The Man Who Cried All the Way Home

by Dolores Hitchens

  “That’s right. You’ve seen her dog, maybe?”

  “Well, I’m not sure that I have.” The woman seemed embarrassed; she peered into the box of horned toads as if expecting some sudden activity. The small roundish lizard like creatures seemed asleep. “Was there anything else?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  He drove to Hemet and looked into a couple of pet stores there before everything started to close up. He found some pups for sale in the second shop. Give us a year, he told himself, and we might grow up to look something like Pete. Right now I’m rushed for time.

  Tomorrow I’ll drive to Santa Ana. Start early and take Pete along so I’ll be sure to get something that looks a little like him.

  He decided, since he was down off the mountain, to go to his own place and pick up a few things, then head back to Dorrie’s place for the night.

  Can’t leave Pete up there all alone.

  It was going to be a long, dismal, and discouraging evening.

  If I was a drinking man, he told himself, I’d get drunk.

  The dog looked a whale of a lot like Pete, Uncle Chuck saw with a flare of excitement. Must have had the same kind of ancestry. The color was wrong, that was all. The dog had a dark ruff, dark patches on his flanks. He didn’t act very friendly, and this was all right. He had a fixed, attentive, hostile expression, and this was all right too.

  “You like him? A fine animal. Belonged to a family, they had three boys, and as the kids got bigger they got kind of … uh … rough.”

  Mean, Uncle Chuck translated to himself.

  “The dog began to have kind of nervous fits and to show signs of temper. Not anything dangerous, just a little loss of control.” The pound man was looking eagerly into Uncle Chuck’s face as if really hoping this nice dog was getting a new master, an old coot, a coot too old to have any mean kids around the house.

  “He ever bite one of the little bastards?” Uncle Chuck wanted to say, hoping the answer was yes, the dog had taken off a couple of legs.

  “So the father brought the dog in. He wasn’t to be put to sleep right away. They’re paying a couple of weeks’ board in the hope we can find him a good home.”

  Guilty consciences.

  “He looks fine, just what I wanted, except for one thing.”

  The man’s face changed, became anxious. “What’s that?”

  “Color. The dog I’m matching him to doesn’t have those dark patches.”

  “Oh, that’s all? Ha, ha. Don’t let a little thing like that stop you.” There seemed a sudden nervousness now in the man’s attitude.

  “I don’t intend to. He’s exactly the right size and shape. I’m going to try bleaching his fur. What do I owe you? And where’s the nearest place I can buy about a gallon of peroxide?”

  It took a moment for the other man to get his mouth closed. “I … I guess the drugstore—you have to drive over to Willow Street—”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  As they passed the door to the parking lot, Uncle Chuck noted that the man peered out swiftly. The car wasn’t too far away, and there was Pete as big as life in the front seat. The man hurried on, stumbling a little. No doubt he was trying to figure it all out, why should a man get a perfectly good dog, drive all the way here from another county, pay license fees, and then try to remodel the animal so that he looked like another dog?

  The man was shaking his head as he wrote out Uncle Chuck’s receipt for the fee.

  Outside, on the way to the car, Uncle Chuck paused to adjust the new collar he’d brought. After loosening the buckle, he ventured to pat the big dog on the head. The dog didn’t respond, just stared straight ahead, and Uncle Chuck thought, maybe the kids began their torment with a pat. But at least the dog wasn’t vicious. “I’m going to call you Buster,” Uncle Chuck told him. In the outdoor morning light the fur looked shabby and dull. “Fatten you up a bit, an egg or so a day, you’ll be a good-looking mutt.”

  The dog ignored the conversational gambit.

  Uncle Chuck put him into the back seat of the car, fixed the leash to a window handle. Pete looked outraged, lifted his lip in a silent snarl of unwelcome, but the other dog ignored this too.

  Uncle Chuck thought, with a rush of anger, I’d know this animal had been abused, even if the pound attendant hadn’t told me; he’s exactly like a little kid who’s been beaten and cuffed, doesn’t know why it all happened, why he had to be sent away, unwanted and unloved. Probably in his dog’s heart he still longs for that other home, miserable as it was. Well, I’ll do what I can for him. I kind of like the bugger in a way. And maybe I need a dog. Needed one for company and didn’t know it.

  He started the car. Buster stood up in the back seat, a faint whine in his throat, and seemed to be taking a last long look at the pound building, the only link to home.

  Heading back toward Hemet, Uncle Chuck told himself, I have to be crazy to be trying this stunt and completely off my rocker to have faith that it can work. But what else is there to do, outside of sitting back and letting Baylor work on it?

  When he finally got back to the house on the mountain, he felt utterly worn out and exhausted by the drive. Traffic had been punishing. The strain of keeping his eyes on the road for all those miles had given him a headache.

  He mentally shook off the desire to lie down and rest. He made a quick, substantial lunch, hot soup and a sandwich, coffee, some canned pears he found in the cupboard. He fed Pete and shut Pete out into the service entry. He had put the new dog in the living room.

  On the way he had brought bleaching peroxide and one of the new dog foods guaranteed to be especially appealing. He brought Buster to the kitchen, spread a pad of newspapers, put the dog in the middle, and applied peroxide liberally to the dark patches of his fur. Then, as soon as the peroxide had quit dripping, Uncle Chuck went on into the next act. He put a small walnut-sized portion of the special dog food into a paper plate and took it to the living room, concealed it there behind one of the chairs. Then he let Buster find it.

  All through the remainder of the day he repeated this two-part performance—first the bleach, then the minute feeding.

  The dog’s fur began to change, but he refused to show much eagerness over the food. Uncle Chuck decided that the pound had fed the animal that morning, a big meal, or that Buster was disturbed by the loss of his old home and these strange new surroundings.

  Buster, for whatever reason, was not going to cooperate to the extent that his plan demanded.

  Buster was a flop.

  As Buster lackadaisically swallowed the latest portion of the dog food, Uncle Chuck glanced at his watch. Almost four o’clock. The day was practically gone. Dorrie was in jail and she must be wondering why he had made no effort to get in to see her.

  Uncle Chuck gave way momentarily to his weariness, sinking into a big chair that faced the view of the mountainside, the trees, and the sky. He closed his eyes. The quiet of the big house seemed to settle around him, a feathery blanket of silence, inviting sleep.

  Why not just admit he was licked, finished? His part in helping Dorrie was all over and now it was up to the judge and jury. He was a crippled old coot and there was nothing more to be done.

  He settled deeper into the chair and a sigh escaped him.

  Chapter 20

  He must have slept for a while without intending to drop off; he woke suddenly and sat up, feeling stiffened in every joint. He looked around for Buster, his eyes adjusting to the fading light inside the room. He could hear the dog sniffing heavily somewhere near. He got out of the chair, took the cane from its propped position against the chair arm, and crossed the room toward the front entry. Buster was there with his nose against the bottom of the door.

  Needs to be walked, Uncle Chuck thought. Where did I leave the leash? Can’t let him out to run, the way I would Pete. He might get lost, might even try to find his way back across country to that other home he had.

  He found the leash where he had hung it, in the entry
coat closet. He snapped it into Buster’s collar and they went out into the patio. In the west the sky had taken on the hues of sunset, scarlet and orange. The air felt cool. The big dog stood for a moment looking toward the west, the direction of his old home, and Uncle Chuck sensed the loneliness, the feeling of loss and rejection, that must be in the dog’s mind.

  Uncle Chuck reached involuntarily to touch the big dog’s head. “They didn’t want you any more, Buster. They turned you out. Now you’ve got to get used to the idea, you’re my mutt now.”

  The dog’s reserve didn’t falter. He simply ignored the hand on his head.

  Uncle Chuck led him up to the road and they walked a way toward the corner and back. There were lots of footprints in the leafy dust alongside the paving. Well, there had been a lot of men here, looking for evidence. Mainly, no doubt, evidence that Dorrie had traveled to that other house in the dark two nights ago.

  Someone had gone there besides Sargent and the girl. Not Dorrie. In sudden anger Uncle Chuck thought, Why isn’t Martin trying to pin it on Knowles? Knowles admitted being up here. He had a bad temper; the situation could easily have erupted into a fight.

  Of all the suspects, Uncle Chuck told himself, I like Knowles the best. If the dog would only co-operate, if my silly plot would work, he would be the first one I’d try to get up here.

  Uncle Chuck went to bed for the third night on the couch in Doris’s living room. He had let Pete out for the night, as Doris always did, and had tied Buster’s leash to the leg of the dining table.

  Early in the morning he heard thumping noises from the kitchen. He sat up, not quite awake, and here came Buster, charging at breakneck pace, broken leash dangling from his collar, straight for the chair behind which Uncle Chuck had been hiding the bits of dog food.

  The dog circled the chair, sniffing the floor, then stood looking at Uncle Chuck, his ears cocked.

  Uncle Chuck found himself saying aloud, “It’s a mirage.”

  The mirage whined in its throat.

  Uncle Chuck got up, went to the kitchen, quickly put a modest amount of food on a paper plate, and went back to the living room.

  “No, Buster. I want to see that approach of yours again.”

  Without permitting the dog to eat, Uncle Chuck took him back into the hall. Then he let him go.

  Buster charged the chair again, a brownish monster with jaws wide and eyes alight.

  While Buster gulped the breakfast, Uncle Chuck stood thoughtfully watching. When Buster had wolfed down the bits on the paper plate, he lifted his head, eyes intent on Uncle Chuck, and giving every evidence of wanting more breakfast, fast.

  “Why not now?” Uncle Chuck muttered, as if answering a question he’d asked himself.

  Buster padded at his heels as he walked back to the couch.

  Uncle Chuck sat down. Buster’s muzzle was at his knee. Uncle Chuck forgetfully stroked the dog’s head and Buster, as usual, forgivingly didn’t notice. “I shouldn’t have taken the edge off your appetite.”

  Buster made a soft whining noise as if to say that his appetite was intact.

  “It has to look good. It has to be good,” Uncle Chuck said under his breath. “It has to be the best damned yarn I’ve ever thought up.”

  What would bring Knowles running, fast?

  He wasn’t money-hungry like Arthur Cannon, nor did he have a head full of grandiose schemes like Wally Wiegand. It seemed that in a hagridden way he had been deeply concerned with his wild young daughter.

  But she was dead.

  Her name was already smeared, linked in the newspapers with that of Sargent Chenoweth. The papers might not come right out and call her Sargent’s mistress, but the innuendoes would be unmistakable.

  Uncle Chuck’s memory served up a minor item. Knowles had said that Martin had asked him if Kat would have accepted the little rain hood in its case from Sargent, would have carried something with Doris’s name on it, and he, her father, had said that Kat wouldn’t have touched it. This had had a sense of outraged pride to Uncle Chuck. His child certainly wouldn’t have taken anything from Sargent that had been used and worn by Sargent’s wife—a hand-me-down, so to speak.

  Was the feeling strong enough to overcome Knowles’s caution, perhaps his aversion to any further contacts with Uncle Chuck?

  It’s the only handle I have, Uncle Chuck told himself. He went to the kitchen and heated the coffee and drank a cup, standing beside the wall phone, trying to phrase what he must say. Buster followed him, then stood patiently waiting as if sure now that Uncle Chuck wouldn’t let him starve.

  When Knowles answered his phone he sounded groggy and foul-tempered. “What in hell is it?” he growled into the phone, without waiting to find out who it was.

  “Chuck Sadler. Doris Chenoweth’s attorney.”

  “Go to hell, you creep.”

  “If that’s the way you want it. I can call the news papers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve found something here that seems to change the picture all of a sudden.” Uncle Chuck let his tone drift lower, as if he might be having second thoughts about telling Knowles, after all.

  “You’re a liar.”

  “You know that little plastic gadget? The thing they found in your daughter’s handbag? Well …” Again Uncle Chuck deliberately hesitated. “Maybe Sargent did give it to Katrina. And maybe she took it. And maybe—”

  “You lousy creep,” Knowles growled.

  “You want me to go to Martin? Or the papers?”

  “Kat wouldn’t have touched anything that belonged to Doris. Why the hell should she? She had everything. I gave her everything she wanted.”

  “Maybe she accepted more than that plastic hood.”

  Knowles exploded with several foul epithets.

  “Is that all you have to say?” Uncle Chuck forced himself to sound half amused. “You’re going to get one hell of a surprise then.”

  “Wait a minute. You don’t have to get on your high horse. Hold on, I want to light a cigarette.” There were several moments of silence. Then Knowles’s voice came back on the wire. “What’s this so-called new evidence you’ve cooked up?”

  “It sure throws a different light on you and what you could have done for your—” Uncle Chuck again pretended an attack of caution. Then he said quickly, “Sorry, I can’t talk any more now.” Then he hung up the receiver.

  He found that he was sweating with strain, with apprehension, with the fear that it wasn’t going to work. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. The dog stood close, waiting patiently.

  Uncle Chuck shut the door to the service entry while he gave Pete a plate of food outside. When he returned, Buster gave him an aggrieved stare.

  “You’ll get it, boy. I’ll give Knowles twenty-five minutes. No traffic this early in the day, and he’s got a big powerful car. If he’s coming, he should be here by then.”

  Uncle Chuck went to the big bathroom adjoining Sargent’s bedroom, where he washed, brushed his teeth, shaved, and dressed. He mended Buster’s broken leash with a square knot in the leather thong, hung the loop over a closet door handle to see if it would hold. Buster sat down on his haunches with an air of resignation. Uncle Chuck then went into the kitchen and put a small amount of dog food on a paper plate, left it ready near the door, on the counter.

  Knowles must have taken some of the curves on that mountain road at a screaming speed, for he rolled into the driveway a couple of minutes short of Uncle Chuck’s scanty deadline. He didn’t bother with the doorbell. A moment after the motor roared, then died, and the car door slammed, he was pounding at the front entry. Uncle Chuck hurried to put the plate of dog food in place. Passing Buster in the hall, he tried to keep the dog from seeing the plate, but Buster was wise. He rose, pressing hard against the leash.

  With the paper plate concealed behind the chair, Uncle Chuck gave a swift look around, then headed for the front door. His knees were knocking and there was a heavy pounding in the vicinity
of his heart. This had to work. This was the last chance. This was the last thing, the last thing of all, that he could do for Dorrie.

  At the door Uncle Chuck put his mouth against the lintel where Knowles was pounding. “You’re going to have to calm down before I let you come in.”

  Knowles cursed, his tone promising violence if he was admitted.

  Uncle Chuck drew back involuntarily. I shouldn’t have mentioned Katrina to get him up here. In a way it wasn’t even fair.

  Then he thought again of Dorrie. What else would have brought Knowles in a rush?

  “There’s someone else in here with me,” Uncle Chuck told him through the door. “I’m not alone. I have a witness, and if you try any ugly business, I’ll sue you for every cent you have in the world. And I’m the bugger who can do it.”

  He thought, It’s not quite a lie—I do have Buster.

  Knowles quit pounding on the door. When Uncle Chuck opened it slightly, Knowles stood there looking heated and furious. But his hands hung at his sides, not balled into fists.

  “Come in.”

  Knowles strode past, on into the big living room, where he turned, apparently searching for Uncle Chuck’s “witness.”

  “This had better be good, old man.”

  “Sit down.”

  “I don’t intend to sit. I’m here to listen—for about half of a minute. I’m here to defend Kat’s memory and that’s all. You’d better start talking, quick.”

  “Your threats don’t frighten me,” Uncle Chuck said, realizing to his own surprise that it was true—he was afraid of failure, not of this angry man. “If you hit me, if you beat up a helpless old cripple, you’ll have to live with it. I wouldn’t envy you that.”

  Knowles laughed. “You’re a fool.”

  “Perhaps,” Uncle Chuck agreed, shrugging.

  There was a rumpus going on in the hall, whines and scratches. Uncle Chuck gulped with nervousness as Knowles gave another impatient look around and headed for the couch. “No, not there, Knowles. Over here. This chair.”

  Knowles turned, frowning suspiciously. Uncle Chuck braced himself with the cane, tried to stand tall and look determined. After a moment’s hesitation Knowles went to the chair and sank into it slowly. Uncle Chuck gulped in a huge sigh of relief.