The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (19 page)

“I…I don't know. I don't have anything planned.”

“Tell you what, Lisa. Plan on coming down. Whenever. Just for the day, even.”

“Well, sure. I could do that.”

“Great. And you promise me that you'll call me right away if something exciting happens with the dog, right? We had such a great response to the last story. I want to be able to give the audience at least one more installment. They're all pulling for the dog, you know. The pictures just set off a flood of calls saying they would adopt him.”

“Really?”

“Well, perhaps not a flood. But more response than most stories ever get. The station manager even said it was a good piece. And he hates everything that smacks of human interest.”

“Well…I'm glad that people liked it.”

“So you'll plan on coming down, okay? And make sure you call me before you come,” Heather said in a very authoritative reporter's tone.

“I'll call. I will. Promise.”

“Good,” Heather said, putting her stamp of insistence on the request.

And that evening, even though the clock on her phone blinked 12:30, Lisa was no closer to sleep then than she had been at 9:30.

And she continued to note the clock until a few minutes after 4:00
A.M
.

And this was with the alarm set for 6:00 and the start of the early shift at the Wired Rooster.

M
R
. A
RDEN
flapped out of the Wired Rooster, his arms aflutter, as if attempting to fly back to the Tops Market in indignation.

City council members Kevin Connelly and John Stricklin sat at their usual table, in the back, where it was a little more private, all but dazed mute by the early morning tirade from Mr. Arden.

It began as most typical citizen tirades began, by his claiming to be a taxpayer and, thus, the boss of whomever was being addressed.

“I pay your salary,” was the one sentence most often repeated by irate city members—especially when no one was paying attention to them as they preferred to have attention paid.

“And the agreement is most often made moot,” Kevin often said, “when they learn how little we get to attend each meeting. Barely covers the coffee I have to buy to stay awake.”

Today, Mr. Arden held forth on the city's responsibility to track down the horrid “dog bandit of Wellsboro” and put him behind bars—or worse.

“I'm losing valuable merchandise. This has to be stopped.”

Mr. Connelly and Mr. Stricklin assumed their “earnestly listening” poses, and both of them knew it was indeed simply a pose to put people at ease. It wasn't that they weren't listening, but people with complaints needed to see head nods and hear a few “I see”s as they rambled on and on.

Both councilmen did that this morning.

Both councilmen knew that they had little authority to rein in a stray dog—a very clever and resourceful stray dog that had already eluded Wellsboro's finest on several occasions.

“Mr. Arden,” Kevin began, in response, waiting until Mr. Arden's volume had lowered and his velocity had peaked somewhat. “You are an upstanding citizen of Wellsboro and Tops Market is a key employer in the city. We are all aware of the outstanding contribution Tops has made to the local economy and to the town as well—what with the float in the Fourth of July parade and all. We want to make sure that you hear us hearing you. We understand your frustrations and we are doing everything in our power as city council members to alleviate the problem and find a solution with some alacrity.”

Mr. Connelly was also a devotee of “word-for-the-day” calendars.

“Alacrity” had been last Tuesday. Even though he wasn't sure he was using it correctly, he plowed forward.

“And as a result of your concerns for the safety and well-being of your customers, also citizens of Wellsboro, Mr. Stricklin and I, this very morning, have discussed issuing a ‘special council order of enforcement' concerning this specific stray animal. The special order will endeavor to keep the animal, this menace as you call it, off the streets.”

Mr. Arden looked at first puzzled, then almost gratified at being heard. Mr. Stricklin, a fellow councilman, also appeared puzzled at first, then leaned back in silent admiration of what the brilliant Mr. Connelly had just performed.

Mr. Arden puffed himself up, like a pigeon, then said, loudly, “Well, good. See that you do.”

And then he glanced at the large clock over the condiment table.

“Good heavens. I'm almost late for the frozen delivery.”

And he took off, out the door, tilting sideways as he made the turn onto Main Street.

In the silence that swallowed up the two councilmen in his absence, Mr. Stricklin—or John Jay, as most people in town referred to him, seeing as how Jay was his middle name—brought his hands together in a very exaggerated clapping motion, without really making a clapping sound.

“And just what is a ‘special council order of enforcement'?”

Kevin shrugged.

“I have no idea. But doesn't it sound officious and puissant?”

“If ‘puissant' means really smart, then yes.”

Kevin drained the last of his coffee.

“I need to get to the office. I'll call the city manager later and see if there is anything like a ‘special council order of enforcement' on the books. If anyone would know, it would be him.”

John Jay stood as well.

“And if there isn't?”

“Well, Mr. Arden would probably need to hire an attorney to find out. And we both know he's not going to do that, is he?”

John Jay held his smirk. After all, the Wired Rooster did lie in his district and he did not want to go overboard and offend anyone—if anyone had been eavesdropping, that is.

“No. He won't,” he replied, then added in a whisper, “but it did calm him down. Maybe he won't be sending me so many angry e-mails this week.”

“Maybe. Good thing he lives in your district and not mine,” Kevin added with finality as the two councilmen walked out and on to their real, paying jobs.

Despite having only a couple of hours of uninterrupted sleep, Lisa felt great this morning.

Superb. Outstanding.

She almost wished she had taped the previous evening's conversation—but she had been replaying the salient parts of it over and over in her mind.

Especially the part about coming to Pittsburgh.

“There are people here you should meet. Who want to meet you.”

I know that doesn't mean I'll get a job offer or anything like that. But they know who I am. They read what I've written. This is just so wonderful.

She had daydreamed her way into three mistakes this morning: using whole milk instead of soy in a chai latte, using regular coffee when decaf was requested, and spilling an entire large frothy something or other onto the floor.

What sobered her up, what brought her back to reality, and her normal professional self, was the thought:
What about Stewart?

At the same time Lisa was on her hands and knees mopping up the caffeinated spill, Stewart was on his way to work—walking, of course.

One of these days, I'll have enough saved up to fix my car—or, better yet, buy a new one. That would be great. To have a car that actually starts all the time.

As he turned the corner onto Main Street, he noticed one of several posters tacked to the telephone pole.

Bargain Bill had indeed upped his offer to $750—still in the form of a credit, of course.

But that, with the few hundred dollars I've saved, and a few hundred dollars for my old Nissan—I could almost swing something newer.

As he considered that, he knew what it entailed.

And then Lisa's face popped into his thoughts, stern and almost angry.

“You can't even think about that. Hubert has to stay with you. He has to. He loves you.”

And while Stewart agreed with her, or at least he agreed with the image he had of her in his mind that morning, he also added, with just a dusting of bitterness,
But you don't have to walk to work every day. And try dating without a car. It's not easy.

That evening, the Wellsboro City Council debated, with not a single member cracking a smirk or a knowing smile, the “special council order of enforcement” concerning the nefarious dog bandit of Wellsboro.

Even the city clerk, an acerbic and dour man originally from Schenectady, went along with the charade.

“Everyone has endured the same e-mails, multiple times. If this works,” he said quietly, in a hallway aside to Councilman Stricklin, “then I will write it into the city charter…somehow.”

The motion passed seven to zero.

And just as the gavel sounded, Hubert was leading Stewart and Lisa into a darker section of the residential area south of town.

“It feels like Hubert has been here before, doesn't it?” Lisa said. “Like he knows where he's taking us.”

Stewart nodded. He had not said much for the last four blocks, ever since Lisa took his hand in hers, at the end of their block. Stewart wasn't really sure where they were going. He wanted to look over at Lisa as they walked, but wasn't sure that was proper, so he tried to focus on just walking and not thinking about how small her hand felt in his and how delicate her fingers seemed in comparison to his calloused and meaty appendage.

Hubert took another turn, away from town, where the only lights were from houses. The moon was out, not quite full, but buttery and gibbous that night, so the absence of street lamps was not as perilous as it would be when the moon was hidden.

Stewart thought Lisa actually moved closer to him the darker it got. And as she did, it appeared that Hubert had a bigger bounce to his step, as if his master plan was falling into place and that made him happier—at least as happy as a dog could be in the dark on a leash without eating.

The trio stopped at a small rise that opened up to the south. The moon hung just an inch or two off the horizon, as if skipping off the ridge of mountains that ran south from the city, all the while illuminating the hills and fields in a pale light, turning the landscape sepia.

Lisa slipped her arm into Stewart's arm and pulled him close to her.

Stewart was aware that in certain situations, the male of the species should take charge of things, sort of, and make the proper moves. But Stewart was at a loss to know exactly what those proper, preprescribed moves might be.

Stewart had dated some in college.

Well, to be honest, he would never describe the number of dates he'd had as “some.”

“Infrequent” would be the term he would use to describe his dating past.

It was not for lack of interest. It was for lack of confidence.

What do I talk about? Grams always said I was “backward” with girls. Because of my mother, she said. She blamed a lot of stuff on my mother. Maybe she was right.

That question of ease of conversation seemed to have worked itself out with Lisa. Even though the subject of Hubert was their first and primary focus of conversation, they also talked about all sorts of other things. Conversation came easily with Lisa. Stewart wondered if that would have been the case with other women, but decided it would not have been.

Only certain gears mesh,
he thought.

They stood there, the three of them, staring to the south, marveling at the brilliance and the distance and the size and the luminosity of the moon, hanging like some sort of ripe peach, just out of reach.

Peach isn't the right fruit—but I don't know any white fruit. And cauliflower just doesn't work.

He felt her move and he turned to her, just as she turned to him.

Now what do I do? This is so difficult.

Lisa tilted her head back, just an inch or two.

That must mean something. Right? But what?

Stewart felt Hubert butt against his shin, and that caused him to look down even more, bringing his face and her face closer together.

That was when Lisa closed her eyes.

Okay. Okay. Okay. I can do this.

He leaned in closer to her, closing his eyes as well, but first making sure of the proximity of lips and noses and all the rest.

And then he kissed her.

It was not the sort of mad, passionate kisses that occur in the movies, in which one partner appears hungry and intent on devouring the other person.