by Sonny Brewer
“You know,” said a small-breasted woman with straight blond hair to the man beside her who nursed a draft beer in a mug, “you really should do something for that poor bird, Charles.”
“Certainly, Jen. And what do you suggest? A quick surgical procedure?” The other couple at their table chuckled. The woman, Jen, was not amused. Charles raised his mug and tilted it, draining the beer down his throat in a single long pull. He set the mug down heavily on the table, and raised two fingers in something like a Boy Scout oath gesture, his proper signal to the waitress that he wanted another beer.
“Must you always be such a jerk, Charles? I asked you a perfectly reasonable question. Is there nothing we can do for that poor bird?”
“No,” said Charles. “We’ll pretend we’re not here and allow the bird to do whatever the bird would do in nature, if, in fact, we were not here. Use your imagination to decide what that would be, Jen.”
That was as much as the burly man at my table listened to before slamming down his own beer mug with such energy that it got the attention of everyone on the deck. When he stood, his height commanded authority. No one looked away as Lou hard-booted to the steps that led down to the beach. His footfalls on the board stairs were solemn and heavy.
Out of the windshadow of the Pink Pony, the onshore breeze whipped Lou’s black-and-silver hair and beard. Several yards ahead of the marching Cajun, to his right and just at the water’s edge, the bird sat, not even moving when the foaming wave crawled up the beach toward it. Two other seagulls swooped down and congregated on either side of the wounded and disheveled one. The smaller of the two latecomers actually rushed the gull with its broken wing and when it tried to rise to flight it fell, fluttering. The other gull also approached as if to attack. I had never witnessed this kind of behavior among gulls.
The north wind curled over the roof of the bar, down into Pierre’s face, blowing his hair around, sending a chill down my back. I drew up my shoulders. Lou slowed his pace as he drew near to the wounded gull. We watched our friend. Everyone watched. There was complete silence on the deck. Only the wind made a small sound, shushhhh as it shifted through the chair legs, around the umbrellas.
I wondered if the gull would try to get away from Lou, what he intended to do. By now he stood over the injured bird. It lifted its head, cocked its eye to watch Lou, but otherwise did not move. The big man bent at the waist, his two hands cupped and outstretched. He took the bird into his hands and lifted it to his chest. He stroked its head with his thumb and rocked side-to-side, almost imperceptibly.
“Sweet. Real sweet,” Charles said. “I feel a tear welling up.”
“Shut up,” I said to the man. Pierre also glared at Charles, whose face reddened as he cut his eyes to the man seated at his table, then looked away.
Down on the beach, Lou stopped stroking the seagull, and laid his right palm face-down over its body, as if shielding it from the sun. And, in a motion too quick for me to follow, the giant man closed his right finger and thumb around the bird’s head, and with a downward snapping motion, maybe like you’d pop a wet towel, the bird’s body thudded against the sand. It flopped a couple of times and lay still. Lou bent down and picked up the gull’s body and, turning with an athlete’s grace, tossed the head and body far out into the rolling surf. He stood with his back to the gallery for five minutes, still as a figure cast in bronze.
The woman, Jen, got up and walked away from the three people at her table.
Lou did not rejoin us on the deck of the Pink Pony. He angled down the beach in the direction of where we’d parked the car. Pierre and I both put five-dollar bills under our beer mugs and left by the stairs at the side of the deck.
In the five years since that day, Lou and I had become good friends.
I walked across the street, sat in my Jeep, and read Lou’s letter, read words the big man could not have said to me in person:
Dear Sonny,
I never know what to say in a time of loss. Everything turns to ashes in my mouth, and words seem so trite and useless. But in such times you are moved to say something the same way you are moved to knot a choking scrap of silk around your neck and squeeze into grown–up shoes and a black coat. It is how we mourn, in Alabama. Sometimes, of course, we also pitch a good drunk, but that is mostly the Catholics.
But we will have no funeral for Cormac, because he is not gone, only lost, and there is a big difference there. Most likely he is not even lost.
He is, I believe, stole.
Somebody saw him, saw his fine red hair and his well-formed body and broad, intelligent head, and stole him. Sons of bitches.
Because Cormac is not a mean soul, he allowed himself to be stole.
Somebody said, “hey boy,” and he bounced on over, and was took.
And we are left here to be sorry.
But there some things that need to be said to you from a friend, and I have never been quiet in my life.
In his days with you and your wife and your boys, he was warm and well-fed and loved as much as any beast can be, and a whole lot better than a lot of children.
He suffered no cruelties. He was not beaten into compliance.
He lived fat and easy in a house on the hill.
The last time I saw him, with you, he literally jumped for joy.
Over and over, he hurled his body into the air, higher and higher.
It almost made me cry.
I had no luck with dogs. The wheels of cars took them, mostly. Fiests, Beagles, mixed-breed hounds, all perished on the Roy Webb Road. The only dog I had for any length of time died from heartworms because I lapsed in my care of him, because I was too busy. I should tell people that when they say nice things about me.
But I had no luck, as to dogs.
So, when you told me how Cormac lay at your feet every single day as you wrote your novel, I was touched but also a little jealous. I am sorry now, for that envy.
Cormac seemed to sense that in me. He followed me around your house, insisting to be loved on, and when I sat quietly in an otherwise empty room he came in and laid his head on my knee, and just left it there.
Only when he heard your voice did he even twitch, and then he was gone, chasing the sound of your voice up the stairs.
I hope, someday, he just comes walking back up in the yard.
I hope he makes one of those miracle treks home.
I would like to think that whoever took him will have an attack of conscience, but that is unlikely. A man who would steal a dog is a low man, and it may be that all we will ever get from him is a darker satisfaction.
We will learn who took Cormac. We will not kill that man – because even though he is a thief he may have cared for the dog, gently.
But I think we should take him to the swamp. I think we should tie him to a tree, and ask him some questions. We should scare him a little bit.
And if he laughs, or sneers, we will chop off one of his toes.
One of the big ones.
We will take him to the doctor, and leave him in the parking lot, and if he threatens us with legal harm we will remind him that he has nine more toes.
That day, and that satisfaction, may never come. All that is left, in the end, is this.
He was not a lawn ornament, not an animal you bought to be fashionable. He had two acres of trees and fence line to mark as his own, and he did so with great determination. When you left the swimming pool gate open he dove right in, no matter how many times you hollered, “Cormac, damn ye,” and chased him out.
He terrorized squirrels and tolerated cats. He woke your two boys up by jumping into their beds. He listened as you read to him from words you wrote. He always, always thought it was fine. He thought you were Melville. He thought you were Faulkner.
He did not, for a big dog, greatly stink.
He loved you back, all of you. You could just tell.
I envy you, still.
Your friend, Lou
SEVENTEEN
THE LADY WH
O answered the door immediately asked if I’d come about my dog. Hers was the third house on my rounds that Monday, the 28th of March, with Cormac gone now seventeen days. I didn’t know this woman, though I was sure we’d seen each other in the neighborhood.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, wondering how she knew, but withholding hope that she had information I could use. “How did you know? Have you seen him?”
“I know about Cormac because I saw the poster at the gas station just this afternoon,” she said. “But he’s also been to my house before. I saw your name on his tag the first time he was here. I guess I should have brought him inside. I headed for the phone to call you. As soon as I was out of his sight, though, he went running. So I didn’t leave a message. Another time I did leave a message. I think I forgot to say my name, though…which is Ruth Baxter. That was about two weeks ago, maybe.”
I wanted to cut her off, to ask her specific questions. I was speaking with someone who’d seen Cormac on the day he took off. It wasn’t much, but maybe this was like the first tiny crack in the concrete that lets the green and growing thing poke its head up toward the air and rain and sun. I only had one more day before I had to go back out on the last leg of my book tour.
“Did he look okay? Did he have a collar on? Did you see which way he ran?” I gestured directions left and right with my hands.
“Well, I know where he went to next, so it must’ve been in that direction,” she leaned outside her door and pointed toward the street going away from my house.
“What do you mean, Mrs. Baxter? You know where he went next?”
“Because one of my neighbors—she’s got a little wiener dog. I don’t have a dog. Or a cat, for that matter,” she said. I rolled my hands in a hurry-up-and-get-to-what-the-neighbor-said motion. Diana would’ve said I was being rude. She would have been right, but at that moment I did not care. Besides, the lady leaning against her doorjamb was oblivious to my lack of good manners. “Anyway, she is Rhonda Perkins, and Rhonda said your dog was at her house the same day I saw it. She said he scared the men who were tending her lawn, and she shooed him away.” She fixed me with her gaze. “Is he a mean dog?”
“Hell no,” I said. “Of course not.”
“Well, Mr. Brewer, you don’t have to use profanity at my front door.” Her eyes flashed. I was afraid she’d stop helping me.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, “You’re right. But I’ve been looking for Cormac and…”
“Then another one of my neighbors,” Mrs. Baxter said, completely ignoring what I had said, “—ah, she’d be no help. Anyway, you’ll just have to go down the street asking.” With that she closed the door.
Two doors down, Rhonda Perkins greeted me warmly. Her Dachshund sniffed my shoes as I stood at her door. “That Ruth,” she laughed. “I didn’t chase your dog away. In fact, my yardman petted him. I didn’t even think to look at his collar for someone to call. Frankly, I forgot.” She apologized. I turned and looked toward the street. The morning sun colored and highlighted the broad green leaves of a huge magnolia. Mrs. Perkins’s mailbox stood in its cool shade. The lazy scene held no drama at all.
Mrs. Perkins spoke again. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I was daydreaming.”
“Florence Weller said she thought she saw a red pickup pass her house that day with a big red dog in the back. Florence lives all the way down at the end of the street. She wouldn’t mind at all if you go there and ask about—what did you call him?”
“Cormac,” I said, anxious to chase this clue.
“Cormac? Yes, well, that’s right. A strange name, though.”
Another time I might have given her the story of Irish kings. This time I simply thanked the woman and trotted to my Jeep. When I arrived, Florence Weller already stood on her small front porch.
“Rhonda just phoned to say you’d be down here,” Mrs. Weller said. “You must have flown. I’d fly, too, if somebody got my Ralph. I know you must be a mess over losing your dog. I’m so sorry.”
“You think you saw him?” I said. I liked the woman right away. “Can you tell me about that?”
“Of course,” she said, “I’m sorry. And I don’t know if it was your dog I saw in the back of that truck. The dog had long hair and was a dark color, sort of a rusty red, and pretty big. I noticed the truck, a red one, because it was going slow, like maybe it was just starting off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it on our road. I know I haven’t seen it since.”
“Which way was it going?” I asked. “Toward town, or the other direction?”
“It was going east,” she said, and pointed. “That way.”
“Did you say you thought a woman was driving?”
“Oh, I’m certain of that,” she said, “though I didn’t see her clearly. Lord, do you think she might’ve been kidnapping your dog?”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t even know that it was Cormac. I just don’t know.”
“Did you call the animal shelters?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. But I’m going home to call again.”
“I expect you’d better do that, Mr. Brewer. I’ve heard they don’t keep animals long at the dog pound.” Mrs. Weller saw the shadow that passed across my face, darkening my eyes, tightening my lips. “Oh, I’m sorry. I…”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I know they put down the dogs there after ten days. But either my wife or I called every day since a week ago Monday when she got home from San Francisco. They say they don’t have my dog. Same at all the vet clinics and Fairhope and Daphne city shelters. No one’s reported seeing Cormac.”
“I will say a prayer for your dog, Mr. Brewer. And for you. I believe you’ll find Cormac,” she said, and gave me a confident nod. “Cormac? Is that from the writer?”
“Yes,” I said. “Not many people guess that.”
“I don’t know why. Isn’t he a wonderful writer? Oh, Blood Meridian just floors me! I’ve read it three times.”
Somehow I took it as an omen that Florence Weller was a fan of Cormac McCarthy. I felt more hope than I’d felt in days. I thanked Mrs. Weller and told her I would phone when I learned something. “Please, Mr. Brewer, if you don’t mind. I won’t rest until we find him.” There was also something comforting to me about the way she’d used that plural possessive pronoun, as though she were right with me on my search for Cormac. I was also glad to have Mrs. Weller’s offer of a prayer for my dog and me.
EIGHTEEN
IF IT HAPPENED that a woman in a red truck took him, I can imagine—as Lou suggested in his letter—Cormac was probably ready for companionship. He might have jumped right into the open bed of her vehicle. Perhaps, for him, it was like this:
The voice is easy and it sounds like the one who walks with the little ones where I am fed. But it is not the same voice, so I stop still when it calls a word I have heard and remember, Boy. The one who is inside comes outside and lets down a gate and pats with her hand and says again, Boy. I do not walk, or move. I lift my nose but read only smells of what is outside, nothing of the one with two legs or her places. The voice comes louder. The hands pat and I turn my head toward my shoulder and toward my other shoulder and the one who feeds me is not seen. The voice can take me to the one who feeds me. My tail sweeps and I jump into the place and the hand pats my head and I hear words I know, Good boy.
NINETEEN
I DROVE HOME slowly, encouraged by the little news I’d received of Cormac. It was the middle of the morning and the house was quiet. I went to the study and sat at my desk and opened my notebook with the names and numbers of the shelters and clinics. I started at the top, dialed the number, repeating my mantra to the person who answered: “…Golden Retriever, dark-red male, not neutered, last seen in the Moseley Road area wearing a green electronic collar. He’s been missing seventeen days.”
And the reply: “Sorry. We haven’t seen your dog.”
And, from some who recognized my voice: “We still have your phone number, sir. We will call you if he’s turned in here.”<
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“I know,” I said, “I’m just double-checking. Thanks for your help.”
Last place. The dog pound.
“Hi, my name is Sonny Brewer from Fairhope. I’m missing my dog, a Golden Retriever, dark-red male, not neutered, last seen wearing a green electronic collar.”
“Yes, sir,” the girl said. She sounded fifteen. “We had him. Or, we had one that matched that. Some woman dropped him off, said somethin’ about this would be one less dog and a thousand less puppies.”
“What? Where is he?” My blood went cold. At the end of a ten-day stay, dogs at this facility were killed by injection. I snatched my feet down from my desktop and leaned forward in my chair.
“Well, sir, I don’t rightly know that. I just work here. You’ll have to ask up in the office. They’re taking in a dog, and I just answered the phone here in the back ’cause I know they’re busy. You want me to get somebody?”
“Now, please!” My heart beat like I’d done a fifty-yard dash. The next half minute on hold was longer than a day.
“This is Tara Mitchell. May I help you?”
“I’m calling about my dog. The girl…ah—”
“Tiffany Hale.”
“Yes, Tiffany said you had a Golden Retriever, a dark-red male…”
“We don’t give out information about animals on the phone,” she said, her voice flat, final.
“Excuse me, but I’ve called this place often the last two weeks asking about my dog,” I said, feeling the anger begin to burn in my chest and belly, firing up as if from a blacksmith’s bellow. “Each time I phoned I was told you didn’t have a dog to match that description. But now you’re saying—”
“We wouldn’t have told you that. We would’ve told you that you had to come down here and look at the dogs.”
“No one told me that. Not once.” I exploded. “And right now I don’t really give a damn about all that. I want to know about the dog Tiffany Hale admitted you had. I demand to know.”
