Conversations with Saint Bernard

by Jim Kraus

  “Don’t tell anyone here at the store, but I just like driving this thing around the aisles. I lost my license two years ago. Too many accidents, my son said. The police said it, too, along with my insurance agent. So, the only driving I can do now is taking this around the store. I can do about ten laps before the battery runs out. I drive around until the bus from the senior center comes back and takes us home.”

  George had to smile in reply.

  “Your name came up a few days ago,” George said. “Well, sort of, anyhow. I’m planning a trip and used one of the old road maps you gave away for free—back then.”

  Fred’s expression sort of puckered up, prunelike.

  “You got to be careful using it. Might not have all the new freeways on it. The bypass around Gloucester wouldn’t be on it.”

  “I noticed. But the interstate was on it. It will be good enough for this trip.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “Just up to Portland. A little north of the city. I’m taking the RV out for the first time. Want to make sure everything works.”

  “You got an RV?”

  George nodded and told him all the specifics—make, model, engine, and interior accoutrements—all the while, Fred’s smile waxed and waned.

  “Always wanted to travel in one,” Fred said, obviously wistful. “Your wife all hepped up to travel in a RV? Most women say they don’t want to travel in a house—they still have to cook and clean and sweep and all.”

  “Well . . . I’m traveling alone. My wife . . . she . . . three or four years ago . . .”

  Fred’s smile vanished.

  “I am sorry, George. You know, I knew it. These days, I read the obituaries before I read the comics. I remember now, I did read she passed on. I forgot. Sorry for your loss.”

  George never knew how to respond to this comment either.

  “Thanks.”

  “But still . . . I envy you, George. Being able to travel like a gypsy. I wish I still could. But time caught up with me. So I’m stuck driving a scooter around a grocery store. Don’t it beat all?”

  George smiled again.

  “Nice seeing you again, Fred. The new gas station just isn’t like it was in the old days.”

  “Nothing is, George. Nothing ever is.”

  Fred offered a dispirited half wave of farewell and twisted the handle on the scooter, the motor produced a tired whirr, and slowly, Fred rolled down the aisle and away. He extended a stiff right arm, then made a sharp right turn.

  8

  Alex called out his good nights to his mom and dad, then climbed into his bed.

  Tomorrow is Saturday, and I can stay up and read tonight.

  He grabbed his latest book and pushed the pillows against the headboard. All the while, Lewis had been watching him, more closely than ever before, Alex thought.

  “I know I should have told her, but it did not feel as bad today,” Alex whispered. “I almost felt normal, Lewis. I did.”

  Lewis stood on his smooshed-down sleeping bag and appeared to think for a moment, then walked to the head of the bed. He turned and sat down, in a most deliberate manner. He shook his head, his ears audibly flapping and slapping against the top of his head. Then he shook his whole body, ruffling his fur and himself, and then sat still, staring straight at Alex.

  Alex heard him breath, deep breaths, almost deeper than the breath Alex drew.

  Instead of paying attention to Lewis, Alex opened his book and made it look like he was reading, engrossed in the story of renegade owls and hawks involved in all manner of avian intrigue.

  Of all characteristics of a St. Bernard, Lewis embodied patience most of all. At least most of the time. At least this evening. Lewis sat, still, quiet, his only movements the expansion of his chest as he drew in breath after breath. And the occasional blink.

  Alex chose to attempt to ignore his canine companion, turning the pages of the book in a more relaxed manner than usual. He thought of turning on his side, facing away from Lewis, but knew the dog would just stand and make his way to the other side of the bed. Besides, if he did, the lamp would then be on the wrong side, and Lewis would see through his ruse immediately.

  After fifteen minutes of pretending to read, and pretending Lewis was not staring, Alex sighed deeply, folded a page corner over to mark his place, and faced his friend.

  “Okay, Lewis, you win,” he whispered. “I promise I will tell Mom tomorrow.”

  Lewis wuffed in response. The wuff was not exactly accusatory, but close to it.

  “But it’s better than it was. I don’t think it’s what I had before. You know, it’s not something wrong with my heart. It’s not like it at all. It’s different. Sort of tight, is all. Like my lungs are smaller than they used to be.”

  Lewis stepped closer and put his chin on the side of the mattress, inches from Alex’s face.

  “I know I have to tell her, Lewis. But she worries so much. I know she does. You know. You’re at home with her when I go to school. She used to call my teacher during the day and ask if I was feeling okay, if I was sick, if I took my medicine.”

  Wuff.

  “I know I should tell the truth, Lewis. I guess the truth is I’m worried this time. You know, every time I got sick before or had to go to the hospital, I never worried. But this time, it’s different. Maybe I was too little back then to worry. I guess I didn’t know what might happen. I guess knowing more stuff makes you more worried.”

  Lewis pushed his wet nose against Alex’s forehead, then backed away.

  “What happens, Lewis . . . if I get real sick? What will you do? I worry they’ll have to get rid of you or something real stupid.”

  Lewis stepped back. A serious look appeared on his face.

  Wuff.

  Lewis pushed up on his front paws and in an awkward, near clumsy manner, pushed his head onto Alex’s shoulder, like a shy girl on a first date.

  Alex put his arm around the gentle dog. The slow, steady thump of Lewis’s heart was nearly loud enough to be heard from several feet away.

  Alex held on tight.

  “I know, Lewis, I know everything will work out for the best. I know it. I mean, if God helped me through all the operations before . . .”

  Wuff.

  “He did. My teacher at church said so. I don’t think Mom believes it. But my teacher did. She said God kept me safe for a reason.”

  Alex shut his eyes. He had not thought of Mrs. Woloshun for a long time. But he did remember her saying it.

  Wuff.

  “I know it will all be okay, Lewis. I know I have to tell her the truth. I know. I know.”

  Then Lewis backed up, slowly, and returned to all fours paws on the floor.

  Wuff.

  And then, Lewis appeared to smile and nod, almost imperceptibly. Then he walked to his sleeping bag, circled three times, lowered his head to his paws, and closed his eyes.

  9

  George felt the tension in his shoulders begin to dissipate when he saw the sign for the Colonial Mast Campground and RV Park on the horizon.

  Intellectually, George knew he would find the campground. But emotionally . . . well, George admitted he could be a worrywart at times. He had visions of driving about on dark roads, narrow, meandering back roads with no markings, searching in vain for a place to spend the night.

  He pulled into the front drive and rolled up to the small two-person gatehouse. A young man came out with a wave.

  “Nice paint, sir,” he said. “Don’t see many black ones. Sharp.”

  “Thanks.”

  George handed him a copy of his reservation.

  “Space 128. Here’s a map. Take a left at the stop sign and follow the road around the lake. All the spots are marked. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You need any firewood?”

  George blinked, surprised at the question.

  “Uhh . . . no. I have a stove and all I need inside.”

  “No, I mean, like for making s�
�mores. Like a campfire. Or whatever.”

  George tried to remember if he ever ate a s’more. Maybe when Tess was a small child. Maybe.

  “No. No firewood this time. But thanks.”

  George put the RV in gear and slowly made his way around the lake.

  The young man had been correct. The spaces were easily located, and spaced well apart. It was one reason George selected this campground. “Wide open and spacious. You’ll think you’re the only camper within miles,” the guide book extolled.

  It’s not wide open—or empty, George thought as he pulled onto the concrete pad numbered Space 128. The sun reflecting off the water glistered against the RV, and George squinted.

  It is close to the water. It’s nice.

  He set the emergency brake, as the owner’s manual recommended. The spot was already level, so there was no need to set the leveling jacks at the corners of the unit.

  George got out of the RV and walked around, making sure everything looked to be in good order. A stubby telephone pole stood at one corner of the parking spot. A thick black electrical cord snaked down the pole into a junction box, skewed at an odd angle.

  Why couldn’t they just install it straight?

  He plugged his electrical connector into the box.

  I paid for their electrical service. Might as well use it.

  He walked to the door, flipped a light switch to make sure he had a connection, then switched it off again.

  Still have an hour or two of daylight.

  He walked down to the water’s edge and stared out. Small wavelets danced and gurgled on the rocks. The water looked cold, but clear. He thought of getting the one folding chair he brought with him to sit for a while. But he didn’t.

  I can see just as well from the RV.

  He watched a small sailboat tack into the evening breeze. Two young men crewed the vessel. He watched as they switched sides when the boat turned into the wind, leaning out over the dark water, holding onto lines attached to the decking.

  I should have learned to sail, George thought. We lived so close to the ocean.

  Hazel did not like being on the water, not even a small lake.

  No sense in just me sailing alone.

  After a few minutes, George returned to the camper. He opened the cupboard door and pondered his choices. He removed a can of “New and Improved” Dinty Moore Beef Stew—Now with more Beef!

  He tested the gas stove. Ignition and a bright blue flame—a textbook response. He selected an appropriate pan, emptied the stew into it, turned the heat to medium, and slowly stirred his evening meal until he could see wisps of steam coming off the dish.

  He took a soup bowl out of the cupboard, emptied the stew into it, got a spoon, and sat at the small dining room table. He took a bottle of water out of the doll-house-size refrigerator.

  Before he sat down, he switched the radio on from a panel behind the driver’s cockpit/seat. He fiddled with the dial until he heard the familiar chatter of a baseball game announcer. George did not know who was playing, but it didn’t matter. It would be a soft, pleasant noise to fill up the silence.

  He ate the stew, not in a hurry to finish. He drank most of the water, capping the bottle after each drink. When he was finished, he leaned to one side and placed the bowl into the sink. He had filled the thirty-gallon water tank before he had left. He washed the bowl out and the pan, dried it, and put them back into the cupboard.

  The sun was still an hour away from setting.

  George thought about making coffee.

  This late and I’ll be up all night. And I would have to climb down from the bunk area. In the dark. And I would like to sleep through the night. I’ve had enough of interrupted sleep these past few years. Maybe the change of venue will keep those dreams at bay. I hope so.

  Instead, he gathered up the Gloucester newspaper and began to read about the recent city council meeting where they discussed the merits of increasing the parking meter fees in downtown Gloucester from twenty-five cents an hour to fifty cents.

  “Double the rate? And they think it’s okay? No wonder America is in trouble,” George muttered.

  By the time darkness fell, George had read through all three sections. He stood up and flexed his back. He stepped outside. A chill had come upon the area. George thought he could almost see his breath as he exhaled. At night, he could see campfires on either side of his spot. He could see families and faces illuminated by the flickering fires. He could hear laughter floating in the darkness. The smell of burning pine and oak thickened the night, lightened with the scents of chocolate and of burnt sugar.

  Must be those s’mores.

  On his left, beside their fire, in the window of the large RV, he saw a blue flickering, the unmistakable light of a TV.

  And he looked up, staring into the star-filled space of the heavens. He stared for a long time, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  I said I was going to do this and I am. Plan your work and work your plan.

  10

  Alex woke up Saturday and blinked his eyes. He tried to take a deep breath but felt a sharp tightness, a constriction in his lungs. He coughed, trying to keep quiet, holding his arms around his rib cage.

  This isn’t a cold. I’ve had colds. This isn’t one of those.

  Lewis was already awake and gave every appearance of having been awake for some time. He stood by Alex’s nightstand, staring, as if keeping guard.

  Alex coughed several times, wincing a little after each cough.

  Lewis moved closer and stuck his face a few inches from Alex’s.

  “I’ll tell Mom this morning. I promise.”

  Lewis wuffed, acknowledging Alex’s promise, and stepped back and allowed the young boy to climb out of bed but did give him a nudge with his head as he walked past, almost like a friendly reminder Lewis planned to hold him to his word.

  A few minutes later, after Alex described his symptoms, his mother scooped him up in her arms, feeling his forehead for any slight signs of a fever.

  “It’s not a cold, Mom. I don’t have a fever.”

  Trudy quickly wrapped the boy in one of a half dozen afghans scattered about the main floor, then ran upstairs to get the new, and expensive, thermometer guaranteeing “accurate readings from a quick swipe of the forehead.”

  Trudy swiped Alex’s forehead three times, looking more and more worried with each normal reading.

  “A cold I understand,” she said between readings two and three. “This . . . I don’t know. What else hurts?”

  “Nothing, Mom. Just when I take a breath. It’s sort of tight is all.”

  “Tight?” she replied, her voice rising, the tension apparent.

  “Lyle, get dressed. We’re going to the hospital!” she shouted upstairs.

  “The hospital?” Alex complained. “Can’t I just go see Dr. Larson?”

  “No. You cannot. We are going to the hospital. Now!”

  Trudy ran upstairs and was back down, dressed, in all of four minutes. Her husband clumped down a moment later, holding a pair of sneakers.

  “I’ll start the car,” she said.

  “What about Lewis?”

  Trudy looked incredulous. “He can’t go with us! What are you thinking?”

  “No, I mean, has he gone outside yet?”

  Trudy had her hand on the doorknob.

  “No, I don’t know. I don’t think so. I don’t have time to think about it right now.”

  Lyle grabbed the leash. “Come on, Lewis, you only have a minute. Get busy.”

  It was obvious Trudy was doing her best to keep her panic at bay, closing her eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths, clenching her fists. But it was also obvious she was not going to maintain control for much longer.

  “Can I put on jeans?” Alex asked and then coughed once more. “I don’t want to go in my pajamas.”

  Trudy looked relieved she had something inconsequential to do.

  “Sure. Okay. You stay here. I’ll get them
,” she said as she ran up the stairs to Alex’s bedroom.

  She returned with jeans and a T-shirt and a pair of slippers.

  “Okay?”

  Alex nodded. “Thanks.”

  Lewis came back inside and hurried to Alex’s side.

  “I’ll be back in a little bit, Lewis.”

  Wuff.

  “I told you I would tell her—and I did.”

  Trudy, now on hyperalert status, heard her son’s confession.

  “When did this start? How long has this been going on?”

  Alex stepped backward, as Lewis stepped forward.

  “Just a couple of days. I fell. I thought it was just a muscle. Out on the lawn. I tripped.”

  He heard his mother whisper something, something sounding like an oath or a curse or something he was not supposed to hear.

  Alex’s father broke the tension.

  “Let’s go. The car’s running.”

  * * *

  The intern on duty did not look old enough to buy a beer, let alone prescribe medicine or diagnose any illness more complex than a scraped knee.

  “Mr. Burden, Mrs. Burden,” he said as he sat on an arm of a chair in the waiting room, “There’s nothing serious going on. I saw Alex’s charts so I knew what to look and listen for—but his heart sounds strong and regular. Nothing seems to be out of range. His lungs are a little congested. It’s probably what he felt.”

  Trudy did not appear to be relieved, not at all.

  “He said his lungs felt too small for his chest. It does not sound normal to me.”

  “I know. He said the same thing to me. And trust me, we are looking for any damage or deterioration of the heart. We’ve got him prepped for a quick CAT scan, just to be sure, but I am positive it will be normal. I don’t want to over test—but given his history, a CAT scan is called for.”

  “Of course, of course,” Mrs. Burden replied. “But what is it then? What’s wrong?”

  Trudy’s voice edged up in volume and pitch, her words tight, loud, and reedy.

  “Mrs. Burden, let me ask you a question . . .”

  She leaned forward.

  “Have you introduced anything new to the environment. A new laundry soap. New carpeting perhaps?”