Conversations with Saint Bernard

by Jim Kraus

  “Sorry, sorry,” George called out. “He thinks everyone wants to meet him. This is Lewis. He’s a gentle dog.”

  The man said something, and Lewis hurried to his side.

  In another three steps, George saw behind the open passenger door—a man in a wheelchair.

  The woman, obviously his wife, looked to be near tears.

  “They just told me it’s not wheelchair-accessible—at least not for the size wheelchair we have.”

  George nodded. “No. It really isn’t. The hallways are almost too small for a full-size person to walk in. There would be no way that wheelchair could fit.”

  The man looked up, or tried to.

  “You go,” he said softly.

  The woman shook her head.

  “No, I don’t want to go without you. It’s okay, Honey.”

  “Paid for tickets.”

  She stopped.

  “Well, I guess it’s true. Maybe I could sell them back. Get a refund.”

  “You go,” the man mumbled again.

  “No, you’re the one who always talked about this place,” she said, then turned to George and Lewis. “He was a cement contractor. Peter, he’s my husband. He liked to build things. He always talked about this place. He said when we had time, we would go.”

  Lewis spun around to George, as if demanding he do something, staring at him with a most earnest look, the most earnest George had yet noted on Lewis’s face.

  Okay. Okay.

  “Listen,” George spoke up, almost interrupting, “No need for both of you to miss it. You go. I’ll stay here with Peter.”

  The woman’s expression did not change. It was still confused and angry and sad.

  “I can’t ask you to. It takes more than an hour for the tour.”

  “More like two. But it will be fine. I have nowhere to be.”

  Lewis wuffed.

  “And I can make us coffee in the RV.”

  Lewis wuffed again.

  “And I could show him the drawings I made—where all the builder’s mistakes are. I was an engineer, so I know.”

  The woman’s face tightened, as if in pain.

  “I just couldn’t ask anyone . . .”

  “Listen, my name is George Gibson. This is Lewis. We’re from Gloucester, Massachusetts. We’re on a year’s tour of the country. I can afford to spend a few hours here.”

  “But . . .”

  Her eyes darted to her husband, and his wheelchair, and his face—slightly tilted, slightly lopsided, slightly twisted—and then back to George. She did not have to say one word about her fears.

  “I know,” he said, as if he understood everything going through her thoughts right then. “I took care of my wife for more than ten years. She had ALS. I can sit with Peter for a few hours.”

  Lewis wuffed three times, smiling, wagging his tail.

  “And we have Lewis as a bodyguard. Go. Use your ticket, at least. Enjoy the time. Tell him all about it when you get back. It will be okay. One of you should go. Take plenty of pictures.”

  The woman’s hands were twisted together, wringing them as if in pain.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Please. Go. It’s okay, isn’t it, Peter?”

  Peter tried to nod. He mumbled out the words, “You go.”

  The woman took a deep breath.

  “All right. I’ll go. And thank you.”

  Lewis wuffed and hurried to her side as if to escort her toward the beginning of the tour.

  * * *

  George waited a minute, until he saw the woman enter the line of people, already moving forward, toward the house.

  “She’s Lucy.”

  The word came out “Looshy,” but George knew what he meant. Hazel, at the end, had suffered the same sort of impairment, as her muscle control left her. The words were there but hard to get out.

  “Stroke,” Peter said.

  George nodded. “I thought so. You want coffee? I have instant.”

  Peter tried to nod, his head bobbing just slightly.

  “Come on, we’ll go around to my front door. It’ll be easier. Cream or sugar?”

  “Boat,” Peter mumbled. “Lost of shu-gar.”

  * * *

  Lewis sidled up to the man in the wheelchair, sniffing the apparatus thoroughly, then, without being told, found Peter’s good side, his slightly mobile side, and sat down, his head at hand level.

  Peter, his frame thin and drawn and newly scrawny, George thought, slowly stroked Lewis’s head and tried to smile, a thin, pained smile.

  “Frustrating.”

  In a moment, George carried two coffee cups outside. He had practice deciphering badly pronounced words.

  “My wife said the same thing. Frustrating. Wanted to talk, but the words got stuck.”

  Peter nodded. He pointed to a cup holder on the arm of the wheelchair.

  “Need a straw? It might be too hot.”

  “Will wait. Okay.”

  George inserted a straw he found in the soft drink cup in Peter’s car, and carefully set it into the coffee.

  “Give it five minutes to cool down,” he said. “It’s not good enough coffee to risk being burned over.”

  Shafts of sunlight filtered through the overhanging branches, lighting the three of them in dapples of brightness. The parking area was far from any main road, so birdcalls, cricket chirps, and leaves rustling were the loudest sounds. George could even hear the sound of Peter’s white bony hand, slowly smoothing the fur on Lewis’s head, a muted, soft, barely audible hiss.

  Comfort . . . comfort . . . is what it sounds like.

  “She dead?”

  George nodded, making sure Peter could see him.

  He had talked more about Hazel in these past few minutes than he had in several months.

  “Sorry.”

  George nodded again, and Lewis wuffed softly, not moving away, content to let this stranger pet his head.

  “Suffer?”

  George nodded again.

  I’m sure he understands what it means.

  “She prayed a lot. She said it gave her peace.”

  Peter sort of pointed at himself.

  “No more,” he said, indicating he must have given up on the practice. “Poor Looshy. Works hard. I make life hard.”

  Lewis looked over to George. His face—the dog’s always expressive face, a face of which George could easily discern the emotions within—was a cipher this morning. It was as if Lewis did not know what to think or how to help.

  George felt no nudges to ask questions or to offer some sort of advice.

  There was nothing. George felt completely on his own with this.

  “Maybe she’s okay with it,” George said. “Maybe she doesn’t mind.”

  I don’t think I believe it. It wasn’t true of me. I minded. I did. I just could never be honest about it. I could never tell Hazel. I could never tell anyone. Only once did I let my true feelings show . . . and it is a time I never want to think about again. Ever.

  “No,” Peter replied and shook his head, not shaking it, more like rolling it back and forth, slowly. “Her eyes . . . pain . . . lost dreams.”

  My dreams . . . they keep coming back to one time. Nightmares . . . not dreams. It’s unforgivable, I guess. Hard to make go away

  Lewis did not look at George. Instead, he stared up at Peter’s face.

  “Maybe it’s just you, Peter. Maybe she is . . . I don’t know . . . maybe she’s okay with it.”

  Peter kept moving his head back and forth. “No. Too much.”

  He bent down and took a sip of the coffee.

  He looked up.

  “Good. Sweet.”

  “Thanks,” George replied. “It’s just instant.”

  Peter’s face turned up to the sunlight. George could see the tightness of his skin on his cheekbones, as if he had lost a great deal of weight since his stroke, since his body had betrayed him. Slight stubble on his chin glistened in the light. He lifted his hand off Lewis
’s head and wiped at his mouth. It took a long moment.

  Then he spoke again, his voice even softer, somehow more conspiratorial. George had to lean closer to hear.

  “I had guns. Would use one. Too hard. But . . . I can . . . I can’t.”

  Lewis appeared alarmed but did not bark or move.

  He does understand.

  “In Holland . . . they help people die.”

  Lewis looked up at George.

  You have to say something.

  “You know, I loved my wife. I tried to tell her it was okay—my helping her.”

  “She believe?”

  “Maybe.”

  Lewis stood and nervously rocked from left to right, as if trying to decide on a course of action. Then he half-climbed into the wheelchair, getting his front paws on Peter’s lap. Peter smiled in response. His good arm went around Lewis’s shoulders.

  “Lewis, good dog. You run . . . play. Me? No more. Trapped.”

  George realized this intimate conversation was the conversation between two strangers, two people who understood each other perfectly. It was a conversation which could never be held between friends—one of them would become alarmed, one of them would be ashamed of telling the hard, dirty, painful truth. No, this sort of honesty only existed between souls who would never pass each other again, this side of heaven or this side of whatever forever one believed in. There was no need to hide any flaws. Transparency could be dangerous—but not with strangers. Strangers could not hold judgments.

  This honesty, this cut-to-the-bone honesty, was only born of serendipity, of the chance encounter of two people climbing along the same path, nodding at each other in recognition of having endured the jagged rocks and the blistering heat and the abject frigidity.

  Only those so purified could participate in this truth.

  Lewis looked at Peter, then George, almost pleading, his pleading-for-a-treat face.

  I know, Lewis. This is hard. We can help people with a dream, with a future, but this man . . . he has no dreams left. His future does not stretch off forever.

  Lewis turned to look at Peter. He wuffed quietly.

  “Peter, I could tell you my wife had faith right to the end.”

  “Help?”

  George did not think before he answered.

  “Maybe it helped her. Not me.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “I didn’t see any comfort in it. Maybe it did help her, but I just didn’t see much effect. So for me, no.”

  Lewis gently stepped away from the wheelchair and sat, wuffed several times, then stared at the ground, as if he were being punished.

  “Lewis is a dog who seems to like the truth,” George said. “Or maybe he dislikes lies. He gets upset when people lie to him. And I would be lying if I thought her praying did any good at all. She still suffered. She still just gradually wore away. There was always pain. She couldn’t walk or talk or even swallow at the end. And she prayed. To what end, I ask you?”

  Silence filled the air. George did not even hear the birds chatter.

  Lewis wuffed and shook his head and stood up, then barked, loudly, as if to call a halt to this discussion, this painful conversation.

  Then he barked again, and one more.

  Show him . . .

  George took a deep breath. “Peter, let me show you the mistakes Wright made on the house. I made some sketches.”

  Peter’s face remained silent for a bit. Then he offered a smile.

  * * *

  “See here—this is where Wright wanted to use only eight steel bars for reinforcement. Kaufmann’s engineers insisted on more. Wright gave in, the guide said, and was quoted as saying, ‘Well, it’s your house. You can do what you want.’ ”

  “How many?”

  “They added eight more. Wasn’t nearly enough. The guide said when it was built it was nearly two inches off level. Back in ’95, they measured again, and it was a full seven inches off level.”

  Peter kept nodding, almost smiling. He pointed to the bottom terrace on George’s quick sketch.

  “Fall into the stream.”

  “It’s what the guide said would have happened. So, they used cables around the concrete beams under the floors and put in hydraulic jacks to tighten them. Said it won’t correct the problem, just not let it get worse.”

  Peter shook his head in happy dismay.

  “Architects.”

  “I know,” George replied. “Would you have built it like this?”

  Peter became almost animated. “No. Terrible. Never.”

  Lewis happily followed this conversation, obviously relieved the tone and tenor had changed.

  George kept talking, pointing out construction details to Peter, making a few small, quick sketches to illustrate one problem or another.

  “And the roof leaks,” George concluded. “Twelve million dollars and the roof still leaks.”

  At this, Peter laughed, a mumbling, rolling sort of laugh, but a laugh, nonetheless.

  To which Lewis wuffed happily in response.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Lucy hurried up to the RV.

  “It took so much longer than I expected,” she said, as if either Peter or George had asked for a reason for her long absence, which they had not.

  Lewis stood, wagging his tail, greeting her politely, not standing on his rear paws and trying for a bear hug.

  “I have lots of pictures, Peter.”

  Peter pointed to George.

  “We talked . . . construction.”

  He was still smiling.

  “Oh, Honey, I’m glad. I wouldn’t know anything about it. So thank you, George.”

  “My pleasure. You want some help getting the chair into your car?”

  There was an expression of palatable relief on her face.

  “If you don’t mind . . .”

  In a few minutes, Peter had been moved to the front seat, seat belt fastened, and the wheelchair manhandled into the sedan. It was not an easy task, even for George. The wheels kept spinning as he tried to pick it up.

  Bad engineering . . . bad design.

  Lucy walked Lewis and George back to the side door of the RV.

  “Again,” she said, quietly, not wanting her words to travel far, “thanks so much. It was nice to have a few hours alone. And I did like the house. I couldn’t live in it, but the setting . . . oh, my.”

  “I know the feeling. Not about the house. But about being in charge. About taking care of someone. About taking care of someone totally dependent on you. I do. It never lets up, does it?”

  Lucy’s eyes were almost glistening, and she quickly wiped away the forming tears. “No. It doesn’t. It never stops. But this is my lot in life. I have faith. This is just temporary, right? This is just our lot until we see Jesus, right? Just temporary. This whole world is just temporary.”

  Lewis wuffed, offering his version of a comforting word.

  “I guess so,” George replied. “But it sure seems like a long time, though, doesn’t it?”

  She tried to smile, then nodded.

  “If I thought this was it, well . . . I don’t know what I would do. Too much pain if this was all there is.”

  Lucy sort of nodded to herself, then looked to both George and Lewis with a heartfelt smile on her face, not of joy, but of peaceful resignation, perhaps.

  “Thanks again. Truly, thanks.”

  * * *

  As George maneuvered the RV and trailer out of the parking area, and back onto the main road, Lewis wuffed at him several times.

  “You need an answer?”

  Wuff.

  “I don’t think I have one, Lewis. Not for this.”

  Wuff.

  “Because some things can’t be answered.”

  Wuff.

  “I know, Lewis. You would like to think the truth will help everyone and everyone will find their dream and everyone will be happy. But it doesn’t always happen.”

  Wuff.

  “Maybe there is a
limit to what the truth will do.”

  Lewis did not respond. First, he looked down at his front paws, then slowly raised his head, stared out the passenger window, and remained quiet for the rest of the afternoon.

  33

  George did not curse, had never been a man given to epithets and swearing, or even harsh words, but tonight, he felt closer to the edge than ever before.

  They were somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania, on their way to Gettysburg, taking a scenic back road, through the Allegheny Mountains, and the sun had set and the road narrowed to a tight two-lane affair. And now, feeling lost in the dark, George realized the RV Park that was supposed to be there, simply wasn’t.

  George pulled the RV to the side of the road.

  “I don’t know why I’m bothering pulling over. There isn’t any traffic out here. I could just stop in the middle of the road.”

  But I follow the rules.

  As normal for his breed’s characteristics, Lewis was not one given to anxiety or nervousness, but this evening, he was exhibiting signs of both.

  Maybe it’s because of what happened at Falling Water. He encountered a sort of deep-soul sorrow he couldn’t make any better.

  George took out his cell phone and checked his reception.

  “One bar is better than none, Lewis.”

  He dialed the number he had for the RV park.

  He heard static, then a hiss, then an automated voice, explaining the number was no longer in service.

  I didn’t call them before we left . . . I just assumed they would be open and have space. But they are not where the map said they would be. They must have closed. Or maybe they’re somewhere where the GPS doesn’t reach.

  George looked out into the blackness.

  There are such spots, I’m sure. Where even a satellite doesn’t reach. Too dark, maybe.

  He tapped at the GPS screen, found the setting to decrease the size of the map. He hit the button once and saw nothing other than a road passing through a beige emptiness. He tapped it again. Still nothing but road. One more time, and a town came into view, on the far northeastern side of the map.

  “Thirty miles,” he said to himself. “Maybe forty.”

  George had decided to take the back roads to the Gettysburg battlefield and had selected Route 220—the Bedford Valley Parkway.

  In the darkness, he saw a few lonely, cold, sodium vapor lights on barns, the illumination frosty and uninviting, opposed to the warm, the intimate glow of lights inside houses, filtered by gauzy curtains. But those he saw only on occasion, miles apart from one another. Other than those isolated points of light, the land was dark and felt uninhabited.