Canine Christmas (7 page)

If I had not put up the Christmas tree the night before, I know I would've spotted him the second I walked in the door. There wasn't much in my sparsely furnished living room that a man as big as Harlan Campbell could hide behind. The seven-foot Scotch pine that I'd decorated with as many ornaments as I could buy at Wal-Mart for twenty dollars was, in fact, pretty much it.

It did cross my mind, as I closed the door behind me, to wonder why my dog Ogilvy wasn't standing there the way he always was—tongue lolling, quivering all over, waiting to give me his usual welcome-home licking. I got my answer as soon as I switched on the floor lamp next to my couch, and Harlan stepped out from behind my Christmas tree, moving quickly around the brightly wrapped presents encircling the tree's base. He came around all in a rush, as if he thought maybe I'd try to get away.

I just stood there and looked at him. My heart had started pounding, and my mouth had gone dry, but I would never give Harlan the satisfaction of running from him.

He'd have enjoyed the chase too much.

Not to mention, I'd tried to run from Harlan just once before—shortly after he and I started living together. What he'd done to me after he'd caught me was something that still made me shiver when I thought about it.

Ogilvy, the traitor, had apparently been keeping Harlan company behind the tree. It must've been a tight fit for both him and Harlan between the tree and the opposite wall. Ogilvy's mom had been a pedigreed Old English sheepdog, and his father a handsome German shepherd who evidently could jump six-foot chain-link fences. The eleven puppies that had resulted from their union had ended up with the shaggy coat and white/gray coloring of a sheepdog, and the erect ears and large frame of a shepherd.

Ogilvy's shaggy coat was quite a bit curlier than his brothers' and sisters'; he'd looked as if he'd just given himself an Ogilvie Home Permanent. I'd decided what his name would be the second I laid eyes on him.

As Ogilvy brushed past my Christmas tree to stand at Harlan's side, several branches shook so much a couple of glass ornaments dropped to the floor. When they hit the floor, they made little clinking sounds, but Ogilvy didn't even glance in that direction. He was too busy licking Harlan's hand.

What a guard dog.

“I think the damn dog remembers me, Beth,” Harlan said. I hadn't seen Harlan in almost three years, and yet the man spoke as if he were simply continuing a conversation that had been interrupted.

Some interruption. Three years at the Kentucky State Reformatory for Women. Three long, long years.

Harlan reached out and scratched Ogilvy's head. “He sure does seem happy to see me again.”

What could I say to that? Ogilvy has never been known for his discriminating tastes. If Ogilvy thought there was a chance that you'd pet him or feed him or scratch his ears, he was happy to see you. If Charles Manson had showed up with a dog biscuit in his hand, Ogilvy would've greeted him as if he were a long-lost relative.

I hadn't said a word so far, but Harlan didn't seem to notice. He just kept on scratching Ogilvy between his ears. The dog's tongue lolled happily. “I sure remember Ogilvy, too,” Harlan went on.

The owners of Ogilvy's mother had not realized immediately that her new family was not purebred, so they'd bobbed all the puppies' tails. Poor Ogilvy has always seemed to realize that he'd been short-changed in the tail department. He'd apparently decided a long time ago to make up quantity with quality. Now, at the sound of his name, he wagged his stump with such vigor, his entire rear end wagged, too.

“Yep,” Harlan said, smiling, “I recognized Ogilvy the second I saw his picture in the paper.”

So that was how he'd found me. Not exactly a surprise. Ogilvy's photo had appeared on the front page of the Louisville
Courier-Journal
yesterday morning. I'd known, of course, that the picture was going to be in there. Fact is, I'd been worrying for a week, ever since a staff photographer from the
C-J
had shown up at my front door, asking who I was and what Ogilvy's name was.

I'd briefly considered refusing to tell the guy anything. And, even more important, refusing to give permission to print the picture. And yet, how could I do that without attracting even more attention? The reporter, no doubt, would have been curious as to why I was so publicity-shy. What's more, it wouldn't have taken much to dig up the whole story. I sure as hell had not wanted another story about the bank robbery showing up on the front page of the
Courier
.

I'd seen enough stories about that to last me a lifetime. The headlines back then had all but screamed at me:
LOCAL WOMAN ARRESTED IN BANK HEIST! BANK ROBBER REFUSES TO NAME ACCOMPLICE!
And let's not forget my personal favorite:
ROBBER GETS TEN YEARS!

As it turned out, that last headline had been in error. I'd been paroled for good behavior after serving just a little over three years, after which I'd moved into this rental house in Valley Station, a suburb of Louisville. I'd gotten a new job working as a secretary; and I'd been more or less taking it one day at a time, trying to make up my mind what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. The last thing I needed was the
Courier
taking a walk down Memory Lane. Compared to that, just having a picture of my dog appear in the paper seemed like a cakewalk.

I hadn't counted on Ogilvy's photo being on the front page, though. Or that the damn thing would take up almost one quarter of the page. Or that it would give the address of the church beneath the picture. That's what made me mad. Because the second I'd seen the photo and, even more significant, the headline in big bold type over the photo, I'd realized that I should've expected this. I mean, how stupid could I be? It was the Christmas season, for God's sake.

It being the Christmas season, in fact, was what had started it all. The house I'd rented was right across the street from the Valley Station Baptist Church. Ever since the church had set up their Nativity scene the day after Thanksgiving, I'd been having trouble with Ogilvy. I couldn't keep him in the backyard. Having apparently inherited his father's remarkable talent, Ogilvy kept jumping the back fence and running across the street.

What was the attraction? Oddly enough, Ogilvy seemed to be convinced that the church, in its infinite generosity, had erected a doghouse just for him. That this doghouse only had three walls, that it had a glowing neon star attached to the roof, and that it sheltered weather-worn statues of Mary, Joseph, and the Holy Infant, did not matter in the least to Ogilvy. All Ogilvy wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep on the nice soft straw, his body curved around the sandaled feet of Joseph. I'd had to haul that dumb dog back home at least five times before one of my neighbors—or maybe somebody just driving by—had decided that Ogilvy was a photo opportunity and had phoned the paper.

After taking Ogilvy's photo, the reporter from the
Courier
had hurried across the street to find out whose dog this was. According to what he'd told me, he'd gone to my next-door neighbor's house first, and then had been directed to mine. And, of course, once he'd heard what my name was, he'd been beside himself. “Oh, this is great. This is terrific!” he kept saying.

My name, you see, is Beth Saunders. The Beth is short for—would you believe—Bethlehem. I know what you're thinking. Who in their right mind would name a baby Bethlehem? The answer to that one, of course, is: my mother. I'd heard from various relatives over the years that Mom had apparently found religion right about the time she met my father. I'm sure Dad's being a goodlooking, Methodist minister was purely coincidental to Mom's sudden conversion.

Before meeting my dad, though, my mom had been pretty rowdy. Drinking and partying and carrying on with one guy after another. To make sure that the Almighty—and, not incidentally, my straitlaced dad— knew that she'd truly repented, Mom had named every one of her kids after some place with religious significance. My two younger brothers are Israel and Jericho (Jeri, for short).

I did ask Mom once, when I was in high school, why she didn't just give us the usual Biblical names—like Ruth and Mark and Matthew—but Mom had sniffed, “Too ordinary.” She'd also added, “You should be glad I didn't call you Gomorrah.”

What could I say? She'd had a point.

With my name being what it was and it being the Christmas season, I should have known that a photograph of Ogilvy would not be buried on some back page of the
Courier
. Hell, the photographer had probably thought of the headline as soon as he heard my name:
O LITTLE HOUND OF BETHLEHEM
. Even though Ogilvy was not exactly little, and he was most certainly not a hound, it was a headline no journalist could pass up. No wonder the photographer's eyes were all but dancing as he left.

In the week that it had taken for the photo to finally appear, I'd told myself that maybe Harlan wasn't even in the area any more. Maybe he wouldn't even see the picture in the paper. Maybe he wouldn't even recognize Ogilvy. Harlan and I had only had the dog for a year or so before my life had taken an abrupt detour. After that, I'd had to give Ogilvy to my mother so that she could keep him for me until I served out my sentence.

“Yep, Ogilvy takes a real nice picture,” Harlan was saying. “Real cute.”

I still hadn't spoken. Did the man expect me to stand here and chat about dog pictures? Was he kidding? “How did you get in here, Harlan?” I said.

Harlan ran his hand through his blond hair. Was there ever a time when I'd thought him good-looking? In faded jeans, cowboy boots, and a scuffed brown leather jacket, Harlan has always been trying a little too hard to look like James Dean. I don't know now why I didn't see it right from the start. Maybe, like Ogilvy inheriting his jumping ability from his dad, I'd also inherited something from a parent. From my mom, I'd inherited a wild streak.

Harlan had been as wild as they come. I'd met him after work one night at a local bar, and for a while, he'd seemed to me to be the most exciting man I'd ever known. If he drank a little too much, and he gambled away his paycheck a little too often, I was so blind crazy about him that none of that seemed to matter. Harlan made the men I'd dated at General Electric, where I worked as an administrative assistant, suddenly seem boring and dull.

Harlan had already moved in with me when I found out about his temper. By that time, I'd been telling my parents and friends for months that they were wrong about Harlan, that all he needed was a good woman to straighten him out. My mom and dad had only lived two blocks down the road from my apartment, so I could have gone to them for help anytime. And yet, I'd been too proud to admit to anybody how often Harlan hit me, or how every day I grew a little more afraid of him.

When Harlan had lost his third job in a row, and yet never seemed to be short of cash, I'd asked him where all his money was coming from. His answer was to become a familiar refrain:
That's for me to know, and you to find out.
I half expected him to say it now. “How'd I get in here?” he drawled. “Well, Beth, it's the oddest thing—” He had the expression on his face that he always wore when he was lying: wide-eyed sincerity. “I don't know if you know it, hon—”

I couldn't help it. I winced when he called me
hon
.

Harlan frowned, but he let that one go. “—but your bathroom window is busted.”

I didn't have to guess how that had happened.

“Since the window was already open and all,” Harlan went smoothly on, “well, I just climbed in and waited for you,” he said. He took a deep breath and looked me up and down. “It's good seeing you again, Beth.” His eyes traveling over my body felt like insects. “You're looking damn good. Damn good.”

My throat tightened. “You didn't come here just to tell me how good I looked, did you?”

Harlan smiled. “You're still mad, aren't you? But, Beth, sweetheart, I didn't have a choice. There wasn't any need in both of us getting caught. You understand that, don't you?”

Oh, I understood all right. I'd gone over it in my mind often enough. Every once in a while, even now, I still had nightmares about that day. Once again, I'd hear Harlan telling me, with that look of wide-eyed sincerity, that he was just going to stop by the bank, that's all. He was just going to make a quick withdrawal from his account. As it turned out, while I sat out front, Harlan went inside and made a quick withdrawal of every cent in the vault, the ATM machine, and the tellers' cash drawers. It had amounted to close to a quarter of a million dollars, according to the
Courier
. The exact amount was not known since the bank had just taken delivery of some payroll deposits which had not yet been counted.

Harlan had come running out, his eyes wild and excited, actually laughing as he tossed the bags of currency into the backseat of my car. Since he hadn't bothered to mention that I'd been recruited to drive the getaway car, I hadn't even left the engine running. I was so stunned, so totally unable to fathom what was happening, that Harlan had to yell at me three times before I had the presence of mind to start the car and pull into traffic.

The elderly bank guard inside was evidently not anywhere near as good as I was at following Harlan's instructions. The old guy had not lain down on the floor with the other bank employees; instead, he'd followed Harlan out, yelling. Harlan had shot at the guy twice, as I was screeching away from the curb.

Both shots had missed.

In my nightmares over the years, sometimes those shots didn't miss. I would awake, trembling, bathed in sweat, seeing again the fear in that old man's face. The fear, no doubt, mirrored in my own.

Halfway back to our apartment that day, I'd heard the sirens. In my rearview mirror, I could see a police car, lights blazing, heading directly toward us. Beside me, Harlan turned around and looked out the rear window, his face white. “Okay, slow down, and let me out here,” he said, pointing at the next street corner. His voice was shaking. “I-I'll meet you back at the apartment.”