by Rick R. Reed
“You’re right,” Flynn said, feeling dejected. “If only I could find him. I hate myself for letting him get away.”
“Maybe the walks around Green Lake are a regular thing for this guy and his dog? He might live in the neighborhood,” Clara said. “If I were you, one thing I’d make sure of is that you continue to run at the lake and make sure it’s around the same time. You know, to increase your odds….”
“Yeah,” Flynn said dejectedly. “And this Mike person might be thinking along the same lines, but he’s thinking not to show up at Green Lake, and if he does, never around the same time.”
Clara sighed. “I was just trying to help.”
“I’m sorry. I know. It’s just that it seems so hopeless. Seattle has what? A billion people?”
Clara laughed. “I think it’s closer to a little over half a million, Flynn.”
“Right. Finding this guy again just seems like searching for a needle in a haystack. I feel like I came so close, and because of my cowardice or stupidity or sense of propriety, I let him go. The punishment for that is that I won’t cross paths with Mike and ‘Hamburger’ again.”
“And who’s punishing you for that, Flynn?”
“I don’t know. God?”
Clara chuckled. “I don’t think God comes down that far, honey. I’m sorry to disappoint you. But listen, you do have a choice here. You can choose to think in a negative way—and give yourself all sorts of reasons to support that—and decide that it’s impossible to find your little guy again, that it just won’t happen. And that’s where you’ll be concentrating your mental energy.”
Flynn nodded, feeling tears well up in his eyes. How could it be any other way?
Clara went on, “Or… you can choose to think positive. Feed the hope in you. You can choose to think that if you crossed paths with this fella who has Barley once, you’ll cross paths again. You can stay positive, hopeful, and focused.” Clara let out a little sigh. “I know you’re a pragmatist and you think I’m a little New Agey, but here’s the thing, Flynn—you can draw positive energy to yourself and your situation or you can draw negative. Me? I always choose to try to have faith in the positive. I try to believe that, in any situation, what’s going to come about is always the best outcome, if I just let it.”
“Kind of like faith,” Flynn said.
“Exactly like faith,” Clara replied. “I’ll save our conversation on the power of attraction for later.”
“Okay.” Since the New Year, Clara had been attending services at the Center for Spiritual Living out on Sandpoint Road and was always telling him about how their New Thought philosophy had changed her life. She was never pushy but had made it clear she’d be delighted if he’d come with her some Sunday morning, if only to do brunch afterward. Yet what she said did make sense. Flynn honestly didn’t know if thinking positive and believing the right thing would happen could make a difference in the outcome, but why not think that way? The alternative was dark and hopeless. “Thanks,” Flynn said softly.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Clara asks in her best cheerleader voice.” Flynn laughed.
“C’mon, Flynn….”
“I’m gonna think positive.”
“Right. And you’re still going to do everything possible to find Barley again. Thinking positive is planting a seed, but in order for the seed to grow, you have to keep things watered and free of weeds.”
“Oh God,” Flynn sighed. And grimaced.
“Hey! Don’t mock me. Just listen. So maybe you need to start by doing what I said, going to Green Lake as often as you can. But you’re not just gonna go there. You know what you’re gonna do?”
“What?”
“You’re gonna make up some flyers with Barley’s picture, and you’re gonna get yourself a staple gun, and you’re going to tack that sucker up anyplace there’s space, especially along the lakefront trail. You’re going to increase your odds for the best possible outcome.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Flynn said. “Will you help me?”
“Sure. If you promise to not be negative and instead focus your energy on the good.”
Flynn wasn’t sure he could do that. He’d always, for better or worse, thought of himself as a glass-half-empty kind of guy. “Yes, I promise.”
“You don’t sound very convincing.”
“I’ll try.” Flynn blew out a big sigh.
“That’s all any of us can do. Sometimes when we try, we can make it real.”
“Fake it ’til you make it?”
“Something like that. So you wanna start tomorrow?”
Tomorrow was Sunday, and with Clara’s invitation, he wondered if she’d try to rope him into going to her church with her. He could probably wriggle out of that part of things, but starting ASAP seemed like a good plan. To circumvent the whole church thing—Flynn had been raised Catholic, and that particular church’s views on people like him had soured him to all organized religion—Flynn “thought positive” and offered up a plan that wouldn’t allow for church attendance.
“I can run into the office today and print up some flyers. I already have one on my computer. I just need to update it a bit.” An idea occurred to Flynn. “I can change that ‘last seen at Discovery Park’ to ‘last seen at Green Lake.’ We can meet up at the lakefront tomorrow morning.” Flynn then added, casually, “What time is your Center for Spiritual Living thing over?”
Clara made a slight tsk sound. She wasn’t stupid. “I go to the nine o’clock service. We’re usually done by a little after ten. Hey, I have an idea—”
Flynn cut her off quickly. “So let’s say we meet up at Green Lake about elevenish? I’ll find you in the parking lot across from the Aqua Theater.”
“I know what you’re doing, you,” Clara said accusingly but with good humor.
Flynn ignored her last remark. “And then we can go to brunch after we’re finished. I was just reading on Yelp about this new place on Latona? We can walk there from the lake.”
Clara said nothing for a moment. Maybe she was disappointed.
“Okay.”
She went quiet again, for a longer space this time. Flynn started to wonder if he should just be a good friend and go to church with her. But then she said, “Remember—think positive. And I’ll do the same. I’ll even offer up a prayer.”
For all the good that will do, Flynn thought and then caught himself. You can choose to think positively or negatively. So he just said, “Thanks, Clara.”
“You’re going to find him tomorrow,” Clara said.
“Is this the power of positive thinking?” Flynn asked.
“It is. And I believe it.”
Flynn wasn’t so sure. But what was the harm in believing things would work out for the best? He supposed, begrudgingly, the chances of them working out that way were just as good as them working out for the worst.
As he concluded his call with Clara, he wondered if it was possible to draw both positive and negative energy at the same time. And after he put down his phone, it occurred to him that maybe it was possible he could be wrong about what the best possible outcome might be.
What would Clara say to that? He would ask her tomorrow.
Chapter 4
“SOMETIMES WALKING around this lake is no different than walking around downtown,” Flynn grumbled. “It’s just as crowded.” His gaze roamed over the relatively bucolic setting of Green Lake Park, with its pine-tree and mountain-studded views, its glassy greenish-blue surface, and its hordes of strollers, runners, rollerbladers, and bikers along its crowded trail. He stepped aside to let a spandex-clad gaggle of young moms with running strollers pass by.
Clara rejoined him on the path after stapling yet another “Lost Dog” poster to yet another tree. Flynn had done all the design work, so Clara insisted on doing all the legwork. “Yes, but it’s my exercise—for the week.” She giggled.
“You know you’re going to need to do more than this to burn off those pancakes we
’ll have later.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about burning off anything!” Clara argued. “Look at me.” She twirled in front of him.
And Flynn did and was amazed once more at how dainty she was. One thing he’d always liked about his best friend was her ability to put food away. She could eat like a lumberjack with no regard for low carb, vegan, low fat, or, really, for any healthy alternatives. Clara’s loves included, but were not limited to, bacon cheeseburgers from Red Mill (with a milkshake and a side of onion rings), Top Pot doughnuts (maple long johns a particular favorite), pies from A la Mode over in Phinney Ridge (the Bourbon Butterscotch was top on her list), and hot turkey sandwiches with french fries, all smothered in gravy, at the Mecca in lower Queen Anne. The woman and food had a running lifelong love affair, and the thing was—it worked. Flynn had to laugh every time he shared a meal with Clara, not because she ate so much, but because she was so tiny. If Clara ever topped one hundred pounds, Flynn would have been stunned to hear it. She was all of five feet tall, and Flynn guessed she weighed somewhere around ninety-eight pounds. Her hair was the biggest thing on her—a black upsweep reminiscent of girl groups of the 1960s or, more recently, the late Amy Winehouse. She favored heavy eye makeup and vintage dresses she found in thrift stores and consignment shops. She said she liked to think of her fashion sense as “modern-day Bettie Page.” Worst of all? The most exercise she got, Flynn swore, was lifting a fork or a cocktail glass to her mouth.
Flynn loved her just the same. Even if he had to run five miles a day and watch his carbohydrate and sugar intake just to maintain his one hundred and sixty-five pounds.
Clara’s eating and exercise regimen was what, Flynn suspected, made her unpopular with her fellow females. None of whom seemed to be able to stand her, despite her being as “sweet as pie,” as she herself was quick to say.
They’d made their way almost around the entire nearly three-mile circumference of the lake and hadn’t seen “Mike” or even a beagle, for that matter. Clara had been great about tacking up posters and even handing them out to cute guys she encountered on the trail. Flynn knew she was allowing him to focus on looking for his dog. It would be awful if Mike and Hamburger strolled by while he was tacking a notice to a tree.
As they slowed at returning to their starting point, dejection overcame Flynn. Outside he’d scoffed at Clara’s prediction he’d find Barley today, but inside, a soft part of him, a child really, wanted to believe. That little boy clung to the hope.
There’d been so many dogs passing them too! It was a sunny morning in July, and one of Seattle’s favorite spots for dogs and their humans to congregate on weekend days like this one—when the sun was a big butterscotch candy in a blue sky free of clouds—was Green Lake. He and Clara had passed mutts, boxers, French bulldogs, Boston terriers, Maltese…. They’d seen just about every breed, Flynn thought, recognized by the American Kennel Club. They’d been off leash and on. Shy and aggressive. Relieving themselves with impunity. Chasing after ducks.
But there hadn’t been one beagle and certainly no Barley. The other day now seemed like a dream to Flynn. Had he just made it up? Was the meeting with the redhead and the beagle a hallucination, born of Flynn’s deep-seated desire to be reunited with his furry best friend?
Today it didn’t seem so hard to believe that his hungry imagination had simply conjured up a soothing scenario.
No. Of course he hadn’t imagined it. But maybe imagining he had imagined it made it easier to bear the disappointment of not seeing Barley again at the scene of the crime, as it were.
“We’ll find him,” Clara repeated. She’d fed him the same line at least half a dozen times since they’d met up in the parking lot across the road an hour and a half ago.
Flynn felt bitter. He wished he hadn’t offered to go to brunch with Clara. He just wanted to go home and, like a dog, lick his wounds. “Oh, what do you know?” he snapped.
Clara took a step back. Her face crumpled a bit. In spite of the brazen look she cultivated, she was a little girl inside, easily hurt. Flynn knew this and yet hadn’t censored himself. He felt like a heel. He reached out a hand to gently touch her arm. “I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t mean that. I’m just, I don’t know, disappointed. In spite of the odds, I really thought we’d find him. I believed it, like you told me to.”
Clara pulled away and smiled uncertainly. “Well, I didn’t guarantee it would happen this morning.”
Flynn thought she had, in actuality. But he wasn’t about to mention it.
They crossed the road toward their cars. Clara said, “Can we just walk to the restaurant? It’s such a beautiful day.”
“You know it’s a bit of a hike from here?”
“Which is exactly why I wanted to walk.”
Clara started away from him, and Flynn watched her. Although his desires went in the opposite direction from hers, he couldn’t help but be struck by her beauty. He felt this image of her, in a slightly yellowed white lace dress and sandals, tendrils of black hair blowing behind her as she headed toward Green Lake Road, would stay with him for a long time.
It crossed his mind that the image would stay with him because he so wanted something important to happen that morning.
It couldn’t, could it? That would be too easy. The real stuff—the important stuff—only happened after lots of effort and hard work. Right? His parents had endlessly reminded him of that fact growing up.
Flynn hurried to catch up.
Sure, Clara was right. He would find Barley and the man who’d appropriated him again one day. But it wouldn’t be by chance. It would only happen after hours of hard detective work on his and—if she was willing—Clara’s parts. Running down leads. Haunting shelters. Hanging out at various dog parks on the north side of town. Keeping an eye peeled, ever vigilant. That was how the world worked. That was how one got results.
CRUMPET STRUMPET was the newest addition to the Green Lake and Ravenna neighborhood brunch scene. Amused at first by the name and the reputation for making amazing crumpets, Flynn had been pleased to find the restaurant, a brunch- and lunch-only affair, had a multitude of four- and five-star Yelp reviews, even though it had only been around since the previous winter.
“Guess the word is out about this place,” Flynn said as they neared the little storefront, painted in cheerful shades of orange and Caribbean blue. A few tables had been set up outside along the sidewalk, and Flynn felt a jealous stab at the diners already seated at them.
“Look at that line,” Clara marveled.
The line wound from the entrance all the way down Latona to where it intersected with NE Sixty-Fifth Street, a distance of almost a full city block.
“Should we go someplace else?”
“Seriously? Walk somewhere else?” Clara guffawed. “We’ve just covered over four miles. Enough is enough.”
“Well, there are other brunch places close by. Just under I-5, for example, there’s a vegan place I’ve heard good things about.”
“I did not walk all this way in these sandals to eat tempeh or whatever. C’mon!” Clara latched on to Flynn’s arm and pulled him into line. “It’ll be nice to stand still, anyway.”
The wait took close to two hours. But the day was pleasant, with warm but not hot breezes wafting over them. There was no humidity, and the sunshine threw everything around them into sharp relief, making even the simplest things look shiny and newly washed.
Flynn tried to get his mind off Barley by chatting with Clara about her latest dating misadventures via Tinder. Clara, with her petite and unique good looks, had no shortage of suitors. In fact, she complained she often had far too many. It was a problem Flynn wished he could have, and maybe he would if he’d only succumb to the charms of apps like Grindr or Scruff. But Flynn was an old-fashioned boy and preferred meeting men face-to-face. He knew it was weird in this Internet age, but he guessed he was like his mom, who refused to buy groceries online because she liked to “squeeze and sniff the produce” before putting it i
n her basket. Nobody was getting near Flynn’s basket without live contact.
Clara reeled him back in by telling him about a guy who’d called her princess and worried about her frailty and wondered if she could handle a two-mile walk with him along the Ship Canal between Ballard and Fremont. Clara rolled her eyes. “They’re all the same, Flynn!” Clara lamented. “They either want to treat me in this overly fussy way, like I’m an egg that could break if they squeeze too hard, or just the opposite—that they couldn’t really care less if I splattered on the floor.” She winked. “As long as they can lick up the yolk.”
Flynn rolled his eyes. “Whatever that means.” He grinned. “And no, I don’t want you to explain it.”
After almost two hours had passed, the harried waitress, a young woman of no more than twenty with long hair dyed in rainbow hues, ushered them to a table inside. They were seated next to a gay couple, practically in their laps, because each table in the place had about six inches of space between them. Flynn would have told Clara he wouldn’t have minded sitting on the blond’s lap next to him, a young fella who reminded him very much of the actor Liam Hemsworth with glasses, had they not been sitting so close. Even whispering, there’s no way their neighbor wouldn’t have heard him.
They checked out the menu, and Flynn realized that conversation was going to be well-nigh impossible over the general din of the restaurant. Not only was the chatter at an alarming level, there was also the roar of the cappuccino maker and a vague jazz soundtrack underneath it all. It was okay. After standing in line for almost a couple of hours, Flynn wasn’t sure how much he had left to talk about anyway.
“What are you having?” he screamed.
And Clara screamed back, “Banana walnut pancakes, I think! And a side of applewood-smoked bacon. Coffee, of course!”
Flynn nodded and tried to convey across the table that he was keeping it simple with a couple of poached eggs and one of their crumpets. Flynn loved nothing more—well, maybe a couple of things more—than dipping a good-quality baked good into a runny yolk.
