by Jim Kraus
George, happy for the interruption, pulled out the “master map” from the cardboard tube in the closet and spread it out on the table. The map was the exact size of the table—something George had calculated before buying it.
“Here’s Gloucester—where we started,” George explained.
Irene nodded and bent closer, tracing his intended route, marked with yellow highlighter, and each stop marked in green with the name of the campground and the dates he expected to spend there. She traced the route from Towanda to Pittsburgh, and the side trip to Falling Water, and then on into West Virginia. She did not speak while following his journey. It took several minutes until she reached the West Coast and the San Juan Islands near Seattle.
“Impressive, George. Very impressive. Precise. Like an engineer.”
“It is what I was. Hard to change stripes. Like a zebra, right?”
“I would allow a few more days in a few of these places. You need to spend at least four or five days to get the feel of a place. Any less and it’s like being on a Greyhound bus just passing through. Like the Grand Canyon here. You need three days. You need to see it at sunrise and sunset. And Lewis can have a ball meeting people.”
Lewis wuffed twice and stood up and walked to Irene, butting her gently with his head.
“Lewis agrees with me, George. Slow down a little. You have time. Live a little.”
George was going to agree with her but then didn’t. He wasn’t sure why, except he felt some obligation to see things through as planned. To deviate from the original plan would be wrong, somehow.
I made a promise when she died. A promise to myself. It is . . . destiny, right?
“And maybe we’ll see each other again,” Irene said.
She does sound chipper . . . optimistic.
“Maybe. It’s a small world,” George said.
“But I wouldn’t want to paint it,” Irene added.
George almost laughed, but instead only smiled, not knowing if she meant it to be funny or simply profound.
* * *
Later in the afternoon, as the rains continued—not heavy, but enough to make outside activities unpleasant—George sat on one side of the couch, and Lewis assumed his normal position on the other.
Every few minutes, Lewis looked over to the campsite next to them. All he could see was the white top of Irene’s van. No one came or went since the morning.
“Lewis, we’ll go out for a walk in a little bit. Maybe things will clear up soon.”
Lewis snorted and looked at George, as intently as he had ever done.
“Lewis, I have a plan. I have a schedule. I know Irene means well, but I can’t go changing my plan all willy-nilly, can I?”
No one says willy-nilly anymore, do they?
“I made a vow, Lewis. And a vow is not something you can go back on. Maybe you’ll understand later. It’s what I have to do. To stay honest to myself.”
Lewis looked absolutely perplexed and confused
George wondered if it was because Lewis didn’t know what he was saying, didn’t know what George had vowed to do.
But maybe it’s because Lewis knows he gets the truth out of people, but he knows he can’t change what is fated. Maybe it’s what is making him confused.
Lewis stood on the couch, then jumped down, growled a little, which was not his style, not at all, then he burrowed his head against George’s thigh, growling softly, as if repeating some sort of dog mantra to himself, hoping George would somehow understand.
* * *
It was almost dark, dreary and dark and rainy. Lewis had moped about the RV in the afternoon, moving from one spot to another, seemingly not able to find a comfortable place. He even crawled over the center console and tried to nap in the passenger seat. It hadn’t seemed to be right, either, so he’d crawled back over, and circled the carpeted floor in front of the kitchen sink, and lay down, looking more weary than a dog has a right to appear.
George had napped fitfully as well, in between reading the newspaper and his tablet and listening to the all-news station on the radio. Finally, after Lewis had fallen asleep, which George could tell by his rhythmic breathing and his adenoidal snoring, George carefully laid aside the newspaper.
He looked out the window at the gathering gloom.
“I miss her so much, Lewis,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can endure this whole trip. I am so . . . I just miss her so much.”
29
When George woke up the following morning, Lewis was already up and perched on the rear sofa, staring out at the campsite next to them.
It was empty. Irene must have left early in the morning.
It’s why Lewis looks upset.
George put on his shoes, and Lewis did not appear excited or even look like he noticed the activity. George knew that Lewis knew shoes meant going for a walk, but it did not cause the dog to show any visible signs of excitement.
“Lewis,” George said.
Lewis did not move, just kept staring out at the empty spot.
“Lewis, you can’t be depressed every time someone you like leaves. If you’re going to do this trip, you have to develop a thicker skin.”
Lewis turned, then snorted loudly, obviously disagreeing with him.
“Come on, Lewis. She said we would probably run across each other again.”
Not likely.
“She said so, Lewis. We’ll see her again.”
Lewis seemed to narrow his wide eyes, as if expressing disbelief. He looked back over to George, then back at the campsite.
“She said we would meet up somewhere. She said it, Lewis, I didn’t.”
Lewis slowly turned his head and offered an almost whispery wuff in response.
“And we have to take a walk this morning. You ready for a walk?”
Lewis stood slowly, then rather than jump down off the couch, he sort of climbed down, like a cow taking a step down out of a barn, slowly and reluctantly.
“Okay, Lewis, I know you’re sad. How about we try the Skype thing when we get back? Then maybe you can see Mrs. Burden.”
He perked up at the sound of her name. George did not say the name Alex, because he was certain the young boy would be at school and did not want to add to Lewis’s disappointment.
A breeze came in off the river—not cold, but chilled—and the skies remained close and overcast. The Morning Zoo Crew did not mention rain, but they also did not mention the day promised to be dreary and gray.
The weather even dampened Lewis’s normal outside exuberance. Today he plodded along, sniffing things in a most perfunctory manner.
Well, I have down days. I suppose Lewis is entitled to a down day as well.
As they climbed back into the RV to begin preparations to depart for Pittsburgh, George was struck by an unsettling thought: It’s why you don’t stay anywhere for more than a day or two. It just makes leaving all the more difficult.
* * *
The Skype connection did not work, and George tried not to let on to Lewis there would be no connection with Mrs. Burden this morning.
He doesn’t have an understanding of time. And maybe I’ll try again this evening. And then, Alex may be home. It will cheer him up.
The drive to Pittsburgh, George had calculated, would take around five hours—in a car. In the RV, probably closer to six. Leaving in the morning, they would arrive in the afternoon.
George did not want to rush when driving.
No sense in driving fast . . . not on these narrow roads.
* * *
“Do you think Lewis is having a good time?” Alex asked, looking up from his bowl of Cheerios.
Trudy stopped making his tuna salad sandwich and tilted her head, as if deeply considering the question. The truth of the matter was that she had already determined how to answer the question, even before Lewis had left with Mr. Gibson.
“Of course he is. He loves traveling and meeting people. I bet he’s having a ball.”
Alex stirred the cereal.
“Do you think he’ll forget about me?”
And this answer had already been rehearsed.
“Of course he won’t forget you, Alex. You’re his best friend, right?”
“I guess so. I do miss him a lot. I just hope he and Mr. Gibson are getting along.”
“I’m sure they are. Mr. Gibson is a kind man. They’re perfect for each other.”
Alex tried not to force a smile in response.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Lewis needs to be with Mr. Gibson. You know, to keep him . . .”
Alex wanted to say “alive” but knew it would cause his mother some measure of anxiety, so he instead said, “company.”
“You’re right, Alex. He needed to have someone with him.”
Alex nodded, knowing in his heart his mother was more correct than she knew.
* * *
George did not like driving in congestion—especially congested old cities built along the banks of rivers and streams and ravines, which is all Pittsburgh seemed to consist of. Of course, Gloucester was an old city, too, but compared to the hills and switchbacks and narrow roadways in Pittsburgh, Gloucester was as wide open as Paris, and just about as level.
Never been to Paris. But I’ve heard they have wide boulevards—not like these roads at all.
George pulled off three times on his trip to Pittsburgh, not including his stop for lunch. He blamed the stops on Lewis and his specific needs. While Lewis enjoyed getting out and stretching and whatnot, he didn’t need stops three and four. But he did not complain and happily jumped down and sniffed whenever George stopped.
George used the stops to check his map again and then again, consulting with the GPS system as well as the compass. As far as he could tell, he had remained on the correct, most efficient route to Pittsburgh. He had expected a wider road, more of a thoroughfare, but instead traveled on a two-lane road, most of the time, with dozens of stops signs and red lights pocking the journey.
When he reached the final turn of this leg of the trip, he breathed a sigh of great relief. The RV was not much wider than a wide SUV, but to George, it felt wider and more unwieldy. When encountering a semitruck coming the opposite way on the two-lane road, George hugged his side as close as he could and winced as the truck rushed past.
“I don’t know how they do it, Lewis, those truck drivers, I mean.”
Lewis looked over, a hint of anxiety in his eyes.
George assumed the dog was mirroring the anxiety he was experiencing.
Or maybe he’s anxious and nervous all on his own.
When he arrived at the West View RV Park and Sales, he breathed an even bigger sigh of relief.
This was hard. Harder than I thought.
The park was behind the RV sales lot and almost buffered by a large copse of trees. Down the ravine to the south was a shopping center. To the north was a craggy hillside appearing to be impossible to build on. His campsite this day was closer to the rear of the small park. Only a few sites were taken.
“Not many RV people would pick this as a scenic place to stay, Lewis.”
Lewis had his head out the window, sniffing deeply.
A charcoal fire was the predominant scent in the air; perhaps Lewis could tell what was cooking.
George maneuvered the RV into reverse and backed into the site. There was no bus service into Pittsburgh—at least none the park offered, so he would have to drive into Pittsburgh tomorrow to find his first subject. He did not want his first act of the day to be backing out onto a narrow, one-way lane.
The shopping center down the ravine boasted a supermarket and a few other shops, including a restaurant. As George made certain the RV was level and stable, he wondered about leaving Lewis in order to walk down and get a meal.
He would be okay being alone for a few minutes. Not much more than a five-minute walk. And I eat fast.
In the end, after a twenty-minute afternoon nap, George decided to cook in the RV. He could have walked to the restaurant, but it seemed more trouble than it was worth. He grilled a thickness of sausage and made up some rice and beans as a side. Lewis watched him cook, as he had always done, sniffing loudly, as if to let George know he was participating in this meal, if only peripherally. When George delivered the meal to the table, he brought Lewis a medium-sized rawhide bone. Lewis appeared grateful for the snack, took it in his mouth, but did not stop staring at the sausage on George’s plate.
“I know, Lewis. But you can’t always have what I’m eating. Mrs. Burden said you would try and mooch something at every meal and I was to resist your wily charms.”
Lewis hung his head, or at least George thought he hung his head, then slowly lumbered down off the couch and went to the far rear of the RV to gnaw on his bone, his back to George as he ate.
George told himself to eat slowly and enjoy the food. Otherwise, all his efforts would be consumed in five minutes. He switched on the local all-news radio station and let himself get lost in whatever argument over the local political landscape was consuming the host at the time.
After he finished, after he cleaned up, after he straightened up, he took Lewis’s leash out of the drawer.
“Ready for a walk?”
Lewis bounced to his feet; whatever slight he had felt before apparently had been forgiven and forgotten.
The park, such as it was, was not large—only a few dozen spots, probably added as an afterthought to the sales lot in front. The few RVs they passed on their walk seemed devoid of outside activity. No one came out to say hello, no one was grilling outside, no one had built a campfire—although the weather was a little on the warm side for sitting around a campfire.
Lewis had not been deterred. At every RV, he stopped and wuffed once or twice, quietly, politely, as if asking if anyone wanted to come out and play.
But there were no takers.
“Maybe because we’re near a big city, Lewis. Maybe it’s what happens when you’re not in the country.”
Lewis looked up and appeared to consider the statement, then nodded in agreement.
“You seem like you understand, Lewis. And sometimes it gives me the willies.”
Lewis bounced a little at those words, agreeing with them.
“You don’t understand everything, do you, Lewis?”
Lewis stopped and looked at George, an earnest look on his face.
“Do you?”
Lewis nodded. Or at least George thought he nodded.
“Do you want to try the Skype thing again? Try to talk with the Burdens?”
At this, Lewis did dance and, for the first time ever, pulled at the leash to get George back to the RV without spending undue time investigating the local flora and fauna.
And no one gets the willies anymore, do they?
* * *
The Skype connection failed. And they must have been in an area causing cell phone reception to be erratic and weak, because his phone call did not go through as well.
Instead, much to Lewis’s apparent dismay, George typed an e-mail to the Burden family, explaining where he was, what they had seen, and what was planned for tomorrow. He tried to be chatty and upbeat—all things he had no real practice being.
The e-mail took a long time to register as “sent,” but eventually the tablet made its curious whooshing noise, indicating a successful transfer of data.
Lewis took his seat on the couch and closed his eyes. Normally, he slept some during the day, but this drive had them both somewhat agitated, tense, and more tired than normal. George felt much more fatigued than usual as well. He looked at the map of downtown Pittsburgh and noted the street addresses of the three bridges he wanted to sketch the following day. He traced the route he would need to take and took mental notes as to the streets he would cross.
I don’t like feeling lost.
As he got ready for bed, George hoped he would be able to get the RV downtown and find a place to park it on the city’s narrowed and tangled streets.
It was one thing I h
ad not truly considered, he thought as he climbed up to his bed, trying to be quiet, trying not to disturb Lewis and his loud snoring. Getting back and forth from RV parks to where I want to go.
He lay down. The boxlike windows in the front of the unit opened up to a dramatic and darkening sky. He stared up at the few stars that broke through.
If Hazel were here, she would tell me to pray about it. She was always praying about something or someone. Even at the end, she was praying, not even for herself anymore, but for other people. And for me . . .
The sharpness of the memory almost took his breath away, and he closed his eyes tightly, not wanting any tears to come, not wanting to utter a sound.
I couldn’t do what she did. I couldn’t. I’m not strong. And I never want to put my daughter in the same situation. Never. Never. No one should ever have to watch someone in so much pain. I’ll not allow it.
In the stillness of the RV, he heard Lewis stir. He waited, still, and then heard three soft, and comforting, wuffs.
I won’t ever ask Tess to pray the horrible prayer I prayed. Never in a million years. It is better this way. It is.
Lewis wuffed again, a soft, warbly wuff, as if he were trying to say, “There, there.” At least George assumed his wuffs were meant as comforting because it is how he perceived them.
“Thank you, Lewis,” he whispered. “But you don’t understand everything.”
Wuff.
30
Did you know Charles Dickens visited Pittsburgh?” George asked as he turned the RV toward the city. Lewis looked back over his shoulder with a slightly bored expression, as if he had heard this story before, which he had not. “Dickens said the city was full of smoke and boorish people.”
Lewis snorted in reply.
“Since most of the steel mills are gone, the smoke is gone, too,” George continued, feeling the need to explain his choice of a stopping point to his passenger. “I don’t know about how the sensibility of the population has changed. I can’t imagine they are all still boorish.”
No one says boorish anymore, do they?
“But did you know Pittsburgh has more bridges than Venice, Lewis? Venice—in Italy.”
