Larry & the Dog People

by J. Paul Henderson

  It also appeared that Summer didn’t have a pen, because it was more than two months before Mike heard back from her. The answer when it came though was positive: she’d be happy to share her knowledge with him.

  While all skin is exterior, Summer Gale’s was more outdoors than most. She was in her mid-fifties but appeared older; her tanned face wrinkled and blotched by the sun’s rays. She lived in Phoenicia, a small hamlet in the Catskills, and owned three dogs with no corresponding abilities. She floated places in long billowing dresses and danced to the music of Joni Mitchell, dined on fruit and vegetables and sipped camomile tea. People went to her house for conversation rather than a good time, to pour out their troubles and sometimes borrow money. It hadn’t always been this way.

  Although Summer’s body was now a temple for the mind, it had at one time been a blind pig for substance abuse. She’d smoked enough dope in her younger years to fuel an expedition to Mars, drunk more whiskey than Ulysses S Grant in his lifetime and taken more acid trips than a Greyhound Bus makes stops. She was the ultimate wild child, the party girl voted most likely to crash and burn. It therefore came as a relief to her parents – though a disappointment to her friends – when Kateri Tekakwitha, the patron saint of the environment and ecology, appeared to her in a dream one night and told her to get her ass in gear and do something about the damn waterfalls. Her father, a landscape architect, was appreciative of the hallucination’s visit, but found it difficult to believe that the Blessed Kateri had been referring to his ornamental waterfalls when she’d made that comment – as his daughter insisted she had. Ruffled pride, however, was but a small price to pay for his daughter’s redemption and, albeit reluctantly, he agreed to put her in charge of all new water features. It was reluctance ill-founded. By the time of her third divorce, Summer was a waterfall tuner of renown.

  ‘And you’re completely self-taught?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Summer replied.

  ‘And you’ll teach me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And in more than two words?’

  For the next six weeks Mike shadowed Summer, spending the weekdays with her and returning home to New York on weekends. She’d just started work on a commission in Saugerties and was building a waterfall from scratch and tuning it to the key of C. He watched, listened and assisted; became her apprentice and learned the rudiments of building and tuning. This is what he learned:

  The sound of a waterfall depended on the volume of water falling and the height from which the water fell; the greater the volume and the greater the height, the greater the sound. The sound of water falling directly into deep water was different from that of water hitting a rock either above or just below the surface of the pool, and also different from water whose descent was broken by rocks. All sounds could be altered by building a hollow area behind the falling water, and the construction of this cave – its height, width, depth and the nature of its walls – would further determine the sound of the falling water. Tuning a waterfall wasn’t a science but a process of experimentation, and the tuner needed to be patient and prepared to spend time tweaking the variables until the desired sound – crisp, muted, melodious or torrential – was achieved. It was also an advantage, though not an absolute necessity, if the waterfall tuner had perfect pitch, or at least an ear for music.

  ‘Well, I didn’t have perfect pitch, Larry, but I had better relative pitch than most and certainly an ear for music. I’d grown up playing the piano, and the organist at church gave me lessons on the organ as soon as my legs grew long enough. I knew what sounded good and what didn’t and Summer said I was a natural. She also thought it would be a good idea if I plied my skill in the Washington area. She’d heard that the tuner there had retired and made it clear there wasn’t room for two waterfall tuners in New York. That’s the only downside to tuning waterfalls: there’s not much demand for it. But when you do get a gig, it pays well.’

  Larry asked Mike if business was good and Mike told him he got by. That’s all he wanted to do. The big bucks no longer interested him and he could supplement his tuning income by playing church gigs or dipping into savings. His needs were simple. He rented cheap rooms and house-sat for others; his belongings were few and fitted into a large duffel bag; he ate two meals a day and drove a ten-year-old pickup with Ergle for Gurgles emblazoned on its sides. He was, however, in the process of branching out and recording the sounds of water with the intention of selling them online or through health food shops. ‘No better White Noise, man! It’s a VIP ticket to the Land of Nod.’ To this end he’d been retuning and recording the higher reaches of Rock Creek, a small river that rose in Maryland and emptied into the Potomac by the Swedish Embassy, and was also planning to record two waterfalls in Virginia: Stubblefield Falls and The Great Falls.

  ‘Of course, I’ll need a wingman when I record those beauts, Larry… Hey, man. I’ve had a thought. Why don’t you ride out with me one day and give me a hand? It’d be a blast, man, and we could take the dogs with us.’

  ‘I’d be glad to, Mike. Believe it or not I’ve never been to either of those falls. Helen wasn’t much for the outdoors. She liked walking in the cemetery but that was about as far as her love for nature went. She never felt comfortable driving with me and so a long trip was out of the question. She said that she never worried about us having an accident – because I drove too slowly for that to happen – but worried that I’d cause other people to have accidents. But that was Helen for you: always thinking of others.’

  ‘She sounds quite a woman. I’m sorry for your loss, man.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Larry said. ‘I’ll never be able to replace her but at least I have Moses in my life now. And I’m meeting new people all the time. Tank’s asked me to climb his ladders, Delores has invited me to an exhibition at the museum and now you’ve asked me to help you record the sound of waterfalls. Everything’s starting to fall into place.’

  ‘Sounds to me like you’re a man on a mission, Larry!’

  Larry was a man on a mission, but missions for other people. His own mission arrived the next day when the Head of the History Department phoned.

  5

  The Tank Commander

  Laura walked into the lounge just as another episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show was about to start. All eyes were on the television and her appearance went unnoticed. Rob, the character played by Dick Van Dyke, had just left the house in a huff and the camera turned to an aquarium. ‘What are the tropical fish talking about?’ Laura asked the elderly resident closest to her. ‘Beats the hell out of me, Miss Parker, but Rob’s just had a hissy fit.’ ‘Hey! Either keep it down back there or turn up the volume,’ someone called out. ‘How are we supposed to hear anything with you two jibber-jabbering?’ Laura smiled and excused herself.

  ‘I don’t know who that friend of yours is, Laura, but the man’s a genius. Who’d have thought a DVD player would have made such a difference?’

  ‘And the residents are happy with our choices?’

  ‘More than happy – just look at their faces.’

  All faces were turned to the television and Laura could only see the backs of their heads. There was laughter though, a commodity scarce and precious in any residential home, and her heart warmed to Larry. Who’d have thought that the man responsible for this transformation was the same man who’d caused so much consternation when he’d first visited the home? She decided then and there to invite Larry for a celebratory meal, but in light of Alice’s comments, it was unlikely to be at their apartment.

  Laura had supposed that Alice liked Larry and had been surprised when her partner told her differently. ‘It was supposed to have been just us at the restaurant,’ Alice had said. ‘The two of us! But then you turned up with Larry, a man I’d never even met before, and then there were three of us. And it was me, Laura, me who ended up feeling like the odd one out. And he’s strange, too, Laura, he’s not normal. Who i
n their right mind asks you how tall you are when they first meet you or what you had for breakfast that morning? You might as well have brought Wayne! And it’s not the first time you’ve done this to me! Can’t you understand that it’s you I want to spend time with when we go out and that if I wanted to spend time with the likes of Larry and Wayne I’d go to the zoo?’

  It wasn’t the first time Alice had expressed such thoughts, and Laura had to wonder if it was her own lack of consideration that caused these outbursts. On the surface Alice was a picture of calm and self-possession, a successful businesswoman with more friends than a person could count. It was easy to forget – and, in truth, difficult to believe – that a person with such outward blessings could have such internal insecurities, especially when they appeared to be of her own making.

  Laura had always known that Alice was self-centred, but found this more an amusing delinquency than a cause for concern. Theirs, she reminded herself, was a match made on earth and not in Heaven. She didn’t expect her partner to change and neither did she wish her to. Alice was a part of the imperfect world she inhabited, the broken world that had always attracted her. Her partner would always come first – and it was obvious she needed to make this clearer to Alice – but she had no intention of throwing Larry and Wayne to the kerb. No, she would learn to juggle the world and keep its imperfections separate; and she’d start by taking Larry out for a meal the next time Alice went out of town.

  With this thought in mind she returned to her office and checked the calendar. She then picked up the phone and dialled Larry’s number. The line was engaged. ‘That’s odd,’ she thought. ‘Who in the world would be calling Larry?’

  ‘It’s Bob Parish, Larry, the Head of the History Department… It’s good to talk to you, too… Yes, far too long… Anyway, the reason I’m… The Desert Land Act? I don’t think anyone’s teaching it… Well the new guy doesn’t see the point… It’s not up to me, Larry… The Dean? It wouldn’t matter to him if we were teaching back-to-back courses on nineteenth-century dolls’ houses… Look, Larry, I’ve a meeting in five minutes so we’ll have to keep this short. A letter arrived for you yesterday from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and… I’ve no idea… Yes, very mysterious. I’d have forwarded it but we’ve been told to cut down on postage… By the Dean… Yes, I suppose it must sound odd that he takes more interest in postage stamps than he does the Desert Land Act but if you could… Yes, this afternoon would be fine. I’ll leave it with the secretary… I’m not sure I’ll be available… Okay, good talking to you, too, Larry… I will, and you take care, too. Give my regards to your wife.’

  ‘Well that’s a turn-up for the books, Moses. The Head of Department thinks that Helen’s alive and someone from Israel’s sent me a letter.’

  A memory flickered in Moses’ brain when Larry mentioned the word Israel and the dog climbed to its feet. ‘My thoughts exactly, Moses. Once we’ve had lunch we’ll go to the History Department and find out who it’s from.’

  Shortly after two o’clock Larry put a leash over Moses’ head and set off for the university. There’d been a downpour earlier in the day and though the rain had now stopped the cobbled pavements were wet and puddly. They walked down 30th and took a right on Q St, headed south on Wisconsin for two blocks and then turned west on O St, the road that led to the gates of the university.

  Georgetown University was a hilltop agglomeration of grey stone and red brick buildings overlooking the Potomac. It had been founded in 1789 by John Carroll, the country’s first Catholic bishop, and was the oldest Jesuit college in the United States. There was a statue of Carroll in the middle of the turning circle – a kindly man sitting in an armchair and dressed in a long flowing robe – and close by was Healy Hall, the neo-mediaeval centrepiece of the campus and the backdrop for a movie called The Exorcist. There were cannons set at either side of the building’s doorway and a tall clock tower rose 200 feet into the sky. Larry strained to see if the clock hands were in place and was pleased to find they were. He’d never understood the student prank of stealing them and mailing them to the Vatican.

  There was a game of Frisbee being played on Copley Lawn and Larry decided to stick to the path. Passers-by smiled at him, stopped to stroke Moses and one asked his name. ‘It’s Larry,’ Larry replied. ‘Good name,’ the girl commented. ‘How old is Larry?’ ‘Sixty-seven,’ Larry replied.

  The History Department was on the sixth floor of the Intercultural Centre, one of the university’s red brick buildings. It was almost three years since he’d retired and his heart fluttered when the centre came into view. He walked through the doors and into the long foyer, past the bust of Dr Sun Yat-sen (the Father of Modern China) and pressed the button for the elevator. He climbed out at the sixth floor and headed for the office.

  The department was unusually quiet, but then he remembered it was Summer School, a time of year when afternoons were always quiet. Larry knocked on the door and walked in. The secretary was new: she didn’t recognise him and he didn’t recognise her. ‘It’s Professor MacCabe,’ he said almost apologetically. ‘I believe you have a letter for me.’ The secretary handed him the letter and returned to her work. ‘I see they’re keeping you busy,’ Larry smiled. The secretary nodded. ‘I don’t suppose Professor Parish is available, is he? We used to be good friends when I worked here.’ The secretary explained that Professor Parish was in a meeting and had left instructions not to be disturbed. ‘Well, just on the off-chance you see him in the next half hour, would you mind telling him that Larry MacCabe is in the faculty lounge and that his wife is dead.’ The secretary told him she would, but doubted she would see him. Larry was about to head for the lounge when a thought struck him. ‘Who’s teaching The Emergence of Modern America these days?’ he asked.

  He then went to the lounge and put four quarters in the machine, waited for the plastic cup to drop and then watched as it filled with the fair-trade coffee favoured by the department. The room was deserted and Larry sat alone. ‘I had some of the best conversations in this room,’ he reminisced to Moses. ‘We might have taught different subjects, but we all had enquiring minds. There’s nothing better for good conversation than an enquiring mind.’ (Several of these enquiring minds walked into the lounge while Larry was there, but made abrupt about-turns when they saw their former colleague talking to a dog.)

  He remembered the letter in his pocket and decided to open it rather than wait until he returned home. It was an invitation (all expenses paid) to be a guest speaker at a symposium on Desert Reclamation organised by the Advanced School of Environmental Studies and to be held at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in early October. As an authority on the Desert Land Act of 1877, the writer of the letter suggested, his contribution would be of great interest to the delegates. ‘Jiminy Cricket, Moses, I’ve been invited to give a talk in Israel!’

  Moses barked and Larry rebuked himself for mentioning Moses and Israel in the same sentence. He then looked at his watch. Forty minutes had passed since he’d entered the lounge and it appeared that Professor Parish wouldn’t be joining him after all. Buoyed by the contents of the letter he decided to pay a call on Professor Clayton.

  Professor Clayton’s office was his old office. It seemed odd knocking on a door that had once been his own and then waiting for someone else to open it. A voice from within boomed out: ‘Enter!’

  Scott Clayton was a large man in his fifties, powerfully built but also squat, as if his body had been compressed by a large weight he’d tried but failed to lift. His head was shaven, his clothes casual and he wore a pair of green rubber high tops. His feet were propped on the desk and he was reading the previous day’s edition of The Hoya, the student newspaper. He looked at Larry for a moment and then rose to his feet.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Professor Clayton, but I thought you might like to meet me. I’m Larry MacCabe and you’re my replacement.’

  Clayton held out his hand. �
��I don’t think of myself as your replacement, Professor MacCabe. From everything I’ve heard you’re irreplaceable.’

  Larry blushed. ‘It’s kind of you to say so, Professor Clayton, but with time I’m sure people will think the same of you.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Clayton mumbled, and then noticed Moses. ‘Is the dog house-trained?’

  ‘There’s no need to worry about Moses,’ Larry laughed. ‘He did his business this morning and watered a tree less than an hour ago.’

  ‘Well, now that we have met, is there anything in particular you’d like to say or can I get back to my newspaper? I’m not one for conversation for its own sake.’

  Larry had been hoping that Clayton would ask him to sit down and was surprised by the man’s brusqueness. ‘Well, there is one small matter, Professor Clayton. I was talking to Professor Parish this morning – he’s one of my oldest friends in the department – and he happened to mention that you’d dropped the Desert Land Act from the syllabus. I don’t think he was trying to get you into trouble or anything – I think it just slipped out – but I was wondering why you decided to do that, and if it’s a matter of your own confidence in the subject whether you’d like me to give guest lectures from time to time.’

  Clayton snorted. ‘I do mention the Desert Land Act but only in passing, Professor MacCabe. That’s all anyone in their right mind would do. There are far more important fish to fry in The Gilded Age than the Desert Land Act of 1877! Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

  ‘I don’t mean to contradict you, Professor Clayton, but I think you’re wrong – and the people of Israel agree with me. In fact, they’ve just invited me to speak on the very subject at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, and there’s no more prestigious a university.’

  ‘I can think of several,’ Clayton replied, ‘and Georgetown is one of them! And I can also tell you with certainty that the Desert Land Act will remain a footnote in any course I teach unless, after meeting you, I decide to delete it altogether.’