by Alan Lee
I sat up a little straighter, the way I’d seen Dr. Courtney Farmer do. “My home.”
“Please.”
“I can’t. I have a kid. And a Manny. And a father who doesn’t love dogs.”
“Please, Mr. August. Name your price.”
“It’s not about the money. It’s about the…”
“Yes?” he asked.
“My lackadaisicalness, primarily.”
“Children love dogs, right?”
“I wouldn’t know. They do in the movies. But let’s circle back to that in a minute. I can find out to what the dog is the key. Probably. Be easier with your notes.”
He laid his hand protectively across the leather journals. His memories. To my surprise, the handsome man issued a tear. Spilled down under his chin, as it ought. “I understand. But only as a last resort. It will be laying my life open to an unbearable extent.”
“I understand. I’ll try without.”
He pressed a button on the underside of his desk and within the house a chime sounded. He wiped his eyes and soon Rose came.
Ulysses smiled at her appearance. As do daffodils in Spring. “Rose, we need to write this man a check. How much can I afford?”
“That’s a good question, Dr. Steinbeck.” She tapped the white board against the wall, the one placed where he could see it always. She spoke like a nurse who had to be firm with her patient. But a kind nurse. “Three hospitals sent pictures for your opinion. Are you going to keep working?”
“Ah. Yes. I must’ve forgot. I’ll do that immediately. But we’re not broke?”
She smiled. “No, we’re getting by. Read those pictures and you’ll have enough to send a little to Alex.”
“Excellent. Pay Mr. August for another week of work, please, and make it out extra for…” He looked at me for clues. “How much will it take to buy the dog from…from…whoever has it? Ten thousand?”
“Plenty. I’ll bring you change.”
“Who has it? I forgot.”
“Nice couple on Craigslist.” I did not mention her name was Ramona Cohen and that Ramona used far too many exclamation points in her emails.
He picked up his pen and began scratching.
I said, “About Georgina—”
“You’ll keep it at your place?” he said.
I made a deeply puerile and lugubrious noise.
“Did you hear that?” I said. “That was a deeply puerile and lugubrious sigh.”
“You don’t want for vocabulary, Mr. August. But I am desperate.”
I made the noise again. “I’m willing to either keep it at my place or find a secondary location just as good and just as accessible and just as safe. That’s the only deal I’ll make.”
He looked up. Smiled with relief. “I accept.”
14
Ramona Cohen, the nice lady from Craigslist, and Ronald, her nice husband, lived in Botetourt on five acres of land. Their home was a cheap imitation of a ranch farmhouse, sided with yellow vinyl, trimmed with white vinyl, built to code and not a nail farther. But one did not purchase this property for the house; one purchased it for the vista. Built on a hill looking west, the acre below their front porch was cleared of trees. I came up the long gravel drive, parked, and admired the view of Mill Mountain, maybe ten miles distant. Roanoke Valley—such a beautiful place no wonder Lewis and Clark named it the Star City of the South
They did not name it that. Someone else did. But they should’ve.
Ramona opened her front door and three large dogs spewed forth, howling. To my untrained eye, these were the largest dogs ever spawned. I coolly got back into my car and closed the door.
I didn’t know a lot about dogs but I knew these weren’t boxers. More like a wolf mated with a bear. And then a horse.
Ramona, the rascal, laughed and shouted. Her voice sounded muffled. “Don’t worry, they don’t bite! Just being friendly!”
I did not budge. I didn’t get this handsome by wrestling with hounds from hell.
“Rex! Comet! Zeus! Get back here!” she shouted.
After a moment of delirious slobbering on my driver side window, the wild and rabid curs retreated to the house.
“Well, come on!” called Ramona, waving at me. “It’s cold!”
Rather not, Ramona.
But I did, issuing a series of puerile and lugubrious noises. With infinite regret I followed her inside and she closed the door behind me.
That. That right there was why my father didn’t let me have a dog as a child—dog hair everywhere, thick nests of it in the corners. And the heavy animal musk.
Thankfully no massive animal bit off my foot. The barking sounds came from the back of the house now, behind a closed door. Ramona watched me, chuckling at my fear and stupidity. Her husband came down the hall. Said, “God almighty, what a racket. Never need an alarm system, though.”
By his side, eager and alert and handsome, walked a boxer. Had to be Georgina Princess. She came up to his knees. Big dark eyes, light brown coat, a powerful white chest, ears tuned forward. This animal, unlike the others, maintained some self respect. She inspected me with interest, like, So you’re the wimp.
If dogs can smile, she did.
I stuck my hand out. “Mackenzie August, thanks for humoring my visit.”
Ronald shook it. “Well, I’m Ron and this here’s Ramona. Not sure what good it’ll do you.”
“This is Georgina?” I asked.
The dog came forward and placed her paw into my hand.
Well.
How about that. I was charmed.
“Yes, we call her Georgie,” said Ramona. “She’s the sweetest dog, I love her to pieces.”
“I can see why. I know nothing about dogs, but she strikes me as the best one.”
Ronald chuckled.
Ramona laughed. “We like her.”
“I hear her original owner wants her back,” said Ronald. “But you ain’t him.”
“Correct,” I said. I released Georgina’s paw and scratched her behind the ears.
“After some odd three years? Ain’t that strange.”
“It is a little strange, Ronald. I admit it. But so are the circumstances surrounding the request.”
Ramona grabbed my jacket and pulled me into the kitchen. A farmhouse kitchen with a red tea kettle, decorative plates displayed above the cabinets, doilies at each chair at the table, and oil paintings of dogs with dead birds clenched in their maws.
She said, “You want coffee?”
“Thank you, no. Still have a steaming mug in the car.”
“So what’re the strange circumstances?” asked Ronald. Looked like a farmer gone to retirement, maybe sixty, built lean but sturdy. A no-nonsense face, though open and friendly. He lowered to a wooden kitchen chair with a grunt.
“Georgina was adopted by a guy in Roanoke, three years ago,” I said. The animal in question followed me to the kitchen island and politely waited to be scratched some more. I acquiesced. “But a week or two after the adoption, he was involved in a serious car wreck. Hospitalized and came away with amnesia. He couldn’t care for the dog and neither could his daughter, so they gave Georgina away on Craigslist. To you wonderful folk.”
Each time she heard her name, Georgina’s ears perked.
“Oh my,” said Ramona. She placed her hand on her chest. “Amnesia? Really, like in the movies?”
“Usually in the movies the person cannot remember their past. This is a little different in that he cannot create new memories.”
Ronald said, “And he wants the dog back?”
“That’s the short version.” I nodded.
“Why?”
“He doesn’t know. He barely remembers Georgina, but he wakes up every day with the vague notion something’s missing. And he leaves himself notes about her.”
“Notes?” asked Ramona.
“That’s what he has instead of short-term memory. Notes and journals.”
“How about that. You’re right, strange circums
tances.”
“Why didn’t Georgina attack my car, like the other dogs?” I asked.
Ramona beamed like a proud parent. “Cause she’s too much of a princess. She really grew into her name. Look at her, just a’sitting there.”
“Old Georgie is a peculiar dog.” Ronald sniffed, but with approval. “Most boxers are overly active, you ask me. Maybe too friendly. But not her. Don’t bark, don’t beg, don’t jump on people. Don’t even like the pack much.”
I asked, “She’s aggressive with the others?”
“No, no, didn’t say that. I just mean, she don’t participate in the lunacy. Like you saw. Plays outside with them some, but prefers people.”
“I’m the same way.”
“I could tell, the way you hid in your car!” Ramona cackled, the heartless wench.
“I wasn’t hiding. I was evaluating.”
“Hah!”
“Have you ever noticed anything unusual about her? Other than her pleasant temperament?” My unspoken question—something that would make her worth a million dollars? Or two?
“Like what?” Ronald worried at his ear.
“I don’t know. I’m not overly familiar with dogs. Did she have any injuries or scars?”
“No, nothing like that,” said Ramona. “I’d have noticed.”
“How many dogs do you have total?”
“Six,” said Ramona. “The four you seen plus two more in the basement.”
“Too damn many, you ask me.”
“It’s your lucky day, Ronald,” I said. “I’ve been sent with a checkbook to reduce your burden by one.”
Ronald grunted. “Mighty strange request.”
“I know. Even for a mercenary like me, it borders on heartless,” I said.
“Another dog won’t do?”
“Apparently not. The puppy just outside his memory haunts him,” I said. Admitting Ulysses didn’t actually like dogs would reduce my bargaining power.
Ramona sat next to her husband. Squeezed her hands between her knees and considered crying. “But I love her.”
“You heard Mr. August, the man’s got amnesia. ‘Sides, we got five others. Still too many. You said it yourself, not a week ago.”
Georgina Princess Steinbeck watched Ramona with interest. I kept up the scratching. Her mouth opened and she panted with pleasure.
Georgina, not Ramona.
I said, “I can pay you enough to buy two replacements. Pure bred boxer puppies.”
“God almighty, we don’t want more. And not puppies, no thank you,” said Ronald.
“Mr. August, it’s not about the money,” she said.
“I know it’s not. And I don’t mean to insult you.”
“But the money would help.” Ronald winked. “Few things round here need replacing, anyways.”
Ramona blinked away some tears. “My husband needs replacing, maybe.”
I grinned.
Thirty minutes later I loaded a flattened metal crate into my trunk while Ramona watched and cried from the porch. Ronald put his arm around her and waved—I paid them handsomely. Let it never be said Mackenzie August isn’t generous with other people’s money.
Georgina leaped gracefully into the passenger seat when I beckoned.
“Good girl,” I said.
She watched the farmhouse fade into the distance as we bounced down the gravel drive, and she started to whine.
A lugubrious sound.
15
Georgina had never met a toddler.
Kix had never interacted with a dog that I could remember.
They watched each other the way Neil Armstrong might’ve, had he and an alien encountered one another on the moon—emotions indescribable, though enthusiasm and disbelief were near the top. Georgina ran around the main level of Chez August, smelling the smells, but returned inexorably to Kix. She thought he was a riot, this person smaller herself.
I stayed near in case she decided to lick his face or bite his head. Who knew what these wild animals were capable of. I also stayed near in case Kix tried to rip Georgina’s ear off.
After thirty minutes of observation I decided Georgina understood on some subterranean level that this human required extra care; she volitionally eased off the gas near Kix.
Kix wobbled on his feet, screaming with pleasure the whole time.
That evening, for twenty minutes straight as I mixed a large taco salad, the dog ran up the rear staircase and came down the front. Over and over, looking more pleased with each revolution.
Kix laughed from his chair.
Watch this, father, she’s going to do it again. What a dumb animal! I’m so happy.
“Dog,” I said. “Kix, say dog.”
“Dog,” said Kix.
“Very good. Dog.”
“Dog.”
I picked up a tennis ball Ramona had sent and I rolled it across the room. Georgina chased it and I said, “Fetch.”
Kix laughed.
“Fetch. Kix, say fetch.”
“Fish.”
Georgina came back, pleased. I told her she was a good dog, and I took the ball and rolled it again. “Fetch.”
“Fish,” said Kix.
“Fetch. Rhymes with…ah…homestretch.”
This is a stupid game, Father, and I hate it.
“Fetch.”
“Fish.”
Our crew returned home at intervals and rattled the door, and she growled until I told her to cool it. Then, intruder personally vouched for, she welcomed them with fervor.
Manny and Ronnie successively lost any shred of dignity and got down on all fours, wild animals themselves. Lost in the throes of joy, Georgina leaped over Manny.
Sheriff Stackhouse told her she was a good dog and scratched her behind the ears.
Timothy August smiled benevolently. “You found her, then. Short hair, at least. And no oppressive odor.”
Kingdom of God, up in here.
As we ate, Georgina sat erect nearby, watching us and watching the door. Expecting Ramona to walk through any second.
That evening, Manny, Ronnie and I took our ease on the leather couch watching a cooking show. Ronnie’s head rested on my shoulder, a glass of wine perched within her fingers. Georgina was curled near a heating vent in the floor. Eyes on the front door.
“Will you keep her here?” asked Ronnie.
“I think I have to. She put her paw into my hand, for goodness sake.”
“Where will she sleep?”
“The floor?”
“Yes, but where?”
“No idea,” I said.
“What did you feed her?”
“Umm.”
Ronnie raised from my shoulder. “You haven’t fed her?”
“No. Dogs eat, I guess, huh.”
Manny snorted and stood. “I’ll cut her some chicken. Maybe she wants beer?”
“No. What? No,” said Ronnie. “What is wrong with you two?”
“We fed dogs beer in Puerto Rico, mamita. They liked it.”
“Chicken is a good idea, Manuel, and a dish of water,” she said.
“Ay. Probably right. Dog’s worth two million dollars or something?”
I said, “Don’t think so. Georgina’s involved somehow in the whole Steinbeck farrago but I don’t believe she herself is worth more than any other dog. The family secrets are still hidden.”
“And Ulysses wants you to uncover them.”
“Yes. His subconscious wants me to, though he verbalized it with different words.”
From the kitchen Manny asked, “What secrets?”
“I don’t know yet. His ex-wife’s new husband suspects chicanery and he might be right. The daughter has awful memories of something but she won’t spill. There was a woman involved he can’t remember. He didn’t drink, but he got blind drunk that night. He went gambling—very uncharacteristic of him. And the dog. It all adds up to something. But neither of us knows what. He refuses to dig into it, which is why he hired me.”
“How wi
ll you?” asked Ronnie. Her breath was on my neck, her free hand around my bicep.
“Successive approximation.”
She undid the top two buttons of my shirt. Reached around to the back and tugged on my collar to expose my neck and the upper part of my back. She traced the lines of the world’s most humiliating tattoo, given to me in Italy.
“King,” she said sleepily. “Fits you. You’re good at your job.”
“You’re good at yours. Doesn’t mean you should be branded with it.”
She snickered. “You’re a King.”
“A king who can never take my shirt off in public.”
“I agree, but only because I’d be jealous of all the girls checking out your pecs.”
Manny snorted again. “Pecs.” Georgina detected food preparation and she waited by his side with courteous expectancy. He lowered a bowl of cubed chicken and bowl of water, and Georgina practically inhaled both.
“Dios mio, she was hungry,” he muttered and cleaned up the kitchen floor.
Ronnie yawned. “Marcus called. We’re having dinner soon with his friend from Washington. I don’t know him. Your attendance is expected.”
I said, “To talk about the sale of your property.”
“Yes.”
Manny came back and sat in the overstuffed reading chair. “I should be there too?”
“No thank you, Manuel. This is a safe and civilized meeting.”
Manny jerked a thumb at himself. “I’m civilized as heck.”
“What she means is, we don’t need you to come kill anyone or prevent us from being killed.”
“Sounds like a boring dinner. Gonna knit too?”
“I hope it’s boring. But these things usually aren’t,” said Ronnie.
“Big Mack, when are we gonna talk with Darren What’s-his-face? Need to get things off my chest with that pendejo.”
“He’s got a few more weeks to vanish. But he won’t. And then we go,” I said.
“What if he decides to take you out first?”
“Marcus has his pulse on the situation. He’ll alert us.”
“What if Darren decides to do something about Marcus?”
I nodded. “A possibility. Lines are being drawn. The situation is fluid.”
