Storm Dog

by L. M. Elliott

  The reenactor quick-glanced my way over his shoulder. I was about to burst into tears. All my hard work, my dream of showing that I could create something wonderful out of nothing, ruined. Because of a stupid sticker. Lo and behold—the guy winked at me.

  Taking the officer by the arm, he said, “Awww, man, you got me. I’ve been having trouble with the missus, and I just keep forgetting to take care of chores. It’s kind of hard for the two of us to see eye to eye these days, my having found salvation and her still counting on horoscopes to predict her path to the rapture. You know?”

  “This your truck, then? Jes— Oh, sorry.” The officer blushed, flustered that he’d almost cursed standing beside someone of faith. He cleared his throat. “For pity’s sake, man, you forgot to get it inspected for a whole year?”

  The frontiersman shrugged. “Arguments call for saying you’re sorry and proving it with deeds. And truth be told, I have a lot to make up for. So I’ve been taking my lady out dancing a lot and repairing everything I can find that’s broken around our place to prettify it for her. All on top of working my job at Walmart.”

  “Okay, Morgan. I hear you.”

  Morgan? Of course. Duh! This had to be Marcus’s father! My heartbeat stopped pounding in my ears as I eased down a bit. If this man was anything like his son, I had some serious help standing in front of me.

  Still, the policeman persisted. “But what about the dogs?”

  “These dogs?”

  “Yeah, Morgan. These dogs.”

  I waited, holding my breath.

  “You know I’ve always hunted,” said Marcus’s dad, smooth as gelato. “Didn’t we go out hunting together some as kids? Mostly I like pointers, you remember, but I bet these hounds would make fine trackers. Look at the size of their snouts.” He laughed. “It turns out the dogs possess more talent than running down rabbits. Ariel”—he nodded in my direction—“has got them to dance. She thought they’d be a great addition to the parade.” Not a single fib there.

  “Dance? These mutts?”

  “For sure. Lesser miracles have happened. Now, Fred, I’ve got my hunter’s license right here,” he reached toward his pocket. “Want to see that?”

  “Naw.” The officer waved him off. His walkie-talkie had started crackling with orders for him to head to the grandstand. “Just be sure none of those dogs jump off that truck into the crowd, you hear? And since I owe you more than one favor, just get that truck inspected first thing Monday morning.” The officer tipped his hat at me and walked away.

  I managed a wave goodbye, even though my knees felt like giving way beneath me.

  Grinning, Marcus’s dad lumbered over. He stuck out his hand to shake mine. I swear it was the size of a football.

  “Thanks ever so much, Mr. Campbell,” I gushed.

  “No sweat. Marcus told me you might need help today. To speak God’s truth, I don’t care much for that family of yours. Your sister broke my boy’s heart, and he’s run off because of her. But he said you were jake. So I’ve been looking for you. Lucky the spirit had me in the right place at the right time. But there’re no coincidences in life, you know.”

  He strolled around the truck and busted out belly laughing. “You have some foxy babes here, honey.” The girls had crowded to the side to meet him. Dogs sure know dog people when they see them. “So, what’s the plan? Where’s your driver?”

  “I don’t know. She was here, then she wasn’t.” I scanned the street again for Sergeant Josie.

  Marcus’s dad was watching me closely. I knew he told his police officer buddy that he didn’t believe in his wife’s psychic powers, but some of them must have rubbed off on him because I swear he read my mind right then.

  “Tell you what, Ariel. I don’t feel like marching the parade today.” He waved at some of his frontier brethren dressed in the same oatmeal-colored hunting shirts he wore as they passed by. He let them get out of earshot before adding, “I always get headaches marching with our fife and drum corps. They’re loud enough to make Gabriel take his horn and run for cover. I love playing, but I prefer solo.” He pulled a piccolo-like wooden fife out of his pocket. The instrument about disappeared in his strong hand. “You play?”

  “Cello.”

  “Cello? Dang. Ain’t you fancy?” But he winked at me again as he said it—just like Marcus would have. Then, putting that itty-bitty flute to his mouth, Marcus’s dad whipped out an Irish gig, light and happy. The dogs pricked up their floppy, over-big ears. He stopped. “Mind carrying an extra passenger in that truck? If your driver isn’t back by the time we need to roll, I can drive.”

  I couldn’t believe how kind he was. “Oh, you’re the best, Mr. Campbell. Just like Marcus.”

  Maybe he was right—maybe there aren’t any coincidences, maybe things happened for a reason. But I sure couldn’t tell you why I had to go through what happened next.

  Sixteen

  AROUND THE CORNER, MARCHING BANDS BEGAN to warm up. Tubas, trumpets, trombones tooted. Clarinets and saxophones zipped up and down their scales. Flutes and piccolos trilled. In a jumble of tunes, the musicians practiced the hardest measures of the Souza marches they’d be performing soon—just making sure their fingers still danced the melodies right.

  Then the drum corps started.

  BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM. A single snare drum beat out the 4/4 meter, and in an explosion of percussion, the other drums answered: RATTA-TAT-TAT, TATTA-RATTA-TAT. Cymbals, bass drums, tri-toms, snares. The loud rhythms bounced off the surrounding brick houses, the tight nineteenth-century streets acting like canyon walls to amplify the slamming drumbeats into echoing thunder.

  My foot started tapping, my head bobbing. I’d always loved the way a drumline kicked me into wanting to move. I called up the memory of George strutting down those very streets in front of his marching band, his shoulders back and head high. He pumped his arms up and down to keep the beat steady so his musicians kept time together even when the band, marching in long rows, turned a corner so its front ranks were on a different street block from the back.

  Another high school band felt the need to show off, too. Its drumline started up: BOOM-DE-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

  RATTA-TATTA-TATTA-TAT.

  Their competing drumbeats rumbled like cannon fire.

  Smiling, revved by the music, I turned to Duke to tell him we’d be performing soon. But my words caught in my throat. Duke was hunched to the seat of the truck, trembling, his eyes wild.

  “Oh no, boy, don’t be afraid.” I yanked open the truck door. That poor dog was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. “It’s just a band. Really, boy, it’s all right.” I hummed like I had before and hugged him tight, trying to push calm from my heart into his.

  Duke actually began to ease down a little, whimpering with my humming. He was trying so hard to squash his fear, to trust me. But a third drumline decided to join the musical fray. BLAM-BLAM-BLAM-DIDEDAM.

  With that, the combined drumbeats turned earsplitting. The surrounding buildings pulsed with the beat. Just like a town would if its perimeters were under enemy fire. Just like I imagined an ambush battle might sound in Afghanistan.

  It was too much for him. Terrified, Duke leaped out the open door and took off down the street.

  “Go on!” Marcus’s dad shouted at me. “I’ll hold down the fort.” He swung himself into the truck bed and gathered up all those princess dogs in his muscle-bound arms to keep them from chasing after me.

  I hoisted my skirt and sprinted. “Duke,” I called. “Duke, stop!”

  Duke zigzagged low to the ground, from car to truck to lamppost to mailbox like soldiers do during a skirmish to confuse enemy gunmen. I could barely keep him in my sights. For a few minutes I could follow his top hat popping up and down as he darted through the crowds. But soon I had to track Duke more by seeing people lunge to the side, throwing their arms up in surprise and annoyance.

  They were none too happy when a few seconds later I sideswiped them, too.

  �
�Oh my Lord!” exclaimed ladies in pastel knit suits, strolling arm in arm with dapper old gentlemen in starched linen everything.

  “Hey now!” grumbled ponytailed men holding hands with women in sparkle-studded jean jackets.

  “Watch it!” shouted teenage boys with backward baseball caps and pants hanging off their butts.

  It all glanced off me in my horror. I had to stop Duke before we got to the floats where G-L-O-R-I-A would be. He was already closing in on the patriotic ones built by the local VFW and Lions Club. I could see way down at the end of the street the floats for the queen and her princesses. Girls in gowns of pink and of green were already starting to arrange themselves on the wedding-cake tiers of the two matching princess floats. Their marine escorts helped them up the stairs.

  Duke was heading straight for them.

  “No!” I shouted. “Stop!”

  But he didn’t. Duke dove right underneath the first royal court float.

  He disappeared with a swish of its glittery fringe, his top hat left spinning on the pavement.

  I ran straight into the middle of those princesses, threw myself to the ground, and tried to crawl under the float after Duke.

  I was halfway under when I heard some of those princesses shriek. “There’s someone trying to get under the float!” Then the sound of running feet. Strong hands in white gloves grabbed my ankles and yanked me out to come nose to nose with spit-shined shoes. I gazed up into the faces of two young marines. They looked surprised. The half dozen princesses who quickly joined them looked disgusted.

  Sweaty, dirty from the street, my hair all wacky, heaving to catch my breath from the chase, I probably looked horror movie–possessed, the craziest girl they’d ever seen live.

  Ashamed, I stayed belly to the ground. All I could think to say was, “I’m looking for my dog.”

  “What?” Marines and princesses asked each other. “A dog; she said something about a dog,” rippled from the front to the back of the group. I saw more sweeping skirts of green and of pink joining the circle.

  “My dog. He ran under the float. The marching band drums scared him. I think he thought it was gunfire,” I spoke my words to the shoes of the marines, hoping they’d understand. But I realized then they were cadets from the nearby Virginia military academy. They didn’t know yet what Duke might be feeling, what Sergeant Josie or my brother might as well.

  But one pink skirt seemed to. “Oh, poor dog. Drums sound just like thunder when they’re playing in the street. The sound ricochets off the buildings and gets so amplified. I remember that from marching in the parade during high school.”

  “Ooooooh.” Girls’ voices chorused. With that explanation, most of the pink skirts lost interest and drifted away. From the back of the crowd, I heard Gloria’s voice: “Wow, that was so exciting the way you boys rushed to our defense. Does that mean you’re our personal bodyguards?”

  “If you want, ma’am,” the cadet she was flirting with answered, and chuckled, their voices at a good distance now, obviously walking away.

  I was left alone, save for the one friendly pink skirt. She knelt. “Can I help you get the dog out?”

  That voice was really familiar, too. Slowly, terrified of Gloria still being close enough to see my face and recognizing that the insane girl was me, I raised my eyes. It was Emma. George’s Emma.

  I burst into tears. It was almost like finding George in this storm of troubles.

  “Ariel!” Emma was just as stunned as I was. “Honey, what’s the matter?” She helped me sit up.

  I don’t know how she understood what I was saying, I was blubbering so much. But I told her how Duke had found me in a storm. How with music and dancing I’d helped him through what looked like PTSD. How I wanted to march in the parade with him, just like George and she had.

  Emma wiped my face and smiled at me. “So let’s get him out, okay?”

  No wonder George loved her so much.

  Lifting the float’s skirts, Emma and I and peered into the cave-like dimness. I could see Duke cowering against one of its back wheels. If the float started to move, he’d be crushed. We needed to hurry. “Good boy. Come here, fella.” I tried to croon and not sound like a tornado-warning siren in my urgency.

  Duke just hid his face under his paws.

  How I wished I had some bacon. I tried again. “It’s all right. It’s just drums. Come on.”

  Duke pulled his paws away from his face, at least.

  “There,” Emma said. “You’ll get him. Try again.”

  I did. Duke listened, his tail starting to timidly tap the ground. But he didn’t move.

  “We’re running out of time,” I wailed. I could hear men with their megaphones calling to the floats to get ready.

  “Let me try,” said Emma. She whistled. “Come, boy. Come on. I want to meet you.”

  At the sound of Emma’s voice, Duke’s head popped up.

  She whistled again. “Come on, sweet thing, you can do it.”

  He started to crawl.

  I joined in, calling and whistling, patting the ground. “Come on, Duke. Come here, boy.”

  Duke scrambled out. He jumped on me and licked my face. Then he sat and laid his head on my knee, looking up and wiggling all over with his wagging, like he was apologizing for being such a dork.

  Emma stroked his head. “What a beautiful dog, Ariel.”

  “Awwwwwwww.” Suddenly we were surrounded again by princesses.

  “What a darling dog!” “Oh, he’s just precious.” “Look at his bow tie and vest.” “Is this his top hat?” “Oh my Gawd!”

  Then they got a load of me. “Huuuuuhh?”

  I looked down at myself. My beautiful emerald gown was smeared and torn. I couldn’t perform like that. I’d be a total joke.

  “Don’t worry, Ariel.” Emma squeezed my hand. “Ladies, what spare clothes do you have? Ariel has taught this beautiful boy how to dance. Isn’t that amazing?” She waited for the answering “Awwwww. That’s so cute,” before going on: “They are going to dance in the parade.”

  “Awwwwww.”

  “She needs to look as pretty as a princess.”

  There was a reason Emma was captain of the flag corps when George was the drum major. Before I knew what was happening, I was shoved into a Porta Potti with an armload of clothes. For a moment I mourned my grandmother’s dress, the sense of being armed with something belonging to that unmet, strong woman. But today was about dance and choreography, I told myself, what my imagination could do, not my dress. And it was about to begin. No time to be sad—especially standing in a plastic outhouse. I decided on a pink circle skirt and black bolero jacket trimmed in pink braid—of all the stuff the girls had handed me, it looked the most like a dancer’s.

  Someone tamed my wildly disheveled hair into a thick French braid, not unlike my grandmother’s hairdo in that photo. The hairdresser princess even pulled a few apple blossoms from her own updo to tuck into my new plaits.

  Emma coaxed me into a little blush and lipstick for the performance. “So people sitting in the back bleachers can see your soulful face.”

  It was the sweetest and quickest makeover this side of Seventeen magazine. I didn’t know girls that pretty could be that nice. I promised myself to remember that in the future and not judge them harsh or expect them to be mean just because they’re beautiful.

  The girls were clapping their hands in appreciation of me and themselves when a sharp voice stopped them: “What’s going on?”

  The princesses parted.

  There stood G-L-O-R-I-A. Her mouth popped open at the sight of me.

  “Look what we did!” “Doesn’t she look apple-blossom lovely?”

  Gloria started spluttering. “Ariel! What . . . what the . . . What are you doing here?”

  Quick, Emma hugged me. “Time to exit,” she whispered in my ear. “Shoo!” She gave me a little push and turned to herd the princesses. “We need to board our ship, ladies.” She took Gloria by the hand and pulled her
away.

  Duke and I trotted down the street as everyone was scrambling to get onto their floats or turn on their engines. I looked back just once. Emma and Gloria were sitting together on the top tier of their princess float, in between two huge pink-and-white apple blossoms—the yin and the yang of princesses, if ever there were. Emma kinda glowed. Her smile radiated kindness. Gloria looked like the wrath of God.

  She was sure to be gunning for me at the end of the parade.

  Seventeen

  MARCUS’S DAD WAS STANDING IN THE truck bed playing “Danny Boy” on his piccolo-fife when Duke and I made it back to the truck. I swear my girls were transfixed. But everyone is with that song; it’s so beautiful and sad.

  He stopped playing when he spotted me.

  “Thanks for watching them, Mr. Campbell.” I peeked in the truck cab. Still no Sergeant Josie. I tried not to worry, but the crowd was getting larger by the minute. I sure hoped she was okay and that the mass of parade-goers, their arms full now of bags and treasures from carnival booths, wouldn’t trigger her leftover demons. “You really okay to drive us, Mr. Campbell?”

  “Sure thang, miss.” Pushing the seat back as far as it could go, he squeezed his Herculean self behind the steering wheel and turned the key. Luckily, Sergeant Josie had left it in the ignition. The tractors around us started up, too, backfiring in farts of smoke before settling into steady chugs and rattles.

  Duke flinched and nudged his head under my hand for a reassuring pat. What an idiot I’d been not to think about how all this noise, the sudden bangs and drumbeats might scare him, just like I now realized they might Sergeant Josie. If he had been a military working dog, this was flashback city.

  “That dog’s been through some hell, hasn’t he?” Marcus’s dad commented. He reached for the glove compartment. “I found this when you were chasing him.” He pulled out an envelope stuffed with bacon. “Will this help settle him? I’ll do just about anything myself for some good bacon.”