The Dog That Whispered (27 page)

A sense of relief started—first a trickle, then as a torrent of blessed, sweet freedom, blessed relief. Wilson felt his heart unbound and free, for the first time in many decades.

Perhaps this was the most singular, pellucid moment of existence that he had yet encountered.

And Thurman began his dance, hips to the left and hips to the right.

Forgive. Forgive. Forgive
.

Dance. Dance. Dance.

Happy. Happy. Happy
.

“Thank you, Thurman. Thank you.”

Happy. Dance. Happy
.

Wilson wiped at his face.

“Tears? Really?” He looked at his wet hand with some curiosity, as if he could have never imagined shedding them in the past.

He looked down at Thurman, whose face exhibited a marked degree of concern. He figured the dog had never seen him cry—or perhaps never seen anyone cry.

“It's okay, Thurman. Tears of relief, I guess. It's normal. Sort of. Relatively speaking.”

Thurman's head bobbed again and he looked relieved.

Wilson sucked in a large breath of air, as if trying to cleanse the toxins of the past out of his body.

“It might take a while,” he said.

Thurman grinned.

After another moment, Wilson spoke.

“I should call her,” he said.

Emily
, Thurman growled.
Good. Pretty. Good
.

“No, not Emily. The woman who was here this afternoon. With the picture.”

Thurman's eyes opened a bit wider. It was not that he had forgotten her, but Wilson was sure he had no idea of how she figured into his life.

“I need to call her,” Wilson said. “Is it too late?”

Thurman tried to shrug.

“It's only nine. That's not too late.”

Wilson used his cell phone to find the number of the Wyndham. He pressed call.

“Hazel Jamison, please, she's a guest at your hotel.”

Wilson heard an electronic hustle and whistle, then the sound of a cautious “Hello?”

Wilson reached over and put his hand on Thurman's head.

“Hazel? This is Wilson Steele. You were at my house today. I think I have some information about that picture.”

The phone was silent. Then came a very tentative “Okay.”

“But it's not the sort of information that's easy to pass along over a phone. Will you be in town tomorrow? Could we meet somewhere?”

Again, a long moment of silence ensued.

“I will be in town…for a while. Maybe longer. I was going to do some sightseeing. Are the cable cars—the incline, I think it's called—on Mount Washington worth a visit?”

Wilson smiled.

“Absolutely. The view of Pittsburgh from there is fantastic.”

“Okay. I was going to do that in the morning. And then I was going to the Phipps Conservatory. I like plants. My mother was a great gardener—not at the end, but when I was growing up. She always had flowers. Is that Phipps thing worth a visit?”

“It is. Could I meet you there? Maybe at two?”

Again, a long moment of silent decision making.

“Sure. But…could you bring your dog?”

Wilson nodded to the phone.

“Sure. Thurman will be there as well.”

Why did I ask him to bring his dog?

Hazel had been propped up in bed, watching the local news and wondering if she could ever feel comfortable with a new set of newscasters and weathermen. How long would it take her to decide which local news team she liked best?

And why couldn't he just tell me over the phone what he remembered?

Maybe he found a picture or something
.

She tapped at the TV remote control.

Well, tomorrow is another day
.

She switched off the bedside lamp.

I've never been on an incline before
.

She stared at the dark ceiling.

Or a cable car, for that matter. Or does the one in San Francisco count? Maybe
.

T
HURMAN WASN'T
SURE
about getting into the car, wasn't sure about where and how to sit in the car, and wasn't sure about the ride in the car. He had been in cars before, of course, but never felt at all settled riding in one. And instead of hanging his head out the window as other dogs might have done, he instead stared at Wilson's floor mats as Wilson navigated the relatively short drive from his home to the Phipps Conservatory.

Wilson had called in to the university that day to cancel his classes. He had claimed an illness and did not feel guilty, since he so rarely canceled class—perhaps only once every two or three years.

“My students will be thrilled,” he told Thurman as he hung up the phone. He assumed that some aide would post notices on the doors of his three scheduled classes but wasn't all that certain of the protocol involved.

He pulled out of his garage at one o'clock, knowing it would only take five minutes, if that, to drive there. But he wanted more than enough time to find a parking spot and another long period to try and put his jangled nerves in order.

In the past forty years, Wilson had done his best to avoid any situation that might cause jangled nerves and anxiety and nervousness. And he had for the most part succeeded. He did not have any truly close friends. He had not been romantically involved in all those years. His professorial career had not been without some bumps and turns, but nothing had been unexpected and no circumstance ever rose to the keeps-one-up-all-night sort of worry.

Wilson had walked through his life as a dispassionate observer: alive, present, but not connected.

This…this event, these recent events and decisions, had changed his life. He did not yet know how to describe it, and the change was disruptive and unsettling and scary, but not in a bad way.

That didn't make sense to him, and he knew it, but he was allowing it to happen. Giving up the fight had changed his life, was transforming his life and his heart, and he had not yet had the time to figure out just what it all meant.

That's why he left early. That's why he thought a half-hour sitting on a park bench, in the sunshine, might be a path to enlightenment—no, not enlightenment, for that had already occurred—but a way to incorporate that enlightenment into his mind and heart and body.

He felt at the verge of being overwhelmed, not in a panicked way, but like falling into a cold mountain lake on a hot day—a shock, but a shock that would provide welcome, soothing, cooling relief.

Good fortune was with Wilson that morning. A spot opened up just as he entered the small parking lot. He attached the leash to Thurman's collar.

“I think all dogs have to be on a leash, Thurman,” Wilson explained. “I know you would behave, but not every dog is as good as you.”

Thurman thought for a moment, then nodded.

Okay
.

They walked toward the ornate Victorian-era greenhouse, now with more modern additions. Wilson actually began to experience a sense of peace about what he was facing.

That sense of peace was new and different. Wilson had seldom felt at peace, even when alone and quiet and in the dark. It had become an elusive quality in his life and had been so for decade upon decade. He may have appeared at peace, but inside, in his heart, in his mind, he had never truly felt settled or complete or content.

This new peace felt odd, but good odd, he decided.

He spotted an unoccupied park bench, shielded by a copse of trees, on the pathway to the admissions pavilion.

“She will have to come this way, Thurman. We are sure to see her when she comes.”

Thurman had been busy sniffing and snorking in the grass along the sidewalk, looking up into the trees, checking for squirrels, listening for birds, and staring at anyone, any human within hailing distance.

“And now, Thurman, we wait.”

Thurman appeared to nod and sat down at Wilson's feet—watching, waiting, and whisper-growling, almost as if only to himself,
Happy. Happy. Happy
.

Thurman spotted her first. He stood and growled and whispered,
Lady
.

Wilson shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts. The woman who had visited him yesterday was walking toward them, about a half-block distant.

Thurman began his welcoming dance.

“You need to behave, Thurman. Okay? No wild celebrations. I have enough to think about.”

Thurman looked over his shoulder at Wilson, as if trying to ascertain if Wilson was just joking or being up-front and honest.

Okay
.

Thurman must have decided that Wilson was telling the truth. So the dog dialed back his dance moves to a few degrees of wiggle in his back hips—an inch or two at most.

Wilson waved and the woman, Hazel, waved back.

“I'm so glad you stayed in town,” Wilson said. “I couldn't remember if you said you had seen the sights or were going to see the sights. But I'm glad.”

Thurman barked his affirmation.

They sat down, Thurman on the ground between them, so he could stare at each as they talked. He must have been a lip-reader, because his preferred mode of conversation was when he was making eye contact.

Hazel spoke next.

“So what information about the photo? You said you had remembered something?”

Wilson nodded and appeared to bite at his bottom lip, just for a heartbeat.

“Miss Jamison,” he said.

“Hazel, please.”

“Hazel, I lied to you yesterday. About the picture. I remember it.”

Hazel's look went from unsure to expectant in a heartbeat.

“So you remembered who the groom was?”

“I do.”

Wilson took a deep breath, perhaps stalling for time, perhaps building up courage.

Thurman growled,
Tell
.

Wilson was sure that Hazel did not know that Thurman had spoken.

“That's me in the picture. And that was…that was a picture of our wedding. Your mother and me. We were married.”

A veritable wave of expressions seemed to emanate from Hazel, going from shock to acknowledgment to concern to confusion. It was obvious to Wilson that she struggled to look interested and not alarmed.

“The reason she wrote ‘Our Wedding' is because it was our wedding.”

Hazel appeared as if she wanted to speak, ask a question, shout, but could not decide on which question or which shout was most appropriate, most important, most critical to be answered first.

“How? Why?”

“All my life, I've been teaching students to be aware of context. And I don't want to be guilty of ignoring that fact now,” Wilson said, although it was apparent that Hazel had not been worried at all about context. She simply wanted an explanation.

“I was in Vietnam. I was young…we were both young…the whole world was young back then. I had done two tours of duty in Vietnam. I think I was proving something to myself. Vietnam…the war…neither was a healthy place to be, not physically nor emotionally. But here's what changed from all the previous wars: In Vietnam, you could be in a firefight in the jungle or in a helicopter shooting at some unseen enemy, and within twenty-four hours you could be back in America eating a McDonald's hamburger and chocolate shake. I think every soldier who saw combat and returned home suffered a whiplash of emotions. Back then, we weren't exactly welcomed stateside with open arms, and our decompression was too rapid. Every soldier seemed to suffer from the bends, as it were. I know I did.”

Hazel listened, trying to keep her expression blank, trying to keep tears or smiles or anger away, attempting to be simply neutral in all emotions—at least for the moment.

Thurman stared up at Wilson, his eyes showing a glint of sorrow.

“I was sent stateside near the end of my second tour. I had taken shrapnel in my shoulder and back—nothing too deadly or too serious, but I needed some physical rehab. I got that at the VA hospital in Portland.”

Hazel nodded.

“And you met my mother there?”

“Not at the hospital. But in Portland. There was a big bookstore in downtown Portland—Powell's.”

“It's still there.”

Wilson smiled, a sad but satisfied smile.

“Good. That makes me happy. I went there during rehab. I met your mother there. Looking for books. And we started talking. And she had the most wonderful laugh. Musical. After so much killing and flying next to so many dead soldiers…it was like a drug, her laugh. It made me believe that the world was not a cesspool of evil—but that there was hope and that I could have a future.”

“How long were you in Portland?” Hazel asked, not knowing if that was the most important question or not.

“I had four months left in my enlistment. We met, your mother and I, a month after I got back. And we got married within a month of our first meeting.”

Hazel just stared at Wilson, as if trying to imagine him young, trying to imagine him as impetuous and willing to risk everything on a woman he hardly knew.

“I know. It sounds crazy. And it was. Getting married seemed like the right thing to do. I was lost. So many soldiers came back feeling lost and adrift and hopeless. Your mother…offered me hope. She offered me an anchor. Or what I thought would be an anchor. Something to rebuild what was broken and shattered inside me. She offered me laughter and hope and the chance of a future—all the things that I was certain I had lost in the war.”

Hazel looked at him, then looked down at her hands.

“Did it work? How long…I mean, how long were you together?”

At that moment, Wilson experienced an overwhelming desire to get up and to run—run as far and as fast as he could until he could stop reliving the pain of his past. Perhaps yesterday, had this meeting happened yesterday, before he saw the light of God, he would have run. But now, still unknowing, still a novice in faith, he simply knew that he had to see this through. He had to see this to a conclusion, whatever personal pain he might endure. He had to set the past right again—not just for himself, but for this lost and confused woman sitting beside him on a park bench outside the Phipps Conservatory, a stone's throw south of the Cathedral of Learning, where Wilson had spent the last forty-some years in hiding.

“It lasted three months. I'm sorry. I was sorry then. As soon as it happened, I knew that I could not stay. I was broken. Badly broken. And she knew it as well. I think she knew it from the very beginning. I am sure she thought she could save me. She offered me a way to salvation, but I was too broken and too wounded—emotionally—to understand it then.”

Hazel looked up.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, as if she truly meant it.

Wilson waved her sorrow away.

“I was at fault, not your mother.”

Thurman stood up and barked. Twice. And looked decisive.

“Hazel, I have to feed Thurman. That was his ‘I'm hungry' bark. But there is a lot more I need to tell you. Would you ride with us back to my house? I'll bring you back afterward. Did you drive here?”

“No. I walked. The man at the hotel said it was like ten minutes. So…you can take me back to the hotel…whenever. Later. That would be fine.”

Thurman started to dance, wiggle left, wiggle right, whispering and growling,
Food, food, food
.

Wilson felt a stirring in his chest as he stood, like a heart being unwrapped, like a candle being lit in the darkness.

He decided, as they walked toward the car, that it was a very good feeling.

Wilson had to push Thurman into the backseat, Thurman growling and grumping and complaining during the entire rump-shoving effort. Wilson's car was a two-door sedan, so human passengers would naturally be offered front-row privileges.

Thurman was forced into the car headfirst, and clumped onto the backseat headfirst, and that is how he stayed during the short ride home—staring straight out the rear window of the car. Hazel looked over her shoulder several times, and called out his name, thinking that it was only natural that a dog be facing forward. Thurman paid no attention to her, and remained statuelike during the seven-minute trip.