The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge

by Jim Kraus

  The woman’s face pursed, as if she were eating a lemon.

  “Hubert? Odd name for a dog. Hubert.”

  “We like unusual names, I guess,” Stewart added.

  As the older couple shuffled away, Stewart, without leaning close to Lisa, whispered loudly, “Let’s get out of here before they call the cops.”

  Lisa was already standing and pulling the keys from the pocket of her jeans.

  “One step ahead of you, Clyde.”

  Puzzled, Stewart walked beside her to the car.

  “Oh, as in Bonnie and—”

  “Exactly. Now let’s get Baby-Faced Hubert hidden in the backseat before the feds catch up.”

  Stewart wondered, as he put on his seat belt, if Lisa would drive faster on the way home.

  Chapter Twenty

  YES, HE has the dog now, Mom, but you have to promise not to tell anyone. Ever.”

  Lisa paced in her living room, twirling a strand of her blonde hair as she talked, thinking that she might need a haircut soon.

  Or maybe I could dye it brown. Make me seem more serious than a “dumb blonde,” I bet.

  “Who would I tell? I don’t know anyone in Wellsboro besides you. I don’t even know anyone who knows anyone in Wellsboro besides you.”

  “I know you don’t know anyone who knows anyone in Wellsboro, but news like this goes fast.”

  She looked out onto the street. She had just left Stewart’s apartment. They had shared a meal, finally—a pizza that Lisa picked up from Pudgie’s Pizza. Hubert had tasted some of the crust, with a little sauce and cheese, and had decided it was delicious. He sat and stared at them for the rest of the evening as they ate.

  Lisa gave Stewart a quick peck on the cheek as she left, and was pretty certain it had taken him by surprise.

  He blushes easily.

  “And you and Stewart are still hanging out together?”

  “Yes. But before you say it, I know, Mom. Slow. I won’t jump into anything. Honest.”

  She would not tell her mother about tonight’s dinner with Stewart. Even if friends did go to dinner together.

  And now she watched the darkened street out front, waiting to catch a glimpse of Stewart and Hubert as they went out for their furtive nightly constitutional.

  “He’s a really nice guy, Mom. He’s not pushy like Mark was. Not at all. Very laid-back. Sort of shy, really.”

  “Sounds like he might be more than a friend.”

  “I don’t know, Mom. I mean, he’s not. We’re just friends. Like I said—slow. I have learned my lesson. Please don’t nag.”

  Stewart edged out of the shadows below her window and looked back up toward her apartment. She went to the window, smiled, and waved.

  Stewart waved back, and then he and Hubert scurried off to the west and into the shadows again.

  “Caring is not nagging. You talk about this Stewart all the time. And it’s just too familiar. You acted the same way when you met Mark.”

  “I know I need to be careful, Mom,” Lisa said, her tone growing edgier and just a bit petulant. “But not every guy is like Mark.”

  “You’d be surprised. A lot of people lie. They tell you what you want to hear because they want something from you. They may not even think of it as a lie.”

  “I know.”

  I have heard this nearly every time we talk. I was young and made a mistake. It scared the both of us. Okay, call it a sin. And it was. I know, Mom. I know.

  “Mom, I’ve told you a hundred times. What I did was stupid and dangerous. He said he believed. He said he went to church. He made promises and I thought he meant them. We made a mistake. I made a mistake. It won’t happen again. Okay? I can’t do more than what I’ve done.”

  Lisa tried not to think of that painful experience in her past. Mark had been handsome and charming and duplicitous and deceiving. Lisa fell quickly and hard—believing everything he said. She thought it was love. She thought it was mutual. And she’d allowed Mark to go way too far, farther than she had ever gone, at least in that most intimate of ways. She regretted the terrifying scare that her actions—their actions—had caused her. The sleepless nights until she found out from a health clinic two towns over. The terrible regret and guilt. The shame of what had happened and having lied to her mother like that.

  That was all in the past, she had declared. She had turned over a new leaf, both physically and morally.

  She listened to her mother repeat herself one more time.

  But Stewart is nothing like him—or any of the guys I dated before. Stewart has Bible verses in his apartment. He went to church with me. He’s one of the good guys.

  “I know he has to be on the same page as me, Mom. I know. And I know I have to be careful with my feelings. There won’t be a repeat of the last time. Really. You have to trust me.”

  Lisa lay back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, which had a feathering of cracks in one corner. She had thought about asking Jerry to fix it, but decided that making the request was not really worth having him blunder about her apartment for days and then having the finished project not much better than when he started.

  “And I know you don’t want what happened to you and Dad to happen to me. But it won’t.”

  She took a deep breath and hoped she sounded convincing.

  “Besides, since I might be moving to Pittsburgh someday, there’s no way friendship becomes anything more than just being friends with a nice guy. Honestly, Mom, I have more sense than that.”

  I mean now; maybe not so much before.

  She stood up and walked to her bedroom.

  “Okay. I know.” Her mother sounded resigned. For now, at least. “I just worry, that’s all, with you living so far away. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. I’ll send extra copies of this week’s paper. The editor really likes what I’m doing—so much so that he is actually paying me now.”

  “That’s wonderful! How much?”

  She sighed. “Well, it’s not much, but I am a real journalist now, and getting paid for it. That’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  “As long as you’re happy. I love you, sweetie.”

  “I love you, too. Good night.” She pressed the off button on her phone and entered her dark bedroom.

  He does have faith. He does. He has to.

  “Stewart, I don’t want to hear about you and this woman. You’re too young. And inexperienced. I saw her on TV and I know that type. She knows what she’s about. And don’t think that just because I’m not there that I don’t know what you’re doing. Edna said she saw you and that woman at some ice cream place in town, looking all lovey-dovey.”

  Stewart toyed with the idea of just hanging up and later claiming that the battery had run down. But since his grandmother still only had a landline, with a single phone in her apartment, he did not think she would buy into his excuse.

  So he gritted his teeth, silently, and did his best to remain civil.

  “We just got ice cream. There was nothing lovey-dovey about it, Grams.”

  “So Edna is a liar now. That’s what you’ve come to?”

  There were a lot of things he wanted to say. He took a breath and held it. Did she want him to be alone forever? Wasn’t dating normal in your twenties? Most people in her day were married in their twenties, weren’t they? But he knew better than to start an argument he’d never win. He’d just upset her even more.

  “The pool boy position is still open, Stewart. I asked about it. They said you sounded like a perfect candidate for the job. Just come down and talk to them. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Grams, you’re in Florida, not around the block. And I bet the pool boy position pays even less than what I’m making now. So no, I am not coming to Florida to sweep out pools in a retirement village.”

  He seldom defended himself with such firmness. He was a little nervous as to her reaction, but he could not bear to hear about the pool boy position one more time.

  “It’s a senior
living facility, Stewart. Not retirement. And you are just like your father. Stubborn. I loved him, but he was as stubborn as a blind, deaf mule.”

  He closed his eyes.

  That’s the ultimate insult, according to her—being like my father.

  “Just remember that women these days…well, they’re not like when I was young. And that girl, I don’t trust her, Stewart. Maybe she is just looking for a meal ticket. Did you ever stop to think about that possibility?”

  Stewart did his best not to laugh out loud.

  I’m a bag boy at a supermarket. That’s a meal ticket?

  “Grams, I will be careful. I promise. Oh, and Dad said to say hello.”

  That will put her off balance.

  She did not respond for perhaps twenty seconds. Stewart waited, knowing that she had not dropped the phone, or hung up.

  “That’s nice. Real nice, Stewart. Talking about me behind my back.”

  Stewart remained firm.

  “He just said to say hello. That’s all. No talking behind your back.”

  More silence.

  “Well, okay, then. And I have to go now. This long-distance chatter is costing me a fortune, I bet. And I’m on a fixed income, Stewart, or didn’t you know that?”

  “I know, Grams. We’ll talk next week. Take care.”

  And the phone went silent.

  Stewart slumped farther into the chair, this short conversation almost as tiring as two fast laps around the block.

  The only illumination in the apartment came from the streetlight halfway down the block. But it was enough for Hubert. He, like all dogs, could not see perfectly in black, inky darkness—not like cats, but well enough. Dogs, wolves, were nighttime hunters, and could navigate without trepidation in the absence of a moon, or a streetlight.

  Hubert walked to the window and put his front paws on the sill and looked out, slowly peering down the street, and then the other way.

  All was quiet. He saw the shadow of a raccoon across the street as it edged along in the dark, looking for trash or leftovers, or whatever else might have been discarded on trash day.

  Hubert sniffed, almost in derision.

  Trash-eaters.

  Hubert walked to the chair and jumped up and awkwardly circled three times and then lay down, his chin resting on the arm. From there, Hubert could see the glistening sliver of the spring moon.

  He tilted his head, hearing a rustle from the small room where Stewart lay sleeping. Hubert did not like to sleep in there. The space was too hard to protect. Not enough room to maneuver in case some evil appeared, some toothed creature looking for food. And Stewart tossed and turned while he slept.

  Hubert felt better in a chair, or on the rug, where the moonlight could find him.

  He blinked his eyes.

  That person who is Stewart needs to be in a pack—our pack. But he does not know it. I think he wants that, but then maybe he doesn’t. He’s like a dog that runs from other dogs. That is not the way things should be. I may not be a smart dog, but I know what I know. I know that good dogs should be part of the pack. That is the way the force of nature wants it to be. And it is more than just nature. More powerful. More everywhere and always. But I am just a dog and do not have words for everything in my heart.

  That person Lisa smells like flowers. She wants to be part of us. She understands that.

  Hubert stirred a little, readjusting his back legs.

  But Stewart is not sure. Maybe someone hurt him, too. But all I can do, because I am a dog, is to protect him. Maybe that person Lisa will know what to do. But I will do what a good dog can do. And what a good dog should do. That much I know. That much I am sure of.

  He held his eyes shut even though he heard the swooping of an owl outside.

  I like owl creatures. They look funny. With big eyes.

  He sighed deeply.

  And they know. They are very aware.

  Just before Hubert drifted off to sleep, one more thought came to be.

  I know that I should stop taking those bones,but what if the Stewart person runs out of food? It is good to have bones stored in case of hunger. Having extra food is good, even if Stewart was not happy the last time I brought one home. Maybe he will see it is a good thing, too.

  Hubert’s breathing grew deep and rhythmic.

  To be part of a pack. That is the right and good and best thing to be. Stewart will have to find that truth. And I will do what a dog can do to make that happen.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  LISA STOPPED just for a moment, just by the door to her apartment, and texted Stewart “Good morning,” then ran down the steps and into her car. She checked her phone again, this time for the time.

  I’m almost late. If I get the green light at Maple, I’ll be fine.

  The Wired Rooster was too small to have a complicated and expensive time clock, so employees were on their honor, more or less, to start and stop at the correct, preapproved times. And Lisa took pride in being on time, in never slipping out a few minutes early, even though her shift manager did cut a few minutes off his workday all the time, brazenly and without any apparent regret.

  She busied herself with her setup tasks for the morning, putting up two sheaths of paper cups, filling the appropriate slots with lids and sleeves, making sure the sugar and sweetener bins were full, filling the metal containers with milk and half-and-half—all the sort of things that most customers took for granted.

  As she worked, a few sleepy customers wandered in, looking ruffled and a bit disoriented. Robert, her shift partner most mornings, was able to handle their simple orders without any help.

  “Black coffee.”

  “Coffee with cream.”

  “Coffee with cream and sugar.”

  As the morning progressed, customer orders became progressively more complicated, as in “a double decaf shot, no-fat, no whip, caramel, iced, two-story latte, with room for milk.”

  Early is easy, later is complicated. Like life, I guess.

  As she worked, she began to replay her conversation with her mother over and over in her mind. Lisa attempted to find a context for her mother’s nearly overwhelming anxiety. Lisa was well aware that her mother had suffered in a cruel marriage for over a decade, leaving her husband, Lisa’s father, when Lisa was only six. And as a young girl, Lisa was not fully aware of the pain a bad marriage, a bad partnership, created, and the long-term ripples of caution and heartache it caused.

  Maybe she is right…that I should wait. I should make sure. I should have waited before—but I was sure we were in love. Love and sex. Sex and love. They’re confusing.

  She arranged the yellow packets of artificial sugar in the small metal bin.

  Maybe I’m just hearing the ticking clock…but I have a long time for that. Maybe not as long as I think, but I have time. Another twenty years, right? Or is it fifteen, now? They say to be safe, all of those choices should be made by the mid-thirties. So that leaves at least ten years.

  She took a spray bottle and began to clean the inside tables. It was still too chilly for anyone to sit outside in the morning. The afternoon shift could clean off the tables outside when it was warm enough to do so.

  Most of my friends from school are married. Some with kids already. Some with two and three kids already. And here I am in Wellsboro, single and without a career.

  She took a broom and swept the sidewalk outside, to get any stray leaves or paper that appeared overnight.

  Am I sure he believes? That’s what my mother keeps insisting on. “Make sure that the two of you are on the same page spiritually.” Mark and I weren’t. Mark was a big mistake. I was so sure he was the one. He made everything sound so good—and he was a liar. We went too far. Too far and too fast.

  She closed her eyes for a moment.

  But that is water under the bridge, right? Time to move on. Time to hit the restart button.

  She stopped sweeping and looked down Main Street. Traffic remained light. Wellsboro was a small town,
after all, and traffic never became congested, not really.

  My mother has been alone since I was six. She made one mistake and is still paying for it. I don’t want that to happen to me. Maybe it’s better to be safe. I don’t want to be sorry. One scare was enough.

  The e-mail was only two lines long, but Lisa was ecstatic.

  “The last article was great. Keep it up—you’ll be working in Pittsburgh in no time.”

  The e-mail came from Heather Orlando.

  In Pittsburgh.

  The Heather who was on television.

  On Pittsburgh television—on a real news show.

  She must be getting the paper in the mail—or is reading it online. This is great. She knows who I am—and what I can do. Wow.

  Customers at the Wired Rooster confirmed Miss Orlando’s evaluation. Without a single dissenting opinion, Lisa had collected dozens of kudos after each article appeared.

  “Makes the Gazette almost worth reading.”

  “You’re really funny. Why are you working here?”

  Indeed. Why?

  “Are you going to work for the paper full time? You should.”

  Besides the congratulations, another group of customers acknowledged seeing the article, and they left it at that.

  “Saw your thing in the paper.”

  “I liked the picture of that dog. He’s a cutie.”

  “They hiring here?”

  At least that’s better than saying they hated it.

  Lisa decided if she was going to be an actual reporter, she needed to do some real reporting.

  The Hubert story is really cute. But I probably need to show more depth than just cute.

  That afternoon she returned to her apartment, changed into more business appropriate attire, put fourteen dollars of gas in her car, and headed to Lewisburg, some seventy-five miles to the south.

  She had called the number of the now shuttered dog rescue organization and heard an electronic voice announce that the phone number was no longer in service. The Web site was still operational, and from that she found the names of the two co-directors. She looked up their personal phone numbers, and addresses, but rather than call, she decided to investigate in person. She carried her notepad and pictures of Hubert, as well as one of Bargain Bill Hoskins.