Water Dogs (9 page)

“Shithouse!” yelled Littlefield, but everyone else was quiet. Coach was unlacing his brown boots.

“William, what are you doing?” asked Eleanor.

“That dog’s going to drown,” said Coach. He’d taken off his parka, too, and was unbuckling his belt.

“It’s March, William,” said Eleanor. “You can’t go out there.”

“Jesus,” snapped Coach. When he yelled, it got everyone’s heartbeat going. “You want the dog to die?”

Gwen was starting to cry, so Bennie hugged her. “Come on, you crazy hound,” she said.

“Well, I don’t want
you
to die,” said their mother, who looked confused and startled. Gwen held a similar expression while she took Coach’s clothes from him as he disrobed. “Just come back quickly, if you can’t get her,” their mother said.

“I’ll get her,” he said.

Coach was naked now, and by the way he moved down the shale, in nearly a run, it was clear he was ignoring the pain in his feet. They’d all
seen his body in the bathroom—there was only one upstairs in the Manse, and all five of them used it—but here, his white body cast against the gothic browns of Cape Fred, against the backdrop of black water, he looked like some version of Early Man. He still had most of his Marine Corps muscles. His back and his legs were strong. The family followed him to the water’s edge, but even with boots on, they couldn’t get down there as quickly as he had. When Gwen and Bennie and Littlefield and Eleanor reached the waves, Coach had already lowered himself in. That was the trickiest part—getting into the water and away from the rocks while the waves came pounding in. He lost his balance when the first wave crested, but he put his hands down on the shale in front of him and took the frigid roller in his face before scooting out into deeper water.

He swam a breaststroke toward Nixon, which seemed to take too long, and when he reached the dog, she was still intent on bringing the buoy back to shore but was low in the water now, just keeping her nose above the surface. When Coach reached her, he ripped the buoy out of her mouth, jerking her head to the side. He threw the buoy overhand behind her, and she weakly started to U-turn again, to fetch the buoy once more—Bennie loved her for this—but Coach grabbed her collar and redirected her toward land. Once they were on course, he didn’t need to hold on to her. They swam side by side. For all her diligence, she, like most dogs, didn’t dwell on the past. Her owner was swimming beside her, and she had no ball in her mouth. She kept swimming.

Ten yards away, Gwen started cheering them on. “Almost home, almost home! Let’s get some, soldier! Here we go, here we go!” Eleanor was silent, gripping the collar of her coat. Nixon and Coach were barely making progress. Coach’s stroke had switched to a kind of dog paddle, and his eyes looked unfocused, though his lips were pursed tightly together. Bennie saw the look of one of his mother’s patients in those eyes—intent, but lost. Just after they’d started cheering, a wave came over Coach’s head, and when it passed, he was gone.

They lurched as a family toward the water, but Littlefield was the
first to remove his parka. Eleanor held back Bennie, who grabbed Gwen. Eleanor made a few whining noises, holding on to Bennie and Gwen and watching Littlefield, who charged into the waves and was still able to stand when he reached Coach. Then Littlefield was stumbling back up the rocks with his naked father in his arms—Coach’s large turnip-colored body, stark white and wet, his brown hair matted against his head by salt water. His eyes were open and still held that look—as though he knew something crucial was missing. He was coughing meekly, which seemed a good sign. And he wasn’t shaking; he wasn’t moving much at all.

Bennie took hold of him, too, from the other side and helped Littlefield carry him up the rocks. Eleanor had taken her coat off and had wrapped it around Coach’s waist. Gwen had taken hers off and put it around his chest, under his armpits. They assumed this would warm him up, but when they reached the bushes, Coach wasn’t responding to anything they did or said.

Even so, his wife spoke to him. “We’re taking you to the hospital,” she said.

Under normal circumstances, being carried would not have been acceptable to Coach. And going to the hospital would be out of the question. But he said nothing.

“You’re sick right now, William,” Eleanor continued.

When they got him to the Vista Cruiser, they stretched him out in the backseat and their mother lay beside him. Littlefield started the car. Their mother was hugging Coach in the backseat while the kids took off more of their clothes and covered their parents.

In the midst of this Gwen looked up and said, “Where’s Nixon?”

Littlefield hopped out. Bennie had just taken off his sweater and was wrapping it around Coach’s shoulders when Littlefield grabbed him by the shirt collar and twisted the cotton in his fists. He said, “You drive the car. You know how to get to the hospital. Once you get him inside, come back for me and Nixon.”

Eleanor was hugging Coach, rubbing his arms and his back. Bennie
didn’t have a license, but he followed Littlefield’s instructions. He put the Vista Cruiser into gear and lurched out onto the main road. He knew the basics from the handful of times Coach let him drive on the island. He’d never used a directional signal. They were passing streets he recognized, but everything looked new and large from the driver’s side. Within minutes they were gliding to a stop in front of the hospital. A scrawny man in a bathrobe smoking a cigarette stood by the front doors. “I’ll get out of your way,” he said.

Coach was unable to walk—he was barely conscious—but he still managed to seem angry. His eyebrows were wet, and his hair, which was usually parted neatly, looked like marsh grass, matted down. Bennie opened the back door of the Vista Cruiser and hooked his arms under Coach’s armpits to pull him out. Gwen grabbed his legs. They carried him until their mother brought a wheelchair. His calves and his arms were cold and heavy. Gwen went back to the Vista Cruiser to get the armful of clothes they’d draped over him in the car, and she covered him up again.

As soon as Eleanor rolled Coach through the hospital doors, Bennie climbed back into the Vista Cruiser and with one hand on top of the steering wheel he shifted into gear.

On the access road to Cape Fred, Bennie saw them—they were on the shoulder, Littlefield stooped over Nixon. The dog was on her side. Bennie sped up, and when he got to them, he stomped on the brakes, skidding in the gravel. Littlefield picked Nixon up in his arms and said, “Door,” so Bennie hopped out and ran around to the other side of the car. He let them into the backseat.

Once Bennie closed the door, he sprinted back around to the driver’s side, Littlefield yelling, “Go! Go! Go!”

Bennie cranked the wheel and the Vista Cruiser spun in a neat circle, dipping just slightly into the shoulder before straightening out. “Where?” he shouted.

“Home,” said Littlefield. “I’ve got the stuff to help her back there.”

In the backseat, she was panting. Bennie didn’t want to ask Littlefield
any questions. He didn’t want to know how bad off Nixon was. Somehow Littlefield had diagnosed the dog and knew what needed to be done.

When they got to the Manse, Littlefield wouldn’t let Bennie into the barn while he worked on Nixon, so Bennie stood just outside the tall wooden doors in the cold. He asked, “How’s it going?” and heard a quiet, muffled “Fine” from inside.

It was just after dark when an unfamiliar car pulled into the driveway. The headlights blinded Bennie, who was still leaning against the barn. The car doors slammed. Then Eleanor and Gwen were walking on either side of Coach, all three of them moving slowly. When they reached the barn door, the car pulled back out of the driveway.

“Where’s your brother?” said Coach.

“He’s in the barn with Nixon,” said Bennie.

“Is the dog okay?” asked Coach.

“I don’t know.”

Littlefield called through the doors. “She’ll be fine.”

“Aren’t you cold in there?” asked Eleanor.

“I’m fine,” said Littlefield.

“I’m cold,” said Bennie.

“You have enough light?” asked Eleanor.

“It’s fine,” said Littlefield.

Bennie asked, “Are you all right, Coach?”

“Those doctors are a bunch of assholes,” he said. “Every one of them, except your mother.”

“She’s a psychologist,” said Gwen.

Littlefield continued to shout through the doors. He said, “They put you in the tub, Coach?” Gwen and Bennie and Littlefield had all been in the hot tub at the hospital, which they used for hypothermic lobstermen—when their mother worked shifts at the hospital, she’d let them get in if it wasn’t being used.

“Yeah, they put me in the tub. But I could have done that at home,” he said.

“We were scared,” said Gwen.

“Next time, ask me,” he said.

“You were catatonic,” said Eleanor.

“Well, next time you’ll know—don’t take me to the goddamn hospital.” His voice was hoarse and strained. His face was blanched. He could tell he’d hurt Gwen’s feelings, so he said, “Gwen, it’s not your fault.” Then he looked at the barn doors and raised his voice again. “Come out here, William.”

Littlefield unlatched the lock. He opened one of the barn’s tall doors just enough to stick his head through. “I need you to sterilize some instruments, Bennie,” he said, passing through the crack his Swiss army knife and two small flathead screwdrivers. “Just boil them in water for a few minutes. That should do it.”

“Is the dog okay?” asked Coach.

“She’s stable,” he said. “Just in case, I’m getting her on some mechanical ventilation.”

“For Christ’s sake, William,” said Coach. “If the dog’s okay, the dog’s okay.”

“I might need to manually inflate the lungs, Coach,” he said.

When Coach walked toward the barn doors, Littlefield shut them, and they could hear him fumbling with the lock.

“Open up right now,” said Coach.

“It’s just a joke,” said Littlefield. “Take it easy.”

“Open the door!” bellowed Coach.

The lock clicked. Littlefield pushed the door open a few inches. Coach grabbed the edges of both doors and flung them open. Littlefield had dragged one of Coach’s workbenches over to the warm stove and to the side of the workbench he’d clipped a lamp, which was casting a pool of light over Nixon, lying in a wicker laundry basket. She was panting, and when she saw Coach, she hopped out of the basket and ran toward the door. It was warm inside the barn. Bennie looked at his brother and saw that he did actually look concerned. Not about the dog, probably, but about Coach. He’d wanted to be alone. His eyes
were red from crying. Bennie hadn’t liked being locked outside the barn, but now it made more sense.

“This dog does not need an operation,” said Coach.

“Man, it’s warm in here,” said Gwen. “I can’t believe you locked Bennie out in the cold.”

“All right, all right,” said Eleanor. “Let’s get everyone in the house.”

Nixon jumped up and put her front paws on Coach’s waist. “Good girl,” said Coach.

Littlefield walked back toward the stove, shut its flue, and turned off the light. “The dog’s just as tough as you, Coach.”

It was just a month later that Coach died; he was only fifty-one. Eleanor said it was his heart. “His heart let him down,” she said. He’d been in the backyard building a shed for the lawn mower. Littlefield was with him when he died. The family was blindsided of course—it didn’t seem possible that no one would ever hear his voice again, never see him walk into the kitchen early in the morning, rubbing the back of his neck. The boys and Gwen took a break from biathlon. Littlefield spent more and more time away from the Manse working odd jobs—construction and painting and boatyard work—and less time at school. Gwen gave up the drums and started acting in plays. Bennie felt the hours of the day washing over him as if he were impervious to the whims of the world. He saw that his brother was feeling the same way, but they didn’t talk about it; they stayed silent. He felt strangely close to his brother then. It was important for Bennie to see Littlefield arrive back from work each day, to see that he was safe.

After Bennie and Gwen had finished high school, their mother moved up to the town of Clover Lake, into a small but well-built colonial on fifty acres, beside the lake. It was Coach’s family that was from Meadow Island—he’d grown up in a three-room house at the center of the island, without any views of the ocean. She’d liked living on the island, but after he died she felt claustrophobic, and she knew it would
be difficult to stay tied to the community without Coach. She got the sense people resented her wealth and that she was from Massachusetts. Bennie knew it didn’t help that she was judgmental about the way locals polluted the harbor and developed the land—she was outspoken about this, and it didn’t win her many friends. In the end, it seemed, she felt good about leaving the house to her children, letting them take care of it, as long as she could visit once in a while. Littlefield tried to skip town whenever this happened.

For a while, Bennie continued to keep track of the Somerset Marauder. No one ever caught him. He had a few close calls with the authorities, but he always ended up outfoxing them, and Bennie convinced himself to adopt his father’s position. He started rooting for the thief, hoping he’d continue his dominance, elude the cops. Soon, though, the Marauder stopped burglarizing and the southward trend was halted. He never made it to the Manse—he didn’t even reach their county—and the newspapers discontinued their stories.

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