The Dog That Whispered (5 page)

W
HILE
P
ORTLAND
deserved its reputation for being wet and mostly miserable for much of the spring, the weekend of Hazel's garage sale at her mother's home turned out to be sunny and warm, which brought out a plethora of crafters and bargain hunters. She scarcely had time to sit down all morning, let alone drink the extra-strong coffee she had brought with her in a thermos.

“The nearest Starbucks is like a mile away. I can't leave the garage sale to feed my caffeine addiction,” she had told herself as she poured an entire pot of “robust, full-bodied” French roast coffee into her well-worn thermos.

The insurance company where she worked as an actuary had instituted a health-and-wellness regime several years earlier, doing away with the candy and snack machine, and passing an edict—or rather a stern but pleasantly worded policy—doing away with employee coffeepots throughout the office.

“Some people cannot tolerate the percolating smell of old roasted coffee beans,” the energetic human resources director had claimed in an all-company email. “And no one knows for sure if any coffee supplied by our employees is actually fair-raised and fair-traded coffee. So, rather than debate that controversial subject, if an employee must have coffee, it must be brought in from the outside, in a sealed container.”

The edict had proved to be a small boomlet for local thermos sales. And for the nearest Starbucks, three blocks distant.

In the late afternoon of the garage sale, the steady flood of customers ebbed, and Hazel finally had time for her third cup of coffee of the day—the first two had come at home.

“Delicious,” she said as she sipped from the red plastic thermos cup.

The house had been picked over and the garage was all but empty. Her mother had been an avid gardener up until her final year, and kept her tools cleaned and oiled and neatly hung on racks. The racks were now empty.

The lawn mower had been sold early.

Hazel wondered if she had priced things too cheaply.

I probably did, but I'm getting rid of it—and they're paying me to take it away. A win-win situation.

The furniture went quickly. There wasn't all that much of it, but it sold. Craft supplies, in boxes and priced per boxful, sold quickly, surprising Hazel.

The great majority of the for-sale items in the house now too were gone. All that was left were a few odds and ends, a couple of file cabinets, and an old desk, which was too large for Hazel's smaller apartment.

Hazel stood, folded her chair, and walked toward the
GARAGE SALE
sign she had placed in the front yard.

It would be replaced by the Realtor's
FOR SALE
sign the following day.

A young couple pulled to the curb in an old but clean Ford pickup truck, with a unicorn decal on the back window and a rainbow bumper sticker. They hurried out, holding hands, laughing.

“Are we too late?”

“No. Not at all,” Hazel said, being accommodating and gracious, much as was her habit. “There's not much left. But you're welcome to take a look.”

Hazel wished she could be more assertive. She really wanted to lock things up and wait for the Dumpster on Monday.

But a few more minutes won't matter…I guess
.

And she had no idea of the impact this one simple decision would make on her life.

Next time I'll be more assertive and just say no. That would be a real change of pace for me, wouldn't it?

Thurman sat by the front door, front legs neatly together, his panting slow and steady, watching, almost as if waiting for some sort of a good-dog final inspection. He seemed to be listening intently as Wilson talked to his mother on the phone.

“Mother,” Wilson said in the firmest tone he could muster, “you said a day or two. That was Tuesday. Four days have passed. It is now Saturday and the beast is still in my house.”

Wilson knew he could be tougher and more rigid while on the phone. It was more anonymous, more invisible—almost as invisible as the Internet trolls and the vitriolic comments they posted on web pages and the like.

If they can't see you, they don't know how big or small you are.

“Wilson, I know what I said,” his mother replied. “A couple of days. Maybe to a word genius like you, a couple means two. But I meant several. Okay? I am eighty-five years old, you know.”

Wilson's mother had a master's degree in English from Carlow College and was much better at grammar and punctuation than was her son. When she called him a “word genius” it wasn't a pronouncement of fact—just a way to make him feel sorry for his less-educated mother.

It seldom worked as planned.

And Wilson noted that she was never hesitant to bring up her advanced age when it suited her purposes for gathering empathy, if not downright sympathy.

Like now.

“Two days. Four days. A week. I'm not one to quibble, Mother,” Wilson stated, emphasizing the word “Mother.” “You promised—within a short period of time—to have this beast removed.”

At the word “beast,” Thurman growled up at Wilson, looking a little hurt.

Not beast. Good dog.

Wilson stared down at him and shook his head. He mouthed the words, “It's for effect, okay?”

Thurman shook his head in return as if wondering what sort of oddly calculated game these two people were playing, neither of them being in a position to win, and both precariously close to losing.

Odd
, he growled.
Too much think
.

“That is not true,” Wilson hissed back, his palm over the talking-into portion of the phone.

“Wilson,” his mother said, obviously hoping her flat tone would indicate hurt and pain rather than a simple attempt at manipulation, “I understand. I will make more calls. I'll post a flyer downstairs.”

Wilson wanted to interject that the only people who would see that flyer would be the crotchety old people in her senior-living complex, who couldn't adopt a dog even if they wanted to.

But he didn't.

Thurman gave him that look. So he left the remark unsaid.

“Fine. You do that, Mother. I am counting on you to find a new living arrangement for this dog…”

Thurman growled again.

Better
.

“…a living arrangement that does not include me.”

Wilson's mother inhaled and waited a moment to answer.

“You are such a good boy, Wilson. Have I told you that recently? You are such a good boy.”

To Wilson, it sounded like his mother was still talking about the good dog, Thurman.

After he hung up the phone, he crossed his arms and stared down at Thurman. Thurman adjusted his front paws just so and stared back up at him, a trace of a grin almost hidden under his black snout.

But not really hidden. Thurman had proven, over these few short days, to have an abysmal poker face.

“You should be on your way to the pound, Thurman.”

Wilson had started referring to Thurman as “Thurman” on the second day of his “visit” and no longer thought of him as “that dog” or “the beast.”

Thurman growled back, his growl mixed with a happy smile of subterfuge.

You like me
.

Wilson shook his head and kept a mock grimace on his face.

Thurman's growls and whines and soft barks and whimpers and throat clearings all seemed to Wilson to convey something. Some of them were obvious.

Hungry
.

What you eat?

Outside?

Really, what you eat?

I would like some of food you eat
.

The more complicated, the more abstract—well, for those, Wilson remained unsure.

And it frightened him, just a little. Or maybe a little more than a little.

Frightened. Alarmed. Fascinated. Like a rodent is fascinated by a snake, coiled and ready to strike, unable to move because of the beauty of the snake's scales and eyes and slithery tongue, tasting the air.

Like slowing down when driving past an accident—staring, drawn to the carnage and twisted metal.

Drawn.

Wilson knew what memories were hidden and how well he had them hidden and how hard he worked at hiding them and now there's this dog who pushed whatever buttons were to be pushed and Wilson was again thinking about things that he did not want to think about—or at least blaming the effort it took to hide the memories as a reason to believe that a puddinghead of a dog could talk.

This is complicated stuff
, Wilson thought,
and it is made up of things I do not want to remember
.

“You have me almost believing you can talk, Thurman. You know that?”

Yes
.

“I have a doctorate in creative writing and a second master's degree in contemporary American literature—and I'm listening to a dog. Do you know how absolutely absurd that sounds?”

Thurman growled.

Yes
.

Wilson knew it was ludicrous. He knew it was delusional. He knew it was perhaps the first sign of a descent into dementia, or some other horrid cognitive impairment.

But then, there it was. Thurman's ability to communicate. To talk. Sort of.

“You know, it's probably because I've lived so long by myself. That has to be a contributing factor, Thurman. I am fantasizing having someone to talk to.”

Thurman growled.

Probably
.

“But I'm not going to tell anyone about it.”

Sure
.

Wilson walked into the kitchen and Thurman followed. He reached into a shopping bag on the counter and pulled out a leash from a store in Shadyside called Petagogy. He had taken a cab there to purchase the sixteen-foot retractable leash and a plain black leather collar to replace the hideous red plaid collar with rhinestones that the rescue center had sent Thurman off with.

“What do you think?” Wilson asked.

Holding the leash in his hand, he explained the process to Thurman, demonstrating how the leash worked, like a flight attendant on a dog airline.

“So, we are going for a walk, Thurman. No pulling or yanking. No barking. No lunging at other people.”

Thurman growled yes.

Wilson, on occasion over the years, took walks around the neighborhood. But not often. When he walked alone, he knew people would be watching and evaluating, obviously thinking that he had no business being out and about with no purpose or destination in mind.

He had tried walking at night, but the shadows unnerved him, and the sweep of headlights brought back troubling memories, or at least let them edge closer to his consciousness, and he wanted no part of those nighttime terrors, not anymore, not ever.

“But with a dog, Thurman—that's you by the way—I have a reason to be out. And it will allow me to get exercise without resorting to using that disgusting faculty health center.”

Thurman smiled and nodded.

Wilson snapped the leash onto the collar and tested the resistance of the retractable section of the leash.

Thurman barked and smiled.

We go
.

T
HE YOUNG COUPLE
exited Hazel's mother's house holding a large ceramic vase, orange and blue, that might charitably be called kitsch.

Hazel saw it as simply ugly.

The couple was laughing, as if now in possession of a decorating practical joke.

Then they came upon the large desk that had been placed in the garage.

“Twenty dollars? Really? For the whole desk?” the young man said. “Wow.”

Apparently he had not attended the garage-sale negotiating seminar, Hazel thought, smiling.

The young woman ran her hand over the surface and pulled out each drawer, making sure that every one worked. She stepped back and tilted her head in appraisal.

“It's perfect,” she said.

“We'll take it,” the young man said, “and this cool vase. That's like thirty dollars for both, right?”

Their excitement was nearly palpable. Their energy made Hazel smile—and grow a little wistful as well. Or maybe jealous.

“Tell you what, I'll take a twenty-dollar bill for both items. I'm just glad to see the desk gone, to tell you the truth. It won't fit in my condo and it's too heavy for me to move any farther.”

The pair looked at Hazel, then each other, grinning. “It's a deal. Thanks. Really. Thanks so much. We're trying to fill our place and neither of us has much money. And we have to save up for wedding rings as well. The preacher said it was okay not to have rings—but we want them…you know…so people know. God knows, which is all that matters, really, but we still want rings.”

The young woman hurried to the truck, stashed the vase on the front seat, and lowered the tailgate while her husband, or husband-to-be, paid the twenty dollars.

The two of them hefted the desk up and carried it to the truck, Hazel offering directional advice as they did and a helping hand as they maneuvered it into the open back of the truck. The young woman jumped up with it and shouldered the desk into place, surprising Hazel with her dexterity and strength.

She didn't look like she weighed more than a hundred pounds.

She then busied herself by removing the drawers and stacking them securely, so they wouldn't fly open on the way home.

As she pulled out the last drawer, a brown envelope fell out onto the truck bed.

The young woman picked it up.

“Are you Hazel? This must be yours.”

Hazel stepped closer and extended her hand.

“I am. The desk was my mother's.”

“Well, it doesn't feel like money,” the young woman said, fingering the sealed envelope. “But it obviously belongs to you. It must have been taped to the bottom of a drawer or something.”

Hazel took it and saw her name printed on the envelope in her mother's handwriting, plus a date written in large block letters—a date decades earlier.

“Hey, like a time capsule, huh?” the young man said as he closed the tailgate.

Hazel slid her finger under the flap; the adhesive had all but disappeared, offering a crinkled rasp as it released.

A picture fluttered out and fell to the ground. And then a key fell out with a brassy, metallic clink.

Hazel reached down and picked them both up.

The black-and-white tones of the photograph had turned sepia. The picture depicted her mother, carrying a handful of flowers, and with a halo of small flowers—violets, perhaps—circling her head, holding hands with a young man in a military uniform. They were both smiling, but the young man had a guarded, apprehensive look in his eyes. Haunted, perhaps.

Hazel turned the photo over.

Written in her mother's expansive, flowery handwriting were two words:
Our Wedding
.

The brass key was just as enigmatic. Etched into the key, in small type, was the following:

#349-H

And on a small, metal-ringed paper disk, clipped to the key with a small chain, were the words, written in her mother's handwriting,
Umpqua Bank
.

Gretna shuffled toward the brightly lit dining room of the senior citizen complex, joining a handful of other seniors all shuffling toward the same destination. Had they been able to travel at full walking speed, a traffic jam, or even a collision or two, would be the result of their combined fixation on finding a “good” table. But as it was, most of them moved at not much faster than a shuffle, and they seamlessly merged into one relatively docile line of hungry diners.

Gretna was one of the fortunate ones: Her hearing was still adequate, her vision was decent—not enough to drive, but decent—and her mobility, while compromised slightly, still allowed her to travel faster than most of her fellow seniors. She made a beeline to the farthest table from the entrance and the one closest to the kitchen.

“Food is warmer at this table. You sit by the entrance and you get icicles in your stewed prunes.”

She found her favorite spot at her favorite table, looking out to a mostly unused courtyard that was filled with trees on the verge of green and gold.

Gretna liked the spring. Rebirth. Renewal. New life.

And she could sneak outside from time to time and smoke a cigarette.

She had a pack of Lucky Strikes that was now a year old, and only three cigarettes remained in it.

I wonder if the Giant Eagle still sells them? I don't see them at the checkout counter anymore. Maybe I could get that nosey cabdriver to buy me some. I certainly couldn't ask Wilson. He'd have me locked up, for sure.

A few minutes later, as the slow tide of old folks ebbed into the dining area, one of Gretna's hallmates wrinkled her face like a raisin, squinting with great effort.

“Gretna?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Sit down, Mavis. I'm friendly today. Won't bite…much.”

Mavis laughed and waved her hand, as if dismissing Gretna's semi-brittle greeting. They often shared a table at lunch.

Mavis took several minutes maneuvering her walker into exactly the correct position, then sort of launched herself at the chair, causing it to slide a few inches from the hard landing. She then set about attempting to fold her walker, complete with angry muttering in Yiddish under her breath. One leg of the walker folded in easily, but one leg remained obstinate and erect. After more than a few minutes, Mavis's Yiddish became more inflammatory, and even though Gretna did not understand much of the language, she could easily guess the meaning from the harsh, angry tone and brittle inflection.

In the end, Mavis shoved at the walker with a Yiddish curse, and it fell to its side. Then she kicked it once and dragged it closer to her chair, making sure that the walkway around the table was clear.

“And a good day to you too, Mavis.”

Mavis waved off the sarcasm with a weary sigh.

“A pain in the tuches, this getting old is.”

Gretna nodded, then realized that Mavis might not see the nod, so she added loudly, “It certainly is. Getting old, I mean. A pain.”

“In the tuches,” Mavis added, grinning.

“Among other places,” Gretna replied.

The server—a twig of a young girl from the Philippines, Gretna had heard—came up with glasses of water and the xeroxed lunch menu.

Mavis squinted.

“What they got today?” she asked, holding the menu upside down and peering over at Gretna.

“Get the chicken soup. And the tuna salad sandwich.”

Mavis replied with a practiced scowl, “That means the other choice is either Salisbury steak or chicken à la king.”

“The first one. It's probably left over from last week.”

The pair sat in silence for a long moment, Gretna peering about the dining room, Mavis fiddling with her necklace, which had become tangled.

Suddenly, Gretna brightened.

“Did you hear the news?” she asked.

“What news? They fired the cook?”

“No,” Gretna replied, then paused. “They did?”

“Did what?”

“Fired the cook?”

Mavis waved her hand again in dismissal. It was a familiar gesture. “No. I was just guessing. But they should.”

“Oh. No, that wasn't it,” Gretna said, a smile returning to her face. “I'm going to become a grandmother.”

“Really?”

“Yep. After all these years.”

“I didn't know your son was married.”

“Oh. He isn't.”

Mavis leaned back, trying not to appear judgmental. When one squinted most of the day, it was difficult not to look judgmental.

“So…is he getting married?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Gretna replied. “I don't think so.”

Mavis leaned back as the young Filipina server placed a bowl of soup in front of her.

“But he might? There must be a woman, yes?”

“No.”

“So then…how…” Mavis asked, apparently not sure of exactly what she was asking.

“I don't know. But I know.”

“But…how…?”

“Oh…how do I know?”

Mavis shrugged and nodded.

“Thurman told me. Just before he left.”

“Thurman?”

“Yes,” Gretna replied, crushing two packets of unsalted saltines into her soup. “And Thurman wouldn't lie.”

In a daze, Hazel waved as her last two customers left the garage sale, driving slowly, not taking chances with their new twenty-dollar desk. On autopilot, she pulled the
GARAGE SALE
sign from the parkway in front of the house and wandered, as if she had no specific destination in mind, to one end of the block and then the other, retrieving two other signs.

Once back in the garage, she let the signs clatter to the concrete floor. She took her foldable chair and unfolded it, poured out another cup of coffee from her thermos, and sat with a world-weary sigh, holding the coffee in her left hand and the old photograph in her right.

The brass key, which she assumed was for a safe-deposit box, was in the right front pocket of her jeans. She could feel the jagged edge against her thigh.

She sipped at the coffee. It was no longer hot, but drinkable.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and stared at the picture. The participants had not changed. Her mother was still there, looking very young, very angelic, and very hopeful. The soldier was still there, at her side, a little more distance between them than would be normal for most brides and grooms, but perhaps it was snapped just before they hugged.

Or something like that.

The soldier, whom Hazel assumed was in a uniform of the U.S. Army, remained enigmatic. Not happy. Not sad.

Troubled, maybe.

And her mother's handwriting. Definitely her mother's script.

Our Wedding
.

A car slowly rolled past, perhaps looking for garage-sale leftovers to scavenge. There were none, none that Hazel wanted to deal with at this moment, so she did not look up.

Looking up would have been an invitation of sorts, and Hazel wanted no one to intrude on this odd, disjointed moment.

She stared at the photo.

“She was never married. That's what she told me,” she said aloud.

She tilted her head and squinted, hoping the picture would reveal something to her, something hidden, something carefully placed out of view.

It did not.

“She said that I was born and that event was the result of a short affair,” Hazel said. “She always claimed that she did not know where my father went or where he might be. She wasn't even positive of his last name.”

She felt a tightness in her throat.

“‘It was the seventies, dear,' she'd said. ‘Things like that happened,' she'd said. ‘I'm not proud of it,' she'd said. ‘But it happened,' she'd said. ‘And I had to deal with it,' she'd said.”

Hazel looked over the photo to the first reds of sunset.

“She never once mentioned a wedding. Never. Not once.”