Church of the Dog (19 page)

When the sun goes down, Whitey invites himself in for some of Mrs. Farley’s chicken casserole. “I’ll be out tomorrow to help you replace that rotted H brace near your gate,” he says.

“You don’t need to do that,” I reply.

He just looks at me as if to ask if I’m challenging him. “Be ready at two-thirty” is all he says, and with that he takes his dishes to the sink and leaves.

I sit in the front pew alone.

Whitey and Mara sit behind me, on the aisle. On the other side of the aisle sit the Grennans. Hank and his family sit behind them.

“To everything there is a season and a time and purpose under Heaven,” Father McCleary says.

“Are you okay?” Mara whispers to me.

I whisper back, “Yeah.”

Father McCleary stands next to Edith’s casket in his long robe. I sit and ponder those who truly believe God likes them better than others. “We don’t know where Edith is now, so we must pray for her soul,” he says. Rage boils inside me. I want to punch him. I want to punch him right in his pompous face. How dare he! She was a good woman. They don’t come any better. So how dare he call her character into question. How dare he call her spirit into question. It would feel so good to punch him. It would feel so good to stand and yell, “I know where she is! Anyone who knew her knows where she is!” I want to stand and defend her, but I know that if she were here, that would not be what she’d want. She would not want her service turned into a three-ring circus.

“I know where she is,” I whisper to no one.

“She’s at the fair,” Mara whispers back.

I chuckle. That’s right. She’s at the fair. And I’m so glad I’m not the only one who knows. I’m so glad I’m not the only one who knows the truth. I know that my grandmother’s soul was never in any danger and that she’s just fine. And it doesn’t matter if people give all kinds of money to the church today, because no one needs to buy her way into Heaven. She’s fine.

Then Father McCleary says, “We will all end up here. We never know when it will be our time. We must always be absolved of our sins and be in a state of grace.” After today I am never, ever setting foot in here again. Not for anyone.

For me gardening is a form of prayer. Most people have an awareness of life and death, but few have an awareness of life, death, and life again. Gardeners do, though.

Bulbs come up every spring. Then in winter it looks like there’s nothing there, no hope for life ever again. Then, hallelujah! Next spring they’re back even fuller. It’s the same thing with perennials.

Annuals have a slightly different lesson, though. Annuals really do die, but they broadcast seeds before they go. Where there was only one calendula the year before, there will be ten this year, and one day they will fill every empty space in the garden. Annuals are a lesson in the difference that one living thing—plant or person—can make and how its presence resonates long after it’s gone. There again, the effects are not immediate. There is always the winter.

And when you consider the garden as a whole, well, winter is a time to reflect, a time to dream. It gives you time to ask the big questions, like: Is there any reason my vegetable garden design should be boring simply because it’s utilitarian? Then when spring comes, maybe you plant your vegetables in a design that looks like a Celtic knot instead of sensible, uninspired rows.

Gardening is an affirmation of divine timing. Some years in early spring my enthusiasm takes an ugly turn, and I seemingly believe I can make spring happen earlier than it normally would if I just work hard enough, if I till enough, compost enough, and harden off seedlings earlier than I normally would. In the end I wind up with twelve flats of dead seedlings. Then I direct-seed a couple months later, and with much less effort everything grows into the full glory it was destined to encompass. To everything there is a season. Amen.

After Edith’s funeral today, I really need all these prayers. I put my hands in the earth where for me the truth resides. Zeus lies on the ground next to me and then gets up and runs over to Daniel. Daniel pets Zeus and walks over.

“Hey, you okay?” I ask.

He looks off and shakes his head. It’s a small gesture, but I can see his anger.

“That service was brutal,” I say.

He looks at the ground and nods with the same anger.

“Being around so many people with such different perceptions and beliefs about death—I mean ascension—can really mess me up,” I say.

“The last thing I needed to listen to were insults directed at her,” he says.

“Yeah, no shit. I mean, I think services must have originally been invented to comfort the people closest to the person who passed. Personally, that didn’t comfort me. I can see it didn’t comfort you, either,” I say.

“No,” he says bitterly.

“But this was a tricky one because we both know that while Edith was on Earth, she thought the priest’s words had magic powers. While she was living, knowing she was going to have that service meant something to her. Now that she’s at the fair, she’s probably changed her mind. But, still, those were her wishes when she was living, and you had to go on that,” I say. “You were in a tough spot.”

“That’s the last time,” he says. “That’s the last time I ever go there. I’m not sitting through one more funeral.”

“Yeah, I always marvel at how friends and family from many churches and faiths are asked or expected to come to a funeral, and yet the hosting church never shows any respect for the sacred beliefs or deeply held convictions of others. Ministers and priests always seem to see it as open season, a time to impose their beliefs on the vulnerable, a time for a come-to-Jesus infomercial. It disgusts me,” I say.

“Exactly,” he says.

“That’s why I’m gardening now. When I touch the dirt, I imagine the energy of my anger being absorbed by the earth where it can be transformed into something useful, something good. The earth is all about turning waste into nutrients. Want to join?”

He squats next to me and pulls a button weed. Zeus leans up against him.

“Weeding is therapeutic on so many levels,” I say. “I often see it as an exercise in getting rid of invasive, non-native thought patterns in the garden of my soul—you know, pulling up things that are taking over, things that aren’t working, making room for what I desire. It’s an exercise in the power of intention. I intend to grow sweet peas. So I do. First, though, I make room for them. So as I weed, I think about all the things in my life I intend to manifest and all the things I need to weed out to make room. Usually boils down to weeding out fear to make room for love.”

He laughs at me as he pulls a knapweed and a dandelion. “Nothing is simple for you, is it? I mean, weeding isn’t just weeding, and dreams aren’t just dreams, and dogs aren’t just dogs.”

I laugh at myself. “I don’t know. It all seems so obvious to me. Is obvious the same thing as simple?”

“No,” he says with a smile. Then Whitey drives up, and Daniel leaves me to weed by myself and consider how clarity and simplicity may or may not be similar.

Whitey and I pull the rotted H braces and replace the posts with new timbers.

“Listen close, now,” he begins. “I’m going to tell you the secret to life.” He takes a moment to peer out of his deeply hooded eyes at me. “Fences are like a person’s life. Sometimes it’s up and strong, and all these posts are all the things that keep the life up and strong: a loving spouse and family, health, work, neighbors. You get the idea. Sometimes even dreams make good fence posts.

“Your problem,” he continues, “is that you ain’t got enough fence posts to hold up your life. And many of the ones that you do got are rotted. You got to get you some fence posts, boy. And if you got a neighbor who wants to help you put them in, by God, you let him. One day he might need help with his own fence, and if he helped you, it’ll be easier for him to ask for your help. You get it?”

I nod as I begin to think about what he just said. I picture my life as a fence—long strings of barbed wire drooping and sagging between the rare and rotted fence posts. And I have no idea how to get me some more fence posts.

“Paul?”

“Dan. My friend. We have some killer raccoons residing on our back patio now. They wield camping utensils they stole from the garage. I thought maybe if I put some home brew out there, they would get drunk and pass out, and I could return to my favorite chair out there. But they just got drunk enough to be angered by their own reflection in the sliding glass door. They crashed into it all night with forks in their hands. It was really scary, Dan. And I think they ate Lavern.”

“Aw, no. Hey, Paul, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Rob can’t even scare them away by singing the Bee Gees anymore.”

“Well, my friend, I think you’re going to have to break down and pay the garbage bill.”

“Shush!”

“Hey, listen, Paul. My grandma died now.”

“Oh, man. I’m really sorry.”

“I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do just yet, but rent is in the mail.”

“Thanks, man, because I go out on the boat in less than two months, so if you move out, you all will have to clean without me.”

“You’re too kind, Paul.”

“Hey, do you need us down there? Because I’m free for six weeks, Rob’s not on the boat yet, and Minda tore something in her knee, so she’s off for the summer.”

I start to say no, that I don’t need help, but before the words make it out my mouth, I realize I do. “Yeah, I could use help down here,” I say.

“We’ll fly out tomorrow if we can,” he says, and immediately I feel like something has been lifted off me.

“I’m happy to help out with tickets,” I say.

“Minda could probably use help in light of her injury, and Rob might, too. No worries, my friend. Between you and me and our big fish dollars, we’ll make sure everyone’s covered. You and I can figure it out later. Oh, hey, Minda’s coming. I have to go out there and distract the ’coons so she can make it to the house. Okay?”

“Thanks, man. And bring your rubber boots.”

When I answer the back door, Mara simply says, “I still don’t know how to two-step,” as if teaching a dance lesson is exactly what I want to do the night after my grandmother’s service. I take a good long look at her and think.

“I haven’t slept in days, I’ve got more calving to do, and I’ve got to make room for houseguests by tomorrow night,” I say.

She doesn’t budge. “I’ll help you calve and clean your house.”

I take a deep breath, too tired to fight with her. “Come on in,” I finally say. I walk to the living room, pull an old Patsy Cline LP out of its sleeve, and play “Walkin’ After Midnight.” It’s slow. I push the coffee table up to the couch to make room. Mara waits. “Quick-quick, slow . . . slow. Quick-quick, slow . . . slow. Quick-quick, slow . . . slow,” I count off first. “Ready?” I ask, holding my arms out in the dancing position.

“Wait. That’s only three beats of dancing to music that has four beats per measure. That doesn’t make sense,” she says.

“No, it doesn’t,” I agree.

“Are you sure you’ve got it right? Are you sure it’s not really a type of waltz?”

“Look, Mara, it was invented by white people. It doesn’t make sense. Do you want to learn it or not?”

“I want to learn it.”

“Quick-quick, slow . . . slow. Back on your right. Ready?” I lead and she follows. She catches on quickly as we dance around the room. She watches our feet.

I try to remember when the last time was that I danced with a woman. It’s been a long, long time. Then for the first time, I really notice how beautiful Mara is. She looks up at me, smiling, and I snap out of it. I mean, that could never work. And, anyway, I want to sell the ranch and return to Alaska. Plus, even if we did get together, one day she’d leave. “You’ve got it,” I say. “That’s it. Now you know how to two-step. ” I stop dancing.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” We stand awkwardly facing each other for a moment.

“Well, okay. Thanks for the lesson,” she says, like she’s sorry it’s over.

I’ve got to tell her what I decided. “Wait, Mara.” I search for a way to begin. “I’m thinking about selling the ranch.”

She looks surprised and concerned.

“It’s just that, you know, this was never really a happy place for me,” I explain. “Or maybe you don’t know. My grandparents weren’t always the people you knew. Throughout my whole childhood they hardly talked at all. After my parents died, everyone was just so sad.”

“Yeah.”

“And, you know, I’m more of a fisherman than a rancher.”

“I understand.”

“I know you and my grandfather had some kind of agreement about you living here.” She looks at the floor. “It’s just . . . I don’t know if I could live my life here. I don’t know if I could stand it.”

She keeps her head down and walks toward the back door. She puts her hand on the doorknob. “Selling is a big and irreversible decision. If I were you, I’d take my time with that one.”

“I’ve got to decide in a month. If I want to make salmon season, I can’t have cattle.”

“You don’t have to decide tonight.”

“I suppose I don’t.”

“Tonight is a bad decision-making night,” she says.

“That could be,” I agree.

“Good night,” she says.

“Good night,” I say back. “Hey, Mara? I don’t know if you were the reason my grandparents were happy again there for a while, but if you were, thank you.”

“I’m just a few steps away if you need me.” She walks out the door back toward her place. I shut the door gently behind her.

Downstairs I dust the master bedroom my grandparents never used. They liked the view from their upstairs room, they claimed, but I suspect they moved up there for me—so I wouldn’t be all alone and scared up there after my parents died. The downstairs bedroom is ready for a guest.