The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (13 page)

That night, when the evening was spread against the sky, Hubert waited by the door as Stewart got the new leash he had purchased just that afternoon. He had waited until now to get the collar out, thinking that Hubert might be spooked by the whole something-around-his-neck process.

But he was not fazed in the least.

Stewart sat down next to him and spoke in calm tones.

“This is a collar, Hubert. You have to wear one since you live in town. I think that's the law. And then I can clip the leash to it. Because, you know, now that we've found each other, I don't want you to get lost again. You can understand that, can't you, Hubert? I like having you with me. It's like…having someone to talk with. And you really seem to understand what I'm saying. Like you were lost and are now found. That's in a song or something, I think.”

Hubert sat staring back at Stewart, his eyes locked on the human's eyes, as if trying to understand. Or perhaps he wanted Stewart to understand something.

Either way, Hubert remained motionless as Stewart carefully fastened the collar around his neck. Then Stewart leaned back and Hubert leaned back and shook his head, his ears flapping, the small metal loop on the collar making a tiny, metallic clicking sound.

Hubert seemed to smile, as if to say he was pleased with the choice of a simple black leather collar—no studs or rhinestones, thank you very much.

“Now, shall we go for a walk? With the leash?”

Hubert bounced to a standing position and danced by the door, his hips doing his version of a canine rhumba.

They slowed at the landing, Stewart leaning closer to the door. He did not hear any noise coming from Lisa's apartment.

It is late. Maybe she's in bed.

They continued down to the first floor.

Or maybe she's out.

The pair walked away from town again, thinking that minimizing any potential contact with anyone would be best for all concerned. Stewart took great care not to pull or tug on the leash, thinking that if he had a collar on, he would not want whatever sort of human-master to be jerking his neck out of place if he stepped too far out of line.

But Hubert took to the collar and leash, obviously having experienced them before. He sniffed at the leash once or twice when it went slack, but seemed to be totally fine with being tethered to another creature.

“I liked the church today,” Stewart said, and Hubert turned his head and smiled. “I did. I was surprised. After that deal with my grandmother, I didn't think much of going to church, you know?”

Hubert seemed to nod.

“You do know what I'm saying, most of the time, don't you, Hubert?”

Hubert smiled.

“It's called anthropomorphism, Hubert. I had to look it up. I sort of half remembered it from Mrs. Davis and eleventh-grade English, but just barely. That's when people put human emotions and characteristics onto animals.”

Hubert looked like he was nodding again, but it also might have just been the bobbing motion Hubert made when walking.

“But, with you, it really seems like you do understand. I mean, you having been lost and all—maybe your perceptions are more attuned or something. And maybe some dogs are just really smart. After all, you have to be smart to keep stealing from the store—and never coming close to getting caught. That means you're real smart. And, well, I think you understand me. You know, you get what I'm trying to say.”

Hubert slowed, then stopped, and looked up at Stewart. The harsh glow from the street lamp at the end of the street seemed softer in Hubert's eyes, and appeared to show a deep empathy with what Stewart was trying to explain.

Hubert sat, as if expecting a long monologue.

Stewart did not seem surprised that Hubert was waiting for an explanation. The sidewalk was empty, the street was empty, the air was still, and there were no house lights shining, illuminating their way. The two closest homes were dark and quiet and shuttered for the evening.

It was a perfect spot to talk, to explain, to try to understand.

“Hubert, you were lost. I found you—or you found me. And now we are both found, I guess. That makes me feel good. And because of you, Lisa and me are now friends—maybe a bit more than just friends, but we'll wait and see on that.”

Hubert sniffed at something in the night air, but his vision remained locked on Stewart.

“It's what that pastor person said—we're all lost, sort of.”

Stewart looked at his hands for a long moment without speaking.

“You know, Hubert, I guess I don't think about being lost too much. I learned about not thinking about things when I was young. The bad things, I mean. Thinking about the bad things. Or, not thinking about them, I guess. If you don't dwell on something, then sometimes that thing just goes away. I learned ignoring things sometimes is the only thing that you can do. When you're little and people are always fighting and all that…well, there's not much you can do when you're seven. So you try to ignore things. You know? Ignoring things, hiding things, that makes the bad stuff go away. Sometimes.”

Hubert stood up and bounced his head against Stewart's thigh—not just once to get him moving, but several times, then looked back up at him with a pleading look in his eyes.

But Stewart did not get the hint, or the nudge.

“Okay, I get it, Hubert. Let's keep walking. I know you don't like sitting and waiting.”

Hubert remained standing and it took two small, gentle tugs on the leash to get him walking again, as if something had been left undecided there, on that lonely sidewalk, out in the dark.

O
N
M
ONDAY
, after work, Lisa drove home in a rush, changed out of her caffeine-scented clothes, freshened her minimal makeup, recombed her hair, and set off again for an assignment.

“The editor actually asked me to do this story,” Lisa told a co-worker that morning. He said if I could get it done by Tuesday, he would run it in this week's paper. And this guy, he said, is a big advertiser, so I shouldn't make him sound like a monkey, even if he is one.”

Lydia laughed.

“He called him something else, but I don't like to use those words. Gives horses a bad name.”

She drove to Bargain Bill's Dynamite Cars and pulled in next to a battered and faded Chevy Malibu with ripped upholstery in the back. On the windshield, written in white marker, were the bold words: “Good Runner & Student Car.”

If your student is an auto mechanic, I suppose. And blind.

Bargain Bill was outside, his hand extended, even before Lisa managed to switch off her car's engine.

“You're in luck, little lady. I have just received the most perfect lady car today—a cream puff if there ever was one—and in red. I know you ladies love red cars. Am I right? Am I right? Red to match your lipstick.”

Lisa might have laughed, or gotten angry, if Bargain Bill had not been so earnest, so naïvely transparent and cheerful. He radiated enthusiasm, even if it was artificial enthusiasm. He would be the type of person at a party whom Lisa would try to avoid—not because he was offensive, which he was, though in a naïve way—but because his resolute enthusiasm would be exhausting, like a clueless uncle.

“No, I'm not looking for a car today,” Lisa said with professional cheeriness. “I'm Lisa Goodly. With the
Wellsboro Gazette
. The editor, Mr. Grback, said he called. I'm here to do an article on you. You know, an interview.”

Bargain Bill's face went from crestfallen to wildly happy in a nanosecond.

“Of course. Sure. The
Gazette
. You want to ask me about…Rover, right? About how heartbroken I am about the loss of my dog and how I am crushed that he has resorted to a life of crime. Besmirches the good name of our town—and me, I guess. Looks bad to have a criminal in the family, am I right?”

“Sure. I guess,” Lisa said. “Can we talk in your office? So I can take notes?”

Bargain Bill ushered Lisa into the trailer that served as the car lot's office, waiting room, and sales force headquarters. All three were ensconced in the sagging double-wide trailer parked at the far corner of the lot, braced up by railroad timbers rather than depending on threadbare and suspect tires on the undercarriage.

“Coffee? I have Coca-Cola in the mini-fridge, if you'd like. And water. What's your pleasure, little lady?”

Lisa smiled demurely, trying to hide the fact that she would have taken offense at being called a “little lady,” but the way he said it felt a little off-key charming and nostalgic at the same time.

“I'm fine, Mr. Hoskins. Really.”

“Well, you just let me know the minute you're not, and I'll see what I can do to make you feel fine again. A deal, okay?”

“Okay.”

Lisa flipped open her steno pad and began to ask the first question on her list of twenty-one prepared questions. In one of her journalism classes, the professor had been adamant that an interviewer needed to have twenty-one questions before the interview. “It forces you to think about the subject. It forces you to prioritize the information you want. Even if you don't get a chance to ask them all.”

Bargain Bill Hoskins started with a brief personal history: raised in Scranton, attended public school, dropped out of college because of financial pressure, started working as a car salesman, and saved up to start his own lot nearly twenty years ago.

I guess I never thought about how these businesses start. I sort of assumed that they were always here.

She followed those questions with a few “How's business” questions and the state of used-car sales and the like, then she moved into the core of her story—or at least what she hoped would be the core of her story: his lost dog, “Rover.”

“I adopted poor Rover just three months ago from a shelter in Lewisburg—the one that closed just days after I found the dear, sweet…dog.”

Lisa wrote this all down as best she could. No one studied shorthand anymore, but she'd been a most proficient note-taker in college. She knew she was getting some good quotes to use.

Most people don't remember exactly what they said, so all I need is to come close and not change the meaning.

Bargain Bill actually stopped talking for a moment, and wiped a tear away from his right eye.

“Pretended to wipe a tear away” is what Lisa wrote in her notebook.

“And now, my dear wife is home, heartbroken, losing herself by doing word puzzles because poor, sweet Rover has run off. I just hope he is found soon.”

Lisa noted that as well.

He also made sure that she knew it was not exactly a cash reward.

“I'm just a struggling small businessman. If I could give away five hundred dollars, I surely would. But a discount is just like money, isn't it?”

Lisa smiled professionally.

“I'm sure it is.”

She had filled up six pages of notes—more than enough for a 500- to 750-word article.

As she gathered up her coat and purse, Bargain Bill made sure that she had one of his promotional pens shaped a little like a stick of dynamite, two refrigerator magnets that looked like a small stack of dynamite, and a car freshener in the shape of a single stick of dynamite.

“You have any questions, you call, little lady. I'm here six days a week.”

She waved as she pulled out of the lot.

He didn't adopt Hubert. That much I know.

She wasn't angry at him for his subterfuge. Not one customer had come even to browse the whole time she was there.

I almost feel sorry for him, all that energy and all by himself most days. That has to be hard.

T
HE TALK
of the early Wednesday morning crew at Tops Market was centered on Lisa's article on Bargain Bill Hoskins.

“The poor man,” one of them said. “To lose a dog like that. Sad.”

“He sounds like a real character,” another added. “We haven't ever bought a car from him—but he seems like a nice enough guy.”

“You read what he said about this place? That Tops hasn't spent a dime updating our dog security system. That was pretty funny.”

Ralph, a long-haired, nighttime shelf-stocker, nodded sagely. “I liked it when he suggested that all we had to do is move the bones up a shelf.” Then he added, in a loud whisper, just in case Mr. Arden was lurking nearby, “And we all know that next to the Bible, the shelf plan-o-gram is sacred and never to be deviated from.”

“He said that he didn't think old Rover has committed a felony yet,” Jackson Bennet said. “Doesn't a felony need to be over two hundred and fifty dollars? Didn't the article say that? The paper said we probably throw that much away every week in brown lettuce. I bet Mr. Arden is really gassed at that remark.”

Mr. Arden was not “gassed.” He was incensed. He stood behind his desk in his small upstairs office, fuming. He would have liked to have paced the floor, back and forth, in anger, but he didn't have enough room for serious pacing. Two steps, maybe three, if they were small steps, were all it took to get from one side of the room to the other.

So, instead, he simply stood and gritted his teeth.

The teeth-grinding stopped, then Mr. Arden placed a wry, semi-twisted smile on his face. He flipped open his address/phone book. Then he punched the numbers into his phone and sat back down. The phone cord was so badly tangled that if he tried to stand and make a call, the cord would pull the receiver part of the phone off the desk. He actually had to lean in closer to the phone to talk.

“Yes, I want it bigger than his. What's the biggest you can print without multiple panels?”

He listened.

“Good. And change the reward. I'm offering two hundred and fifty dollars. Not cash. Good heavens. On a gift card for the store.”

He listened again, scowling.

“Do I have to say that on the sign? Could I just put an asterisk or something?”

He took a deep, unsatisfying breath.

“I know you're not a lawyer. Then just put in ‘gift card' in really small letters. And a gift card is just like real money, you know.”

He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, smug and almost happy.

No dog is going to make a fool out of me.

He wrote on a Smith & Sons Produce notepad, "Pick up sign. Insta-Print. This P.M.”

That's the trouble with this town. Everyone wants to make a fool out of me.

“I can get a couple of the bag boys and the ladder in back and we'll hang the sign between the telephone poles out on the street,” he said aloud, even though he was alone. “Everyone will see it. And then we'll see who gets the dog first. Grocery money will beat out a fake discount on a beat-up wreck of a car any day.”

Jerry Mallick checked his gas gauge again. The four dollars of gas he'd pumped yesterday had hardly made a dent in his tank and barely budged the needle above the red empty line. But, from experience, he reckoned he had another thirty minutes of cruising time left before he had to coast to a stop or pull up the front seat cushion and root for loose change. He had done that seven months ago and come away with nearly five dollars' worth of lost dimes and quarters. The pennies he had left where they were, as a primer for future cash-searching expeditions under the seat.

“That stupid dog has to be around here somewhere. I figure he's no more than ten blocks from the store, holed up in somebody's backyard or under a porch or something.”

As he drove, he let his left hand dangle out the window, still holding on to three-quarters of the beef jerky strip he'd bought at the gas station.

“Dogs like meat, right? And they got good sniffers. He'll smell the jerky and come running and I'll have myself a new truck in no time.”

After several trips circumnavigating the downtown area of Wellsboro and seeing not a single dog, Jerry decided that he had pushed his luck just far enough for today. He headed home, the truck sputtering slightly as he turned into the gravel driveway.

“I think I got a gas tank in the garage for the lawn mower. Maybe. Or does that got oil in it for the snowblower?”

If it did, the gas was two years old, since the snowblower had stopped working two winters ago.

“Rents aren't due till next week.”

The truck door squealed as it opened.

“I really need a new truck,” he muttered as he slid to the ground.

“I can drain what's left in the lawn mower. Maybe there's some left in the snowblower, too. That'd be enough to catch that darned dog.”

At that moment, Stewart turned off the sidewalk and headed to the mailboxes.

“Hey, Stewie, you seen that dog around? You know, the one with the reward.”

Stewart shook his head. “I haven't. But I keep looking. I know a lot of people are looking. I hope I get to him before they do.”

If Jerry had been a student of human expressions, he might have detected that Stewart was beginning to spin an elaborate falsehood. But Larry was not such a student.

“Tell you what, Stewie. If you see him, and maybe like, you can't catch him 'coz your car's not running, you tell me and we'll both go out in the truck after him. I'll split the reward with you. Okay?”

Half of that discount is still like…a couple hundred dollars, right?

“Sure, Jerry. I'll keep my eyes open.”

Jerry started toward the garage, then turned back.

“Hey Stewie, if you see that Lisa, could you tell her to keep an eye out as well? I saw on TV the other night that women are better at spotting hidden things than guys are. I think that's what the guy on TV was saying. I ain't never seen a woman hunter that's any good, but I figure they can't say stuff on TV that ain't true. Right?”

“Probably,” Stewart responded.

They both heard a dog bark, off in the distance.

“That ain't him,” Larry declared. “That's Simpson's stupid mutt over on Walnut. Mangy dog tried to bite me once when I was plowing their driveway. Stupid dog. I remember barks.”

Again, if Jerry had been observant, he might have noticed how nervous Stewart had become, glancing up to the steps and then to the small window in his kitchen that overlooked the backyard.

“Well, thanks, Stewie. I got some gasoline to drain. Hey, you have any gas in your car? I mean, it ain't running, is it? I could siphon it out. Probably no good anymore, right?”

“You know, Jerry, I think the tank is just about empty. You're welcome to try, but I don't think there's much in it.”

“Hey, thanks, Stewie. I might try. If I can find a hose. I had one, but I don't know where now. Probably lost it. Or somebody kipped it out of the garage.”

“Okay.”

“And you keep an eye out for that mutt. We'll split the reward. Maybe we can both get new wheels. Okay?”

“Sure thing, Jerry,” Stewart replied and hurried up the stairs, obviously anxious and in a sudden hurry—and without checking his mailbox at all, which was most unusual.

Unusual, if Jerry had been observant, that is.

Which he was not.