Church of the Dog (10 page)

The drive to the Portland airport is a beautiful one. The road winds next to the steep basalt cliffs and wide, choppy river. Autumn has turned the shrub oak high on the cliffs as well as the apple trees and vine maples down in the valley. A few hearty windsurfers still tear through the Gorge, clinging to brightly colored sails.

I try to imagine early settlers running this river on log rafts back in the days before the dams, back when the river flowed with all its force. It’s incredible that any of them made it through alive. It must have been quite a river when it was wild and free. The dams seem permanent to me, but I know that in the larger picture few things are forever. One day the dams will crumble, and people may or may not still be here to rebuild them. Tough to say. I wonder whether the only way to freedom is through devastation. This country had to have a devastating war with England to be free. All over the world there are examples of that. Natural disasters are devastating. Do they ever lead to freedom? I guess if having your trailer picked up and spun around in the air is your idea of free, then, yes, it leads to freedom. But most of the time I think it could be argued that natural disasters don’t lead to freedom—for people at least.

If I were that river, my dams would have been built when I lost my parents. Would more devastation blow those away, or would more devastation just lead to the construction of more dams?

I find a parking lot that charges twelve bucks a day. That’s going to add up. The shuttle bus takes me to the airport where I kill time by walking and noticing the differences in people who are going to different locations. People going to Seattle and Anchorage wear a lot of polar fleece and hiking boots. You see a lot of backpacks in that crowd. People going to Kansas City look soft and bored, but kind. The Pittsburgh crowd looks hardened and edgy. I think the least attractive people are headed for Albuquerque, although the Cleveland crowd leaves a little to be desired, too. Dallas and New York groups are by far the loudest. The difference is that the Dallas people exchange friendly loud stories with one another while the New York crowd shouts into cell phones. The women going to Dallas have hair that doesn’t move. I return to gate B10 and sit with the polar fleece and backpack people.

The pot launcher drops a string of thirty crab pots into the ocean. The captain tells us how and when to lay them and how quickly to bring them up. Sometimes we leave them down for ten to twelve hours. Other times we bring them up in forty-five minutes. Altogether we have about two hundred pots, each one about six by six by two feet.

We are all back in our rhythm, the orchestration of many unspoken tasks.

I pick crabs up by their backs and think to myself, You live, you live, you die. You die, you die, and you die. You live for now, but we’ll get you next year.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to be God. If so, it doesn’t feel all that great. I feel a little more like the Grim Reaper. The Grim Reaper doesn’t make judgments like God; he just carries out the orders. When your time’s up, your time’s up, simple as that. And since there’s not a lot of crabs down there singing their babies to sleep or reading them bedtime stories, I don’t feel too bad about it.

I knock on Mara’s door just before supper. “I just heard we’re supposed to get our first frost tonight. Time to harvest everything. Want to help?” The sun is already setting, and I need all the help I can get before it gets dark.

“You bet,” she says. She steps out and breathes in deeply. “I love this. You can feel the change coming.”

“Crisp,” I say as we walk toward the garden. First we pluck all the tomatoes off the vines. “There’s something very nice about having green tomatoes on my windowsills this time of year. You know last year some didn’t ripen until around Christmas. Homegrown tomatoes on Christmas. Can you imagine?”

“That right there is the good life,” she says. “Homegrown tomatoes. You can’t buy that kind of happiness.”

“No, indeed,” I agree. I admire the lush vines that will be dead tomorrow, and marvel at how their fruits will nourish me long after they’re gone. I hope I will be like that when it’s my time. I hope I’ll leave behind something akin to green tomatoes on people’s windowsills that will nourish them long after I’m gone. And then my moment of acceptance toward my own mortality turns uncomfortable, so I leave the rest of the tomatoes for Mara to pick and begin to pull carrots instead.

She picks green beans. A chilly gust blows golden leaves from the apple and pear trees, not yet crunchy, toward us. “Leaves!” she exclaims. “God, I love autumn leaves!”

“Help yourself to whatever of this you think you can eat,” I say as I pick several squashes. I like squash, but I don’t like it quite this much.

“Thanks! Maybe I’ll make a stew!” she says.

“Spinach should be okay. Potatoes we want to freeze. Pick that lettuce, though. That will be the first to go.”

“I feel like a squirrel collecting acorns for the winter,” she jokes. “I just love October.”

I pick up an especially beautiful gold leaf. “Wouldn’t it be great if a person whose hair was turning white or gray was looked upon as just as beautiful as an autumn tree?” I say. I pull a knife out of my pocket and begin to cut broccoli.

“I love gray hair,” she says. “I can’t understand why anyone would color it.”

That’s easy to say when you’re still in the July of your life. When I first reached October, I was alarmed to find my hair reminding me that December was right around the corner.

We put all the vegetables in plastic shopping bags. “Let’s go wash this in my kitchen,” I say. We walk side by side back to the house under the twilight sky, our hands filled with bags and bags of mostly tomatoes. It’s a good feeling.

And as we wash the produce and fill my windowsills, I am grateful to have her presence in the house. I’ve been feeling Daniel’s absence this week, to put it mildly. It’s so hard to finally get him back, only to have to let him go again, even though I know it’s just for two more weeks. When those feelings come up, I just think about Christmas, like how I’ll hang three stockings by the fireplace this year, things like that.

I glance up and am delighted to see a blazing orange harvest moon rise over the horizon. “Mara, look!” I say. “I’m in love with the man on the moon,” I start to sing. To my surprise she joins in.

“I love that song,” she says when it’s over. “Gram used to sing that to me all the time.”

The wind blows Earl into the house along with a few leaves. “Mara. Good to see you in the kitchen,” he says as he takes off his boots.

“Don’t start with me, Earl,” she says with a smile.

Then to my surprise Earl walks over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I catch a mischievous glimmer in his eye, and it makes me feel like an apple tree crowned with radiant autumn leaves—just beginning to realize my full glory.

There are three places a man can get his wife flowers: the Red Apple grocery store, Murray’s Drug Store, and in a field somewhere. In October a man only has two of those choices, and both places come with an audience. Now I have learned from Hank on his anniversary that a man cannot get out of Murray’s with a dozen roses for less than twenty-five bucks. Red Apple has more reasonable prices but a less reliable selection.

I examine my choices there at the end of the produce aisle— pink or yellow. Now it’s the pink ones that remind me of when I first met Edith. I like pink a lot. Not for me, of course, but for her. I mean, can you picture me in a pink shirt, or better yet a pink suit? Oh, man, the boys would pay money to see that. But I like pink roses for Edith. I think of how when I whisper something suggestive in her ear, her cheeks light up that color. Truth be told, I think the pink and the yellow are prettier than red. Red isn’t as bright, not as happy. Still, I know red says love. Red says romance. Edith probably wants to receive red. But I really like the pink ones. Damn, I wish someone wrote a manual for situations like these. You’d think after nearly sixty years, I’d have it figured out. I have no clue.

“In the dog house, Earl?” I hear Whitey’s voice. Damn. If Daniel were with me on this errand, I could have made it look like he was getting them for somebody. Well, I guess I knew I’d never get out of here without a witness. I just chuckle and avoid his question. “Say something stupid?”

I guess a man who’s been married as long as me can’t get his lovely wife some flowers just because he appreciates her? “Oh, you know me,” I say, again dodging this conversation as best I can. “What do you think?” I ask. “I like these here pink ones.”

“Yeah, those are nice,” Whitey says.

“The yellow ones are nice, too,” I say.

“Irene once told me that women think yellow roses are for friendship,” he says.

“No yellow then,” I say. “What about pink?”

“Hey, Sandy,” Whitey says to Sandy as she passes. Sandy works at the bank. I’m guessing she’s in her midforties. She wears too much makeup. “What do pink roses say to a woman?”

“You getting roses for someone, Whitey? You sly old dog! Who? I swear I won’t tell a soul,” she says. Oh, damn. I can see this one coming. The whole damn town is going to know my business by noon on Monday.

“Oh, not me. Earl here is picking some out for his wife,” Whitey says.

“Earl, what’d you do?” she asks accusingly.

“You guys are awful quick to assume the worst about me. I’m hurt. I really am,” I say, trying to joke my way out of any real conversation about my motives. I am not about to tell either one of them about what went on in my bedroom last night.

“Uh-huh,” Sandy says suspiciously. “Well, pink is for innocent love. When a boy brings my daughter pink or yellow flowers, I think it’s cute. But the boy who brings my daughter red roses is the boy who is going to get castrated by my husband.”

We chuckle. “Thank you, Sandy. You’ve been a great help,” I say, and after she goes on her way, I say, “And thank you, Whitey, for now the whole damn town is going to be speculating on the state of my marriage.”

Whitey laughs me off. “Oh, Earl, the whole damn town would be speculating on the state of your marital affairs the minute you got in the checkout line anyway.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I consent. “Well, I’m off to plan B,” I say.

“Good luck, Earl. Flowers are a good move. Next time she asks you something, remember not to hesitate before you answer. Never, never hesitate.”

I give him a wave as I walk out of the Red Apple and across the street to Murray’s. I wander back to the flower counter and look in the refrigerator. Barb Murray puts down the bandages she’s restocking and comes back to help me.

“Why, hello, Earl. What can I do for you today?” she asks.

“I would like a dozen red roses, please,” I say uncomfortably.

“Is it a special anniversary?” she asks.

“Something like that,” I say.

And then from behind me I hear the unmistakable booming voice of Hank. “Oh, Earl, tell the truth. You made your wife mad, didn’t you?” The whole damn town can hear him whenever he opens his mouth. This is not happening. “A dozen? Boy, you must have really messed up bad. Do I dare ask what exactly you said?” I can just hear the rumors now. I hope none of them get back to Edith. These roses could actually do more harm than good.

As I think about my reply, I notice the prescription bag in Hank’s hand. “That funny rash of yours clear up yet, Hank?” I ask. When it comes to the rumor mill, the best defense is a great offense.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “These are my blood pressure pills,” he says.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I should have known that given the location of your rash, it was hush-hush.”

He takes the bottle out of the bag. “Take one twice daily with meals to lower blood pressure,” he reads.

“That will be twenty-five dollars,” Barb says.

I slap down my cash, get my flowers, and prepare to high-tail it out of there before the subject can be turned back to me. “Well, good luck with that,” I say to Hank and make my rapid exit.

But all of it is worth it when I walk through the door and see Edith’s face light up. “Oh, Earl,” she says and puts her arms around me. “Oh, Earl, they’re beautiful.” Then she plants quite a kiss on me. As I kiss her back, I spin her into a little dip. “Oh, Earl,” she says with a giggle. And I suddenly remember how much we used to laugh, before Sam was born, before the accident, and all the crazy antics I did to get that giggle out of her. I would have done anything for that giggle back then, and hearing it again now, I feel the same. I look at her soft face and into her big blue eyes, and I think there is nothing I wouldn’t do for this woman. Nothing.

Mara and I are bundled up, and our saddlebags are full of the applesauce we spent all day making. The sun is down now, and the moon is full. We are going on a secret mission to give away applesauce and apples to three single mothers Mara knows can use it. We agreed we want them to have this food anonymously so they won’t have to say thank-you, because they shouldn’t have to say thank-you. So we’re riding several miles into town on horseback by cutting through Owen’s pasture. We’re going on an adventure.

Zeus puts his paws on the windowsill of the Church of the Dog and stares out at us. He’s not happy about being left behind.

Harvey paces back and forth, excited, and Mara speculates that every time he’s seen her on a horse, it meant he was going to get to tag along for the day, so he probably expects this time will be no different. We both agree, though, that it wouldn’t really be practical to have a hog following us through town.

Earl asked me to check fences while we’re out there. I laughed at him.

We mount up to begin our journey and start out the back pasture. We have to go in the wrong direction for a little bit until we find the gate to Owen’s place. After we cross, we try staying on the hilltops, above where deep draws have carved their paths into hillsides. The wind blows crisp autumn smells to us as we ride down the hills that will take us to town.