He flushed and nodded his thanks.
I dressed the dog in his new collar and leash and we left the house.
“I don’t have a checking account,” Sam informed me as we walked to his car. “So I brought all my money with me. In my pocket.”
Shocked, I stopped in my tracks. “Sam! You could lose it!”
He opened the rear door to the Cadillac and I spread the usual green towel across the backseat before the dog jumped in. “I didn’t know how long I’d be living here,” he replied, a little bit defensive, “so I thought cash is the best way to go.”
“I guess,” I relented. “But maybe you could open a checking account today. That should give you immediate access when you need it.”
“I need it now.” He opened the car door for me like a gentleman.
I sighed and got in. “I would worry about walking around with a lot of money.”
“I won’t be walking around for long; I’m going to spend it on a car,” he said, getting in on the driver’s side.
We would stop at the Galley first, where I would make sandwiches and pack them in a cooler for our lunch, then visit Town Hall to get a license for the dog, then drive to Wellfall, the nearest town—about forty-five minutes away—that had a car dealership. Sam was hoping for a good deal on a slightly used truck. A white one, he thought. Or silver-gray.
“All finished with pink?” I teased.
“Oh yes, ma’am,” he replied emphatically. “Pink never really did much for me.”
* * *
Shay was working hard in the Galley when we got there. There was a line of customers, Fleeties and tourists, all waiting for egg sandwiches or cold cuts or coffee to go, or to leave orders for my next batch of homemade bread. Shay rolled her eyes at me. “Great crowd this morning. I should have brought my roller skates.”
“How are you feeling?” I whispered to her, slipping behind the counter and putting on my apron.
“Well, I didn’t puke on any of the customers yet, so things are good.”
“Well, hello, Aila.” It always felt good to be greeted by customers who were locals. They were my family, of sorts, annoying, prying, demanding, and affectionate. Sam was standing at ease, hands clasped behind him, his back against a row of shelves while he faced the front door. They eyed him with curiosity. I knew his presence was going to unleash a barrage of questions. One Fleetie after another quietly apprised him as they walked out the door. They reminded me of the seagulls who patrol the beaches, swooping down, ready to snatch up any crumb of information available. I made sandwiches, poured coffee, sold T-shirts, stamps, newspapers, and eggs. Took several requests for my bread and made a dozen promises that I would start the summer off with my homemade iced tea/pomegranate juice drink. We finally managed to get everyone gone.
“I will be back here as soon as I’m finished,” I promised Shay. “We’re getting the dog a license and Sam a new car.”
“Good idea,” she said. “That dog is going to need a license before he borrows the car.”
I grabbed a cooler, really a small insulated bag that we sell, filled it with ice, and set about making lunch, the Sandwich, one for each of us. Sam watched with great interest.
“I know,” I said to him. “It’s crazy. We speak of it with great respect. The Sandwich! It just kind of grew into this, but we love it, don’t we, Shay?”
“Unh,” Shay replied breathily, her face paling before she rushed off to the bathroom.
“She’s pregnant,” I explained to Sam. “I think the combination is too much for her.”
“I think it’s genius,” Sam said. “But would you mind adding roasted red peppers?”
* * *
I lied to the town clerk.
Twice.
“Hello, Aila, thought you might be coming in,” Mrs. Hummings greeted me as soon as I pushed through the glass doors into the License Office. “Heard from Mrs. Skipper you got a new dog.”
I wasn’t the least bit surprised that before the week was out dear old, feeble Mrs. Skipper had mustered the strength to pull on her little white orthopedic shoes and hustle herself down to Town Hall to lodge a complaint.
Mrs. Hummings reached toward a stack of blue papers and slipped one off the top. “DOG LICENSE,” it read. She placed it on the glass-covered counter between us.
“Yeah, he sort of found me,” I said. I had left the dog waiting in the car with Sam. “Is there a problem? I mean, we’re allowed to own dogs, right?”
“Of course you are,” she said. “It’s just that Mrs. Skipper had voiced some concerns.” She flashed me a sympathetic smile. “She mentioned something about passing an ordinance against allowing certain breeds within town limits. She was very worried about public safety.”
“He’s not any sort of a threat,” I protested, putting the papers I had gotten from the veterinarian—his health certificate and confirmation of a rabies shot—on the counter.
She picked up a pen and wrote my name and address in capital letters on the top line of the application, then looked up at me. “Sex?”
“Male.”
“Neutered?”
“We have an appointment.”
She frowned. “The fee for a male who still has his . . . dangles is thirty-five dollars. If you get them cut off within two weeks, you get a rebate of fifteen dollars. So it’s a bargain.”
I smiled back, deciding not to comment that the surgery for dangle removal, though very necessary, probably cost over one hundred dollars, not quite the bargain.
“Age?” she asked.
“About eighteen months.”
“Hmm,” she said, glancing at my papers. “I see your veterinarian wrote ‘mixed’ on the breed line.”
A chill ran through me. “Yep,” I lied. “He’s just an ordinary mixed breed.”
“Odd. Mrs. Skipper suggested he might be a certain breed,” she said. “And usually the vet can make a good guess just by looking. We like to keep statistics on our dog population.”
I was sure the vet’d had very little trouble figuring out what breed of dog has a head shaped like a toolbox, with one triangle ear cut in half, a jackhammer muzzle, the body of a sumo wrestler, narrow, sad almond-shaped eyes, all of it topped off by a square red nose that perfectly matched his red fur, and I was grateful for her discretion. Once the breed was committed to paper, it could leave the dog open to all kinds of unfair rules and regulations. The sad thing about pit bulls is that people are never made aware that they are gentle, highly intelligent dogs, intensely loyal and faithful, and, despite having been the victims of some of the cruelest treatment a human could perpetuate upon another living creature, still find it in their hearts to trust and love.
“Does he look like a certain kind of dog?” Mrs. Hummings asked gently, pen poised.
“A lot of dogs look like a certain kind of dog,” I said, my anxiety mounting, “but they can be total mixes of certain other kinds of dogs.”
“But,” she pointed out, “there are certain kinds of dogs that are . . . you know what, and certain other kinds of dogs that aren’t.” I knew we were talking in code about pit bulls.
“He’s just a mixed kind of dog,” I said. “How can anyone know what a stray dog’s grandmother was?” I was hoping this wouldn’t lead into grandma territory.
“Yes,” she said, and sighed. “That’s very true. Does he have a name?”
“Not yet,” I said.
I think she was disappointed that I hadn’t given away his breed by naming him the usual pit-bull name like Killer, or Slash, or Mongo.
“Thirty-five dollars, please,” she said. “And he should have a name so we can register him.”
I paid the fee.
“Don’t forget, you get money back when he gets his dangles off,” she said, stamping the license and handing it to me. “Dangles always cost more.” I quickly stuffed the paper into my pocket and headed for the door. “But,” she called after me, “I would be very careful, dear, keeping certain dogs around!”
“Oh yes, indeed,” she said. “Certain dogs make very good guardians. You have a lovely day now.”
I was almost out the door when she hailed me again. “Oh, Aila!” I whirled around. What more could she possibly want?
“Please save me a loaf of that pecan-cranberry bread you make.”
I promised her I would and left, practically vaulting down the Town Hall steps, using the tip of my crutch as the launch, to reach the waiting Cadillac. The dog was asleep, stretched across the backseat. Sam looked at me expectantly as I let myself into his car and sat down.
“So how did it go?” he asked. “Did you have any problems?”
“Nope,” I crowed, taking the license from my pocket and waving it jubilantly in the air. “The dog is legal.”
Chapter 10
They looked like a herd of cattle dozing quietly in the sun, the cars, new and used, docile, with big round, clear eyes, side-view mirror ears, patiently lined up in the parking lot of the Wellfall dealership waiting to be moved on out. Window signs promised fast deals, the best prices, easy loans, low interest rates, and the friendliest salespeople in town. Not wanting to intrude, I let Sam go ahead, into the gleaming showroom, while I stayed outside with the dog. Even though he was legal now, there was no point in testing his limits.
I watched through the glass doors as Sam entered the large window-lit room, checking it out before walking up to two lustrous new models parked in the center of the floor. He ran his hand over them appreciatively, opening doors to examine the interiors, smiling with appreciation. He looked happy and relaxed, his usual serious expression gone. It was a pivotal moment for him, I knew. He was buying his first car since he lost his leg. It bespoke of his first move toward independence and almost normalcy.
The salesman was over immediately. He was maybe in his fifties, with thinning gray hair in a comb-over, and bushy white brows. He eyed Sam’s cane, then grabbed Sam’s hand and shook it firmly. They spoke, both of them gesturing and smiling. Sam touched his pocket and said something, which made the salesman’s smile even broader, and I knew Sam was explaining about the money. They spoke some more; the salesman left for a moment and returned, holding up a set of keys. Then he led Sam out through the doors—I watched as Sam’s eyes flicked left to right and back again while he barely moved his head before he stepped into the parking lot.
“We’re going to look at some trucks!” Sam called over to me, his voice lilting with exhilaration. “Why don’t you come?”
He introduced me as a good friend, and the salesman and I shook hands. The salesman gave the dog a questionable glance and I explained that he was well behaved. We all followed the salesman to a silver-gray truck, only two years old, parked four rows back.
The price seemed fair, and Sam spent some time exploring its features, looking more pleased with each passing minute. He was offered a test drive and left the lot driving slowly and carefully. He didn’t need assistance to drive since the truck was an automatic and was easily operated by his good leg—I doubt if the salesman even knew that Sam had a prosthetic leg. The look on Sam’s face when he returned told me it was a deal.
We were led back inside. Sam waved me in front of him, but the salesman hesitated for a moment.
“I don’t know if we can have that dog in here,” he said. “He looks sick.”
“He’s a rescue,” I explained. “He’s healing from some health issues.”
“Oh!” the salesman replied. “Rescue? Does he work for the police department?”
“That’s not—” I started, but Sam spoke over me with a loud, “Yes.” We were ushered inside and offered bottles of water.
The paperwork was next. The salesman seated himself at a large wooden desk topped with a wedding photo and several pictures of smiling children. He gestured to a chair. Sam parked his cane against the desk and pulled the chair closer to the wall before sitting down, his prosthetic leg stretched out to the side. I took another chair. The dog lay down next to me. Sam cracked open the bottle of water and took an appreciative drink. The salesman reached into a drawer and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “We can do everything right from this showroom,” he assured Sam. “License plates, registration. Just give me the name of your insurer. We can have you in that truck by tomorrow.”
“Great!” Sam pulled the envelope of money from his pocket and a piece of paper with information from Miss Phyllis’s insurance company. He started counting and sorting the money into piles. “Cash,” he stated.
“We take anything,” the salesman said jocularly. His pen was poised over the small pile of papers. “Name?”
“Sarim Ahmadi,” Sam replied. It sounded musical.
The salesman looked up at him. “What?”
“Sarim Ahmadi,” Sam spelled it out, then added, “But everyone calls me Sam.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“My father is from Jordan, and I was raised there,” Sam answered. “It’s Muslim. I am Muslim.”
The salesman studied the documents on his desk, his face suddenly gone grave. He shook his head, as though he had just discovered something in particular on one of the papers. “Oh. Well. I can’t sell you the truck,” he announced.
Sam leaned forward, confused. “Is it my credit?” he asked.
“You don’t need credit to pay cash,” I said to him, not sure what the salesman was getting at.
Sam sat straight up in his chair, a quizzical expression wrinkling his features. The dog sat up, too, just in case. “Why not?”
The salesman looked as though someone had pressed his pause button for a moment; his face went blank and his eyes fluttered. He stood up, his swivel chair rolling back a few feet from his effort. He seemed confused. He shot a questioning look across the floor to another salesman who was on the phone, then looked back at Sam. “We just can’t sell you the truck, is all.”
Sam stood, too. They were facing each other now, the desk between them. “You didn’t give me a reason,” Sam said evenly.
The salesman took a step back, allowing the fingers on his hands to flare open defensively. He took a deep breath. “Policy,” he said, looking from Sam to the dog and back to Sam. “We don’t sell to Muslims. What if you take the truck and send it overseas to ISIS? Especially a truck! It’s like I potentially sold it to the enemy!”
Sam’s large frame dwarfed the salesman; he leaned toward him a bit, his face flushed with fury. I could hear his lungs tightening with each ragged breath. I saw the rage in his eyes, a sudden glow, like the hint of a comet arriving in the sky, uncertain of its path just yet. “What?” he said in deadly, noisy breaths. “What?”
The dog was suddenly nervous, picking up on Sam’s emotion and started whining. I felt him tug very lightly on his leash and I pulled him back.
Sam leaned over the desk, resting on his broad palms. “I am a veteran,” he said loudly, his voice quivering with rage. “I fought for this country.”
The salesman shrugged. “You know the political climate,” he said. “You know how things are now. We have to be very careful about what we do and say.” He pulled a drawer open and dropped the papers in. “I’m sorry. It’s the manager’s decision.” He turned away as though the matter was closed. “Thank you for coming in.” I could see that his hands were shaking.
“I am buying that truck!” Sam thundered, then was bent in half by a deep, rumbling cough.
“Get your manager,” I said to the salesman. “This can’t be legal.” Sam pulled his shoulders straight, as though he were going to march across the desk. His lips were set in a grim line. I knew he was embarrassed, which was further fueling his anger.
“I am paying cash, and I am buying that truck!” Sam repeated. The dog glowered at the salesman.
“Listen, we don’t even know where you go
t the cash from,” the salesman said, sotto voce, as though the shameful deed of Sam having saved his money for years should be kept a secret. “My manager is out today. It’s not my decision.”
I stood up and took a deep breath. I was beginning to feel my scalp tingle. Sam had rolled his hands into two large, tight fists. The dog watched him intently. I worried that things could go south very quickly.
“Good boy,” I quietly murmured. “Sit like a good boy.” He ignored me. He knew.
I tried another tactic. “Sam, we can come back another time to talk to the manager.” He ignored me, too.
“Please leave,” the salesman asked. “We just don’t serve Muslims here.” He looked around the dealership as if for confirmation. “I can’t do anything about it. I am trying to protect my country,” he added stiffly. The dog was giving him the stink eye.
“I just want to buy the truck and then we’ll leave,” Sam said. I could see he was trying to control himself, trying to control his breathing and keep his lungs open, trying to be reasonable in a situation that was beyond reason. “Let’s just get it done.”
“Sorry. I can’t,” the salesman said. “It wouldn’t be right.” Sam slapped the desk hard in frustration and the dog released a cavernous pit-bull power bark.
“I am asking you to leave before I make a phone call,” the salesman said.
“To the police?” I interjected. “You planning to file a complaint that a customer came in here to buy a truck?”
“We have to be very careful in this day and age,” he replied loftily, putting his hand meaningfully on his desk phone. “They’re all gonna get registered, those people, and the authorities will want to know where he got the truck from.”
The veins were bulging in Sam’s neck as he fought to control himself. His lips were set in a straight line and he was clenching his jaw so tightly I could hear his teeth grind together. The salesman backed up a few steps, looking worried. Suddenly Sam swept the phone off the desk; it landed on the floor with a half ring.
“I don’t want a fight.” The salesman put his hands up to his face.
“Damn you!” Sam grabbed the back of the chair he had been sitting in and pushed it hard. It flew across the floor, skidding along the gleaming ice-like tile and slamming into a wastebasket, tipping it over and disgorging its contents of shredded paper. The dog started barking wildly at it, his voice rolling deep from his throat. I pulled on the leash; it was like pulling against a cement wall.
And All the Phases of the Moon Page 6
