I tried to get over to see them a little more, but that year was even harder because one of the partners had died. I stepped up and took a lot of his caseload–the others told me I was doing too much, but I didn’t mind. Besides, they were all family men and needed their time out of the office.
The year after that passed in a bit of a blur, too. But I got over to see Kenny and Maggie and the kids a fair amount. The kids acted shy around me, but I thought to myself that there would be time to remedy that once work had calmed down.
It was two days before Christmas when I got the phone call. The police, of course, who else calls you at three in the morning? They asked me to come to the hospital. They said there had been a fire, but they wouldn’t say very much else.
I kept my mind even on that drive over. It was actually very peaceful at that time of night (or morning), and it was very cold. We’d had a few inches of snow the day before, and it was still new enough to be pretty rather than the dirty, chunky ice it would eventually become.
There was a nurse sitting in the lobby with two small children wrapped in blankets. I asked her where I would go to inquire about a call from the police. The children looked miserable, and I thought possibly they had the flu, and I took a prudent step back. Then the little girl said, “Granddad?”
It was Matilda and Alex, of course. I didn’t recognize them right off because of the surroundings and the stress of the situation.
“Ah. Matilda,” I said and nodded. The nurse gave me a long, odd look. I kept my eyes fixed on my granddaughter. “Where’s Ke–where’s your father?”
To my horror, she kind of crumpled over onto herself in the blanket, and the nurse caught her. Silent tears slid down her cheeks, and it was then that I realized her face was dark with soot. As was Alex’s; he watched me with wide, shocked eyes.
Alex began to cry, and he struggled from his blanket and slid from the hard plastic chair to cling onto his sister. Matilda opened her comforter and pulled him close, and they cried together. Their pajamas were sooty, also.
A horrible idea came to my mind, and I swallowed, trying to keep calm. I looked at the nurse. “Where are the police? The one who called me?” It came out in my cross-examining voice, and the nurse blinked at me as she cradled the children.
“I called you, Mr. Mayfield,” an officer said, striding across the lobby. He reached for my hand, shook it. Very no nonsense, very matter of fact. I felt instantly more at ease. “I’m Officer Kendrick. Can I ask you to walk with me over here, sir? So we can talk?”
I thought I glanced at the children before I walked away, but I can’t remember now if I did or not. I can’t remember very much of the rest of that night; it comes back to me in snippets. Here’s what I remember clearly:
Officer Kendrick telling me that Kenny was a hero.
Officer Kendrick putting his hand on my back, telling me Kenny was dead.
And Maggie, too.
And her parents, who’d been staying through the holidays.
Officer Kendrick shaking my hand again.
I nodded and started to leave, and the nurse stopped me. “Your grandchildren, Mr. Kendrick,” she said.
I raised my eyebrows at her, questioning. Yes, they were my grandchildren. I thought we’d covered that. “Yes? What is it?” I asked her.
“Well, but…they have to…you have to take them with you, sir,” she said, and I remember her glancing at the children where they were still huddled together, trying to sit on the one chair. Matilda at four could not properly hold onto her two-year-old brother, but she was making a valiant effort.
The nurse’s gaze was full of pity. Obviously because the children had just lost their parents.
“Ah,” I said, “I see, yes. Of course. But what about their other grandparents? Maggie’s, ah, my daughter-in-law’s parents?”
“Sir,” the nurse said. She put her hand on my arm and lowered her voice. “They passed.”
For a brief second I thought she meant they had passed on the children, that they had been given an opportunity to take them but had declined. I realized quickly, of course, how ridiculous an idea that was. And I remembered the officer had told me that they had died in the fire along with Maggie. And my son, of course.
“Yes, yes,” I said, “I remember. I was just…I’m a little in shock, I think.”
Her sharp gaze softened as her hand tightened on my arm, and she said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Kendrick, if there’s anything I can do…”
I laughed, then. Embarrassingly. I said, “Can you take the children?” and laughed again. Her hand dropped away, and her face grew horrified. I couldn’t blame her, really; I was horrified myself. I wasn’t myself, it seemed. I coughed and apologized to her, but she turned on her heel and squeaked out of the waiting room.
I went to the children, and they stared up at me, Matilda with defiance, Alex with fear. A weight seemed to settle around my shoulders, and I felt like sitting down, but I stood straighter, instead. The first step to any job well done is a job begun, I told myself.
“Matilda, Alex,” I said, “you’ll be coming with me.”
Alex switched his eyes to Matilda, but she kept hers on mine, gauging me, I thought. Taking the weight of my words and deciding whether she’d allow it. Then she stood and pulled the blanket more closely about herself and Alex. She nodded her consent.
How extraordinary, I remember thinking. This child is only four? Or is she five?
A black wave of depression tried to wash over me as I gazed at them, but I staunched it. I drew my mind down again. Took hold. Gathered myself in.
We left the hospital, Alex’s hand in Matilda’s as she followed me; I checked, of course, to make sure they were holding hands. When we got to my car, the officer came through the mostly empty lot, calling out my name. I turned and smiled, hoping the nurse hadn’t found him and told him what I’d said, the terrible joke I’d made. I would have been quite embarrassed.
But he didn’t. He handed me a leash, instead.
“We couldn’t bring the little guy inside, and I didn’t want you to drive off without him,” he said.
I looked at the leather loop in my hand, traced the leash with my eyes, and at the end sat a terrier of indiscriminate heritage. He was white, or gray, fluffy, his fur sticking out in wild spikes. He was panting despite the cold. I looked back to the officer in bewilderment.
“There’s been some confusion,” I told him. “My son didn’t have a dog.”
The officer raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak, but just then, Matilda leaned forward in the back seat. “Come on, Ben,” she said and tapped her legs. “Jump up.” The dog did just as she commanded, scrambling onto the back seat and turning to sit between the two children. Alex put his arm around the dog, and Ben licked Alex’s cheek. “Good boy,” Matilda said. Her tone–weary and old-ladyish–nearly made me laugh again, but I swallowed it. There was something very wrong with me that night; I couldn’t seem to get myself under control.
Then all three looked out at me, Alex’s eyes dark with fear, Matilda with chin-tilted determination, and the dog–Ben–with calm, clear-eyed expectation.
The weight on my shoulders slid down to clamp my heart.
* * *
That first night, what little was left of it, was very hard. The children could not sleep even though I had put them together in Kenny’s old room. The dog peed on the floor. Matilda cried, and then Alex threw up, his face red and feverish. I asked them several times what I might bring them, but Matilda merely shook her head. She wanted nothing from me, the gesture said. So I decided it would be best to leave them to themselves.
The next week was taken up with a tremendous amount of work, as you can imagine. I thought I would have to arrange for two funerals, but it turned out to be four. Maggie’s parents only had each other and her. There were other relations, but they were so distant, they might not have even heard of the Michaels. There was no use expecting them to take on the burden of making arrangements fo
r the deaths of people who only shared a few drops of their blood and some far-distant lineage.
Which, of course, made me think of the children again. Maggie had been an only child; Kenny had been an only child. There were no aunts or uncles to see to the children. No cousins or other grandparents, no half-cousins, no one responsible for them. During the funeral, I tried to ask after Kenny and Maggie’s circle of friends–How about godparents? Had they arranged for that? Any childless couples?–but no one stepped forward. And, of course, Kenny and Maggie had passed without making wills.
I’d never know their wishes regarding placement of the children.
I took a hiatus from the firm, promising to be back within a week or two at the most. I just had to get a schedule figured out, get someone in to see to the children. Money was not a problem; I had more than enough. The estate the Michaels had left (they had made wills, thank heavens) to Matilda and Alex could be put aside for their college funds.
I was glad to keep busy, but once the funerals were seen to and lawyers met with and police and insurance, I found myself with time on my hands. I hadn’t had much opportunity to talk to the children since we’d had so many people in and out of the house. I’d convinced a neighbor to let her seventeen-year-old daughter sit the children during the days since it was Christmas break and she was available to do so. Nights, it was more difficult to find someone to come in on a steady basis, so I arranged help from each of the ladies that lived close by and also persuaded some of Maggie’s teacher friends to stop in and make dinners, bathe the children, put them to bed, and so on. Just until I was able to hire someone full time.
Then came the Sunday morning when Clarice Maddox, a neighbor, called to tell me that she’d had a bit of a family emergency and she wouldn’t be able to help out today as planned. I wished her the best and then hung up.
I stood in the kitchen and realized I wasn’t even sure if the children had gotten out of bed yet. I checked my watch, nine fifteen. Surely they were up, then. I went to Kenny’s old room and hesitated because the door was shut. Then I knocked, not certain, really, of the protocol. It had been a very long time since children had lived in this house.
A tiny voice called out, “Come in,” with faint hesitation.
Alex stood by the bed. He was in the process of pulling on a tiny pair of jeans, and he had one leg in and one out. He had a shirt on, but it was on backwards and inside out, the tag sticking up at his throat.
“Hello, Alex,” I said. “Where’s your sister?”
He looked down at his jeans and started trying to step into the other leg. “She’s walking Ben out,” he said. It came out somewhat garbled as his tongue snuck out to aid his concentration.
“She’s outside?” I asked, and he looked up and nodded. Then he went back to the jeans.
I went to the front living room and scanned the sidewalk. It’s a very nice neighborhood, tree-lined streets, comfortable old houses. It’s quiet, but of course, still no place for a four-year-old to walk a dog by herself.
As I was striding back to the bedroom to question Alex more closely, the back door opened.
“Calm down, dear one,” Matilda said. “Let me wipe your feet.”
I detoured to the kitchen to find her and Ben at the back door, Ben sitting with one paw in Matilda’s hand as she wiped it with the hem of her pajama top. She put that paw down and motioned for his other, and he brought it up, obligingly. His eyes were black and lively, and the sun shone through the back door to highlight the pink of his upturned, triangular ears. When he saw me, he barked. Just once, like a greeting.
Matilda turned and gave me a long once-over. Then she returned to wiping the dog’s small paw.
“Matilda, did you take Ben out by yourself?” I asked. I didn’t know what else to say, to be honest. The girl was so self-contained. She looked at me over her shoulder again. Her hair was pale yellow and her eyes green; just like Maggie’s, I realized for the first time.
“Yes, but just out in the back,” Matilda said. She snapped the lead off of Ben’s collar, and he bounded off the mat and skittered onto the linoleum. He ran to my feet and then sat, panting up at me. Then he barked again.
“What does he want?” I asked Matilda. I was astonished at the dog’s behavior. I’d never had a dog and had no idea they could be so…forthright. Of course, he must have to eat, and I realized that everyone else must have been seeing to it. Just as they’d been seeing to the children.
“He’s asking for his treat and his breakfast,” Matilda said. She started from the kitchen, then hesitated in the doorway. She glanced up at me shyly. “I’ll show you, all right?”
“Yes,” I said. “All right.”
I waited, and Ben stared at me with intense concentration. I nodded at him and told him hello, and he stopped panting long enough to lick his chops. Amused, I started to ask him how he was getting on, but then Matilda came back into the kitchen. She had Alex with her, and now his top was on correctly.
It made me remember something I had thought of earlier when the neighbor had called to say she couldn’t come. It was only going to be the children and me, and since I’d had so much help with them up until now, I realized there were certain things I was very unsure of.
“Matilda,” I said. She had been settling Alex in a chair but turned to me. I went on, “Does he, Alex, need a diaper change?”
Matilda’s brows pulled together as though I’d said something in very bad taste while Alex goggled at me with incredulity. Matilda sighed and shook her head slightly and then trudged to the cabinet under the sink. She opened the door and squatted, pulling forth a bag I hadn’t known was there. There was a dog on the bag. Matilda scooped a careful cupful into a dog dish in the corner (which I also hadn’t noticed and now was beginning to doubt myself very much) before she answered. She said, “He’s been potty-trained for a long time. He wears big boy underpants.” She curled the top of the bag over and returned it to the cabinet. Then she went to my small pantry and brought out a box of children’s cereal–one of the neighbors must have bought it with the money I’d given for that purpose.
Before I could offer assistance, she’d pulled a chair to the cupboard near the stove and climbed up to retrieve two bowls. Then spoons from the drawer and milk from the refrigerator. Then she and Alex began to eat.
“Matilda,” I said and slid out a chair to join them. “How old are you?”
Ben had finished his food and now sat between Matilda and Alex. He raised himself onto his haunches, putting his front feet together to beg. He whined. Matilda glanced at him. “Oh!” she said and sprang from her chair. “Your treat, Ben! I forgot it!” She went back to the sink and pulled out a box with bone-shaped biscuits on the side. She shook the box, and Ben danced in a circle, his front feet pawing the air. Alex laughed, and Matilda smiled, finally. It was the first time I’d ever seen her smile; that I could remember, anyway. She flipped Ben the small biscuit, and he caught it with no trouble. When she returned to the table, Ben lay on the mat by the door.
“I’m six,” Matilda said as she lifted a spoonful of cereal. Alex shot her a sly look, and Matilda grimaced. “Almost six,” she amended.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “And you, Alex? How old are you?”
He looked to Matilda and shrugged his small shoulders. His hair and eyes were dark, as Kenny’s had been.
“You’re three, almost four,” she told him. Her tone held a slight exasperation. It seemed funny coming from such a young girl. It made her seem world-weary and inexpressibly tolerant. But I didn’t laugh.
“How long have you had Ben?” I asked to get the conversation steered away from their ages, because I couldn’t remember the exact date of her birthday. Nor Alex’s.
“Papa brought him home right before Halloween,” she said and sighed again. She was looking at Alex. He had started crying.
It startled me. “Is he all right?” I asked Matilda.
She dragged her chair closer to his and rubbed his back as I
imagined she must have seen Maggie do. “It’s all right, dear one,” she said. Ben scrambled off the back door mat and came to sit beside Alex’s chair on the other side. “Sit back, Alex,” Matilda instructed, and Alex did, holding the spoon and rubbing his eyes with his free hand. Matilda tapped Alex’s skinny lap. “Up, Ben, up boy,” she said. Ben turned once as though gearing up, then leapt nimbly into Alex’s lap. Once there, he panted good-naturedly into Alex’s face, licked the spoon in the boy’s hand, and then turned his head to try to see the bowl on the table.
Alex laughed.
Matilda smiled at him, but the smile was one of heartbreaking solemnity. Then she glanced at me, and the smile faded. “Papa brought him home right before Halloween,” she said again, picking up the thread of her story along with her spoon. “He told Mama that Ben had followed him home, but Mama asked if that was the case, then why did he have a tag on his collar that said ‘Everett County Humane Society’, and Papa laughed and said that Ben must have been an escapee. Mama said that Ben must be pretty smart to have followed Papa to our house since there were two children there who had been dying for a dog.”
She ate the rest of her cereal. Ben had shuffled around in Alex’s lap until he could get his sharp little nose in the cereal bowl. I was about to tell Alex to take the dog off his lap–it was very unhygienic–but Alex had dropped his wet cheek onto the terrier’s sturdy little back; his eyes were closed, and he was smiling.
* * *
That night in bed I dreamed that it had been Kenny sitting at the table with me. He was a grown adult and held Ben in his lap. Ben was licking from a cereal bowl, and Kenny was laughing, and I became angry. I tried to lift my hand to pound the table; I took a breath to yell, to tell him to get that dog down, but I couldn’t do either of those things. I was paralyzed.
I started crying, instead.
I woke up with a damp pillow and told myself it was only natural. I was mourning my son and daughter-in-law, and my life had been turned upside down with the care of two young children and a dog–a burden that would change anyone’s basic constitution, at least for a little while.
More Good Dogs: More Stories About Good Dogs and the People Who Love Them Page 4
