The Dog That Whispered (8 page)

It is a leash
.

No doubt Thurman was at the other end of the leash, and Wilson refrained from calling out, thinking that if he did, Thurman would get excited, lunge toward him, pull his tottering mother over, and she would break a hip. She would never forgive him for it and she would be forced to move into his house so Wilson could provide round-the-clock medical care.

Not that. Please, not that
.

Instead, he waved silently. He was nothing if not cautious.

And careful. And often worried about what might happen, even if those things never did happen as he imagined them occurring.

There was another figure standing near his front door: a woman—a woman whom Thurman was seated next to. The dog was obediently sitting still, grinning, his hindquarters vibrating in anticipation of seeing Wilson again. The woman was not young, but neither old—younger than Wilson by perhaps a decade, with short, straight black hair, near luminescent in the sun, cut in a stylish manner, Wilson assumed, a style that required some hair fashion awareness. She had a hint of Middle Eastern about her, with a slight darkness to the tone of the skin on her face and her bare arms—perhaps Israeli, perhaps some other ethnicity.

Not Nordic for certain
.

“Wilson,” Gretna called out. “I missed Thurman. Emily drove me over. I hope you don't mind that I used my emergency key.”

Mother, that emergency key was for when I fell down the steps and was lying in a pool of blood—not because you missed a dog you only possessed for two weeks
.

“No. That's okay. But be careful. Thurman could easily knock you over.”

His mother waved away his objection with a sweep of her hand.

“Nonsense. We've already walked around the block and Thurman has been a complete gentleman the whole time. Right, Thurman?”

Thurman was up now, bouncing, doing little canine cha-cha steps, awaiting Wilson's greeting. Now within the radius of the leash, he did jump up and rush at Wilson, obviously excited, and obviously fully aware of the limits of the leash and the stability of the woman who currently held it.

Wilson bent down and patted his head, Thurman bouncing and grinning and growling,
Where were you?

Thurman had asked that question every time Wilson returned home, and no matter how often Wilson explained that he had to go to work, to school, Thurman seemed to be unable to grasp the concept.

Wilson was fairly certain that dogs would not be able to understand the convoluted process of work and money and all the rest of the abstract ideas that capitalism involved.

Or perhaps it was that Thurman just enjoyed posing the ritual question.

“Good dog, Thurman,” Wilson said. “Good dog. I'm home now. It's okay.”

Thurman beamed at the praise.

“See?” Gretna said, now beaming as well. “He grows on you, doesn't he? He is a good dog.”

Wilson stood back up and sniffed. He was unwilling to fully commit to this arrangement, at least to his mother.

“I suppose.”

Gretna knew posing when she saw it, and she probably knew Wilson was simply being obstreperous for show.

Wilson looked toward the front door.

“That's Emily,” Gretna said. “Emily, this is my son, Wilson.”

Both offered the standard “Nice to meet you” response.

“Emily's mother is at Heritage Square too, isn't she, Emily?” Gretna said. “Mother-in-law. I meant mother-in-law.” Then she added in a softer, lower voice, “But the poor woman can't get out much. Being in a wheelchair, you know. And she gets confused sometimes. So I asked Emily if she could take me here for a few minutes and Emily said she would be happy to. Right, Emily?”

Emily smiled and shrugged.

Wilson recognized the look of capitulation. Not a horrible forced-under-pain-of-death capitulation, but still…

“I wanted to see the dog,” Emily added. “Thurman, I mean. Your mother goes on and on about him.”

Wilson arched his eyebrows.

“No doubt she does.”

Thurman appeared to follow the conversation, then growled toward Gretna.

“Are you going to invite us in for coffee, Wilson?” Gretna asked. “Thurman likes company.”

Emily looked socially horrified, a little bit.

At least she has manners…or good sense
, Wilson thought.

Obviously, Gretna noticed the look and waved it away.

“Nonsense. He's my son. He can offer us a cup of coffee.”

She started walking toward the front door.

“Seeing as how you've already been inside, Mother, I guess coffee would be fine.”

Gretna offered a knowing grin to Emily.

“Such a good boy. Didn't I tell you he was such a good boy?”

Mr. Hild looked exactly like an old-school personal banker should look, Hazel thought, wearing a very sedate gray suit, an old-school striped tie, wingtip shoes—all of which was in opposition to the standard blue blazers the rest of the personal banking crew probably had been forced to wear.

They look like they work at an upscale McDonald's—and wear better uniforms
, Hazel thought.

“Old stock certificates, you say,” Mr. Hild said, folding his hands and placing them on the desk. He had a nameplate on a little rack on the desk, obviously a subtle sign of seniority.

Hazel held her purse in her lap, with the envelope in one hand, and explained about the desk in the garage sale and finding the key and finding just the one envelope in the box and the fact that her mother never once mentioned owning any stock, or any investments of any kind.

She slid the certificates out of the envelope as Mr. Hild explained that very few companies offered paper certificates any longer. “It's all electronic now. I miss these. Some certificates were like works of art.”

He saw the one-bite-from-the-apple logo and his eyes widened a little.

And his hand shook, just a bit, as he took them from her. Hazel thought it was because he was elderly, after all.

He laid them on the desk, staring at them.

Then he turned to the computer monitor and began to type. He was much slower and more deliberate than any personal banker she had been with up to now.

Hazel chattered on, nervous, without being sure why exactly.

“It would be nice to have a little inheritance. After I settle all her debts and sell the house, I may have a few thousand dollars, if that. I mean, I'm not looking for anything, nor am I expecting anything, and I don't really need anything, but a little cushion would be nice, you know what I mean? Maybe I could get my condo painted or something. That would be nice. It's been years since I could afford to do that.”

Mr. Hild did not look at her but murmured, “Uh-huh.”

He stopped typing and looked up.

“Did she…your mother, I mean…did she have any other investments?”

“No. None. Or none that I know of. She had a little over six hundred dollars in the bank when she passed. She still had a mortgage. She lived pretty simply. She was sort of an old hippie, you know, nuts and berries and wanting to live off the land—that sort of person. Not in a bad way. But she never wanted much and seemed to be very happy all the time—even with the little she had. She was a very nice person. Very content. Happy. Mostly happy, anyhow.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mr. Hild spread the certificates into a fan shape on the desk and entered each number into the computer, very slowly and very carefully.

He waited a long moment.

Then he moved the keyboard aside and refolded his hands.

“You should probably thank your mother. I mean…however you do that…you know…”

“It's okay, really,” Hazel replied, almost apologetic that her mother had died and couldn't be thanked, and now she was wondering why he would say such an odd thing.

Mr. Hild seemed to grow more flustered—for a personal banker, that is.

“Are they worth anything?” Hazel asked, breaking the tension. “It must have been years and years ago that she bought them. Probably not worth much, right?”

Mr. Hild responded with a tight financial grimace, then allowed himself a smile.

“These are real, Ms. Jamison.”

She waited.

“And that's good?”

“Yes,” Mr. Hild said, exhaling politely, “that is good. Very good.”

“Are they worth anything?”

He looked at the screen again.

“As of the close of trading yesterday, these stock certificates, in total, were worth in the neighborhood of $1.26 million.”

Hazel stared back, a blank look on her face.

“Dollars?”

“Yes. These were purchased in 1981. The stock was trading for a few dollars a share. They would have cost her roughly $12,000. Since then, there have been a few splits, buybacks, and what have you, and as of now, their value is $1.26 million.”

Hazel blinked.

“You are talking about American dollars, right?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Hild smiled his best, cordial, we're-a-nice-bank-to-do-business-with smile and added, in a somber, responsible tone, “And we at Umpqua Bank certainly hope that if you decide to sell them, you'll use our bank to help you with the transaction. No fees involved. We would waive all fees for this size transaction.”

Hazel leaned against the padded back of the chair and exhaled.

“American dollars. You're sure, right?”

“Yes. I am sure. You must realize that I seldom joke about money. It's sort a personal banker motto here at Umpqua.”

Hazel stared at him, not knowing if laughter or tears were appropriate.

The four of them were in the kitchen and Wilson began to feel a bit claustrophobic. It had been a long time, decades really, since so many people were in that one room at the same time. Wilson did have people over on rare occasions—not recently, of course—and they never gathered in the kitchen. He kept them in the formal living room.

Gretna was offering a tour of the kitchen, explaining to Emily what changes Wilson had made over the years and which appliances had been updated.

“The sink is still the same,” she said. “Don't make them this way anymore. Like a battleship, it is.”

Trying not to appear perturbed, Wilson switched on the coffeemaker to heat the water and pulled out three varieties of coffee and one of tea.

Thurman sat near his food dish, watching, looking a bit confused as well.

It seemed as if he was trying to follow Gretna's conversation and maintain eye contact with Wilson at the same time. And obviously he was not eminently successful at either endeavor.

Once their coffees had been brewed—Emily had chosen tea—Gretna insisted on showing Emily the backyard and Wilson's massive reflecting pool.

“He built it entirely by hand and all by himself. With just a shovel. Isn't it beautiful?”

Emily appeared to be impressed.

“It is. I never would have imagined such a serene view back here…I mean, looking at the house from the street.”

“Like a hidden jewel,” Gretna bragged. “An undiscovered gem. Overlooked.”

Wilson was fairly certain his mother was dropping hints, but what she was hinting at eluded him.

Thurman stood next to Gretna and growled up at her.

“Of course you can, you sweet dog. Of course.”

And with her permission, Thurman took off at a run toward the pool and launched himself into the water.

Wilson was no more than a second from shouting at Thurman, telling him he was a bad dog for jumping in the water and didn't he remember that Wilson expressly forbade him from swimming and that these water hijinks were not allowed, but then he realized that his mother had given the poor beast permission to swim.

Emily laughed at the sight of Thurman's energetic grin as he paddled about.

“Retrievers and water,” Wilson muttered, setting his coffee cup on the stone step and hurrying back into the garage for towels.

When he stepped back into the house holding three emergency towels, his mother was halfway across the room.