“Oh my goodness,” I exclaim. “Are you all right, little one?”
The puppy leaps into my arms. Its paw is injured and bleeding. I wash the blood off with water and tie my bandana around the paw to protect it. I look at the puppy’s face.
“You are adorable. What am I going to do with you?” The puppy licks my face and a bond is sealed, forever, whether I want it to be or not. I look at the peak of the mountain approximately two thousand feet away and then at the puppy. “Well, this is a first. I’ve never abandoned a climb, but I’m certainly not going to abandon you, now, am I.”
And with that, I turn around with the injured puppy in my arms and begin my descent. What I am about to discover is something not even the best business plan in the world could have predicted.
For the next five days, my sole focus is the puppy. I scour the newspapers’ Lost and Found sections and place an ad in a dozen newspapers and on several Internet sites. I check with multiple dog pounds but there seems to be no owner in sight. I take the puppy to the vet and have her dewormed and defleaed.
The vet says, “She’s a healthy puppy, mostly Border collie with some Lab. She was smart to find you.”
I gladly pay for all the necessary shots and licenses and nurse the puppy back to health with the best puppy food my credit card can buy. I buy Puppies for Dummies and house-train her in one hour. She promptly pees on tabloid journals on my outside patio. Having her pee on the FSJ would be sacrilegious for me and is therefore simply not an option. I am impressed by her quick-study. I buy her toys and play with her while trying to think of a name, even if it’s temporary. And yet, I realize I’m falling in love and that this puppy isn’t going anywhere. At least that’s what I think until my land-lord tells me no pets are allowed in the building.
I fill Sierra in on all the details of the past week, including the puppy. “The puppy sounds adorable,” says Sierra. “But do you want to give her away?”
I look at the black puppy rolling on her back with her head upside down, paws in the air, whimpering ever so slightly and staring at me.
“I can’t. She’s too cute. I’m puppy-whipped. You should see her right now, on her back with her paws in the air, pulling a Lassie and…”
“Is that all it takes to turn you into mush?” chuckles Sierra. “Look, there’s a real easy solution here. Give up the apartment and move into Uncle Sam’s cottage for a while, until you find yourself. If you get lost, call me. I’ll come over and tell you where you are.”
I can just see Sierra smiling on the other end of the line.
Once I make the decision, everything becomes quite easy. I give notice on my apartment lease. Eve helps me sell all of my possessions except for one duffel bag of clothes and one duffel bag of important paperwork. Then I take the puppy with me on my friend the red-eye to Michigan.
My father picks us up at the airport. Charlie gives me a big hug. “Welcome home, honey.” He quickly loads my two duffel bags inside the car, then stands back and gives us the once-over. “You look good. Lighter, Maddy. And that puppy’s a cutie-pie. What’s her name?”
“I finally came up with the name on the plane,” I say. “At first, I was going to call her Hepburn because inside the house she’s like Audrey and outside she’s like Katharine. But I finally settled on Siddhartha—Sid for short.”
Charlie smiles. “Is that because you two are on a journey to find Buddha together?”
“I don’t know about finding Buddha, Dad, but we’re definitely on a journey together. What we’ll find, I have no idea.”
“Oh, almost forgot,” he says. He reaches inside the car and pulls out a Financial Street Journal. “I brought you the paper.”
As he starts to hand it over to me, I leap backward, waving my hands in the air, and immediately shut my eyes, as if the paper has cooties. “Ohmigod! Please keep that away from me. In fact, throw it away. Please! I’m trying to kick the habit.”
Charlie cocks his head and then tosses the paper in a garbage can. “Okay,” he says. “This is a first. Shall we go?”
We pile into the car and leave the airport.
I calm down as Siddhartha squirms a little in my lap. “So, how is everyone?”
“Everyone’s fine. Your mother is telling stories at all the local schools and libraries now. Daniel still lives with us. He and Rebecca are still in limbo. Andy seems to be okay. Keating is getting bigger and bigger, and I convinced Daniel to get a teaching degree.”
“Is he doing it?”
“Reluctantly. Oh, before I forget, I turned the electricity and water back on at Uncle Sam’s cottage and had his car tuned up, so you’ll have your own transportation.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say as Siddhartha settles calmly into my lap now.
“I haven’t cleaned out his place completely. I gave his clothes to Goodwill. That’s all I’ve managed to do for now.”
When we reach Jackson, Charlie helps me get settled into Uncle Sam’s cottage on Clark Lake. We watch as Siddhartha frolicks in the water. She runs endlessly back and forth between the water’s edge and me, goading me into a game of tag.
“This is another first, someone with more energy than you,” says Charlie. “When you get your bearings, let me know and Mom and I will drive out here and take you to dinner, okay, hon?”
“Thanks again, Dad. I really appreciate it. But Sid and I are going to hole up for a while, so don’t expect to hear from me right away. Okay?”
“Take all the time you need.” He gives me a hug, gets in the car and drives away.
While Siddhartha cocks her head and lifts her ears to contemplate the difference between butterflies and ladybugs, I wander around Uncle Sam’s cottage, lightly touching the artifacts in the house and studying the books that line every wall. A faded red hardcover catches my eye. I pull it down off the shelf. It’s a book on rituals published in 1932. I take the book with me to the outside deck and plop into a chaise longue. Under a warm sun, I leaf through the book’s pages while keeping an eye on Sid.
The book identifies all kinds of rituals from the ordinary to the extraordinary, citing examples as involuntary as breathing or experiencing nature, to the more voluntary kind like creating a sacred space or private garden, making tea and conversation, to bathing, walking, writing, cooking, doing a chore, giving a gift and even making love. The book also lists the act of storytelling and honoring the past as rituals. There is a separate chapter on rituals as rites of passage that include religious confirmations such as bar mitzvahs, and the staples of birth, graduation, marriage, anniversaries and death.
The author points out a crucial common theme among all cultures—“the need to create tradition and practice it over and over again…so that ritual is a reinforcement of memory, the memory of knowing who you are.”
I close the book. “Okay, so if I repeat a custom, I’ll know who I am. But what is the definition of custom?” I look up. Siddhartha is gone. I leap up and wander the property calling out her name. I pass a faded white sailboat lying between the shed and the dock. Siddhartha’s black head pops up from inside the boat. Curiosity and mischief shine in her eyes. I smile, relieved. The boat elicits a flash from my past. I lick a finger and hold it in the air, testing the wind like I did as a kid. I nod to myself, and then clap my hands. “Come on, Siddhartha! We’re going sailing!”
Siddhartha practices walking the length of the boat while I clean it out, checking to make sure the mainsail and the rudder still work and that there is no damage to the hull. I change into my one-piece swimmer’s suit, pack a lunch for Sid and me, include an emergency kit, life preserver, tackle box and fishing rod, and set sail. Siddhartha stands perched at the helm excitedly taking in the experience for the first time, while I take in the process of renewal.
The little Sunfish does well as we explore Clark Lake. I teach Siddhartha how to sail, explaining my actions and stressing the importance of safety. She stares at me and wags her tail. What a good listener, I think.
“Did you kno
w that the Sunfish boat is the most widely sold sailboat in America?” I ask rhetorically. Siddhartha suddenly turns around, giving me her rear view while propping her front paws on the bow. “Sid, are you listening? This is important information,” I say. Siddhartha growls. I spot the log in front of us and steer the boat in the opposite direction. “Good going, Sid. You’re right. That was more important than knowing the market value of a Sunfish.”
We sail back to shore and I tie the boat up to the dock. Siddhartha leaps to solid ground. I pluck a daisy and place it on the bow of the boat, repeating the tradition from childhood. Placing my hands together in prayer, I say out loud, “Thank you, Sunfish, for showing us an afternoon filled with nature and for bringing us home safely.”
That evening, I make a fire in the living room’s stone fireplace. Siddhartha sleeps on the floor near my feet. I lounge on big floor cushions staring at the fire, thinking about the demise of Uncle Sam, Tara, Smitty, Mr. Haggerty, and even Lights Out. I start journaling the thoughts that roll through my head, writing down my memories of each one of them. I write for hours and hours until the fire burns out and I crash on the cushion with Siddhartha at my side.
The next day, I head to the local market to stock up on groceries and canned foods. I return to the cottage and fill up all the cabinets. I take the overflow of canned goods into the basement where Uncle Sam kept a storage bin of food and batteries in case of a tornado. I’m loading the bin when there’s a sudden loud commotion followed by Siddhartha’s whimpering. I drop the canned soup in my hand and run to the other side of the basement. I find Sid awkwardly trying to pull herself out from among piles of fallen debris from an old, unstable cabinet that she had obviously tampered with.
I take her in my arms to make sure she’s okay. She licks my face to say thanks. “What are you attempting to excavate, huh? Silly thing, you.”
I let her go. She scrambles away, continuing her archaeological rounds. I stand to dust myself off when Siddhartha prances back into view proudly carrying a tall, felt top hat in her mouth with the name Stansbury sewed on it. My mouth drops. “You found my hats!”
In silhouette against a setting sun, Siddhartha and I walk along the water’s edge. I wear the felt top hat and perform an odd combination of skips and hops for Siddhartha, who watches, bemused.
I match disjointed dancing with equally disjointed lyrics I created twenty-five years ago: “Oh, Stansbury! I’m struttin’ down the street! Feeling you with my feet! Oh, Stansbury, you got the beat! Of hometown love! Praise Stansbury forever!”
Siddhartha jumps up on me, excited to join in. I hold her front paws in my hands as we pivot together. “Okay, so I’m not a lyricist like Tara, or a singer. Sorry, Sid.” And I sing a reprise off-key again.
One day, I take Siddhartha on a walk along the outskirts of town. A row of newspaper machines startle me. I feel a compulsion to look, as if the Financial Street Journals inside were beckoning. I backpedal, trying to control the urge to buy one. But then I shift directions and sneak toward the row of papers, peeking at the headlines, confusing Siddhartha as she unwillingly performs yet another about face. I back up again, feeling an urge to sink my teeth into the meat of a front-page article. I take a deep breath and with all my might, pull away from temptation once and for all. Siddhartha faithfully trails behind me. As Sid and I round a corner, I come face-to-face with the local bowling alley. I stop, stare through its large plate-glass window and wonder.
My routine provides continuity. Long morning walks in the woods with Siddhartha, followed by intensive dog-obedience training, bowling practice, cleaning up the cottage, documenting Uncle Sam’s fishing lure collection, sailing in the afternoon with Siddhartha, fishing off the dock for dinner with Sid, and if that fails, heading to the cupboards for refueling. In the evenings, I follow all that up with readings from the works in the many bookcases, and writing in my own journal by the fireplace while Siddhartha sleeps.
One night during a thunderstorm, I’m reading and discover a passage where the author claims that only by caring for animals can man really know how to love himself and others. I look at Sid conked out on the couch next to me with her head upside down, front paws straight up in the air, back legs spread for that ever-desirable tummy rub. I gently rub her stomach.
I pull out my notebook and instead of recording my thoughts I start an old-fashioned handwritten letter to Victor.
Dear Adviser Winston,
I write to you from my native country of Michigan. The emotional armor I felt compelled to wear in the city has begun to evaporate here, allowing for a sense of perspective I have not had in years…if ever, where I can see that the quest for success has blinded me. I recognize a drive for approval, but from whom and why, I wonder. The addiction to work, compliments of a freelance life, has been replaced by a compulsion to find myself. Excavation is taking place on Clark Lake. I am, however, happy to tell you that I am determined to find my Self and have a good life, unlike a few of the unhappy CEOs I came to know through Lights Out. I do have some help on my journey…her name is Siddhartha. And I’m in love. Is it okay to have help on this journey if the companionship is humane, but not human?
Sincerely,
Advisee Banks.
P.S. Have not picked up a newspaper in two months, with exception of puppy potty-training purposes.
Days later, I’m ready to start seeing people again. I invite my parents to the cottage for dinner and to meet Siddhartha.
One look at Sid, and Eleanor is smitten. The two take an instant liking to each other. Eleanor plays with Sid like a grandchild, cooing and tossing her a toy. I show my parents the results of Sid’s recent education: sitting, lying down, rolling over and shaking on “hi five.”
“I think you two should go to dinner and leave Sid and me together here,” says Eleanor. “I’m sorry, but she’s just too precious.”
Charlie lifts a brow. “I think she’s serious.”
“Me, too. Come on, Mom. I promise to tell you Siddhartha stories on the way.”
Eleanor finally pulls herself away from Sid. “Okay, but if you ever need a dog-sitter, call me.”
I lock up the cottage and tell Sid we’ll see her later. Then Charlie, Eleanor and I pile into the car.
“Where are we going, Dad?” I ask.
“I thought I’d take you to the Eagle’s Nest.”
“Why is that familiar?”
“It’s where your dad and Sam went the night he passed away,” says Eleanor.
“Oh, right, seems like I’ve heard about it since then, though,” I say, realizing I left my black ribbon at the cottage.
Once seated inside the restaurant Charlie orders a merlot, Eleanor orders a pinot grigio and I order a cold local beer.
“So, dear,” says Eleanor, “what are you doing out here all by yourself ?”
“Licking my wounds and trusting that new bearings will arrive soon.”
“I still think it was a good business,” she adds.
“Mom…if you don’t mind, I’m on a business diet.”
“Well, this is a first. Honey, are you feeling all right?”
Charlie grins. “You sound like me now, Eleanor.”
The waitress returns. “Drinks are on the house.”
We all look surprised. “Why is that?” asks Charlie.
The waitress shrugs. “The bartender insisted.”
We all turn our heads. Standing behind the long well-worn wooden bar, nodding a warm hello, is Richard Wright.
I recognize him immediately and wave back. “That’s Richard Wright,” I tell my parents. “Uncle Sam’s friend who used to own the only local funeral home in town. He told me he was coming to work here but I forgot.”
Richard Wright appears at our table. “Hello, Madison, Mr. and Mrs. Banks.”
“Please, Charlie and Eleanor,” says Charlie.
“Thanks for the drinks,” I say.
“I always keep my promise, just like Sam did.” He smiles. “So what brings you to town
?”
“The business died….”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Real sorry.”
I try to stay off the business track. “Thanks. I’m staying at Uncle Sam’s for now.”
“Well, if you need anything at all while you’re up here, you call me. And if you need a job, or a reason to pass the time, I could use an extra hand behind the bar. Place gets pretty busy in the summers. You know how to pour?”
“Thanks, Richard. I’ll keep that in mind.”
We chitchat some more about local weather and how much we all miss Uncle Sam. I start to wonder if my chance meeting with Richard Wright is fortuitous and if his offer might be something I should seriously consider.
Sierra is the next person to arrive at the cottage a few days later. She gets out of her car and we hug each other, holding on tight. It is a long, heartfelt embrace until Siddhartha whines to get in on the action. Sierra sees the puppy and swiftly abandons our hug to kneel down next to Sid.
“Hey there, Siddhartha. You’re quite the pretty one, aren’t you.” Siddhartha tenderly places her paw on Sierra’s arm and licks her face.
“And smart, too.” I smile.
Sierra laughs. She pets Sid and looks up at me. “She’s got such a sweet disposition. You found a winner, Madison.”
“I didn’t find her. She found me.”
“Know what I think?” says Sierra, standing up now. “I don’t think she found you—I think she rescued you. Honestly, I’ve never seen you look better.”
“Really? Well, maybe we rescued each other. You look pretty wonderful yourself.”
“I brought you a present.” She pulls a Ziploc bag from her purse. “Homemade chocolate chip cookies.”
“Thanks,” I laugh. “This time I promise to eat every last one of them. Come on. Let’s go for a sail.”
The Funeral Planner Page 24
