The Uncollected Stories of Allan Gurganus

by Allan Gurganus

  Now the man flips off his loafers, lobs each in turn along the only crooked route ashore. He tries to find any beach rock not so large that, if tossed, might brain his struggling pet. First the man whips his belt free and knots it, heaves. Finally he peels off his silver diver’s watch and, after dangling this to make it appear tempting as some tinned food, underhands it within sixteen feet of the dog’s frothing snout.

  Last thing, the man pulls out his wallet. He sprinkles cards on stones then shot-puts his whole billfold into the Atlantic. Massed keys, pulled from a pocket, he lifts, weighs, pauses, keeps.

  At last, the man, with nothing left to throw, notices a wooden shipping crate wound in a tangle of yellow nylon line. He yanks that up, pebbles flying, judging its strength between two hands. Some spots prove rotten. But three lengths hold firm as he knots these fast. He tosses a free-end toward her and, at once understanding, she trusses line around her narrow hips. The woman lanyards it under both arms then leans back. Half sitting, she is getting steadied on the largest angled rock near shore.

  He loops roping under either armpit, cinches it about his chest, leaving ten feet free as he dives. When the man finally bobs up, mouth gaping, hair flat, he immediately turns, despite himself, looks back at her. Gasping, he seems to take one last glance at her. For strength? And to inform her how goddam cold it is. She already knows.

  She hunkers back, braced against the rock. She keeps the frayed line out before her bare extended legs, one bleeding at the ankle. Yellow roping, being light enough to float, stays visible within the surface of most heaving swells. Somehow that line—a plan to fix upon—allows the dog one stray kick, now two, alternating either numbed rear-leg. Front-paws return to their cartoony paddle-wheeling nowhere.

  The man, now roped to her, heads out as far and fast as possible. A strong swimmer, he speeds at first, knowing that the time he might survive such cold is rationed. While he can, he gives it everything. His downstroking right hand grips the line’s unbraiding end. It’s not that he expects the Lab to bite this rope then clamp there like some show dog. It’s more how the sight of it, something almost the color of a rawhide chew-toy, might let the creature jolt free of his frozen sidelong drift. The nearby floating terns and gulls, not uninvolved, give off limp cries—the interest of anything alive observing anything else alive in far worse trouble.

  Three minutes more, the man has finally made it to the dog. The creature tries at once to climb onboard him. The man laughs with the joy of contact while fighting not to take in water. He catches the beast around his neck to keep him submerged if with his head free. The trick now seems to be getting this line through that red collar sogged black.

  Inland, backward she tilts. Then, hand-over-hand with all the might left her, she pulls toward herself what rope she’s able to attach; the rest she doubles under arms, binds around her chest. Sometimes she’ll release a foot or more but, stern and motherly in motion, she tightens it at once. Line playing through her clawed right hand first chafes then burns toward bleeding till the yellow rope’s discolored.

  It is ugly, these two fighting a trussed dog ashore. The dog’s tongue hangs loose, looks huge, beef-colored out there. Ugly how current keeps pulling man and dog aside then back. Just to suck in air enough, each gives a sound like barking. The man scissor-kicks, amateur, frantic, but never still. He presses his face, for warmth, maybe courage, against the dog’s loose neck. He must be screaming at it baby-talk as they come so slowly forward.

  On her back against rocks, she herself might be dead. She has square-knotted scratchy rope around her waist. Now she reverses the field, leans back to make one fierce spinal pivot for support. Reeling her males in, hand-over-wrist, letting out line then yanking it tighter, she, laid flat, must splay aside her own bare feet. Only that way can she even see them. Just their feeling her line’s intermittent tautening concentrates them. Why this faith? Because of one filament? Somehow the color yellow has a sort of magic.

  At first the dog battles both salt water and his rescuer. But simply being touched again works on him like a drug. The beast’s heaviness, even as his front-half tries to help, makes joint-floating so much harder. The man must finally slide behind and simply push, shouldering the old form forward while himself choking and cajoling, cursing encouragement in odd coughs and lavish spittings.

  Times she loses track of them. Flattened, staring up, she must fight to prepare herself for one great swell when all their weight slides off her line. What then? As for her pulling, his pushing—their eventually getting the dog even close to one flat rock angled under four feet of ocean and finally ashore—how could it happen? Except by will, three animal wills. It would seem unaccountable, though we are all somehow watching it occur. How long has this taken? How many months of their lives have they just used in helping save a pet already ancient with dog-years? Will a beast so old, this savagely tested, even live much longer? Does that matter? The Lab has snapped out of his own terror. He has left his own permission to surrender. Fear has been granting all of them a list of perfect reasons to give way. She struggles now to stand, finds she is so tired that, half-laughing, she must use as ballast her own twelve-pound head; so crisscrossed is she with rope, so hostaged to this rock and rescue. Saving is the only thing. Headfirst she rises onto knees at least and, from here, can rein in the last of their rope, the final hardest eight feet.

  In the end there’s no explaining how the three of them became one single homely unit. Look, it is now panting, cleaving to this outermost rock. Soon as the Lab—now appearing more a varnished black catfish than anything big-boned with legs—soon as he is pulled up panting onto rocks, the dog vomits his morning’s bribing meal. Gulls gather, wings among and atop these three. This time no survivor swats at birds. Let them.

  The old creature wheezing on his side—looks half perished—but, tended to from either end, shows one wet tail now thrashing stones. Helpless, faith! One tail, beating, leaves black marks printed score-like on a few dry pebbles. The laughing man and woman salute this independent appendage. His wagging somehow makes these people heave themselves once more against their beast for warmth. The people are barefoot, with nails gone blue, their beautiful clothes darkened by salt and clotted with grit and sea-kelp and their own inglorious snot. You see a single creature-mound. It could have washed onto any beach. It appears one bulbed, joined, gulping thing. It occasionally raises one hand to pat some far fond part of itself. Once, a thin arm, purple with rope-burn and a banded ivory-white to show where gold has been, pulls aside a man’s shirt. One finger traces the long open gash from shoulder to neck. All from a rock once shied at him long-ago. Then everything fuses. Clutching at dog collar, at whatever bits of cloth they can grab up from each other, faces averted, propped partly upright, these people neither cry nor smile. They simply rest here with one dog—consoling-consoled—between them.

  If a chartered plane still waits, if some squad of white-coated Harvard doctors expects to gather soon, all that must keep for another day, or week, or month.

  It took the couple more than fifty minutes to get sitting then finally standing. First the man, pinching up plastic cards like clamshells from the shore, made it barefoot all the way to their car. He went stepping with goat-like tenacity, cutting his soles but not daring study damage till all of it was done.

  He brought back some of her packed clothes to use as towels and bandages. He brought the good old Indian blanket. He and the woman both ministered to their dog, rubbing, reviving, warming him in ways first medical then comical then both.

  The man pointed, one mile into the Atlantic: the sunlight now fastened onto thirty square feet of green swells, sunlight shot full of gold, seemed about to make this spot the most beautiful on earth then opted against. Cloud-cover once more. As the sun faltered then revived, waves roared louder as if complaining as at the loss of them. This close, they saw the dog all wrapped, a fat papoose in its bright Indian blanket, just his two shiny brown eyes showing, blinking … on purpose. Clo
wning again and therefore alive.

  The man carried the retriever first. Then he came back for her. Their car had somehow independently become a quarter mile up-beach. You could see how tired she was. She hobbled in a weaving almost-drunken way. He had to help drag her worst leg over larger rocks. Finally, though he feared breaking something already-jeopardized inside her, the man just lifted his friend. Tired as he was, he advanced like some stilted seabird, short enervated rushes forward, long wavery halts.

  The wind had gotten colder. The surf itself was black now. Day had run its course. The yellow rope, uncoiled, had drifted tangled half-a-mile-out. Rope seemed some stand-in checkmark, unwinding offshore, already half-lost knot-by-knot into riptide.

  Soon as their car-engine started, he switched on headlights, flicked these up to brights. It’d be hours till official sunset. But who could blame his overcompensation, his superstition, maybe his faith?

  Then, blessed with the same four-wheel drive that brought them way out here, they left these rocks far faster.

  No trace of their struggle remains. No sign of their lifesaving, their tossing things into the sea, their clearing these cold stones of nor’easter’s storm-trash. Such blood or vomit as just fell from them? already gull-eaten, salt-neutered, immediately wind-gnawed to nothing. The terns and gulls have gone back to swimming as usual, just this side of undertow. Birds are feasting now on many small silver fish jumping to avoid black suction there.

  Something is thrown. We retrieve it, without knowing quite what’s been offered. The harder that proves to reach, the more we feel we need it. Out after it we go.

  You’ve endured this blue-pebbled beach. You have just witnessed which drenched creature survived it, by how much. You were promised that. Now you have it. Can you feel this ending? Can you feel how eventually we will? Even you? Oh well …

  Wonder what happened to that couple and their dog.

  We never even learned their names.

  Never really heard them speak.

  Did she get to live?

  None of that is known.

  This is not that kind of story.

  It’s the kind that has a happy ending you know is not the fullest happy ending but must pass for one.

  The end.

  High tide has come.

  Their beach is underwater.

  THE DELUXE $19.95 WALKING TOUR OF HISTORIC FALLS (NC) —LIGHT LUNCH INCLUSIVE

  I DEARLY DESPISE BEING late and yet here I am, three minutes behind my time. Uncharacteristic and one mighty poor example for you youngsters. Your patience is much appreciated, and aren’t you a lovely, varied crowd? Big group, too, for my first day back!

  As you likely know, you’ve turned up in historic downtown Falls, North Carolina. Our trek will soon involve some strolling. No worry. If a lady of my “vintage” can hike it in heels, even the biggest of you will do fine. I won’t gallop. There’s simply too much to see and say on this my return to history and the world.

  Some call ours a town that time’s forgotten. But I have not.

  I am a volunteer docent, meaning every cent of your ticket goes to preservation. And doesn’t our Courthouse Square look handsome in this morning light? See those cannons? the city finally varnished them. I had to nag our mayor. Children, to prove my tours are real educational: the plural of “cannon” is “cannon.” Gather closer, please. And disarm all cell phones. These next few minutes I want to be your favorite form of modern communication. “Founded in 1824, the …”

  Right off, we’ve a teeny problem: These little barefoot girls up front are visibly texting. Yes, you. (Thank you for looking up.) You’re walky-talky-ing each other, right? Doubtless chatting about old me and Falls, even older. —Girls, how do you think that makes us feel?

  Might any adult present be willing to take responsibility for these two? Well, could you at least stand between them or help them to hang up? Others have come on purpose—my first day back from the edge—come to hear some actual Hist’ry. Not those clicking speedy little thumbs. —Fine. Nothing personal, all right? Everybody feel ready to move? —It’s this way, actually.

  My name, as some may know, is Mrs. Evelyn du Pre Wells. Born and bred two blocks from here, on Summit. I’ve always claimed first dibs on you, our Full-Deluxe $19.95 visitors. You’re a finer class of listener than those who only pay for our $4.95. As we walk, we’ll encounter Falls’ dead and living, politicians and sculptors from centuries past, persons white and black. And you know what all these achievers have in common? They would’ve shelled out the $19.95. —Humor, you see.

  Founded in 1824, Falls—known for the purity of its tobacco and its curative River Lithium—still plays host to sixteen churches. Our township produced one minor sculptor, a major general and several beauties of national note. Could be we’re more famous for those who perished here than ones we midwifed into being. The Civil War’s oldest surviving soldier expired, not three homes from my family’s, be 1940. When that war ended, the boy was still a private. But, thanks to inherited property, his pushy little wife, and the man’s own narrative imagination promoted by time, he died with the rank of “captain.” And here, solely as footnote … may I mention how today’s stroll through history feels important to my own?

  After the slightest recent medical setback, I’m fit as a fiddle and raring to go. After my Edmund’s funeral, Falls noted I’d become housebound, unusually silent. Town offered me this small late-life career. Since then, thanks to my research and a certain grit, I’ve become Falls’ most-asked-for guide. How? you ask. Oh, it’s not just the social preeminence. —Though, there is that.

  No, this work takes a certain kind of brain. Narrative imagination. I don’t simply recite history. I interpret. Or “interrupt,” as my middle-aged daughter jokes. “Mother is a licensed ‘historic interrupter,’” my girl told her best book group. They all laughed. So I had to. But do you see so much as a clipboard in my hand? I know my stuff. Born here to the town’s best, I am the stuff. Local doubters have hinted how—with me so lately under the weather—I am still not “ready.” But we’ll show them, won’t we?

  —Maybe form a loose line? and here our more directed walking starts. No, I repeat, dears, more this way. Yes, Falls is tiny but, as Blake hinted, the universe exists in a grain of sand. Your immersion in all that our village implies will be followed by some lovely chicken salad. It’s served at our best (actually only) bistro, Sally’s on the Square. Sally she’s a cousin. You won’t soon forget her chicken’s surprise seasoning. Trade-secret. I naturally keep Cousin’s recipe safe up here, on trust. Please don’t ask. (Oh, I’ve had cash offers.)

  I see you two are certainly dressed for comfort—if you find navigating cobblestones in flip-flops relaxing! To be honest, during the $4.95 hikes, especially on overcast days, if their group acts glum or sounds too much from New Jersey? I let their walk “go short.” I call my ten-minute tour the Revised Standard Version. It naturally lacks the grandeur I intend for us today. My comeback is blessed with all this splendid June weather. Youall’re entitled to my whole King James seven-block sweep.

  Today will be personal. Mrs. Evelyn has far more than dates to share. You see, this is the first walking tour since my resurrection. Got your attention? I did have a slight episode. And I’ve come out the tunnel’s far end a whole new person. I’m back, but somewhat flipped-over, more sunny-side up. More … available, maybe more easily surprised. Today, everything old looks freshly varnished. Everything new’s gone antique-valuable. And vice-versa.

  Most persons believe History only means “Back Then.” Maybe that’s why it’s s’popular? Folks feel that—aside from hearing it—they can change nothing back there. But with me post-bed-rest, I see: History’s “Right Now.” Why, children, things can change in a second! Like, if I say “RIGHT NOW” again, see? Well, now we’re in a whole new place. A new and deeper time. I’m just making this part up but it still feels solid. Maybe what we call the Past is just back-issues of “RIGHT NOW”? But today, everything’s qu
ickened. Our town’s colors look pure as a Benjamin Moore sample-chart.

  I feel s’healthy. I want the whip-crack of history’s Now to live and burn for you, too, especially these dear youngsters. Pretty, that one. (The “Founded in 1824” script? Written by a sixth-grade teacher, charming girl, my late husband’s niece. But she herself sometime seems an enthused sixth-grader. No names. “Either names or tales. Never both,” Mother warned. Being a name myself, I always choose tales.)

  Falls doctors’ wives have been filling in for me during the prescribed two months’ recovering. Don’t think me ungrateful. But I am told certain ones constantly flee the Big topics—oh, race, litigation, embarrassments. Mrs. Evelyn says: History is embarrassments. What else, in toto, was our attractive if deluded Confederacy? Children, here’s an easy math problem. In 1860 there were fifty-six million Yankees, but just seventeen million Rebels (and five million of those were non-combatant slaves). Young’uns, guess which side was bound to win? Right you are! They should have asked you! Ooh, don’t get me started. Well, yes, my dear bright child, you already have.

  With my returning to the history game, expect some surprises. I know I do. When my truth’s too bluntly presented, I’ve encountered resistance. But, considering the size and importance of Belmont, my home on Summit Avenue, even if I grow overly candid, what are they going to do to me? My recent dustup with the mortal left my appetite for answers boiled far nearer the surface.

  Soon you’ll all be back on U.S. 301, bound south for Miami. Once there you can scatter Falls’ news to the four winds. But I? I remain. I am so old I can’t name a number vast enough to describe my great leaf-pile of years. You’ll never guess my age.

  No takers?

  Evelyn’s first day back and she draws a bunch of diplomats? So much for our next hour’s fun! But I do love having you young ones along. I once skipped like that little girl on the end. Oh, the joy of using double-energy to get not one step farther. Why, if I tried that today, I’d best first have medical help handy! Still, Little Evelyn remembers.