hazel hadn't expected that, but he would have found out soon enough.

His eyes widened when he saw the amount.

“Fifty thousand dollars is a very, very generous gift, Ms. Jamison. I'm almost speechless. And you never hear those words from a pastor.”

“I want her money, some of it, to do some good. She loved this city. And she did have a heart for those who were down on their luck.”

Pastor Coggins put the envelope on his desk.

“You're sure she wasn't a believer?”

“I told her about church…and the Bible. She was kind and didn't disagree, but I think she didn't really want to hear. I don't think she wanted to change.”

The pastor let silence fill the room. Hazel took a few deep breaths.

“I've taken up enough of your time, Pastor Coggins. I should go.”

He reached out and put his hand on her forearm, gently holding her back.

“You seem unsettled. If there is anything I'm good at, it's spotting an unsettled soul. Probably because I recognize my past self in that condition.”

Hazel looked on the verge of being lost, a little lost—not completely, but a little.

“Maybe. I don't know if leaving everything and being a gypsy is the…you know, the ‘Christian' thing to do.”

“You want me to pray with you?” the pastor asked.

“Really? But I'm not a member here or anything.”

Pastor Coggins put his other hand on Hazel's other arm, holding her.

“Do you know God? Do you know Jesus?”

It was obvious that Hazel was scared, scared of being asked that question, those questions.

“I do. I do. But maybe…maybe not as well as I should.”

Pastor Coggins waited and then spoke, carefully, softly, and slowly.

“While you search, continue to search for Jesus. He knows you're looking. Keep searching. Keep praying. You'll find the truth.”

“I will. I really will. Pray, I mean.”

And then Pastor Coggins began to pray, about safety, about traveling mercies, about blessings…and many other things, of that Hazel was certain, but by the time she reached the church door, she could not remember a single word.

Yet she felt totally light and free and clean and hopeful, for the first time in a long time, perhaps ever. Hopeful.

That is such a wonderful word. Hopeful
.

And as she opened the massive front door of the church, the pastor handed her a Bible.

“My name and cell phone number are written in the front. Anytime, day or night, call me if you have a question. I mean that.”

Hazel turned and gave him a quick hug, then hurried down the steps to her Quest and then on to her two-room suite at the Embassy Suites, thinking about the hotel's complimentary chocolate chip cookies.

W
ILSON LEFT
his house earlier than required and drove around Emily's block, past her house four times, taking some solace in the fact that Emily did not yet know his car and would not think him odd, or slightly deranged, for arriving seventeen minutes early for their “date.”

“People my age don't date,” he'd explained to Thurman as he'd dressed that evening. Thurman had sat in his bedroom, watching intently, smiling, as he'd put on a light blue shirt and debated over wearing a tie.

“People my age ‘see' people. We have dinner. We don't date. Dating is for teenagers.”

He'd held two ties up for Thurman to look at. Thurman had sniffed at each, then had shaken his head, perhaps trying to say no, or perhaps shaking some manner of lint from his sensitive nose.

Wilson had taken it as a no and had decided on just wearing a blue sports coat instead.

“Dressy, but not in an overcompensating way, right, Thurman?”

Thurman had looked as if he wanted to shrug again and was trying to figure out a way to do that, given his canine physiology.

Now in front of her house only a few miles from his own, Wilson pulled to the curb, finally, and switched off the engine. He took several deep breaths. He knew he couldn't just sit in the car until his nerves quieted down. That might take hours, or days, and he did not have hours, let alone days.

“Why did I agree to this?” he said aloud as he exited the car and walked up to the house.

The porch lights were on, and he could see a blue glow from inside; someone was watching TV. He could hear the pleasant chatter…

“A sitcom,” he decided, “and not the news.”

He did not see a doorbell, so he rapped at the door three times, trying not to sound insistent or aggressive.

The door swung open almost immediately, as if someone was waiting within arm's reach.

Emily stood in the doorway, wearing a…Wilson was not sure what it was, exactly, but a dress of some sort, with long sleeves, and a regular neckline, if women's dresses could be described as having a “regular” neckline.

Wilson had been a solitary creature for a long time, with not much of a feminine influence on his existence, or human influence, for that matter.

“Hi. I'm ready.”

Wilson found himself nodding and thinking that he shouldn't be.

“Okay, then. We can go, right?” he said, unsure of doorway protocol among adults who weren't really on a “date.”

Emily, who Wilson thought would be calm and composed about all of this “dating” or “seeing” someone, appeared to him to be as nervous as he was—perhaps even more so. She put her hand on the doorknob, turned, and, facing inside, called out, “I'm leaving now. Please lock the door.”

She turned back to him, smiled, and pulled the door shut.

Wilson had no idea if she was supposed to take his arm going down the walk or if they should walk side by side, or if he should lead the way, just in case of Indian attack or the threat of being set upon by highwaymen.

Emily solved his quandary by slipping her hand into the crook of his arm as they headed to his car.

When they got to the car, which was not all that distant, Wilson pulled out his keys and unlocked her door.

“I have to tell you, Emily…” he said.

“Yes?” she replied, as if wanting to not be accused of not upholding her end of their conversation.

“…I am so far out of practice being with someone…anyone…that I'm going to apologize right now for any social blunders I make this evening.”

Emily smiled in reply, then reached out and put her hand on his forearm.

“I'll forgive you if you forgive me. It has been a very long time. And regardless of what they say, it is not like riding a bicycle.”

“No. It is not. It is definitely not.”

Hazel took a single canvas duffel bag, a small one, with her into the Embassy Suites.

If I always had access to a washing machine, I could get by with only a satchel. It's boring wearing the same clothes all the time, but it would solve a lot of what-to-wear problems
.

She placed her bag at the foot of the bed.

Not that I really worry that much about what I'm wearing
.

She looked out the window over downtown Portland.

Am I going to miss anything…or anyone here?

Growing up, she had friends. Not a lot of friends, but friends. After high school, some of them moved, some of them married and moved, some of them stayed and grew distant. They stayed in touch, sort of, on Facebook. She liked some of the people she worked with…well, a few of them. But she would place none of them into the “good friend” category.

Maybe it's because I never had a father
.

Some of her high school friends came from “broken” homes, as they called them back then, and they seemed normal.

Maybe it's because my mother was sort of strange
.

A few of her high school friends had mothers or fathers who were strange individually, or together, so that wasn't it either.

Maybe it's because I felt as if I never really belonged
.

She took one of the chocolate chip cookies off the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about Pastor Coggins's prayer and the start of her life after Portland.

Plays are good, because you don't have to talk
.

During the single intermission, most of the time was taken up by Wilson struggling through the crowd to get a drink for both of them, all the while thinking of what he might say after the play was over and they were once again alone.

The thought of normal conversation unnerved him.

Why am I doing this? She doesn't want to be here. Does she? And if she does, what does that say about her?

The house lights came up, the cast took their multiple bows, and the applause ebbed and slowed and stopped. Emily and Wilson stood and slowly shuffled their way out of the theater building and back onto the street into a mild, nearly warm late spring evening.

“Did you enjoy it?” he asked, thinking that was one of the more innocuous questions he could ask, or should ask, following a performance.

“It was good. It has been a while since I have been at a play, let alone a Shakespeare play. The language is so poetic, I guess. You have to develop an ear for it.”

Wilson nodded. He did not like old plays, plays hundreds of years old, because no one talked that way and the impact and import of the dialogue—much of it at any rate—was lost on contemporary audiences. Even though he had studied Elizabethan literature in college, it had never been a field that he enjoyed.

“They were all so earnest about it,” he said.

“Youth, right?”

Wilson nodded. “The bane of every old cynic.”

She laughed, not a lot, but politely, as if she was not exactly sure of what response was expected, so a laugh was a safe reply.

“Would you like to get something to eat? It's not that late, is it? Or do you have to get back…you know. I mean, are people waiting up for you?”

Wilson knew she had children, of course. He did not know ages or the requirements of babysitting relief times, or expenses, or any of that, but he did want to be sensitive.

She looked at her watch, then held it closer.

“Women's watches are too small for anyone to read,” she said, trying to catch the watch face in the light of a streetlamp.

Wilson slipped out his cell phone and tapped at it.

“Nine forty-eight.”

“Thanks.”

She looked over at him, as if she was making a decision of some import.

“No. I mean, yes. Something to eat would be fine. I said late. They'll be okay.”

Wilson navigated them back toward his car, which he had parked in the faculty parking lot nearby.

One of the few privileges of a tenured professor. Glad there was an open spot
.

He opened her car door and she slid in.

This is going okay
, he thought as he hurried around to the other side.

But where do I go from here? I should have planned ahead
.

He started the engine.

“Any place you have in mind?”

She turned to him. The streetlight lit her face in silhouette.

A classic profile
.

“No. Not really, Wilson. I…it has been so long since I've been to anyplace that doesn't focus on hamburgers or pizza. Teenagers have a very narrow dietary range. I am afraid I don't really know any…adult sort of restaurants. There were a few…from before…you know. But that was a long time ago.”

Wilson did not put the car in gear. He was not one to drive about aimlessly. Aimless made him anxious. It reminded him too much of…other times.

He turned to her, a half-turn.

“How old are your…kids? Is it okay to say ‘kids'? Or is it ‘children'?”

“‘Kids' is fine. Are fine. Whatever. I guess I should be careful when talking to an English professor. But…there are three. The oldest is twenty-two and a senior now at Penn. Business major. Whip-smart. Like his dad.”

Her voice caught, just a little.

“The next, Audrey, is nineteen. She is between colleges, she tells people. Went to Pitt for a year and didn't ‘find' herself. She's applied to several others. And to nursing school. And the youngest is Sam. He's fifteen. Still in high school. And a champ at nihilism and eye-rolling.”

She appeared to catch herself.

“Is this too much? I don't know anymore. What's the limit on sharing? Too much?”

“No. It's not.”

They both looked away from each other, looking forward, out into the darkness.

“And I have Thurman, who will be waiting up for me and will expect a full report on this evening.”

Emily grinned, and she put her hand on Wilson's arm again.

“Pick a place, Wilson. It won't matter where. The kids are fine at home. They have my cell phone in case the place catches on fire. I just want to forget for a little while.”

Wilson nodded and put the car in gear, then headed out of the lot and away from the theater.

At that moment, Thurman was pacing back and forth between the back door and the front door, with stops at the stairs and the big window in the front of the house with the soft thing in front. To this point in their living arrangement, Wilson had never been gone from daylight to when it got dark, and it was obvious that Thurman was concerned. There were no lights left on in the house—not that Thurman needed lights to see his way about. There was the streetlight down the block that provided more than enough illumination for him to avoid running into things. And there was the little light that was always on by the box that got hot and where food came out. But that was always on. Thurman looked upstairs to the darkened second floor, perhaps thinking that Wilson should have left lights on for him, since the sun was down and he was here all by himself.