by Jim Kraus
Despite the fact George knew the date of the end of his days, he had known it all along, he acted no differently today than he had acted on any other day.
Knowing is power. And power brings peace. Peace from guilt.
Breakfast of toast and coffee. He stopped at a small convenience store and bought a container of half-and-half. He made sure he had enough bread and kibbles for two more days. He checked the oil in the RV. He filled it with gas before they boarded the ferry.
“Gas has to be pricier on the island, Lewis. Might as well save a few pennies where I can.”
Once they motored off the ferry at Friday Harbor, he drove south to a small RV park on the water. The website said whale sightings were common from the beach. George did not take note of what season would be best for watching for whales, but he thought he would like to see one, to see one before . . .
And then he changed the subject in his thoughts.
George and Lewis found the RV park and it was indeed perched above the shoreline. A path from the park led to the beach.
“If the sun comes out, maybe we’ll walk down, Lewis. But not in this drizzle.”
Lewis had hurried his functions outside and returned to the RV, waiting his toweled rubdown.
George set up the tablet and sent a quick e-mail to the Burdens, who were en route.
Mrs. Burden had written two days earlier:
We are making great progress. As a person who seldom traveled, I am amazed at the beauty of this country—even in winter. The three-thousand-mile trip has been a wonderful event in the Burden family. Such memories. We have listened to books on tape, we have played games, we have visited Niagara Falls and Chicago and Wall Drug. Alex loves this trip. Of course, he is super excited about seeing Lewis again. No distance would be too great for Alex. And since this SUV is so big, my husband and I can change driving chores and the other can lie down, full-out flat in the back and take a nap. I recommend buying this sort of armored tank for anyone who does serious traveling. I will send you an e-mail tomorrow and let you know where we are. If the weather holds, and they say it will, we should be right on schedule and meet you in Friday Harbor as planned. Again, your gift to us has been wonderful. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Trudy Burden.
* * *
Lewis appeared to realize something of importance was nigh at hand. He paced about the small RV with more eagerness. He whined at the door. He did not eat all his food in the morning. He went from window to window, looking out, searching for something. He bumped his head into George’s thigh or arm and leg several dozen times a day, as if asking “what’s up?”
George did not want to mention Alex’s name very often.
No need to get the dog any more anxious and excited than he already is. I don’t think dogs understand what delayed gratification means. We’ll wait until . . . well, he’ll wait until they show up.
“Lewis, tomorrow, if the sun comes out at all, we’ll walk to the beach and see if we can see a whale.”
As he mentioned the beach, a snippet of a poem came back to him. Often, in the past few years, George’s distant past appeared more real and more accessible than his more current memories. He began remembering classmates from elementary school and teachers and field trips and assignments turned in decades earlier—all while forgetting where he put his keys.
His memory included poetry—again.
Maybe the rhyming makes it easier to recall.
“Did I tell you, Lewis, Mr. Roescher was big on memorizing? This is the end of a poem . . . by . . . now, I forget the name. The poet’s name, I mean. But I remember the poem.”
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair from behind? Do I dare eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wakes us, and we drown.
George repeated it out loud to Lewis, who sat and watched, staring up at him, staring at his eyes, with a puzzled, near-worried expression on his wide face, no smile visible, no joy, just concern.
He remained silent after George had finished, as if to say he did not like the poem, no, not at all.
* * *
There were no whales in the water. Or if there were, they had decided to remain under the water and not show themselves to an old man, bent into the wind, and a large shaggy dog whose fur, tousled by the wind, appeared kinetic and alive.
Lewis wuffed several times, wuffed out to the waves, as if calling to them.
They did not answer.
In the evening, after a dinner of ramen noodle soup with added peas and ham, George set out to work on the three letters he had to write. One was to his daughter. One was to the Burdens. One was to the local law enforcement.
Of course, George would wait until they left—Lewis and Alex and the Burdens. He would not trouble them now. Afterward, he would mail the letters, then call the police and let them know what was about to happen. The Burdens would be home before they got the letter. The space, the geographical space would help shield them from having to discover . . . the situation and his solution.
George decided no other plan was viable.
The letter to the Burdens was brief. He thanked them for the time he had with Lewis and how he hated to have it end in this manner, but there was no other option.
The letter to his daughter was more complicated and much longer. And harder to write. He told her that he loved her deeply and that he loved her mother deeply, but there was too much pain in his heart to go on. “I would never want to have you placed in the position I was with your mother—life and death in your hands. The power of God. It is too much for a human to bear and too much for me to live with.” He explained all the details of the wills and estate and which attorney to contact and how to dispose of any remaining effects.
In two pages, he summed it all up. And he signed it simply, “Love, your father.”
The letter to the local authorities was the quickest. It simply informed them of what to do with the RV and the remains.
He placed all three in plain white envelopes and addressed each one with bold, distinct letters.
All the while he was writing, Lewis whined and paced and whimpered. George had offered to let him go outside three times, but each time, Lewis simply refused to go out. And if Lewis did not want to do something, it was a difficult matter to make him do something. So George was forced to let him stay inside and tried to tune out all Lewis’s tics and outbursts.
As he sealed the last envelope, his tablet chirped loudly. George woke up the device and that saw that an e-mail had come in.
Mr. Gibson, We have made splendid progress. We will be in Seattle this evening and plan on catching the early ferry to Friday Harbor. The man at the hotel said tourist traffic is almost nonexistent now, so we should have no trouble in getting on. He did say in summer, you might have to wait for two or three sailings. Alex is beside himself with happiness. We can’t wait.
Love, Trudy Burden.
George read the e-mail twice, then switched the tablet off. He reached over and put his hand on Lewis’s head. It did nothing to calm the animal.
Plan your work. Work your plan. I will wait until they are gone. It will be for the best.
Lewis almost pushed George’s hand away and snorted loudly.
Or something like that.
54
Lewis stepped away and stood apart from George. And for the first time during their many months together, Lewis growled. Not just a play growl, like when he growled and glared at squirrels, or when he pl
ayed with another dog. No—this growl was real and authentic and could not be interpreted in any other way than to say Lewis was angry and upset and had to resort to more drastic measures than a simple whimper or whine.
And then he showed his teeth.
Just a little.
Just enough to let George know he still possessed teeth.
“Enough, Lewis. Don’t show off. Alex said you would never bite anyone.”
Lewis continued to growl.
George boosted himself up on the counter and reached under the small wooden panel and felt for the cold, plastic handle of the gun case. He found it, grabbed it, and slid back down to the ground.
Lewis began to bark. Not his usual wuffs and whines, but full-throated, full-voiced, loud, actual dog barks, barks of alarm and anger.
“Lewis, shut up,” George barked back.
Lewis did not retreat. Not one inch. He lunged, and his jaws snapped and closed on the fabric of George’s khakis, not coming close to skin, but showing he could affect damage, if he chose to.
“I said stop it, Lewis. I mean it. I could tie you up outside. And don’t think I wouldn’t do it. This is what I have to do and you’re not going to interfere with it. It is the best for all. I just want to make sure everything is ready. You won’t see it. You won’t be here. So stop worrying.”
Lewis stopped barking, backed up, and began nervously whining, pacing, in a tight back-and-forth pattern, never once letting his eyes slip off of George or the black case he had magically made appear.
Lewis sniffed and snorted and whined.
George sat down on his side of the couch. He had tried to estimate which position in the RV would provide the least damage, show the least carnage. He chose his usual spot but sat a bit closer to the wood-paneled wall. He unzipped the case and extracted the pistol. He slipped a single cartridge into the chamber. He made sure the safety was still on—and would be until he needed it to be off.
George wanted to rehearse things, so nothing would be a surprise. That is what engineers do—avoid surprises.
Lewis could not stop moving. He could not stop growling and wuffing and whirring. His eyes appeared frantic. His body appeared frantic.
“Lewis, settle down. It is almost over. It will all be okay. Honest. You’ll be going home tomorrow and we’ll never see each other again.”
Then Lewis jumped up onto George’s side of the couch, a spot he had never once occupied. His head and George’s head were at the same level.
“Lewis, please. It will be okay. It’s time. I’m just . . . I’m just done.”
Lewis whined and lifted his right paw as if in supplication.
“I know what they said, Lewis, Eleanor, and Douglas. I know. But they don’t know what I did. They wouldn’t have been so kind to me and so understanding if they had known. And I know if there is a God anymore, which I don’t know if there is, all I know is He could never forgive me. Not my sin. Not the blackness. Not the evil. He just couldn’t—because I know I couldn’t. I know I can’t.”
Lewis edged closer, as close as he could, and stared, deep into George’s eyes.
“Lewis, please. This is what has to be done. And I’m ready. It is time. And I am so very tired, Lewis. So tired of living with this broken heart. I can’t take it anymore.”
Then Lewis did something most unexpected.
* * *
Instead of barking or biting or whining, all of which Lewis had already tried, the dog instead moved closer and closer, like a puppy, and burrowed his head into George’s neck. He made a soft wurring sound in his throat, as if he were trying to calm a snappy, overly tired, overly rambunctious puppy.
Then he maneuvered himself to almost be facing George and then sort of stood and sort of crouched and lifted his front paws and placed each one on George’s shoulders and then moved his body closer and embraced George in the closest thing to a hug as a dog could do. All the while he was trying to hug, he was making a soft, almost purring sound in his throat. It was a sound George had never once heard him utter. But it was calming, a calming puppy sound.
“I know, Lewis. You might be sad. But only for a while. You’ll be fine without me. Alex is coming tomorrow. Everything will be better. It will be.”
Lewis hugged harder and almost more fiercely, as if this were the only way he could show George how deep his feelings were, how deeply he shared George’s pain, how deeply he wanted to help fix his pain. His claws caught on the back of George’s shirt.
“I know, Lewis, I know,” George said, his voice catching in his throat, his words becoming thicker, the obvious emotion of the dog playing heavy upon his own emotions.
I can do this. I can do this.
George felt the nudge, the unmistakable nudge, the nudge he had grown to accept as from himself—or Lewis. It didn’t matter, he supposed. But it was there, nearly audible, definitely there.
Call out to Him. Call out to Him.
George tried to take a breath. His throat was tight, constricted. He had shut his eyes, unwilling to look into the pain in Lewis’s face, the horror and the fear and the desperation.
Call out to Him.
* * *
George drew in a deep breath, finally.
Then his right hand, the hand holding the pistol, wavered, just an inch, maybe less.
Lewis must have felt the movement because he redoubled his efforts and his dog-purring and his hugs and his nudges.
George let his right hand fall. He placed the pistol on the table. Then he reached up and returned Lewis’s embrace. Even though he would not use it until tomorrow, the rehearsal felt as real as anything as George had ever experienced. And to Lewis, well, Lewis did not understand the word rehearsal. To Lewis, what George was rehearsing felt as real as the dawn.
Lewis hugged him back, purring, wuffing, whimpering.
After a long moment, Lewis backed off, just a bit, to give George just enough room to speak.
“I miss her so much, Lewis. Not a day goes by I don’t see her face or hear her voice. We tried everything, Lewis. All the doctors. All the treatments. And in the end, Lewis, what did I do? I prayed—just once—for her to die.”
George sat back a little.
“It was because of me, Lewis. It was because of me she’s dead.”
Lewis pulled back and snorted, staring at his face, his eyes showing deep and total disagreement. Lewis then leaned forward and hugged him again.
And George simply broke and began to weep.
And wept into the tender paws of Lewis, until he could weep no longer.
* * *
The walls George had constructed around himself, around his heart, were, he thought, built of sturdy brick, built by an engineer, and whose only purpose was to keep the darkness inside and to keep the light from entering.
George had added layers to those walls over time, each day adding another thin veneer to the wall, each day of silence adding more to keep the pain inside and keeping people who loved him outside.
He’d worked hard at building those walls.
But it took a dog to show him no wall could stand before the truth.
No wall could stand before forgiveness—and the walls George had considered strong, built of heavy brick and mortar, were, in reality, only a mere shell, scrabbled together of tin and scraps and cardboard and held in place with guilt.
If the guilt could be dissolved . . .
And Lewis proved to be the solution, and the walls tumbled away, letting the light in and overcoming the darkness.
* * *
Sometime, around midnight, George woke. He had fallen asleep on the couch, sitting up. It had never happened before. Except it happened tonight. High emotions were absolutely draining.
The pistol was still on the table.
The letters he’d left on the table were gone.
He blinked his eyes and rubbed his face. Like it had snowed inside the RV, the letters had been shredded into tiny, dog-sized bits and scattered all over the floor.
&n
bsp; In the midst of this small snowdrift of nibbled letters, lay Lewis, snoring deeply.
They had both been near the precipice, they had both teetered on the edge, and now they both were exhausted.
Yet Lewis had one last task to accomplish.
Destroy the evidence.
As quietly as he could, George picked up the pistol, looked at it for a long, longing moment . . .
To sleep, perchance to dream . . .
Then he blinked again, withdrew the cartridge from the chamber, placed the pistol in the cavity of the case, and zippered it closed. As quietly as he could.
* * *
Lewis blinked when he heard the soft ratcheting of the zipper. His eyebrows shifted, and one could tell he was looking at George, searching his face.
Then Lewis lumbered to a standing position. He looked down at the blizzard of paper bits on the floor and then looked back to George with a guilty look on his face.
“I know, Lewis. You chewed up the letters.”
Lewis hung his head, as if in shame.
“Lewis, don’t be sad. It’s okay. It’s okay that you chewed them up. Honest.”
Lewis slowly lifted his head and his eyes, as if somehow he expected this to be a trick and he would be blamed for the mess nonetheless.
“Really, Lewis. It is okay. They had to be torn up.”
Lewis’s eyes went from shame to puzzlement, then to a more solid expression—an expression that conveyed much more than a dog’s expression should ever have to convey. He walked over to George, placed his paws on his knees, lifted himself to be face-to-face. Then he wuffed so very softly and with so much understanding.
“Can He forgive me, Lewis?”
Lewis all but nodded and wuffed with firmness.
“Are you sure, Lewis? God can forgive what I did?”
Wuff. Wuff.
Then Lewis pushed his head against George’s shoulder and against his heart and whirred softly.
“You’re sure?”
Wuff.
“For now . . . for now, I’ll just have to accept it, won’t I, Lewis?”
And Lewis leaned back and did something he had never once done, in all their time together. He leaned forward and licked George’s face.
