by Jim Kraus
“What am I going to do here all by myself? For like a year. I dunno.”
Lewis turned to Parker and snorted, loudly, shook his head, and snorted again.
Parker looked at Lewis.
“He doesn’t like it when people lie, does he?”
Lewis wuffed.
“You were lying?” George asked. “I couldn’t tell, but Lewis does have this effect on people sometimes.”
The young man leaned back.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe. I want to leave, too. But I don’t want to go to Erie. It ain’t much better than here, you know? It’s on the lake and all, that’s about it. But here’s the big thing: she says we should move in together and save money.”
“Move in together?”
Lewis snorted, even louder than before.
“I guess. I mean, getting married is like a real big step. Moving in together would sort of be halfway, right?”
George felt a wave of despair wash over him.
If this is what Hazel had to deal with . . .
“What do your parents say about it?”
Parker shrugged. It was obvious shrugging was an answer to many of the questions he faced.
“My dad ain’t been around for a long time. And my Mom has been living with this guy for a long time . . . he’s sort of like my stepdad, but they never got married or anything. I don’t think she would much care, you know. One way or the other, she would probably be okay with it.”
Lewis shook his head and looked over to George, an odd look on his face. George would have said it was despair as well, but he was pretty sure dogs don’t feel despair.
Maybe Lewis does.
“Listen, Parker,” George said with surprising firmness. “Do not move in together. It will never work.”
“Why?”
“Get married or don’t get married. Living together is not halfway.”
Now where did this come from? Why do I care about what he does with his life?
George almost grimaced but changed it at the last minute to a more serious, perhaps stern expression. “But just because a decision is hard is no reason to not face it.”
Parker made a face like he was considering the advice.
“Living together to save on rent money is a pretty anemic reason to ‘almost marry’ another person, if you ask me,” George said. “But then again, you probably think I’m a dinosaur.”
“No. I don’t. I’m not sure what anemic means, but you’re sort of against it, right?”
“I am. Marriage is . . . well, sacred. You need to be sure. And I think you need to figure out what you want to do with your life. You’re young. You have lots of options.”
“Naw. Young, sure, but I’m not like a genius or anything. I don’t think I could be an engineer.”
“Do you want to become an engineer?”
Parker screwed up his face into a tight lemon.
“No. I can’t say I do.”
“Then what?”
“You know what I might like to do? I never told anyone ’cuz I figured they would laugh.” Parker looked down at his hands, as if almost ashamed.
“What?”
“I read this book back when I was in high school about the merchant marines. They’re not marines or anything. I mean, they don’t shoot anybody, but they go to this school out in New York or someplace. On the ocean, I think. They learn how to work on big boats. Like in the ocean. I think it would be so cool. Like going all over the world and getting paid for it.”
Lewis wuffed several times.
“Lewis thinks it’s a good idea, Parker.”
“You know, I looked into a while ago. I was at the library and used their computer. You can send an application to their sailor school online. Do you think I should do it?”
“What would your girlfriend say?”
“She would think it’s stupid. She says I should, like, find a job here. Work at the Pep Boys place like my stepdad. Fix tires. I’m good at it, but I dunno . . . think I want more, you know.”
Wuff. Wuff.
“Traveling the world is easier when you’re young, Parker. I had to wait till now to travel.”
“What about your wife, George? She like to travel?”
George would not let the question cause his face to scrunch up.
“She passed on a few years ago. We wanted to travel, but then she got sick. So now it’s just me and Lewis.”
Parker looked like he wanted to say something sympathetic, but it was also obvious he had no idea of what it might be. Instead, he sort of nodded and bowed his head a bit, for a moment, anyhow.
George knew not knowing what to say was endemic. Knowing the right words was not native to many people. And being at a loss for those words of comfort was typical of old men with dogs—and young men with wrinkled shirts.
“Lewis thinks you made a good choice, Parker. A good decision. And thanks a lot for inviting me to lunch. Never would have tried this place by myself.”
Parker brightened.
“Hey, man, you’re welcome. And thank you. You, too, Lewis.”
They all stood.
“I think I’ll head on over to the library after work today. Maybe see what I have to do to apply. I think it’ll be my plan.”
“A good plan, indeed.”
Wuff.
Just before shaking hands, George had one more question for Parker.
“Would you have stopped to watch me draw if Lewis hadn’t been with me?”
Parker pursed up his face considering the question.
“Don’t think so, George. People with dogs . . . dogs like Lewis, ’specially, you can trust them, you know? ’Cuz they have a dog. You have to be normal to take care of a big dog.”
George smiled. “So you stopped because I’m with a dog.”
Parker smiled back. “No offense . . . but sort of. Sure.”
Lewis looked up, grinned, and wuffed softly, several times.
I told you so.
25
Later in the afternoon, the small blue bus from the RV park dropped George and Lewis off in front of their RV. Lewis bounced out, sniffing and wuffing. George stepped down carefully. As he looked to the left, in the RV place next to his, almost hidden by a row of evergreens, was a VW bus—well-worn, red and white, with music playing. George thought he recognized the tune: a ditty a few decades old.
And no one says ditty anymore, do they? I think my daughter listened to the song.
He unlocked his door. He waited a moment, Lewis at his side looking up.
Then he decided it was a good time to rest for a while, maybe have a cup of coffee, and maybe even stretch out and take a short nap. And Lewis wanted fresh water as well.
I’m retired, he told himself as he closed the door, and I can set my own schedule.
Lewis climbed up onto one side of the couch. It was apparent he would have liked to circle two or three times, matting down imaginary, instinctual grasses, but the couch was a little too narrow for an elegant, sweeping turn. Instead, Lewis compromised his instinctual behaviors a bit and walked back and forth, without turning around, like a small furry car being piloted by an inexperienced driver, attempting for the first time to parallel park.
Four back-and-forth repetitions seemed to satisfy Lewis. Then he lay down, rolled to his side, his back to the back of the couch, his feet overhanging the seat just a little. He looked at George once more as George busied himself with making coffee. Then he lowered his head to the cushion and closed his eyes.
George took to the other side of the couch, placed his coffee on the small windowsill, quietly unfolded the day’s copy of The Daily Review newspaper, with “offices in Towanda, Sayre, and Troy.” By the time he got to the second section and into articles about the historic Stevensville Church and a piece about “Grandmother Squires” moving out of Towanda, his coffee was gone and his eyes had grown heavy.
He folded the newspaper, leaned back, and listened to the raspy snoring of Lewis and wondered again, as he ha
d wondered every day for the last several months, if he had made the right decision in taking this trip.
I will never tell Lewis I feel lost.
He closed his eyes.
Lost and alone.
And scared of the night.
* * *
George thought he was dreaming, and in his dream, music from the radio waxed and waned, and he wanted to reach over and turn it off but couldn’t find the knob to control the sound.
He awoke with a start, with Lewis standing on the couch, staring out the window, wuffing loudly, rocking back and forth on his front paws as he did when he was excited and wanted to go in or out and was prevented by a closed door—or in this case, a closed window.
George shook his head to clear the dream from his thoughts. Outside, on the other side of the hedge of evergreens separating the parking spaces, was an older woman—within a few years of George’s age, plus or minus a year or two . . . or three. George had never been good at guessing ages. But she appeared . . . spritely. And she walked with purpose. George imagined she was older because of her short white hair.
Sharp features. That’s what Hazel would say. Sharp. Focused . . . somehow.
She may have been old, but she wasn’t walking old. She took firm, purposeful steps, like she was on a mission. She walked from one end of the VW bus to the other. George thought she might be talking to someone, seeing her raise an arm, gesturing. But he did not see anyone else.
Maybe she’s dancing to the ditty.
Lewis began to whine and wuff at the same time, then jumped down from the couch and positioned himself by the door, looking back at George, a worried look on his face.
“Okay. We can go out. But no bothering the neighbors. Got it?”
Wuff.
Lewis bounced down to the pavement, rocking the RV slightly as he jumped. He took a few steps toward the next campsite, sniffing loudly. He looked back at George again.
“You heard me. No bothering the neighbors.”
Lewis looked back at the hedge and wuffed loudly this time.
In a moment, the woman peered through the hedge.
“Good Lord, you’re traveling with a bear?”
George would have described her tone as lilting, but he was pretty sure no one said lilting anymore.
She sounds amused. It’s kind of like lilting, I guess.
“He only thinks he’s a bear. His name is Lewis.”
At the sound of his name, Lewis bounced, starting with his front paws, much like an elephant bounces. George was not sure elephants could actually bounce, but he imagined Lewis and a pachyderm shared some common athletic limitations.
And no one says pachyderm anymore either, do they?
“And my name is Irene,” the woman said and pushed her way through the hedge. “He won’t try to eat me, will he? Lewis, you won’t eat me, will you? I’d be pretty tough, if you tried.”
She did not wait for George to assure her the large dog was indeed friendly. Instead, she went right to him and knelt down and grabbed his face in her two hands, smiling. “Lewis, glad to meet you. Are you a good dog?”
Wuff.
Lewis pushed into her shoulder, forcing her to hug him back to avoid being knocked over.
“You are a good dog.”
Wuff.
She released Lewis, stood up, and offered an extended hand to George.
Blue eyes. And a firm grip. Assured is how I would describe it.
“And you are?”
“Uh . . . George. George Gibson. From Gloucester. That’s in Massachusetts.”
“Well, George from Gloucester, it is nice to meet you. Where’s the little woman? Men always call their wives ‘little women’ even when they’re not. Men of a certain age, anyway. And you’re probably of the age.”
If George was taken aback by her forward nature, he did not show it.
“I’m traveling alone. My wife . . . a few years ago . . .”
Irene’s wide smile disappeared in a blink.
“Oh, I am sorry, George. I just assumed—you know. I’ve been doing this for a while and I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I have met a man traveling by himself in an RV. Always seem to be a couple. All the single men are at home sitting in their recliners watching The Price is Right.”
Hey, I like The Price is Right. Except the new host. Him, not so much. I liked Bob Barker better.
Irene continued, “So . . . sorry for being presumptuous. No harm intended.”
The apology, or explanation, sounded heartfelt.
“It’s okay. It’s been a few years. And I suppose being on the road as a single is a bit unusual. Especially an older single. So where’s your husband?”
Irene offered a semi-smile.
“Now we’re even, George. I lost my last husband a few years back. I decided not to wait for another one—and I’m here alone as well. Ain’t this a coincidence? The only two single RV’ers in America parked next to each other.”
Lewis sat next to Irene and looked up and smiled his crooked St. Bernard smile.
“You like traveling with this big bag of fur? Sort of like having another person with you, isn’t it? A furry one.”
Lewis wuffed twice, as if replying to Irene. Then he stood and nudged against her thigh. “I guess I should have asked Lewis first. He seems like he’s following the conversation, doesn’t he?”
George nodded. “Sometimes I think he understands English. He is a good listener, for sure.”
Sitting, Lewis’s head came up to Irene’s waist, and then some. Without looking, she reached down and stroked the crown of his head. Lewis’s tongue lolled out as she did.
“Likes attention, doesn’t he?”
A large, beige RV rambled past, and even with the windows closed, the twang of country and western music spilled out.
“I hope they don’t park near us. Can’t take adenoidal music.”
The RV rumbled on to the end of the lane and turned away from them.
“Good. People go camping to get away from all the racket—and then it follows you around. Doesn’t make sense to me, am I right, George?”
George did not answer, but Lewis wuffed.
“So, Lewis, am I right?”
Wuff.
“Well, George, Lewis, it was nice meeting you both. How long are you staying?”
“Two more nights.”
“Same here. We’ll see each other again. Have a good evening.”
Lewis followed the small woman as she walked around the evergreens this time, instead of through them, stopping at the edge of their campsite. Lewis turned his head back to George, almost as if he were asking permission to extend his visit.
“No, Lewis, not now. We’ll see her again. I promise.”
Lewis walked back slowly, his head lowered.
“We’ll see her again. We will.”
Lewis looked up as if he didn’t believe him.
“I mean it, Lewis.”
Lewis offered a dispirited wuff in response.
“Let’s start dinner, then,” George said, hoping to cheer up his sad traveling companion.
Come on, Lewis. It’ll be okay. This has been a good day.
Lewis lumbered up into the RV and climbed onto the couch and arranged himself so he could look outside and into the adjoining campsite. George saw an odd, wavering distance in his expression, as if he were thinking of some other place, and of some other people.
Maybe Lewis is just missing Mrs. Burden. And Alex.
George put a kettle on for coffee.
Maybe he’s just lonely for what he’s left behind.
He measured out the instant coffee.
I know I am.
26
George tuned the radio in the RV to the local news station—something called “The Bridge—We play all the oldies, all the time.” As he measured out the kibbles for Lewis and heated water for his morning coffee, he paid attention to the radio, hoping to catch the local weather report.
“Weather on
the Ones!” shouted an overly enthusiastic announcer.
Good. Same as yesterday. Sunny and cool. I could have looked it up on my new tablet thing, but listening to the radio is easier. Sort of.
George had noted two other Towanda buildings he thought were sketch worthy.
As Lewis sniffed at his food, and delicately nibbled each thumb-sized kibble, George finished making himself toast and coffee.
“I’ve picked out what buildings to draw today, Lewis.”
Lewis looked up, licked his face, wuffed politely, making inconsequential conversation, and then promptly returned to his breakfast.
“Actually, I could draw probably a few dozen buildings here, but these two caught my eye. I said before I left I would only draw things I liked. So it’s what I’m going to do. Three drawings for a small town. It should be plenty. I want to take the time to see things clearly. That’s what I want to do. They all don’t have to be historically worthwhile, you know, Lewis. I might even draw an abandoned building or two. I like those, too. They tell a story, Lewis, you know what I mean? Someone had big dreams when they built it—and now all of it is gone. What they once worked so hard for—what they loved—is now just abandoned. Or derelict. You know, I think an old building tells a more compelling story than does one still in use, Lewis. Broken dreams, you know?”
Doing something I always wanted to . . . I haven’t done what I wanted to do in so long I’m not sure what it feels like. I couldn’t do what I wanted to with Hazel . . . and I’m not sure what it was I wanted, exactly.
He had circled the two structures on the walking tour pamphlet he’d found in a rack in the RV park office.
Maybe this is what I always wanted to do. Maybe.
One of his intended subjects was a three-story retail structure, currently housing the Daily Review newspaper. The building was constructed in 1896, he read in the brochure, in the Italianate style. The other place was the Stanley Little house, erected in 1874, in what the brochure called the Second Empire style.
“I haven’t even heard of the First Empire style, Lewis, let alone the Second. Whatever style they are, I like them.”
The only sound George heard was Lewis’s methodical chewing.
He sat at the small breakfast table he kept folded away when not in use. He opened yesterday’s newspaper and read through the classified ads, looking at merchandise for sale, even though he had no real wants, looking at rental property listings, even though he had no interest in renting, and looking through the surprising large section of help wanted ads, even though he’d not thought of work for months and months now.
