Old Dog

by Roy F. Chandler

  Actually, the seating was arranged so that Arlis could watch the tube while he read without the thing catching his eye. When he watched TV, it took only a little shifting and propping to see just fine. They had watched Matlock together until it was cancelled, and they usually made a point of seeing the special mini-series programs. Larry watched the evening news and on Sunday saw David Brinkley while Arlis was still in church. They had it pretty well worked out . . . about like they had routinized the rest of their lives, he supposed.

  Not much excitement hit Bloomfield. Like everyone else, they shopped the new Food Rite on the same night of each week and listened distantly to the Carson Long military school drum corps sounding off every Saturday morning. The fact was, they both liked life just as it was, no big surprises—good or bad—comfortable and secure.

  Their son, Timmy, was just breaking into high school sports, and they looked forward to that excitement. Parents followed athletics closely while they had boys or girls on the teams. A year or two before and afterward, they rarely knew who won or lost. The Larry Carlisles would be the same.

  Old Dog was the family wild card. He blew in, sometimes like a cyclone, occasionally merely a zephyr that barely ruffled tranquility. That was part of Old Dog's attraction. You never knew what might happen.

  Once motorcycles bellowed like wounded steers along Main Street, and people rushed to their doors to see. Nearly fifty riders muscled their machines through town and into the Carlisle yard. For an hour Old Dog hosted with beer, soft drinks, and food before the mob saddled up and thundered back through the village.

  During the invasion, the Carlisle phone had run continuously and Arlis was afraid to go outside. A state trooper made a few slow passes, but the crowd appeared friendly. Timmy was glued to his Uncle Dog's hip, a small fist clutching Dog's chap belt, his eyes like saucers, hanging on every scent and sound. Larry circulated, finding handshakes without challenge and a lot of pleasant feeling beneath the chains and leather. He could be sure of a laugh by offering insurance coverage if the applicant would sell his bike. Larry enjoyed it.

  Another night, Old Dog had ridden in slow. It was not particularly late, but they heard the Harley fall over, and Dog's steps were stumbly on his porch. He fumbled around his door and Arlis had said, "He's drunk! "

  Old Dog did not drink. As far as Larry knew, he never had. He heard Timmy soft footing across the porch roof. The boy would slide down a corner post onto the porch. He often went out that way when his uncle came home. Larry usually heard him, but he did not think Arlis had ever worked out the creaking of the tin roof under her son's careful steps. Getting back wasn't as easy for Tim. He had to labor up the rose trellis, avoiding all the thorns. Usually, he chanced the squeaky, give-away stairs coming in.

  Larry let Tim get there first. The boy stood over the fallen Harley. Wordlessly they hoisted it upright and Timmy toed down the kickstand to support it. The ignition was still on, and Tim snapped it off and shut off the gas line.

  Old Dog slumped against his table edge, head hanging, striving with fumbling fingers to remove his jacket. When he looked up, his features were swollen and bloody. Larry heard his son's gasp.

  While they cleaned him up, they got Old Dog's story. The explanation was shorter than the cleanup, but Dog drew it out, apologizing for causing so much trouble. They were taking so much time that Arlis arrived to investigate. She took charge and things went faster.

  Dog had been pounded hard. His nose was bent, he was cut deep under an eye, and both lips had been split. Something solid had raised knots on his head, big lumps, each of which must have dazed; head knocking with a leather wrapped sap they learned. Not hard enough blows to fracture a skull, but dazing, painful, ugly cracks that were supposed to teach lessons and leave messages.

  Dog's body had also been worked over. Dog expected nothing had broken, but. . . he grinned raggedly . . . "They sure loosened some glue joints."

  Old Dog's knuckles were skinned, so he had gotten in some licks, but his shins were scraped raw where heavy boots had been rasped along them. The men who had laid on the beating clearly knew their business.

  Dog had come onto a brother being kicked into a pulp by three men. A brother meant someone in biker garb, known or a stranger. It did not matter.

  Old Dog had jumped in, but the brother was already far gone, and another thug had been waiting in their car. The brother went down to stay, and Dog had all four to himself.

  Their beating had been generally impersonal. It was what they did for a living. They pinned Dog against a wall and held him while they worked.

  The head knocker had said, "Don't ever interfere in Bat Stailey's business. That clear? "Dog had not answered fast enough, and that was when a big fist had cut his eye, split his lips, and busted his nose.

  He had tried kicking. That was resented, and one or more had ripped him from the knee down with the edge of his shoe sole. That had really hurt, and Dog was thankful for his jump boots that cushioned some of it.

  Old Dog had his five-shot derringer in a jacket pocket, but it might as well have been at home; he couldn't get to it. By the time they let him go, he didn't have enough left to try.

  The brother came to first, and they helped each other erect. Dog got astride, the Harley started, and the brother went off somewhere. Cool air rushing by had woken Dog up a little, and he had made it home.

  Arlis said, "You should have gone straight to the hospital."

  "You're right, but it's OK now."

  "It's not OK. You could have serious damage inside your head."

  Timmy's voice was shrill with tension. "Where was your helmet, Uncle Dog? It should have helped."

  Old Dog looked confused. "Don't know, Tim. It was on when I started. Fastened tight, too, but I didn't have it on riding home. Glad I didn't. Wind blowing through kept me going.

  Larry was practical. "It wouldn't have fit over these lumps, Adam. Whew, this one split the skin a little."

  Arlis shooed him away and dabbed at the wound with a warm, wet cloth.

  Tim had popped outside and came back holding Old Dog's helmet. "It was laying off to the side, Uncle Dog. Fell off when the bike went down."

  "The bike went down?"

  Larry reassured. "It's all right. We got it up. No damage."

  "You didn't even turn off the ignition, Uncle Dog. You just hit the kill button and got off."

  "I'll be damned! I thought I was moving smooth and acting smart."

  Tim said, "Your helmet strap's been sliced, Uncle Dog." He held the shell out for examining.

  "He's right, Dog. Sliced clean, like a razor would cut." Larry felt himself shudder a little.

  "This is serious, Dog. Those guys weren't just fooling around."

  From his bed, Old Dog snorted. "You just discovering that, Larry? I got the idea about the time that fourth guy got out of the car.

  "But like they said, it wasn't personal. I was just being convinced not to mess in Bat Stailey's manure pile. Hell, one of 'em must have hung the helmet over the backrest. They figured they were being kind."

  Dog thought aloud. "I wonder how come I didn't feel that helmet coming off during the fight." He groaned and shifted in discomfort.

  "Because you were already punched numb. You're lucky they didn't cut your throat."

  Tim said, "Your helmet isn't ruined, Uncle Dog. There's enough strap left to sew back together."

  Old Dog's answer was a little distant, as though relaxing was drifting him into sleep.

  Arlis considered, "When patients have head injuries they don't like to give them medications. It confuses symptoms."

  Timmy was admiring, "Wow, Mom, you know things."

  His mother turned on him. "I know you should be in bed. Get! "

  Then kinder, "We'll be right along."

  Tim said, "Be sure Uncle Dog's got the horn ready, Mom." He went as told. He and Old Dog had an understanding about not hanging back and acting whiny.

  The horn was a boater's compressed gas warni
ng signal. Press the button, and it uttered a piercing wail that set teeth on edge but alerted drawbridge tenders. They had gotten it during a broken leg time, when they had feared Old Dog might need sudden help. He hadn't, but the horn had been a good idea.

  Larry found it on a shelf and placed it by the bed. "Blow if your head feels bad, Dog. Don't wait to see if it goes away. Arlis is right. Head injuries can turn bad suddenly."

  Dog said, "Thanks, brother. I'll sleep, and by morning I'll feel better."

  "Like hell you will. You'll be worse. For the next few days you are going to be one sorry mess."

  Larry started out. He hit the light switch, and through the dark heard his brother's voice.

  "Does my insurance cover this, Larry? You sure sold me enough of it."

  "Only if you go to a doctor, Dog."

  Larry stepped out, then leaned back inside.

  "Tell you what, Adam, you sell that motorcycle, and I'll get you some real coverage."

  Old Dog did not bother to answer.

  That had been two years ago. Dog had healed swiftly. Once in a while he mentioned Bat Stailey, but like the hired thugs, Old Dog seemed to consider the battering impersonal and something to overlook and move on.

  Timmy had asked, "Who's Bat Stailey?"

  "A very bad man, son." Larry had not been specific; Stailey was said to be in prostitution, gambling, loan sharking, and protection. It was always "said to be." No one proved anything. Stailey's heavy hand was known to be on many things, but he left no prints. Stailey had endured two flashy, media-show trials and won both. Everyone knew what he was, but no one delivered the proof.

  Stailey was listed in the yellow pages as a used furniture dealer. Al Capone had claimed the same.

  Chapter 6

  Larry Carlisle wished this walk to Dog's shack held nothing more serious than discovery of a physical beating, but he knew better.

  In his explanation, Old Dog had not danced around. His still wiry body was riddled with cancer. It was in his bones, his lungs, and his liver. The cancer was in his stomach. Lymph nodes were giving up. They swelled and pained like fire. A few had been surgically removed. A couple were neutralized by radiation. The filters were effectively gone.

  Doc Klein had brought in the most expert. Old Dog had held no particular hope, but he had gone down for a final, final word. His brother expected he knew what the report had been.

  Larry heard Dog's toilet flush, and he clumped a little on the porch so his brother would know he was there. Dog came in a minute, taking a long pull on an aqua colored Mylanta bottle. He sank into one of his old porch rockers and massaged his stomach. "Geez, my gut's on fire."

  Before Larry could comment, perhaps embarrassed by complaining, Dog quickly added, "What a night this is! Imagine, sitting on the front porch in February."

  "Changing tonight." Larry postponed what he had come to hear. He parroted the Channel 27 weatherman. "A cold arctic air mass is sweeping in from the northwest and will drop our local temperatures into the low teens by late tonight. The Alberta Express is coming folks, and by the weekend we can expect freezing conditions."

  "Daytona's only a long week away. I'll be down in the sun thinking of you freezing up here."

  "You're going to Daytona, Dog?"

  "Yep, assuming everything holds together."

  They rocked a little before Larry came to the point of his visit.

  "What did Doc Klein say, Adam?"

  Dog's reply was measured, avoiding irony or attempting false lightheartedness.

  "He said nothing had changed and that heavy treatment wasn't worth going through." Dog's voice flattened. "He recommended pain control—nothing more.

  "The various doctors decided that I was doing remarkably well for the advanced condition I'm in." Old Dog allowed a small chuckle. "Which I took to mean that I ought to hurt a lot worse than I do.

  "And," Dog cleared his throat to make the words clear. "Doc said I might have three months on my feet, but it could be less."

  "Oh hell, Adam." Just ninety days; Larry was stunned by the immediacy.

  Dog speculated aloud. "You know, that three months stuff bothers me. Sounds like a bad movie script. Why not four months, or maybe two and a half months? It's always, 'You have three months to live.'"

  Tim came trotting across the yard.

  "Hi, Uncle Dog."

  His father said, "I thought you went to bed."

  "I heard the Harley, and I wanted to tell Uncle Dog about my workout."

  "Make it short, son. We've business to talk over."

  "How'd it go, Tim? Have a good one?"

  "Yeah, real good. I could feel my muscles pump."

  "Uh huh."

  "I skipped rope for three rounds and punched the heavy bag, too." Tim saw Old Dog rubbing his belly the way he did when it hurt.

  "Sounds good, Tim. You're getting in three workouts a week, and that's just right." Dog searched for a point or two to emphasize. The boy was sticking to it, and training now would pay off in high school ball. God, his stomach burned. No more meals!

  "Don't overdue the pumping when you are lifting weights. Pumping makes a muscle big but not a lot stronger. Body builders pump up. Power lifters just get stronger. Keep your hands high when you are hitting the bags. Guys get to hammering away, and their fists get down by their waists. They're wide open. A bag won't punch back, but a man will. Defense counts.

  Keep the fist not hitting up high, protecting your face."

  "I'm working on that, Uncle Dog." Tim squared off and stabbed at the air, shadowboxing an imaginary opponent.

  "Looks good. Nice body shift Step left and right Give 'em angles. Makes you harder to hit."

  Larry said, "I can remember you practicing that when we were kids. When I tried I sprained my wrist hitting the big bag."

  "You did all right, brother. You were first string in football and baseball."

  Larry laughed more than a little self-consciously. "You know damned well that Bloomfield High was so small that unless we all played we couldn't field a team. You were the jock in our family, Dog."

  Old Dog turned back to the boy. "You remember Harvey Thebes, who shot one thousand points in basketball a few years ago?"

  "Course I remember him, Uncle Dog. He lives up the road. I see him almost every day."

  "Well, fame passes quickly, and I wasn't so sure you'd remember. Anyway, Harv shot three hundred baskets a day all through high school. That means in the rain, and he scraped the snow away to shoot in the winter.

  "That's how an athlete gets good. He trains harder. Every day that you work out in the bam inches you ahead. However far you go in sports will be a hint further because of today's workout. Put a hundred workouts together and you can measure the gain. Imagine what a thousand can do."

  The father said, "Enough, coach."

  He turned to his son. "Call it a night, Tim. Your uncle and I want to talk."

  "Yeah but . . ." Tim remembered. "Good night, Dad; good night, Uncle Dog." He trotted away, dribbling and shooting an imaginary basketball.

  Old Dog's sigh was deep. "I wish I could see how he'll turn out."

  The brother's voice choked a little. "Well, maybe you will see, Adam. We don't know for sure what happens in heaven."

  Dog lightened the mood. "Expect all I'll see are the soles of shoes, Larry. I haven't been that good an example."

  "You have for Tim, Adam. He dotes on you." It was the brother's turn to sigh. "We've got to tell him pretty soon, Dog. He knows you aren't well. Asked me about it a week ago. I hedged around, but we ought to square up with what's happening.

  "Yep, and it's my job, seeing I'm the one doing the dying. I don't want any more of this rubbing off on you than it has to, Larry. I'll make it as easy for both of us as I can."

  "God, Dog, I'm not worrying about myself, or Arlis, or Tim for that matter. It's you I hurt for."

  Old Dog was uncomfortable with the weight of the talk.

  "Tell you what, brother, there's one thing yo
u can do for me that I'd really feel good about"

  "Name it, Dog."

  Old Dog hesitated only an organizing instant

  "I'm feeling decent, and I'm going to Daytona Beach Bike Week to see and do one last time.

  "Fact is, I'd like to take Timmy down with me to see the bikes and the people. I'd like to show him a last good time that he'll remember all of his life."

  Dog sounded rueful. "That isn't a great monument to leave, but I'd really like doing it."

  Larry blew softly. "God, Arlis will kill me."

  Old Dog waited him out

  "You know, Dog, when I was Tim's age I'd have given anything for a trip like you're proposing, but Pap would have said, 'No,' and that would have ended it.

  "Why not? Why shouldn't I say 'Yes?' I wouldn't want my son growing old remembering that his Dad had said, 'No' simply because it was safest and easiest."

  "Accidents can happen, Larry."

  "I know, Adam, and don't argue against yourself.

  "We didn't have Timmy, Arlis and me, until it was almost too late, and we have thanked the Lord a million times for allowing us a son. Tim coming late makes us kind of over-protective some times and timid about normal boy things that younger parents don't think much about. When Timmy swings on a grapevine I get nervous. I let you teach him to shoot because I was afraid I'd do it poorly or incomplete somehow."

  Dog interrupted. "Hell, Larry, you're at least as good a shot as I am. You hunt every season. I don't hardly go out anymore. You could've . . ."

  Larry went on as though unhearing. "Arlis is scared to death of your motorcycle. When Timmy goes with you, I can see her jaw muscles work straining to keep silent." He groaned in exasperation.

  "I've played it safe my whole life, and I'm not complaining about how things are turning out. So far I think we've done well, but it's just as true that smothering a son isn't right, either."

  Larry's mood shifted and excitement tinged his voice. "Remember our first plane ride, Dog? Old John Buck took us up."

  "Yeah, we thought he could fly like the Red Baron or at least like Charles Lindbergh."