Hope, my rescue dog, was excited to see both me and the donuts. After I grabbed a trio of Cokes from the Coke-fridge (a high-tech fridge devoted solely to keeping my supply of real-sugar Canadian Coca-Cola at the optimal temperature of a few degrees below the freezing temperature of pure water), she joined me on the couch, sitting nearly in my lap waiting for her donut. I took out a jelly for me and a glazed for her, gave Hope her breakfast, cracked a Coke, and settled down to refueling. I was into the third Coke and the eighth donut (Hope stopped at two, turned three tight circles on the couch, dropped down into a tight hockey-puck of brown dog, warm against my leg, and promptly began snoring and occasionally farting) when I heard a key in the lock.
My troubles of last year began with unwanted visitors, so I now, whenever I am in SmartPig I am always careful to lock my door (and secure it with a bar that runs from just below the knob to a hole in the floor). This safety measure would keep out anyone short of a rhino, and it was keeping Dorothy out quite effectively now.
“Tyler, open up!” she said when the door refused to push inwards. “I came by to take Hope for a walk in case you weren’t home yet, but I also have something that I’d like to talk with you about.”
Dorothy runs the Tri-Lakes Animal Shelter (TLAS). She is as close to me as anyone in the Adirondacks, knows everything about what happened last summer, and … if I had friends, would be my best friend. She knew that I was going to bring Hope home to live with me even before I did. She got more involved in the insanity that ran roughshod over my unusual but relatively boring life for those two weeks in September than was safe or prudent, and she has been involved in others of my adventures … both before and since. She enjoys the role of sidekick (possibly too much sometimes), has fun exploring the grey zone where legality and morality get fuzzy, and may be one of the few people on Earth who actually understands what I am and accepts me. The feeling I got when I removed the door-bar, opened the door, and saw her smiling at Hope and me made me imagine that I know what ‘happy’ feels like to regular people.
“Gimme a leash, grab a new Coke, and … look!” She pointed out the window behind me, and took the remaining jelly donut when I half-turned. I threw the leash at her, took the last donut, grabbed a Coke from the Coke-fridge, and followed her and Hope out and down for a walk. Hope knew we were headed out at the first jingle of the leash. She was ready for a walk, since I had left her behind last night … the bear out at Stoney Creek Ponds had freaked Hope out a bit. She had spent much of the previous few nights growling/crying/shivering, and I had been worried that she might either have a heart attack, run away, or foolishly jump down and try to tangle with the bear.
Hope is an elderly beagle mix who came to live with me after my big case last summer. We found each other at the TLAS, and even though we both had concerns about relationships formed under great stress, it had worked out well for us so far. She doesn’t like camping quite as much as I do, but is perfectly willing to guard the SmartPig office in my absences, with the understanding that she’ll be paid later in treats and snuggling and long walks in town. She hated most people, having had what I can only guess was a hard and abusive life before we met, but one of the few other people she tolerates is Dorothy; so she was about as happy as she gets with the two of us taking her for a walk down by the river.
I didn’t relay the news of being visited by the ranger during the night, as Dot sometimes treats me like a little brother and might actually complain to someone, or confront the ranger. I had seen a folded sheet of paper in her hand as she walked in, and I knew from past experience that she only wrote her thoughts down in extreme situations when she felt that she had to say whatever it was perfectly. It has been my experience that asking people what they are thinking/worrying about only serves to derail or confuse them … so I tend to wait quietly for them to initiate, assuming that they will eventually, and if not, then I can read or eat or take a nap.
“Tyler ...” she began hesitantly, a few silent minutes later, “I have a favor to ask. It may be a total waste of your time. It might not be interesting enough for you to enjoy (Dot knows that I don’t take cases for the money, but because, and only when, some aspect interests me). It may be an impossible job. She may not like you or vice versa, when you meet, assuming that you meet. I think that she can pay, but we didn’t talk about ...” I cut her off.
“Dorothy. You’re talking too fast, and worrying too much. I have time right now … even time to waste. If it’s something that you want me to do, I’ll do it … period. It doesn’t matter if it’s fun/neat/interesting or pays well; or if ‘she’ is unpleasant or boring or mean. You’re my friend and I owe you my life … either of those is reason enough.” Then I suggested we loop up and around Moody Pond, it’s a nice long walk, and should give us plenty of time to talk through whatever she had in mind … provided Hope could make it (on occasion, Hope has gone on strike mid-walk, once I had to carry her over my shoulder when she stopped walking in the middle of a loop hike off of the Floodwood road).
“Sounds good, Tyler … and thanks!” Dorothy looked, according to my admittedly poor read on human emotions, both relieved and a bit nervous at the same time. She looked up and to the left, took out the folded paper to consult her notes (or letter to me … I don’t know which it was), and started talking. She spoke rapidly and in a low voice for about fifteen minutes, before I told her … again … that I would do it, and that she should arrange a meeting between the old woman and me.
When we finally got back to the backside of the building that houses SmartPig, she gave me a hug (knowing full well that I don’t like that sort of physical contact, but that I would tolerate it because of her need for the feeling of closeness/closure). She then peeled off to her own car, and drove off to start her work day at the TLAS.
Camp Topsail, Upper Saranac Lake, 7/14/2013, 10:47 a.m.
Dorothy and I pulled into the Crocker camp on Upper Saranac Lake at a bit after ten in the morning. She had come along to make introductions (beginnings with new people are something I am horrific at, due to shortcomings/ differences in my personality and social software), and as we climbed out of the Element (leaving the third passenger quietly asleep in the back, with windows cracked), we both paused to take a look around. I hadn’t seen or heard Barry’s ghost yet this morning, and I was glad; he sometimes leaves me for days at a time, but so far has always come back. The Crocker camp was big and old and comprised of many buildings, all done in dark brown shingled siding and green roofing … from the water it might look like a series of short/fat pine trees in amongst the taller ones. I noticed that some of the white pines on the property were taller than any I’d seen anywhere else in the Adirondacks. These had been growing unmolested for more than a hundred years, while everything else in the park had been cut at least once in that time. Something about the camp looked and smelled and sounded different/older/monied in a way that the McMansions of Lake Placid couldn’t compete with … never even had a chance.
“A dozen miles away, and it’s like we’ve gone back a hundred years, right?” Dorothy asked, reading my mind.
“13.8 miles … sorry (she hates when I insist on exactitude) … but yes, you’re right. I’d love to try and hang my single-point-suspension hammock from that tree. You just don’t see horizontal branches that big on a white pine in the wild,” I said, pointing to a tree with carefully random branches growing out from it at various heights standing alone, near a huge central building/lodge.
“A person should dream Tyler, and I’m glad to see that you can still appreciate the finer things in life.” Dorothy elbowed me, and started walking towards the large building.
Before we had crossed half the distance from the gravel parking area to the main building, a man about my age (29) came out and started towards us … he must have been watching for us to arrive. I took him in from head to toe as he stepped gingerly off the porch, then turned my head in response to a noise from one of the cavernous garage bays that adjoined the space w
here I had parked.
“Check out the suit,” Dorothy whispered to me out of the side of her mouth. “That ‘Mad Men’ escapee looks like he’s afraid he’s gonna get some nature on those fine Italian shoes.”
“The shoes, and the suit, are London, not Milan,” I said. “He is wearing a banker look rather than the ad-executive. Milan is flashy and trendy and implies sexy … London is intentionally stodgy, promising respectability and trustworthiness. He’s a minion dressing for the job he wants, not the job he has.” Dorothy looked at me like I suddenly started speaking in Mandarin. “Remember, Dorothy,” I replied, “I grew up in that world.”
It was easy for people to overlook or forget that I was born and raised in New York City; it never really took hold of me, and I fled the city in 2001 after it taught me an ultimate lesson on the second Tuesday in September. I had learned, and eschewed, the rules of NYC protocol early on in life, but still remember Lars Thorsen walking me through the basics of ‘Suits 101’ during one of his teaching sessions. I had grown up one of a few dozen children (the kids varied from year to year, as parents, and their children, came and went from the cooperative/collective) who were homeschooled by a group of friends/parents frustrated with a broken public school system. I remember every word that every one of them said in every session, even the boring/stupid/inaccurate ones, which Lars’ had not been.
The smarmy smile and stiff handshake that I could see the young man preparing to deliver took me back to a nested subset of things that I didn’t/don’t like about NYC. He reached us, and extended a hand in my direction, “Anthony Kistler, thanks for coming today.” It was delivered with a careful single up and down pump of the hand, and a smile that never reached his eyes; he was assuming the role of gatekeeper for the old lady, and was obviously (it had to be if I had noticed it) not excited about us/me being there … we were out of profile, he didn’t know which slot to file us in, and it made him uncomfortable. I had spent too much of my youth on the wrong side of various/numerous doors, forced to wait (and waste time, which I hate), thanks to people like Anthony, for the people with whom the buck stopped.
Although his shake was firm, the hand delivering it was slack and soft; mine is covered in callouses and worn down by work and winters to bone and knots of muscle … we were both aware of the differences, it made him adjust his tie. I had endured many such handshakes in the days and weeks after my parents were killed … suits trying to manage or control the newly acquired assets of a kid whom they didn’t/couldn’t understand. It offended them on some level … my life and lack of ambition (in any traditional sense), and the choices I made with what they deemed a sum of money somewhere between ‘comfortable’ and ‘sizable.’ He had done nothing wrong or offensive in the seconds that I had known him, but I took an immediate and irrational dislike to him (which I imagined would interest Barry and Meg, who both enjoy analyzing me, albeit for different reasons, and certainly from different perspectives).
“Hi, Anthony,” Dorothy finally said, after I failed to say anything in a socially acceptable amount of time. “We’re here to see Kitty. She should be expecting us.” Dorothy and Anthony, and most people, don’t like silence in social situations, and often fill them with useful additions/admissions or gestures, which is why I often wait to see what happens.
“Yes,” Anthony pivoted quickly, and shook Dot’s hand, “come inside. Everyone else is off at church.” Anthony turned and led us up and into the building, out of the bright morning and into the perpetual half-light of the camp’s great room. We walked past a Stickley dining table that could have seated 40 (but was set for a measly seven, plus a high-chair, all clustered at one end), and followed him through a swinging door, into the kitchen and pantry area (I passed a restaurant-sized fridge/oven/stove and stacks of twenty different sizes of plates and bowls). Anthony pushed open a door and took us back into a surprisingly modern bedroom suite, which looked as though a 21st century hospital had been grafted onto this 19th century camp.
“It used to be Cook’s room, back when I was a girl; that and some storage space.” The tiny voice came from a tiny wrinkled face, white against a sea of white linens and blankets in a huge bed; my eye had very nearly skipped over her when we entered. “My grandmother would be shocked at my use of this space. Back in her day, no person of note or bearing would be housed this close to the main lodge, or so far from the lake; if I were further though, I wouldn’t see my children, or grandchildren, or my first great-granddaughter, Deirdre, who I met for the first time yesterday.” This last piece of information was delivered with a sad hiccuping sound, and either the sound or the sharing itself elicited a minute look of disapproval from Anthony (and in the same instant, a look of understanding and pity from Dorothy, which got the clever bits in the back of my head working on things).
“Anthony, please fetch the cooler you’ll find in the pantry for Mr. Cunningham, and then leave us. Dorothy, my dear, it is splendid to see you again, and I so appreciate you arranging this meeting, as well as the next. Were you able to take care of the other thing we had talked about?” She spoke to Anthony and Dorothy as valued underlings, a not unfriendly tone that she seemed well-accustomed to.
Dorothy nodded, and gave her a quiet, “Yes Ma'am.” and seemed to give a slight curtsy, which is very un-Dorothy, but seemed in keeping with my summoner.
“Then if you would be so kind as to do me the favor of taking our other guest down to the lake for a swim and a walk, I would very much like to receive you both in twenty-five minutes. The smell of a wet dog, and the feel of a cold nose will do me some good, and twenty-five minutes should still be well before my family and nurse return; they would be shocked at the thought of a dog in this ‘ward’ in which I find myself.” Dorothy nodded and smiled as the old woman spoke, then turned and left, to get Cheeko, I assumed. Cheeko is the star pupil of a new program that Dorothy has been working on at the TLAS, therapy and hospice dog training for the homeless cats and dogs living in the shelter that she runs. Her hope is to help people in the Tri-Lakes, raise awareness and support for non-purebreds (and non-dogs) as therapy and hospice animals. As a sideline/hobby, it’s better work than most people do their entire lives (certainly better than what I’m doing with my time).
Dorothy gave my hand a squeeze on the way out, and Anthony came back in with an elderly metal cooler, which turned out to be stuffed with salted ice and Cokes (I wondered briefly if the old woman was psychic, before settling on Dorothy as a more likely medium of information transfer). He bent down to whisper in the old woman’s ear, and the briefest storm crossed her face before she shook her head and told him that she was fine, and that he could go. He did.
“My name is Catherine Crocker, Mr. Cunningham, and my friends, as I count dear Dorothy, and hope to soon count you as well, call me Kitty. A silly nickname, but I’ve worn it almost one hundred years, and will wear it around the final turn.” She didn’t offer to shake hands, and I didn’t move forward; the wasted claws on her lap looked as though they might snap or crumble if washed with strong soap.
“Please call me Tyler, Kitty. Dorothy said that you had a problem, and that I might be able to help you with it.” I stopped there, having nothing more, at the moment, to say.
“Straight to the point, I like that. Everyone in my world is careful and circumspect when speaking with me, and I simply haven’t the time for it any longer; a simple and direct conversation is to my liking. But before we get to that, Dorothy mentioned, when we spoke the other day, that you are partial to very cold Coca-Cola, from Canada; I had my Anthony run up and get some the other day, and it’s been cooling as she directed since Gwen, the cook, got going this morning on the day’s food. Why not have one while we talk, and I’ll see if I can explain my ‘problem’ as succinctly as you offered to help me with it a minute ago.”
I bent down, opened the cooler, and grabbed a can. I could tell by the label that Anthony had, in fact, driven all the way up to Canada (probably 3 hours in a round trip, if there was no
wait at the border). I could tell by the way the can felt to my fingertips that it would be chilled nearly to the point of ice-crystals forming, so I opened it gently to avoid nucleation of the supercooled soda until it was in my mouth; the first sip was a delight. This method of cooling Coke also adds a savory element to the experience, in that the rim tasted lightly of what I assumed was the finest sea-salt that rich people could buy. I drank most of the first can before it could warm in my hand, and then looked over at Mrs. Crocker (who I would call ‘Kitty’ because she had asked, but would likely always think of, and mentally file under, Mrs. Crocker) and said, “Thank you, that’s perfect.”
She smiled, cocked her small head a bit, and replied, “When you take another, would you be so good as to pour me a small glass? I haven’t enjoyed anything as much as you appeared to enjoy that cola in a long time, and would like to try it. One advantage of dying is that you needn’t be afraid anymore, of anything.” This had the sound/feeling of a set phrase, and I wondered if this was an entree into her description of her problem; I prodded a bit (as is my way).
“What are you dying of, and what needn’t you be afraid of anymore, Kitty?” I thought briefly of offering to share my current Coke, but got sidetracked/derailed with concerns about the social niceties of sharing my germs with Mrs. Crocker, her refusal, or worse … her grudging approval. (It occurred to me that this sort of concern was a step along a short path to Dorothy ‘yes Ma’am-ing’ her, and wondered at how some people seem to have the ability to manipulate people just by your expecting them to be manipulators).
Caretakers (Tyler Cunningham) Page 2
