by Jim Kraus
“But Billy B . . .”
“I’m sorry. But I can’t see you anymore. I hope you’ll understand. If not today, maybe someday. I wish you all the best.”
And then he hung up.
I had nothing to say, other than another mumbled, “Billy B?”
I sat on the sofa for a long time. It might have been hours, just trying not to think, hoping that that phone call did not really happen, that I had just imagined it, and pretty soon Billy B would call and life would go on.
Yet I knew that would not happen.
I cried some. I cried because I felt stupid about being too honest with him. I should have known better. I could have said that I was still searching. That would have been enough to keep him around. But I had to be honest, now, didn’t I?
Stupid.
Stupid and honest. Maybe they go together.
After sniffling quietly for a long time, Rufus jumped up onto the sofa and stared at me, wondering what was wrong. I did not cry often. Hardly ever with Rufus watching.
I might tell him about what happened during our walk tonight. But somehow, I had the feeling that he already knew. I knew I didn’t want to talk to him now. I just wanted to hug him and feel something live close to me. He was only a dog, but that was all I had, and that would be enough.
I did not speak a word to Rufus on our nightly walk. It had started to drizzle, just a little, and we hurried along. This was no time for explanations or conversations.
Tomorrow would be time enough.
I woke up early and had three cups of coffee before 5:00 a.m. It remained dark and the beach was windswept as Rufus and I took our morning walk. His ears kept getting lifted up by the wind. I wondered if he disliked that feeling. The surf crashed higher than it had been since we arrived. We stayed farther back from the water on the beach. A low, gray scud of clouds hung over the waves. Even the cawing gulls were all but lost in the overcast. The wind was not cold, not even chilly. Storms and threatening weather were almost always cold back in Wheaton. Here, warm could threaten, just as easily as could cold. Perhaps even more so, because a warm threat was more unexpected.
I thought again about telling Rufus what happened the day before, that Billy B said he would not see me again. But he is a dog, and dogs don’t have the same romantic impulses as we humans. He understood loyalty and respect, and love, of a sort. But I don’t know if he could understand what I had been feeling for Billy B, nor did I think I could adequately explain it to him. So I didn’t really try. I steeled myself and swore that I would learn something from this. I don’t know what.
Instead, I asked him a question.
“Does every dog know God?”
Rufus sniffed at a shell.
“Yes. I think. I don’t know every dog, but the dogs I know, they know God.”
“Did Gus know God?”
Rufus perked up, almost jumped.
“Why, yes, he did. Gus lives near the ocean. Could we visit Gus? I would like to see Gus again.”
I couldn’t tell Rufus that I never knew Gus’s owner’s last name—or his first name for that matter—and had absolutely no idea of how I would find that information. I decided to take the coward’s way out.
“We’ll see Rufus. We’ll see. It depends on how close he lives. Florida is a big place.”
“He said Orlando. Is Orlando big?”
“It is, Rufus. And very far away. But I will try to find out where he lives.”
“Okay,” Rufus said, walking with a jaunty air now, even in the wind and sputtering rain. “He is a good dog. He knows who God is. Gus is a good dog.”
I thought for a moment.
“Did the big, black, knuckleheaded dog next door know God?”
Rufus stopped when he heard my question. If he was pondering some deep question or working through some deep thought, he would often stop or slow, as if the thinking and contemplating part of it became so intense that walking could not continue while he engaged in the other two actions.
“I think so. I think all dogs know God. But not all dogs are good dogs. If a dog is a good dog, that means they know who God is and do good things. Some dogs that do bad things do bad things because they have bad people around them. But, deep down, all dogs know what is good and bad. Good dogs do good things. Bad dogs . . . they do bad things, even if they know better. But all dogs know what they’re doing. I’m pretty sure of that.”
Now it was my turn to remain quiet, trying to understand what Rufus said. It sounded clear and concise. It sounded logical. It almost sounded divine.
But that would mean that I knew right from wrong and if I had been doing bad things, the bad things were being done on purpose. Of course, I am not a dog, so perhaps the rules for dogs and people are quite different—at least to God, that is.
“Do all dogs talk to God?”
Rufus did not slow, or even turn to me.
“The good ones all do. The good dogs I know all do. Maybe there are some good dogs that don’t, but I am pretty sure that there aren’t many of those. Good dogs talk to God. That’s how it goes.”
Rufus accepted a dog treat and chewed it with great gusto. I gave him another one, and we turned our backs to the wind and headed for home, the rain becoming more of a squall now.
Warm or not, neither of us liked getting wet.
I’m still not talking to God. I don’t know how to break the silence. I don’t know how to start a conversation. “Oh, by the way—the one responsible for the deaths of the only two people in the world that I truly loved—how are you today? Time to worship you and offer praise . . .”
I can’t do that. I can’t. And right now, I won’t even attempt it.
And if God is using loss to teach me—well, he’s doing a horrible job with the lesson plan. I know all about loss and pain—my husband, my son . . . Right now I didn’t need a refresher course in feeling alone and lost and miserable.
19
Gray, windy, squalls, high waves, a thickness of salt mist in the air . . . it could not become any more dreary and depressing. I decided that this day would be a perfect day to start my job hunt.
What’s a little more rejection at the moment? Can’t hurt any worse. The day can’t get any more bleak.
I would start at the county job center in Morehead City, just to get the lay of the land. I could probably do most of what I would do there on my computer at home, but I had to get moving. I had to do something, go somewhere. I could not stay alone in the house any longer.
The job center was closed.
A sign had been taped, at an askew angle, on the inside of the front door, at waist level. Written in pencil were the words CLOSED DUE TO BOILER MANFUNCTION. WILL OPEN TOMORROW. NORMAL TIME.
That’s what the sign said, word for word.
The rain picked up a bit, splattering big warm drops on the driver’s-side window. I felt safe in my Volvo. It featured some magic traction device on slick roads. I never drove fast in the rain, but it felt good to know it was there in case I had to do so.
Going back home was not an option. Not yet. I didn’t need groceries, or gas, or anything new for the house, or clothes.
I could use another cup of coffee.
I just saw a study on Google News that linked high coffee consumption—more than eight cups a day (which is me)—with a lowered risk of prostate cancer.
Oh joy. I found out that I am very well protected from a disease that I can never catch. Just my luck, I guess.
I stopped at a Starbucks, treated myself to a short latte, with one Splenda, and sat by the front window, ensconced in a comfortable leather chair, looking over a downtown block of Morehead City. It was not the quaintest old town I had ever seen, nor the best preserved, nor the liveliest—but it was still alive and attractive. That counted for something. A few good restaurants. A few antique stores. A few women’s boutique shops. Two hair salons. A deli. Not bad.
I watched people scurry in and out of the rain. Some folks looked amazed that they were feeling ra
indrops, others perturbed that they ran the risk of getting wet, others all but oblivious to the rain. I liked those people the best—wearing slickers, or not, they walked slowly, window shopping, apparently not caring one whit about the conditions around them.
By the time I finished my coffee, the rain had slackened. I drove down the main street, only slowing when I noticed an old, two-story, brick building, with windows trimmed in white. I think the ornamentation might have been Victorian. But it could have been Federal. My readers would have known the difference. So let’s just say they were Victorian frames. Simpler that way. An author’s trick. The building looked old, but not decrepit—not at all. More like someone either had been keeping it up for decades, or spent a lot of money recently restoring it. In a sleepy town—I would have bet on the maintained-well-for-decades scenario.
The sign above the front door read CARTERET COUNTY HERALD.
I like newspapers. I always have. Putting together a publication with probably as many words as my first book—everyday—was a feat that boggled my mind. I liked to read them, peruse the ads, read over community calendars, figure out the Jumble, and do the crossword puzzle as well.
I think I knew that the county had a newspaper, but I don’t think I had yet seen a copy. I don’t think I looked for a copy either, so that may be why.
There was a sign taped to one of the two front windows. I wondered if there had been a rash of “manfunctioning” boilers in town that day.
No. The sign read HELP WANTED.
Really. A sign in the window of a newspaper office. Don’t newspapers have classified ad sections for that? On a personal note, I had found all my jobs—remember that had been in the dark, pre-Internet age—through the Help Wanted sections of newspapers. Maybe the job market has come full circle. No, that’s not the right term, but you know what I mean. (And I appear to be saying that a lot, as well.)
Downtown Morehead City in May was not the busiest place I had ever visited. An empty parking place opened up in front of the office. In fact, I could have chosen between a half-dozen empty parking places. I couldn’t see a phone number on the sign from the street, so I parked and walked up to the front door.
On the sign, written in pencil, above the printed words HELP WANTED were penciled the words REPORTER/CLEAN-UP/DELIVERY PERSON. Perhaps they needed someone to do all three tasks at once. Everyone knows that newspapers are having money problems these days.
I stepped inside the newspaper office, thinking that I could ask a receptionist for a job application or find out more about the jobs listed or get a copy of the most recent newspaper. Something.
No receptionist sat behind the counter. A stack of newspapers was on the counter. I glanced at the front page. The lead story covered the school board election. Not bad. They probably didn’t do much national news on the front. They published the newspaper three times a week. Not bad. Publish once a week and a newspaper becomes easy to ignore.
To my left was a closed door marked with the words ADVERTISING DEPARTMENT.
Then I saw the small tent made from a folded four-by-six note card standing on the desk where the receptionist must normally sit.
“Gone. Be Back.”
Simple declarative sentences tell a powerful story.
I felt better now. The caffeine jolt may have had something to do with it as well. I always feel better after an infusion of a couple of real, double shots of caffeine. Much more than a cup of instant-brewed coffee—no matter how strong I make it.
Off to the side, I heard someone talking loudly—a one-sided conversation—so I assume that either he was speaking to a mime, or was on the phone. I would guess it was a phone call. He spoke loudly, and maybe sounded a little upset. Maybe that is what newspaper people do on a regular basis.
In another moment, a large man—large, but not tall—came from around the corner. He was not bald, not yet, but on his way, and wore a rumpled white shirt, khaki trousers, and suspenders. I would bet he was a man who woke up rumpled and stayed rumpled all day. He did have an inviting smile, though, and knowledgeable eyes—you know, eyes that indicated he knew . . . stuff.
Egads. Could I write or what?
“I thought I heard someone come in. Our trusty receptionist, Lucinda, is out back having an affair with another cigarette. I’m often stuck doing her job. Curse the addictive qualities of nicotine. And I don’t say that loudly, because tobacco is one of the area’s big cash crops.” He took a deep breath. “I’m Kistler Hibbs. I’m the editor here. Managing editor, if you want to know the proper title—which impresses no one except my mother. So I’m in charge. That’s what they tell me, anyhow. You are applying for a job, correct?”
“I . . . I . . .”
“How did I know? Well, you look like you’re not from around here. There’s a look. I don’t know how locals are different, but they are. You’re a recent move-in. I know you’re not trying to sell anything or else you’d have a briefcase. You’re not here to place a classified. You would use your computer to do that, since you are young enough to certainly have a computer and know how to use it. You’re not related to anyone who works here—as far as I can recall. So . . . you must be applying for a job.”
He was right. Must be a good reporter. Observant. A quick study.
“I saw the sign in the window,” I said, hoping that I didn’t sound enormously pathetic.
“Yes, I know it’s odd that a newspaper hangs out a Help Wanted sign. But our publisher is like 150 years old. That’s the way they did it back then.”
I knew already that I would like Mr. Kistler Hibbs.
“He’s not really 150 years old. More like 140. And you are inquiring about the job, correct? Please tell me that my parlor guessing game and prowess were spot-on today.” He lowered his voice. “On occasion, I have been known to make a mistake in identification.”
I told him that I was new to the area. I told him that I was applying for the reporter job.
“Have you written anything before?”
I should have brought a resumé with me. I should always travel with a résumé at the ready.
Do I even have a résumé? A new one, I mean. The last one I recall using had been written . . . a decade ago.
“I have. Well, yes. I have written . . . books.”
Kistler Hibbs took a theatrical step backward, and clasped his hand over his mouth.
“You’re Mary Fassler, aren’t you?”
This time I was amazed. And I am sure that my face indicated just how amazed I had become. Very, very amazed.
“I’ve read some of your books. My wife loves you. I just read the one about the Amish cowboy. I wanted to head off into the West after I finished the last chapter.”
“Lariats of the Divine.”
“Yes, that one! It was so marvelous. I loved it. Of course, I hated the cover. That ungainly man did not look at all like Stephen from the book. It didn’t. I’m sorry. Horrid illustration.”
I really liked Kistler Hibbs.
“I know. I didn’t like it either. But a publisher has the right of way,” I said.
He leaned toward me and looked around, to make sure no one listened in on us, in a most theatrical way.
“I hate publishers.”
I went back to being amazed, after a short stint at being totally pleased at the recognition.
“But how . . .”
“Janet . . . down at The Star Team. She’s our neighbor. She said she just sold a place in Atlantic Beach to a famous writer. And she mentioned your name. I anticipated sending a reporter over to do a story on you. I really did. If I had a good reporter, that is. Which I don’t. Hence the sign in the window.”
I remained amazed.
“Listen, Mary Fassler, Morehead City is a small town and we love our gossip, so be prepared to have no secrets here. Unless you do something really horrible. Then no one will ever talk about it—above a whisper, and behind your back to be certain, anyway.”
I had no idea what to do next. It was one
of the few fan encounters I have ever had—other than at poorly attended book signings, that is, or at conventions when one of my books was being given away for free. Free books meant that I had fans.
“Mary . . . may I call you Mary? I thought so. Listen. I know you can write. And I know you could do this job in your sleep. Human interest stories, mostly. Some news pieces. Beauty queens. Nurse of the Year awards. Political spotlights. Business stories—on business owners mostly, not business. Heavens. No one understands business. Or wants to read about it either. Odd collectors and their collections. Artists. Visiting personalities. Spotlight on a teacher or some other unsung public servant. High-achieving students. A day in the life of someone or other in town. Maybe the odd county or city council meeting when someone is on vacation. People who are one hundred years old.”
He scrunched his face into a prune, trying to think of other topics, but apparently had exhausted his mental list.
Then his features unscrunched.
“Maybe write a personal column or two whenever. ‘Notes from a Newcomer’ or something akin to that. What do you think? Do you want the job?”
My amazement knew no bounds. I am certain my jaw was slacker than it had ever been before.
“I know. The offer is out of the blue. And you may ask why. Why so quickly?”
“Well, that did just cross my mind,” I replied.
Kistler Hibbs smiled. “Allow me to elucidate. First off—you can write. Your books are ample evidence of that fact. The value of that ability cannot be underestimated. I’ve had graduates of college journalism schools who could barely string three coherent sentences together. And heaven forbid you want the story done on time. They need time to think and compose—to find their muse. And when they do find it, they can’t spell it. I hate spell check. It has ruined an entire generation of spellers. Now, as a writer of novels, you’re used to deadlines. You must have a good work ethic or you couldn’t have done all those books. And you’re new to our pleasant town. A good way to meet people—and make a few dollars.”
