by R. R. Irvine
“Do you think he’s lost?” DG asked.
“Sure. Why else would he be way out here by himself?”
“Let’s keep him then.”
“Where?”
DG eyed the dog as if estimating size. “How about our old barn, the one my dad doesn’t use anymore? Nobody ever goes there. He can be our secret dog.”
“I thought you said that barn was haunted?”
“Naw.” DG clamped a grimy hand over his mouth but a giggle spilled out just the same. “I was just makin’ that up.”
“I’ll remember that. I suppose the next thing you’ll be telling me is that dogs live on hay?”
“Whaddya think I am, dumb? We’ll take turns sneaking him food.”
“It’s a long walk for me,” Benyon protested.
“You can give me your share at school and I’ll slip it to him.”
“I don’t know.” Keeping the puppy, Benyon decided, wasn’t such a good idea, especially if they made it a secret.
“Don’t worry,” DG said. “We can name him and everything.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Hi. The barn’ll be perfect.”
And it had been, too, for three days. But then, on the fourth day, when Hi had risked a real spanking to steal part of a leftover roast, the pup had started acting funny. Usually it gobbled every bit of food in sight, but suddenly it wouldn’t eat. It just lay on the dusty floor, ignoring the roast and growling when the boys tried to play with it.
“He’s sick,” DG concluded. He closed his eyes as if lost in thought. “We’ll have to take him to the vet.”
“We can’t do that. Everybody will know we’ve been hiding him then.”
“Hm. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Maybe you ought to tell your dad,” Hi suggested.
“Don’t be dumb. He says he’s got enough to worry about without me getting a dog.”
Hi Benyon shook his head. “The vet is out then. Besides, we don’t have any money.”
“We’ll just have to take care of the pup ourselves.”
“Yeah,” Hi agreed, gingerly poking the stolen roast. Then he pretended to eat it, hoping the dog might take the hint. But the animal didn’t move except to twitch its nose.
DG’s face screwed up like it always did when he was about to come up with a plan. Absently he reached out to pat their puppy. It growled, then snapped at him, caught his wrist, broke the flesh, started blood running.
“Damn!” yelped the boy. He blinked rapidly, obviously doing his best not to cry. He took a halfhearted swipe at the mutt, which now looked contrite and began to whimper. “Son of a bitch,” DG added for good measure, then pointed out that “son of a bitch” wasn’t really swearing when it involved dogs.
Hi agreed but said, “Dog bites can be dangerous.”
“Says who?”
“Haven’t you heard of rabies?”
“Sure. But puppies don’t get rabies.”
“We don’t know how old he is. Maybe he isn’t a puppy anymore.”
“Get some water. That will be the test. Rabies means they can’t stand the sight of water.”
Hi ran to fill an old porcelain bowl that DG had borrowed from home. The dog ignored the offering.
“There, you see,” DG said wisely. “He’s probably eaten something bad, that’s all. A rat maybe.”
“I think you ought to see a doctor.”
“A vet, you mean.” DG blew on his wrist. “That sounds just like one of your ideas.”
“Does it hurt?” Hi asked.
DG eyed the wound critically. “Say, this is going to leave a nice scar. I can say I was attacked by a bear.”
Hi shook his head. It was no use arguing with DG when he got in one of his moods.
“Pain doesn’t bother me,” DG said, again blowing on the wound. “You know, maybe I could say it was a couger that did this. A big cat we were after up in the Uintas.”
“Nobody would believe that.”
DG’s lips pursed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’ll stick to a bear.”
Nobody would believe that either, but Hi didn’t bother saying so. He knew DG too well.
After a while they stopped talking about the bite and left the barn. When they came back the next day, rats were gnawing at the roast and at the dead dog too. The sight scared them both; but they didn’t say anything, not to anybody, not until it was too late.
The first Hi knew about DG being sick was when he didn’t come to school. There were whispers that DG was foaming at the mouth and trying to bite anyone who went near him, just as if he’d turned into a dog himself. Some of their schoolmates even joked about DG turning into a werewolf.
But by then Hi knew better. Even so, he wanted to see his friend to find out for himself. But DG was kept locked up at home, and nobody was allowed in to see him except the doctor. The reason for that, the kids said, was because DG had grown fur and long fangs.
Finally Hi got up the nerve to walk right up and knock on the front door of DG’s house. When DG’s father came out onto the porch, he looked like an old man. His eyes were red and his face as gray as the rocks above the timberline.
“Sorry, Hi, but you won’t be able to see DG.” His swallow sounded like water gurgling down a drain.
Tears, big ones, began running down the man’s face. Hi started crying too.
DG’s dad sniffed and snorted and did his best to clear his throat. Finally he managed to say, “This won’t do us any good.”
“Can I . . . can I see him just for a minute?” Hi asked hesitantly.
DG’s father turned away and coughed. When he spoke again, he sounded almost normal. “Better to remember DG the way he was . . . when you two were playing together.”
The screen door banged and DG’s older brother, Gerald, stomped out onto the porch. “Sure,” he spat at Hi, “that’s fine for him. Only remember the good times. But what about the rest of us, huh?” He sprang forward and grabbed Hi by the wrist, twisting it until pain half blinded the boy. “You little bastard. You’re to blame. You and that dog. Well, you come right inside with me and take a look at what you’ve done. See how you like it. See how the rest of us will remember DG.”
Gerald’s lips trembled as he dragged Hi toward the screen door.
DG’s father stepped in. “That’s enough, Gerald. He’s just a boy. Don’t blame him. It won’t do any good.”
“Won’t it?” Gerald cried belligerently, giving Hi’s wrist a vicious twist. “Don’t be so damned sure.”
“Gerald, let go!”
He was up on tiptoe to keep his wrist from breaking. Suddenly he heard a slap and then his wrist was free. Pain receded. He could see Gerald clearly again. The boy had his fists clenched at his side; he was trembling all over.
“Do as I say,” DG’s father whispered hoarsely.
Gerald stared at Hi, then spun on his heel and ran back into the house.
“He doesn’t mean it, Hi. We . . . it’s a bad time for us right now. We . . .” Tears streamed down the old man’s face, dripped from the end of his long nose, filled his mouth to the point where further speech became impossible. After a while he gave up trying to talk and merely shook his head helplessly. Then he, too, disappeared into the suddenly forbidding house.
Hi waited outside for a long time. Then he pretended to go home, but instead crouched down behind some bushes so that no one could see him. Maybe, just maybe, he could catch a last glimpse of his friend. Maybe he could wave good-bye at least.
But his last memory of DG was the screams, so sharp they sliced through Hi’s brain. Then he ran, mouth open in a silent shriek of his own. He ran toward home. But even there, a block away, DG’s screams could be heard. Screams Hi Benyon would hear until the day he died.
12
JACK GRAHAM’S deep breath of icy morning air raised hell with a filling in one of his molars. His mouth snapped shut.
What was he doing up so early? Any sensible person would still be in bed, which
explained why he was freezing his ass off. He grinned despite himself. He felt invigorated even though he was shaking with the cold.
The sun, so sharp it seemed to slice right through the branches of the nearest pine tree, was a lie: no warmth to it at all. There was nothing to soften its brilliance, not a cloud in the sky, no hint of smog or dust, although the smell of sage was so strong it seemed capable of muting the brightest sunlight.
Goosebumps, like sudden insect bites, rose along his arms. His hand shook. Even his hook wouldn’t stay still.
Maybe he ought to go back to the house for another cup of coffee. Come on, he said to himself, no excuses. All coffee would do was put off his moment of truth. It wasn’t the cold that was shaking his hand; it was fear, fear of failure.
But self-knowledge didn’t make it easier; it didn’t do a thing to steady him. And a steady hand was what an artist needed, what he prayed for most of all.
He retreated from the easel and the box of gear beside it and hurried, slump-shouldered, back into the house. One cup, he told himself, that’s all. Then it’s time to work. No more excuses.
Shotgun, his tail wagging, followed Graham into the kitchen.
“You want some coffee too?”
The dog cocked its head.
“No. It’ll stunt your growth.”
Graham’s fingertips tapped the metal coffeepot. Still warm. But what was coffee unless it was piping hot? He turned up the flame and sat down to wait, buying himself time.
Shotgun sat next to Graham’s chair. He massaged one ear, then the other. “Some master you’ve got, dog. He’s sitting here playing games with himself. He’s trying to postpone the inevitable.”
The sound of his voice, its tremulous timbre, upset Graham. Harriet—Harry—had been right. He was steeped in self-pity.
“Not only that,” he told the dog, “she probably thinks I’m a horse’s ass.”
The coffee came to a boil. He got up, poured himself a cup, then scalded his tongue with the first sip.
“I gave in, didn’t I?”
The cup of hot coffee went down the drain.
Shotgun’s tail wagged.
“If Harry was only as easy to please as you are.” Graham snorted at his monologue. He’d said some harsh things to Harry over the last couple of days. But they hadn’t been so much personal as directed against her as a representative of Moondance. Still, those words weighed on him now like bricks, part of the wall he was so carefully building around himself.
“Move,” he told the dog. “No more stalling.”
The dog left the room.
“Ah, hell,” Graham said and followed the mutt. They both kept right on going out the front door. Once again, the cold air snapped at Graham’s ears and nose. He blew on his left hand before preparing his palette. Once the colors were exposed he half wished they’d freeze solid and put an end to this lunacy.
He clipped the palette between the legs of the easel so that both his hands, such as they were, would be free to handle brushes.
“Are you ready? As soon as I find a subject.” He looked around him. “A bird would be nice and easy to start with.” But there wasn’t one in sight.
Shotgun found a patch of sun, where he stretched and soon settled down for a nap.
“Dogs are too hard,” Graham muttered. “Right now a tree is about the best I can do.”
The moment he spoke he realized he’d known all along that it would be a tree; the paints on his palette had been spread with a blue spruce in mind.
He swore at himself, but started sketching nevertheless, using his left hand. The flesh fingers were stiff, unwieldy. They didn’t belong to him; they couldn’t; they wouldn’t obey orders.
A tic started in his left eye. He dropped his brush to massage the offending lid, rubbing until both eyes began to water. Then, when he began to sketch again, tears blurred his vision and splashed down on the palette. But even tears couldn’t stop him from seeing what he’d done to the canvas. Sight of his own brush strokes sickened him. The tree he was painting looked dead.
In the old days, right-handed, the spruce would have come to life, more than that even, for he’d once had the knack of intensifying his subject matter by magnifying every single detail, by capturing what lesser eyes would miss. Once his talent had been great enough to transform the trunk of an old and weathered tree into something fresh and exciting.
But left-handed? The canvas mocked him. What he’d done to it was no better than one of those chimpanzee-created farces meant to make monkeys out of the so-called expert art critics.
Graham jerked the canvas from the easel and sailed the monstrosity toward the spruce. The left-handed toss went all of ten feet. Then, because he couldn’t bear the sight of it littering his landscape, he retrieved the offending canvas and dumped it next to his front door.
Shotgun limped over to sniff the discarded painting.
“Go ahead. Raise your leg on it. That’s all it’s good for.”
The dog’s nose twitched.
He probably doesn’t like the smell of paint, Graham thought. Or maybe he, too, is a critic.
A magpie broke cover and soared away, its black and white markings flashing in the sunlight.
When the bird was out of sight, Graham glared at his left hand. It would take years of practice before he’d even reach amateur status.
No, goddamnit, he’d never settle for that. Better to quit painting altogether than to become a weekend dauber.
Unless, of course, he was willing to turn out abstract art. He snorted, a sound of self-derision. All his life he’d mocked nonrepresentational art, whose practitioners, he claimed, were frauds lacking talent for anything better.
His forced laughter was more like a strangled sob. “If you can’t beat „em . . .” He took a deep breath like an athlete storing energy for a supreme effort. Then he picked up a palette knife and quickly, before he lost heart, began smearing paint on a new canvas. He felt like a mason. Yet even masons sometimes achieved a certain artistry in stucco and concrete. Perhaps he could create similar effects on canvas.
Since part of Graham’s early training had been with a palette knife, it didn’t take him long to realize that his left hand wasn’t even of brick-laying caliber. So, almost without breaking stride, he shook open his hook and inserted the knife.
Right-handed, his initial attack on the canvas resulted in a tear. But after that he got himself under control and worked for half an hour without pausing.
Then he stepped back from the easel and muttered, “Not bad,” but he was referring to the feeling he’d gotten from spreading on the paint rather than the results on canvas.
Strange, the very act of trowling on paint had done him good. He felt less tense, although the painting in front of him was no less a monstrosity than the first one. But there was something about his second effort that made him hesitate to destroy it. True, it didn’t look like a tree exactly, but there was a feeling of crude power about it. Or was he kidding himself?
One thing for sure. Graham would never be able to sell it, not unless he found some crackpot collector who wanted to corner the market on “hook” art.
Then, suddenly exhausted, Graham sank to the ground. The muscles of his arms had become atrophied from disuse. His head sagged down between his knees.
After a while the aching subsided and he began cleaning his gear. Tomorrow morning, he decided, he’d try again. After all, he had plenty of canvases to ruin.
“Now,” he said to Shotgun, “I think we’ve earned ourselves a cup of coffee.”
An hour later, the urge for another of those Bridger House hot beef sandwiches got the better of him. He left the dog curled up in front of the fireplace and decided to try walking into town. It couldn’t be more than a couple of miles and exercise would help get him acclimated all that much faster.
A mile later he was sorry he hadn’t taken the Jeep. He had to get off the gravel shoulder of the road and onto the asphalt in order to keep up any kind of plo
dding pace at all. And plodding it was. Even so, his leg muscles trembled with the effort.
By the time Moondance came into view, all Graham could think of was those inviting chairs in the Bridger House lobby. Thought of joining the old-timers there had more appeal than any sandwich.
To make matters worse, storm clouds were beginning to gather overhead. He would be lucky to reach the lobby before the rain came.
But rain or no rain, he had to stop and rest. The first likely place he came to was the steps of city hall. From there, Bridger House looked like an impossible trek.
13
A HONKING horn startled Graham just as he was about to negotiate the first city hall step. He stumbled, landed on the side of one ankle, and collapsed on the sidewalk, swearing.
When he looked up, Harry was out of her station wagon and coming to his aid.
“Jack, are you hurt?”
“Only my pride.” Cautiously, he eased to his feet. The ankle ached but would support his weight.
“I’d better drive you home.”
“Hold it.” Signaling her to stand back, he demonstrated that he was perfectly capable of limping along on his own. “Riding with you isn’t safe.”
“This time I won’t pick up any hitchhikers. That’s a promise.”
What he wanted to do was walk her to Bridger House for lunch, to prove to her that he wasn’t a complete cripple. But all at once he was too tired to resist her offer. He climbed into the station wagon just as rain began splashing on the windshield.
“Now I don’t have any choice,” he said. “I’ll have to come along peacefully.” He gestured with his hook. “Otherwise I might rust.”
“Another Tin Woodsman,” she said, smiling timidly.
Her comment brought axes to mind, axes with bright shining blades meant for chopping. He rubbed his left wrist along the point of his chin. The stubble of his beard felt reassuring.
“You look terrible,” Harry said and reached out to turn up the car heater. “Are you sick?”
It was then that he saw Del Timmons striding down the steps of city hall. The look on the man’s face was enough to make Graham answer, “Not like he is.”
