by Jim Kraus
“No. Nothing like that. Everything is the same as it has always been.”
The doctor rubbed his chin and then tilted his head.
“Nothing new? Nothing at all?”
Trudy turned to her husband, her eyes wide, almost with shock.
“Lewis. Could it be . . .?”
11
A television in the far corner of the waiting room droned on, set to an all-news-all-the-time station, the volume turned down low, so all was just a low mumble. The commercials came in with more volume. No one seemed to be paying attention to the flickering blue light this morning.
Other than the Burdens and the young doctor, there were only two other people in the waiting area: an elderly woman who was rearranging her purse and had a small stack of loose paper beside her, and a young Hispanic man, in a too-tight T-shirt, dozing in the morning sunlight.
The doctor looked at both of Alex’s parents using his best, serious, I’m-a-real-doctor gaze. “It could be a reaction to dog hair or dander. Some patients with Alex’s condition are more prone to allergies and adverse reactions to changes in their environments.”
Trudy now stood, her hands clasped tightly together, the fingertips almost white from the pressure, her face tight, her lips pursed.
“I can’t believe we didn’t think of it before we got the dog. How stupid can we be?”
Lyle, Alex’s father, did not speak and appeared to be trying not to look guilty.
The intern, the young-looking Dr. Jason Bell, who had grown up on a pine tree farm just west of Gloucester, almost stood to remain at eye level with Mrs. Burden. But Mr. Burden had remained seated, so Dr. Bell was torn between the two parents and remained perched on the arm of the chair.
“But I can’t say for sure. We’ll have to have an allergy specialist come in for an evaluation.”
“We’ll have to get rid of . . . the dog,” Trudy said, softly, almost as if she were speaking to herself and not wanting her words to be heard by anyone. And she did not mention Lewis’s name. It would have been too hard.
Dr. Bell held up his hand, palm out.
“You shouldn’t do anything until Alex is tested. It might be the dog. But it might be something else entirely.”
Trudy turned back to the young doctor, almost too quickly. It was obvious she was in no mood for equivocations and “perhaps.” She glared at him.
He did not wither. Perhaps, this early into his residency, he had already learned how to stand up to withering stares and guilt-inducing, wide-eyed, fixed looks.
“Mrs. Burden, I know you have every right to be worried about Alex . . .”
This time, Trudy’s glare did work, and the young doctor stammered.
“But let’s wait until we get an accurate diagnosis. Sometimes young children get this reaction from something as common as tree pollen or ragweed. Or even grass. And the condition is not life-threatening.”
Trudy closed her eyes and took a series of deep breaths.
“When can we see the allergy specialist?”
The doctor replied, “Well, there’s Dr. Rogers, he’s an otolaryngologist—but he might be too specialized—and I don’t think he sees many young children. If I were you, I would make an appointment with Dr. Kang—he’s a good pediatric allergist-immunologist.”
“Who’s on call today? Is this Dr. Kang here? Can we see him now?”
This time, Dr. Bell did rise.
“Mrs. Burden, your son might have, probably has allergies. It could be to the dog. But it could also be something else. I can write out a prescription for medicine to help his breathing and keep the symptoms under control. Like I said, it’s not life-threatening. There’s no need to see any allergist today.”
Trudy stared at Dr. Bell for a long, tense moment.
“Are you sure?”
“I am,” the doctor immediately replied. “I am sure the CT scan will confirm it. I’m sure. His heart is good. His lungs are fine. A little congestion, but no more than comes with a cold. If you’ve had the dog for some time . . . then maybe it’s something else.”
Trudy took another deep breath, then, after a moment, replied.
“Thank you, doctor.”
And just how am I going to tell Alex we have to get rid of Lewis? And where will he go?
She blinked.
Would we have to put him . . .?
And with this thought, she stopped thinking about Lewis and began to worry anew about Alex.
12
George puttered around his small apartment in the morning, cleaning and straightening what few things needed cleaning or had been left crooked.
He seldom left dishes in the sink, so the wire dish rack for drying was empty save for his coffee cup and a single spoon in the small corner holder. He had been eating his toast off paper towels recently, so there was no dish to wash after breakfast—just a spoon, a knife, a small tumbler for his juice, and his coffee cup.
George had an entire cabinet filled with formal coffee cups and less formal coffee mugs—but he only used one cup. It was a nondescript white cup, on the smallish side, with CUTTER’S APPLIANCES printed on the side. It held just the right amount of coffee. A bigger mug meant the last of the coffee would get cold before he could drink it all; a more formal cup simply never felt comfortable to George, too fussy and proper. And if the Cutter cup broke—well, no matter—since it was a free giveaway. As George rinsed it, he tried to remember what appliance the cup was given away with.
“Might have been the microwave. It would have been . . . 1995. Or ’96.”
I’ve gotten over a decade and a half of use from a free item. A good cost/benefit analysis, I would say.
On the three-stool breakfast bar, George had neatly stacked his travel books, his RV park guides, and a series of out-of-date tour books purchased for $1.00 at the last book sale at the public library. He knew admission prices would have changed and perhaps the hours of operation—but what else could they change at Mt. Rushmore? And since he did not need hotel information and planned to cook most of his meals in the RV, if a restaurant or hotel listed in the old book closed, it would be no problem for George.
He did anticipate staying in a hotel on occasion—perhaps as often as once a week. He thought a full-size shower would be something he might miss—and having more room at night to walk around in.
But maybe I’ll get used to living in a hobbit-sized environment. People in prison get used to being in a cell. No reason I can’t adapt to a new reality.
He had not yet decided if he would take any of the guidebooks with him. They were large and cumbersome.
Maybe I’ll get one of those electronic tablets or something. Then I could have all the books I need in one spot.
He mentally added it to his internal checklist: evaluation of the new tablet gizmos.
There was another package on the four-person dining room table. George could see it from where he stood, holding his now clean and dry coffee cup.
He had purchased it three weeks ago and waited a full week before even taking it out of its locked traveling case.
Inside the black matte case lay a Glock 9x19mm Parabellum pistol. The salesman at New Hampshire Firearms in Exeter said it was the exact same model as the ones used by the West German border agents . . . “Back when they had The Wall.”
George had done his research as well—all confirmed by the salesman.
“Glocks are easy to use, reliable, and effective. Can’t buy a better weapon for the money. Compact with great stopping power.”
When George first held the pistol, he was surprised at how sturdy it felt, solid and precise, and how cold the metal was against the palm of his hand. He hefted it, as if he knew what to do when evaluating a handgun.
The salesman did not talk a lot.
“Glocks sell themselves,” he said. “Most of our state troopers use a Glock as their personal handgun. It should tell you all you need to know.”
George paid for it with a check.
“It will take
three days for the sale to clear the state. As long as you don’t have any felonies on your record, you’ll be good to go.”
George assured the clerk his record should be immaculate.
“Not even a speeding ticket. Maybe a parking ticket. My wife never carried change with her.”
The salesman offered a weak smile in return.
“Come back on Friday. If you want, you can test fire it at our range. Free for all customers. Just buy the ammo.”
George did so. On Friday, he shot twenty-five rounds with the gun at a paper target with a swarthy-looking criminal pointing a gun back at him.
He did not like the noise, and the recoil of the weapon surprised him at first, but by the twenty-fifth bullet, George became nearly comfortable. And he hit the target with some frequency.
He purchased the locking traveling case and a single box of twenty-five shells, the smallest quantity of boxed bullets.
It will be more than enough. Much more than enough.
The case lay on one corner of the table, just where George had placed it when he arrived back at his apartment.
He spent much of the following day preparing a hiding place in the RV. Above the cabinets in the kitchen, above the mini-refrigerator, there was a small hollow area behind the crown molding. When he placed another thin piece of wood over the case, it all but disappeared. The only way someone might find it was if they knew where it was to begin with.
No one will ever look up there.
George was certain.
I can hide it there and forget about it until the time comes.
George took the locked case and placed it in the bottom drawer of the bedroom dresser—just for the time being. Until I’m ready to leave.
Plan your work and work your plan.
13
Alex sat in the family room, on the large couch, an afghan over his lap, Lewis at his feet, watching cartoons. Usually, Trudy did not like Alex just sitting and watching some mindless TV show, but today, Trudy felt as drained and empty as she had ever felt and could not possibly have summoned up the energy to make her son do something more productive with his time.
Just let him enjoy himself . . .
Trudy and Lyle sat in the kitchen, the drone of the chattering animated voices audible in the background. Two cups of coffee sat on the table. Trudy had her hands wrapped about hers, as if she were trying to draw warmth from the mug.
Alex had taken the medicine Dr. Bell had prescribed. The pharmacist claimed they could make do with a cheaper medicine available over the counter. Trudy averred and insisted on the prescription-strength pills. Within fifteen minutes of taking the pills, Alex said he thought he was breathing better and the tightness in his chest was lessening.
Trudy looked at him carefully. He was of an age now to bring about situational responses.
He might claim to feel better just to put me off being so protective.
She leaned closer to Lyle and kept her voice soft.
“What will we do about Lewis? He can’t stay here. Not if he’s making Alex sick. I looked it up on the Internet on the way home on my phone. One website said allergies can be serious with young people with heart conditions. We both know what Alex had—and how terrible the time was. We can’t take any chances, Lyle. We just can’t.”
Lyle wanted to reach out and take Trudy’s hand, but he hesitated. There was something in the soft, urgent shrillness of her voice keeping his hand still.
“We have to wait until he’s tested. Maybe it’s the grass. Or the laundry detergent. You heard the doctor. It could be anything.”
Trudy’s face drew tighter, obviously indicating Trudy was not buying his argument.
“It’s the dog, Lyle. We both know it. I can’t let our little boy stay sick for the sake of a dog. A pet is discretionary, Lyle. I’m not risking the life of my only child for an animal.”
Trudy’s shrillness had given way to a metallic, hard firmness.
Lyle nodded. He had heard her firm tone before and knew there was little he could do to change it.
“Well, whatever it is,” Lyle replied, “we say nothing to Alex until we get a report from the allergy doctor. And we make no plans. I’m not jumping the gun, here, Trudy. We can wait a few days. He loves Lewis.”
They sat in silence.
A jingle for a chocolate-covered breakfast cereal spilled out from the family room.
“A few days,” Lyle repeated.
Trudy’s face did not soften at all.
“Okay. But if it’s the dog, the dog goes.”
And at the moment, Trudy’s mouth tightened.
How am I going to lie to Lewis?
* * *
At night, after the lights were out and the house grew silent, and Alex heard the sounds of rhythmic breathing from his parents’ room, he sat up in bed. Then he crawled so his head was just above the reclining Lewis at the foot of the bed.
Lewis was up. Anytime Alex stirred for more than a moment, Lewis woke. Sometimes he simply opened his eyes and listened. Sometimes he stood up and looked at Alex, worried he might be in pain or having a bad dream.
This night, Lewis simply rolled and twisted so he could look up and see Alex’s face by the reflected moonlight.
Alex did not like shades on his windows—so if the moon was full, the room was bright.
“Lewis,” he whispered. “I heard them talking. I heard what they said about me and you.”
Lewis did not smile like he normally did when Alex talked to him but stared at him, as if he understood everything being said.
“They think little kids can’t hear stuff. But I heard, Lewis.”
Alex tried his best not to sniffle. The few times he cried were always preceded by a sudden onset of sniffles. He worried his mother would hear him and come running. He did not want her to come. And he did not want her to hear what he had to say to Lewis. This was a private talk between a young boy and his dog and moms shouldn’t overhear.
“Lewis, you have to promise me something. Okay?”
Lewis looked like he tried to nod in agreement. Alex knew he would have wuffed if it were in the day and no one was around, but he heard Alex whispering and Alex knew Lewis would be whispering, too, in his own way.
“You might have to go to some other family. You know I might be getting sick from your fur.”
Lewis looked down at the floor, as if he was feeling guilty and a little ashamed.
“It’s not your fault, Lewis,” Alex whispered and put his hand over the bed and stroked Lewis’s head. “It’s me. I’m allergic to you, I think.”
Lewis glanced up, a hopeful look on his face.
“If I’m allergic, and you have to go to another family, you have to promise me you will never forget about me, okay? Because I won’t ever forget about you.”
At this, Lewis stood up and placed his front paws up on the foot of the bed. His head was even with Alex’s head.
“You have to remember what I told you about Mrs. Woloshun. Okay? All of this is part of God’s plan. Like maybe you have to go with someone who needs you more than I do.”
And then Lewis did something he had never done before. He clambered up onto Alex’s bed, climbing carefully and slowly, unwilling to step on a foot or leg hidden under the covers. He then waited for Alex to turn and put his head back on his pillow. Then Lewis carefully lowered himself and lay next to the young boy.
“An operation, I can understand, Lewis,” Alex whispered in his ear. “But I don’t understand this at all. I love you, Lewis. And I don’t want you to go.”
Lewis pushed his head against Alex’s shoulder and almost silently wuffed back in the boy’s ear.
“I don’t understand why believing in God has to be so hard sometimes, Lewis.”
Lewis wuffed again.
“I believe and I don’t understand. It just hurts and I don’t understand why.”
14
George had not expected his daughter and son-in-law to make the long trek from Phoenix to Glouces
ter—just under three thousand miles—merely to visit him. Tess had flown in at least every six months toward the end, and during the last month, she simply stayed. But now the necessity was gone, George did not imagine he would get many out-of-town visitors.
But Trudy had a high school reunion to attend and notified her father several months in advance of their plans.
We’ll get a hotel room. I know your apartment is small. And we both like our own space, don’t we, Dad?
Gary and Tess arrived at George’s apartment with a box full of pastries from Virgilio’s.
“We come bearing gifts,” Tess said with great cheer and offered her father a quick peck on the cheek. George was not the most demonstrative of men but enjoyed having his daughter in the area for a few days. Gary shook his hand. Neither of the men were native to hugging.
“You do have a coffeepot, right, Dad?” Tess asked. “You’re not still making the horrible discount instant coffee?”
He was, but it was a battle not worth fighting. He nodded.
“On the counter. And I just bought a new can of Maxwell House coffee.”
Tess tilted her head in suspicion.
“You bought it for us, didn’t you? You haven’t used the coffeemaker since Mom died, have you?”
Tess used the word died, and it provided a little jolt to George’s heart. He tended not to even use death or died in his thoughts. It was as if he simply closed the door on part of his life and seldom even went near it. To hear death brought the door closer—and even opened it a bit.
“Not often,” George said after a moment.
Not worth telling a lie over. I haven’t used it since Hazel . . .
“It’s okay, Dad,” Trudy said as she used an ancient can opener on the Maxwell House blend. “I just want you to be happy. And I like good coffee. I think you should have good coffee, too.”
“I like instant. It tastes exactly like instant coffee should taste.”
Tess shook her head, as if giving up the debate before it even began.
“Well, at least Mr. Coffee is an improvement over instant. You do have half-and-half, right?”
George smiled. “Of course. I’m not a complete Neanderthal. I have some standards.”
