When I awoke, I swore they would not defeat me. Let them laugh now. One day, I would hunt them down, every single one, and triumph over my enemies.
The days grew cooler, and soon the woods rimming the valley were a patchwork of fiery scarlet and glowing amber. As the days shortened, the leaves fell from the trees to carpet the earth in a crisp blanket. The frost came, glimmering like diamond flecks upon an emerald sea, and soon the colors faded from the world, winter’s muted shades replacing the Technicolor of summer and the kaleidoscope of fall.
The daily tedium of farm life was offset by the rhythm of the seasons, the changing weather, and the unpredictability of all those things combined. Lambs were born and died. Ewes thrived, gave birth and grew old.
One year passed into two, and then three ... until, if I thought hard enough about it, I could count six winters spent with the Old Man. I often wondered what became of Lise, Hunter, and the baby girl, but I was no longer angry with Lise. Whatever had kept her away didn’t matter any longer. The Old Man needed me. This was my home now. This was where I was supposed to be.
Some years, the fields flooded, droughts choked the air with dust, crops failed, and ice froze the blooms off the fruit trees. Other years, though, the rains soaked the earth at interludes and the days warmed gradually from spring through summer, until fall came and the harvest was good and the market was strong. We lived for those years and endured the hardships, as we clung to each blessing, however rare.
Almost every day, the Old Man and I gathered the sheep from the pastures and put them in the paddocks close to the barn. On mornings when snow dusted the world, we would rise long before first light, eat our breakfast in silence, then head out to take the hay to the sheep. One of my jobs was to keep the sheep back from the feeders until the Old Man had filled them. Sheep are greedy creatures. It is their purpose to graze all day long and even that is not enough. They would think nothing of trampling the one who cared for them just to have that one mouthful.
On bitter winter days, we checked the watering troughs to make sure the heaters had not been pulled out or the cords become unplugged. Whenever that happened, the water turned to ice, and the Old Man had to haul buckets of hot water outside to melt them. I even helped him load a dozen sheep into his stock trailer during my first January with him, but he drove off without me and came back with no sheep. I quickly learned it was the way of things, that when there were too many or conditions were too harsh, some were sent away.
As the years piled up, I could see the toll the work took on him, especially in the winter. He moved more stiffly and developed a limp that became more and more prominent. Some days he was slow to rise from bed and early to retire. In the evenings, he would light a kerosene heater that sat on the floor of the living room, not far from the doorway to the kitchen, and sit in his reclining chair, a Sunday newspaper in hand, Sarah’s picture propped on the end table beside him. Glasses perched on his nose, he read until he fell asleep, his lips fluttering with soft snores.
And I would lie there with the warmth of the kerosene heater wafting over me, content.
Life was once again good. I was in no hurry to leave it. As far as I was concerned, it could go on like this forever.
—o00o—
It was late spring of my sixth year with the Old Man, when I was almost seven, that Bernadette Kratz came to visit. She drove a pale blue Volkswagen Beetle that sputtered and coughed as it struggled up the steep, bumpy driveway. The Old Man watched from the field as she rolled to a stop by the gate.
I woofed a few times before he shushed me. It was my job to let him know when someone was here and my job to let the stranger know that I was always on guard. I was exceptionally good at that job. The mailman, in particular, never stayed long.
The woman swung the car door open and the hinges let out a plaintive groan. She stepped out, her short legs clad in a pair of tight red slacks. Her face was round, her cheeks rosy, and her lipsticked mouth wore a cheerful smile. Her denim shirt sparkled with sequins that reminded me vaguely of the little coats Grace used to put on her poodles. She even had her hair done up like one, with tight strawberry blonde curls piled high on her head.
She flapped a plump hand as she waddled over to the fence line, her beaded bracelet clacking with the motion. On the other arm, the handles of a paisley satchel were looped over her wrist. The Old Man waved back.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Kratz.” He removed his ball cap and stuck it in his back pocket.
“Actually, it’s Bernadette Kratz-Mihalovich, but no one ever remembers the last part. Mr. Mihalovich and I were only married nine years before he passed away, but we had three fine children in that time. Not to make myself sound any older, but I have two great grandkids. Can you believe that?”
“Hard to believe. Is there something I can do for you, ma’am?”
“Now Cecil, no need to be so formal. How many years have we known each other? Going on forty, is it? If you don’t call me Bernadette, I’m just gonna pretend like I don’t hear you, how’s that?”
He nodded. “Fair enough, I s’pose.”
“Fair enough what?” She readjusted her leopard print eyeglasses.
His mouth twisted in thought as he tried to gather her meaning. His eyebrows lifted. He looked down. “Bernadette.”
“That sounds so magical when you say it, Cecil.” She laid a hand on her left breast pocket. “My heart’s all aflutter now.”
I crept from behind the Old Man to get a better look at her. Something about her smelled unbelievably good. She reached into her pocket, bent over, and extended a hand. In her palm lay a dog biscuit, smelling of liver.
The Old Man’s hand shot out. “You might not want to —”
I snarfed it down so fast I nearly inhaled it.
“Might not want to what?” she asked.
I licked my lips and sniffed at her hand. She produced a few more.
“Well, it’s just that ... she doesn’t always take to strangers.”
“Oh, now, what a sweet thing,” Bernadette trilled. “Seems just fine to me. You must love her to bits.”
Need me maybe, but love? I wasn’t so sure he thought in those terms. Then again, he had slipped me a whole slice of buttered bread that morning. The Old Man didn’t use any more words than he had to. Instead, he just let his gestures speak for him.
Bernadette quickly covered her mouth and nose with a handkerchief and sneezed three times. “Sorry about that. Seems I’m a tiny bit allergic to dogs. Nothing a little Benadryl won’t cure, though.”
He cleared his throat. “There, uh, there must be some reason for your visit.”
Her eyelashes flapped. “Oh, of course, of course.” She lifted up the satchel and opened it wide so he could see inside. “Cranberry walnut scones. Half a dozen. Day old, but good as fresh. Baked them myself just yesterday morning.”
“And you brought them here because ...?” He fished his hat from his pocket and twisted it between his hands. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but why bring them here?”
“They were leftovers from the church bake sale. That could be because I made six dozen. And I just thought how I hadn’t seen you at church since Christmas and —”
“The animals don’t take holidays, Mrs... Bernadette.”
If it was even possible, her cheeks got even redder. “I was just being neighborly, Cecil. Anything wrong with that?”
“You live on the other side of the county, practically.”
Her lips pinched shut a moment. Something sparked in her eyes. “I’m trying to tell you, Cecil, that every now and then I wonder how you’re getting along out here all by yourself. These scones seemed like just as good an excuse as any to pay you a visit. It’s been five years since my Robert passed away. It doesn’t get any easier. You of all people should understand what it is to just want someone your own age to talk to.”
A gaping silence opened up between them. For a while, they both looked off into the distance: him at the grazing sheep,
her at the trio of catalpa trees beyond the house. Then, as if on cue, they both glanced up and started speaking at the same time.
“Maybe I should just —?” She gestured toward her car.
“I was thinking ...” he said, as he stuffed his hat away again and took a kerchief out of his chest pocket to dab at his neck, “that, uh, you could, maybe ...”
“Aw, for Pete’s sake, Cecil,” — she clutched her satchel to her front — “you gonna invite me in to have some iced tea with these scones, or not?”
The Old Man’s thin lips tilted upward on one side. “Sounds like a fine idea.”
—o00o—
Bernadette was on her third glass of tea when the Old Man leaned to his left to look past her at the clock on the wall. He’d sat in his usual chair where he had a clear view of the clock. Usually. But the kitchen table, like all the furniture in his house, was small, so they had to sit close together, and there was no way for him to check the time otherwise. He never wore a wristwatch. The only thing that mattered, he said, was starting the day on time. Work was done when it was done. There was no quitting time on the farm.
He was still nursing his first glass and had eaten just one scone to her three, during which time, amazingly, she’d managed to carry most of the conversation herself. At first he appeared mildly interested in the news she had to share about the locals: Jeff and Collette’s new twin girls, how Nathanial Weber’s barn had lost its roof in the last windstorm, and that Marley Rankin had just opened a clothing boutique downtown, even though the new super Wal-Mart was set to open in two weeks next town over. Every so often he’d nod, or say ‘Uh-huh’ or ‘Is that so?’ and she’d babble on cheerfully for another fifteen minutes. After a while, though, he grew restless and began to fidget in his chair.
It wasn’t until he stretched his neck to glance at the clock and a little yawn escaped that Bernadette herself noticed the time.
She tapped on the face of her delicate gold watch. “My, my, looky there. Half past three already. Where did the time go? Well, you must have plenty to do around here, running this big place all by yourself. I shouldn’t keep you any longer.” Straightening her shirt, she stood to go, but a small pile of dishes next to the sink seemed to stop any forward motion. “You know, if you need a little housekeeping around here, Cecil, I could always swing by once or twice a week ...”
Quickly, he scooted his chair from the table, placed a hand on her back, and guided her toward the door. If there was one thing the Old Man was, it was neat. On Sundays and Thursdays, he swept the whole house. On Mondays and Fridays he dusted. On Wednesdays he did laundry and hung it out to dry when the weather was good. And every evening he washed his dishes — except last night, when he’d fallen asleep early after a long day putting up hay.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he told her.
“No charge, I mean.” She sniffed and wiped her nose with her handkerchief. “Goodness, didn’t mean to make it sound like I was peddling my services. Just a neighbor helping another neighbor. Maybe give you someone to talk to every now and then. Lord knows I could use the company now that my grandkids have grown up and moved off to the city. Folks these days just don’t stick close to home like they used to. It’s all about the money. But people like you and me, we know what matters, don’t we? Family, that’s what matters.”
He looked away, as if he didn’t know how to reply to that, and just as quickly she seemed to sense her error.
“Well, family and friends, right? Neighbors, community, that sort of thing.” She reached for the doorknob, then drew her hand back. “Say, my nephew Tucker is arranging a stock dog trial next month at the Adair County Fair. You used to do those, didn’t you?”
“A long time ago.”
“You should think about entering this one. I heard Becket Wilson say how well trained that dog there of yours is. Bet you’d do well. There’s even a two thousand dollar prize to the winner. Five hundred for the runner-up.”
His left eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. We dogs pay close attention to every little facial movement, even the ones humans don’t know they’re making. He tilted his head, like he was mulling it over. “That so?”
“Saturday the fifteenth of next month, although I think there’s one near Louisville sooner. I have some work to do at the literacy center in town tomorrow, but how ‘bout I bring him by the day after, so he can tell you all about it?”
“Maybe I could just call him? No need for you to come all the way back out here.”
In as kind a way as he could, he was trying to avoid another lengthy visit from Bernadette. Why that was so, I wasn’t sure. I normally don’t take a shine to strangers, but she seemed really nice. She smiled at me often, told me what a pretty dog I was, and had fed me a few bits of scone and liver treats. I wouldn’t have minded her coming by again. But then, the Old Man didn’t ask me. All he wanted to do was work, which was fine for the most part, but sometimes, like today, well, it was nice to do something different for a change.
“It’s no bother at all.” She pressed her fingers to her nose, holding back a sneeze. When it passed, she pulled the door open and paused just beyond the threshold. “Noon all right?” He hadn’t even answered yet when she told him, “Tell you what, if anything comes up, you just holler. Otherwise, we’ll see you then. Bye now.”
The door was barely shut when she opened it again just far enough to stick her head inside. She reached an arm around and laid a scone on the counter. “I’ll bake up a batch of my famous dark chocolate double chunk brownies and bring them along. I’m thinking of entering them in the fair this year, but some of the girls down at the sandwich shop where we meet every Friday, they think I should enter my blueberry muffins instead. Maybe you can help me decide?”
“Maybe,” was all he said as he pushed the door shut behind her.
After she left, the Old Man stood where he was until he heard the faint cough of her car engine and then the receding putt-putt-putt as she drove off into the distance. Letting out a sigh, he parted the lace curtains and peered cautiously through the window. “At least Sarah knew when to stop talking and let a man have his peace and quiet.”
He took the scone from the counter and ate it.
chapter 13
“Sorry, not this time,” Bernadette said to me, as she set the pan on the kitchen counter. I’d had to wait two whole days for her return. During that time, I’d perked at the sound of every car that came down the county road half a mile away. I’d even had my hopes dashed once when the meter reader came. I barked at the man until he left. He always did. I was good at keeping people I didn’t want away. When Bernadette finally came back, I’d stood on my hind legs to look out the kitchen window, let out a soft ‘woof’ to let the Old Man know, and then spun in circles until he opened the door to let me out to greet her.
She bent over and scratched my neck with her long, manicured nails. I think she kept them that way just for me. I noticed her eyes were red. Every time she touched me it seemed to initiate a new round of violent sneezing. She couldn’t control her urge to fuss over me and pet me, despite her allergy.
“They say chocolate’s not good for dogs,” she said. “Although it’s supposed to be good for people. Doesn’t make much sense, I know, but I read about it on the internet down at the literacy center awhile back and ...” Turning to the Old Man, she tapped at her glossy coral lips with a single finger. “Say, you ever thought of bringing that dog of yours down to the library for reading hour?”
I sniffed at the edge of the counter, sat back politely, and stared at the pan. She pushed it further back and wagged a finger at me.
“Naw, I don’t think so.” He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out two dark glass bottles. “Sarsaparilla?”
Eyelashes flapping, Bernadette waved a hand at her face. “Goodness gracious, Cecil Penewit. Is this a special occasion? At my house, we don’t break out the sarsaparilla for just anyone.”
“Tom Harper gave it to me for fixing his mow
er a couple weeks back. Almost forgot I had it.”
Her mouth plunged. “Oh.” She fiddled with the beaded necklace draped over her red blouse. “Why?”
He got out two glasses and poured their drinks. “I s’pose because I’d shoved a gallon of milk and a pitcher of orange juice in front of it. That and the light bulb is burnt out, so I can’t see in the back without —”
“I mean why not bring the dog. I meet with a group of children Mondays after school. Elizabeth, the head librarian, used to bring a rabbit, but it ... well, it expired. The little ones loved that rabbit. When it stopped coming, so did some of them. You wouldn’t think it, but those kids will do their darnedest to read a book to an animal, even the ones that struggle. Maybe because the animals don’t judge their efforts.”
“Halo doesn’t always take to strangers.”
“Halo. Such a pretty name. Like an angel’s.” She smiled at me again. Smudges of lipstick stained her teeth. “Doesn’t look unfriendly to me. Besides, didn’t Lise and Cam McHugh have a little boy? What was his name?”
“Can’t say I recall.” The Old Man settled down in his chair, this time with it angled so he had a clear view of the clock.
After downing an antihistamine with a glass of sarsaparilla, Bernadette pulled open three drawers before she found the one with the knives. She cut the brownies up and put them on plates, then brought them to the table and took her seat.
“Henry? No, too old fashioned. Youngsters these days don’t name their children that.” She rubbed at her temple. “Harvey? Howard? Holden? Hanson? I know it started with an ‘H’. Good heavens, I’m no good at this. Help me out, Cecil.”
“Humphrey?” He took a slurp of his sarsaparilla.
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