The Dog That Whispered (21 page)

Thurman stopped and listened, never having been told that eavesdropping was considered a rude activity.

“Good. That's good.”

When Thurman heard that, he began to dance again, this time bouncing into both Wilson's legs and the wall on both sides of the hallway.

“I still have a two-inch stack of papers to grade. So could we make it at eight?”

Wilson and Thurman stood still and listened.

“Good. I'll pick you up.”

And Thurman resumed his dance of a thousand canine joys, bouncing and bounding in the narrow hallway, the architect never having assumed to make the hallway wider to accommodate a joyous black Lab.

Thurman followed Wilson back into the kitchen, still dancing, and now grumble-growling
Emily, Emily, Emily.

“This was unexpected, Wilson.”

Wilson, for a short moment, appeared dismayed.

“Not bad unexpected,” Emily quickly added. “Just unexpected. All the dating sites, you know, tell a man to wait a week, if not longer, to make a follow-up call.”

“They do? I should have checked.”

Emily touched his forearm with her hand, a delicate, yet intimate gesture of connection.

“Well, at least one site said that. Or an article. Or something. But it was most likely in reference to dating as a twenty-something. Not a two-or-three-times twenty-something.”

Wilson turned to her at the stoplight and offered her a smile, a smile he hoped would appear honest and transparent and comforting.

Wilson did not truly know how to smile without considering it first, and thus was always concerned that the person he smiled at would read something untoward in his facial gesture.

But Emily smiled back. It appeared to Wilson that her face presented an honest reflection of how she felt.

“Is the Coffee Tree Roasters okay with you? Not quite as corporate as the other places. But the coffee is good.”

“Sure. Any place would be fine, actually.”

Coffee Tree Roasters in Squirrel Hill, often overtaken by hipsters, both Jewish and Gentile, was only semi-occupied this evening. Wilson and Emily ordered: a medium latte for Wilson and an iced green tea for Emily, with mint. They found two leather chairs in the front window overlooking the street.

“Well, this is nice,” Emily said.

“Are your kids okay with you being gone? You know, short notice and all?”

Emily's pleasant expression spun toward a scowl, or a grimace, or sadness, none of which Wilson felt comfortable in guessing accurately, then quickly returned to a more neutral expression.

“They're at the age when me leaving is a good thing. For both me and them, I guess. I never thought there could be that many battles with two teenagers in the house. But there are. Clothes. Dating. Food. TV shows. Music. Texting. Phones. Homework. You name it, and they have a diametrically opposed view of it.”

Wilson listened and tried not appear judgmental. Obviously, he had no valid opinion or experience in child-rearing.

“But I don't want to vent about them. I suppose that, all things considered, what I have is still better than the majority of the people in the world. And God never promises us a life free from problems.”

“Apparently,” Wilson replied. “And that is something everyone can agree on.”

They sat back against their chairs, the leather groaning as leather does as it received the weight of their bodies. They both took sips from their drinks. Wilson closed his eyes for a moment. The lights of a taxi spun across the window, illuminating them both in a harsh, focused light for a second.

Wilson cleared his throat and opened his eyes.

“Emily…”

Emily leaned forward an inch or two. She looked as if she was steeling herself for something, something that she was not sure of, but something unexpected, and perhaps unwanted. Such is the way of interaction between men and women who were almost strangers.

“Yes?”

Wilson's eyes narrowed, as if dealing with a large and complex problem.

“Emily…I don't know…I mean…I don't know how to say it…but I simply don't know what to feel.”

Emily's smile was sympathetic, comforting, and unexpected.

“And you think I do?” she asked.

Wilson wanted to nod, but realized that he should not.

Emily continued, not really expecting an answer to her question. “I have a little one…well, not little anymore…but I have a person in my house who has a dead man's face. Every time I see my son, when he first walks into the kitchen in the morning, I catch my breath. It's my husband, I think, just for a fraction of a second. He's home, I think. And then it all comes back, all the truth of the last few years, and all the pain.”

Wilson did not speak.

“No, I do not have all the answers, Wilson. Maybe I don't have any answers,” she said, looking down at her clear plastic cup. “Maybe no one does.”

The two looked directly at each other.

“I don't know how to feel either. Or what to feel,” she said, her eyes locked on Wilson. “And you have ghosts as well. I can see it in your eyes.”

Wilson waited a moment, as if considering what to say or how to say it or if he should say anything at all.

“My mother must have told you some things.” His words were softly spoken.

Emily's face gave no indication of having been told or not told any of the past.

“She usually does. About the war,” Wilson added.

The lights in the Coffee Tree Roasters cast a softening glow on Emily's face, as if light were emanating from within her somehow.

“She did. A little.”

Wilson looked down at his hands. He had seldom, if ever, really discussed his past, this part of his past, this painful set of memories that stood guard in his mind, keeping out strangers and confidants alike, making sure that no one came close enough to see what had happened…back then.

“Vietnam,” he stated.

Emily offered the barest hint of an encouraging smile—not of acceptance exactly, but a smile of empathy. Wilson thought he could tell her gesture was not forced, but a genuine response.

After all, she knows something about the results of war
.

“I did two tours of duty in Vietnam with the 25th Division. I joined the Army right out of high school and stayed on for several tours—for almost six years. Then I came back and went to Pitt…and I never left.”

Emily's gaze did not waver, as a person uncomfortable or silently willing the conversation to change direction might do. She did not shrink and cower. Wilson had half-expected that kind of pulling back. He had seen it happen many times. Perhaps that was one reason that the memories stayed hidden.

Emily broke the short silence.

“My husband did three tours. Two in Afghanistan. One in Iraq. He was in for a career.”

Her words were not spoken in an effort to one-up Wilson, or to silence him, but in order that he understood that she understood, or understood in some way, in some fashion.

No one really understands
.

“I stood behind a .50-caliber machine gun in a medevac helicopter. I provided security,” Wilson explained.

Emily waited, then added, “My husband was a first lieutenant…and a captain at the very end. He said that there was no safe place over there.”

A pained look came into Wilson's eyes, as if he was forcing a jagged memory away.

“Emily…I don't know if I have anything to give. To anyone.”

Emily nodded at this, then put her drink down on the small table and reached out and took Wilson's free hand.

“I don't know who Wilson Steele is, really,” he said softly. “I don't think I have ever known.”

She squeezed his hand.

“I don't know who I am anymore either,” Emily replied. “Maybe no one does, Wilson, but I think the wounded find themselves in a very different place than normal people. People who have not experienced what you or my husband experienced or me or my family. They simply don't understand.”

Wilson took a deep breath.

“Dr. Killeen said I have to believe. Without that, I'm trapped.”

Emily nodded again, like a mother nods to a tearful child, offering a way out, a matter of solace, of refuge, of coming home.

“He is right, Wilson.”

Wilson appeared lost and scared and confused.

“What if I can't? What if I can't believe?”

Emily squeezed his hand again.

“Wilson, you need to walk slowly on that path. Let's see what happens. If you can't see the bridge over the flooded river, you can't assume that it has been washed away. You have to make the journey. One step at a time. Then we'll see.”

Wilson closed his eyes.

“Are you sure?”

Emily waited, then she laughed, a wary laugh, as if laughing in the face of danger, a lilting, small laugh that carried over them like a songbird singing loudly in a storm.

“No. But I'm more sure of this than I am of anything else. I am, Wilson. I'm sure of God.”

It did not matter, truly, what Denny's location one visited in whatever state, they all appeared to be cut from the same cloth, the same cloying pancake smell mixed with coffee and bacon, and a portion of their clientele, regardless of the hour, apparently only minutes removed from a deep slumber.

Hazel found that ambiance to be terribly comforting, like a harbor that is known to all and always remains the same, unchangeable and immutable and ever-inviting.

Perhaps that is ascribing more to a restaurant chain than should be ascribed
, she thought.

Woody waved to a waitress as they sat down. An elderly waitress, or perhaps her skin prematurely wrinkled by the desert sun, got up from her perch at the counter. Hazel wasn't sure which to blame—sun or age or both—as she approached the table.

“The usual, Woody?”

Her voice was sandpaper against sandpaper, either the result of a life of yelling or two packs a day for decades. The voice fit the face exactly.

Woody nodded. “You bet, Wilma. Don't like change.”

Wilma scribbled on her pad.

“And what's for you, hon?”

“I guess two scrambled eggs and white toast, and coffee.”

“Regular?”

“Yes, please.”

“You got it.”

They sat and looked out at the roadway and watched cars speed past, the hot sun glistering off the metal, like natural strobe lights.

“Have you lived in Phoenix a long time, Woody?”

“Nah. I spent thirty-eight years in Austin, Minnesota, working at the Hormel plant. Hated the winters. So when I retired, boom! I headed for the desert. Been here ten years now. Feel like an old-timer, though. No one here seems to be from here. They all moved from somewhere else a year ago, it seems. Not that I'm complaining. I got nothing to gripe about, really.”

“You have family back in Austin?”

“Some. My wife passed on over fifteen years ago. I got a kid, he's in the Navy and lives all over. He comes when he can. One or two aunts and uncles and cousins back there, I guess, but not all that much to speak of. Not a close-knit group.”

Wilma served their food. Woody had a hamburger and fries and a Coke. Hazel ate without really tasting.

“Woody,” she asked after putting a glob of strawberry-flavored jelly on her last quarter of toast, “do gunners on those medical helicopters…do they see much…combat? Or was the gun more for show? Since the helicopter had a big red cross on it and all.”

Woody snorted, let out an expletive.

“Sorry, I don't mean to…I'm not around people all that much anymore. My language slips sometimes.”

“It's okay, Woody. I've heard the word before.”

“The red crosses just gave the VC something better to aim at, if you ask me. The birds came back pretty shot up sometimes. And the Army told the press that the gunner was just for security, but half the time they had to blast away as they were getting the wounded loaded on board. That's what they told me, anyhow. I never flew. Never in a million years would I go up there and hover in midair, just in range, so people could shoot at me. Nope. A death trap, if you ask me. But the gunners—yeah, they saw a lot of action. When everybody is shooting at you, you don't ask questions or tell them that it ain't kosher to shoot at the wounded.”