Comet's Tale (11 page)

Shortly after the dessert course, Ben excused himself and walked to the front of the room, where an easel stood covered by a white sheet. While the space vibrated with anticipation, he explained that his new work portrayed a Lakota female ritual involving buffalo blood and a girl's passage to womanhood. Ben then invited me to remove the sheet from his painting.

“Wolfie, what . . . ?” Freddie was confused by the request.

I walked to the easel and lifted the sheet to reveal a four-foot square canvas. A neon crimson young girl with boyishly short hair stood in a pool of red, highlighted by a vivid white background. A keyhole overlaid by a green cottonwood leaf was prominently centered on her upper chest. Many Indian tribes considered a budding cottonwood leaf to be the sign of spring and the beginning of new life. The keyhole was symbolic of passing the threshold to maturity.

I read the painting's name to the audience.
“Red Water.”
Then I continued with a paragraph Ben had written to explain the piece. “A holy man is speaking. ‘We are buffalo on the plains and this is a waterhole; the water in it is red, for it is sacred and made by the Creator, and it is of and from Buffalo Women. Drink from it; be nourished; see that we are all connected, we are all related.' These words are from a buffalo ceremony where a girl becomes a woman.” My voice quavered. I was overwhelmed at the enormity of the feelings that were welling up, along with visions of my own young ladies on their journey to womanhood. The scene in front of me blurred; I could see Freddie's outline but not her reaction. I stared above the heads, swallowed, and continued, “
Red Water
symbolizes nourishment and health, survival and protection through endurance. This is buffalo power, this is the ‘red power.' ”

There was barely enough oxygen left in the room for me to gasp out the planned finale. “Ben has allowed me to buy this painting in honor of my young girls and my loving wife, who is devoted far beyond what is good for her health.” Ben grabbed my shoulder, saving me any further explanation by leading the applause. I could no longer see Freddie's shape through the standing people, but then she appeared in front of me, her expression so complex and seductive that it could have inspired epic bravery or brought about world peace. Instead, it caused a coward to find faith. I managed to stay composed until Freddie put her arms around me and whispered, “Beyond touching, Wolfie.”

10

JUNE–SEPTEMBER 2001—NEBRASKA

If I had known that reception would be the highlight of my next few years, I would have been more careful to savor the look on Freddie's face and the warmth of my blessings that night. But it was over too quickly, and in another month, so was my Arizona exile. It was time to drive north.

When we arrived at the lake house for what was now being called my summer visit, I got out and walked to the back of the SUV to open the door for Comet, suddenly aware that the house seemed deserted. “Where are Cody and Sandoz?”

“All of the girls are busy, so the dogs are probably sleeping inside,” Freddie said tensely. “Don't read anything into it. They are all growing up—things and people, seeing and doing . . .”

My stomach clenched as I said, “Come on, Comet. Let's go post bail for those four-legged inmates.”

“Wolfie, before you go in, I have something to tell you,” Freddie called after me, but I wasn't paying attention.

Even if I had been, it wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference. There had been moments in my life when bad news had seemed to stop time and paralyze every organ in my body. Fortunately, there were only a few such moments, like four years earlier when I had learned that my dad's heart valve had dissolved, along with his life, as he was lifting trout out of a Pagosa Springs river. Seeing Cody's emaciated back legs and prominent rib cage as he wriggled to greet me now joined the list. Only his wagging tail, dripping tongue, and joy-filled eyes kept me standing upright.

“When you're with him all the time, you just don't notice the signs as much,” Freddie said softly. We were sitting at the kitchen table staring out the sliding glass doors, watching Comet and Sandoz romp up and down the beach. “I didn't even realize Cody was losing weight until your sister commented on it. The vet said that pain from hip dysplasia keeps him from using his back legs, causing his muscles to atrophy. Swimming is the best therapy. Good thing, since he spends all day in the water.”

Cody had been the epitome of canine health when I had left last fall, his toned muscles on proud display as he shook water from his coat and strutted across the sand. The sight of his frail body was so jarring that I was still trying to process it as he came into the house, wiggling between me and Freddie. “That might explain his hips and the loss of mass in the hind area, but why is he so skinny?”

Wetness glinted in the corners of Freddie's eyes as she held out a treat for Cody's gulping acceptance. “The vet said he is about seven pounds lighter than last year, but he couldn't find any obvious causes—no heartworms or hookworms, and he still plays in the water all day long. He said that since Cody is thirteen, it might be the heat getting to him faster, making him less hungry when it's time to eat.”

I had seen dogs look like Cody, and it was never the heat that was the problem. “I think that for a while he should sleep with me rather than Jackie,” I said. “Maybe Cody's having trouble getting up at night and going down the steps to eat when he's hungry. I'll keep his food in my room.” We had already decided that this summer I would sleep on the ground level so I wouldn't have to negotiate the stairs to the upper story. Cody bobbed his square head under my arm, telling me that great discoveries were waiting outside the sliding door and down the wooden steps. “He'll be okay.” I'm not sure I spoke loudly enough for Freddie to hear.

Everyone called Cody my dog, and I spent more time with him than the rest of the family did, but he had adopted the girls when they were little. He had quickly assumed the role of activities director and lifeguard, never hesitating to snarl and show his teeth to scare the girls back to the house if they tried something dangerous, like playing too near the icy lake. Cody was Freddie's trusty pillow when she reclined in front of the hearth during the short, cold days of winter, the two of them seduced into napping by the glowing oak logs. He deserved a pain-free old age, and I was going to make sure he got every chance at it.

The following morning on her way out the door to work, Freddie handed me a list written on paper torn from one of Jackie's notebooks. “These are your doctor appointments for this month.” Not only did Freddie work full-time and run the house, but I increasingly relied upon her to schedule doctor visits, keep track of my medications, and generally act as my personal assistant and nurse. I'm sure it would have been a relief if I had shown even the remotest interest in easing that burden, but my battles with pain were progressively robbing me of the ability to deal with any detail greater than just waking up and making it through the day. I rationalized my dependence on Freddie by reminding myself that every medical professional we knew felt compelled to seize control of all family issues involving health care. Freddie was no exception.

“If you have to cancel one of those appointments, be sure to call them,” she instructed me.

“I'll be fine. And Comet needs the training; hospitals are totally new to her.”

“That's good,” Freddie said without much enthusiasm. The sparkling night in Sedona when I had presented her with Ben's painting felt as if it had taken place in our youth.

I hadn't seen Kylie or Lindsey since the previous September, nine months earlier. They were both staying in Omaha because of summer jobs and weren't sure when they could get out to the lake but would coordinate a visit. Jackie was beginning a softball schedule that had her playing in a different town every day. The afternoon I arrived, she greeted me with an awkward hug and then sprinted upstairs. When all three girls convened at the house several days later, their averted eyes told me that my presence made them uncomfortable. I couldn't blame them. I hadn't been involved in their lives for nearly two years now, and it had been four years since I was a fully operating member of the household—time during which the girls watched as I participated less as a father and withered away from their activities.

Although Kylie and Lindsey were both going to be in college and acting as if parents were as passé as rotary phones, there was still advice to give, finances to track, and late-night calls to answer. They were just getting their adult sea legs and naturally wanted support and love from their parents. Through my default, Freddie supplied 99 percent of that sustenance from our side of the family. Like a man adrift in a life raft, I could focus only on staying afloat.

At dinner that night, Freddie dutifully prompted the girls to tell me about their classes, boyfriends, and summer plans. They replied in the bright tones of people on a job interview, and I responded like an overeager houseguest. Finally the meal ended and Kylie and Lindsey drove back to the city.

At least I could be a doting parent to the dogs. In light of the brutal midday temperatures, I insisted that Cody take an afternoon break in the air-conditioned house. I didn't reject the image of Cody's life ending while he was terrorizing the beachfront; I just didn't want it to be today or any other day. Besides, Sandoz was always in favor of a chilled nap. Whenever Cody stretched out on the floor next to my recliner, it was only moments before Sandoz plopped down against him. It was Comet who surprised me. Once the mass of golden hair was settled on the carpet, Comet would pick out an available space next to Cody and settle in. She'd snuggle her head on Cody's back, refusing to move until he was once again ready for the great outdoors.

Comet even allowed me to participate in an outside activity that did not include her. The only way I could enjoy the lake, other than standing in water up to my chin, was by motoring around on what the girls called the “handicapped Jet Ski.” My personal flotation device was an eight-foot-long battery-powered pontoon boat with a plastic propeller mounted at the back of each float. A metal frame anchored a meshlike passenger sling between the pontoons. The propellers were controlled by metal switches on each armrest. Even in sticky, scorching weather, Cody and Sandoz would leap onto the boat, each taking a position at the head of a pontoon. The craft had a top speed of five miles per hour, not fast enough to generate even the tiniest wake. It looked like I was in a motorized lawn chair with two golden slippers on my feet. While baby Sandoz snoozed on one pontoon, Cody remained vigilant on the other, observing my movements and staying awake for as long as I could tolerate floating. He loved to go with me, and I loved having him. It gave us a chance to talk.

I was ensconced in the beach-level bedroom and sleeping alone. “I don't want to make your pain worse by moving around in bed” was Freddie's reason for staying in the master bedroom. Other than not knowing what was going on with the rest of the family, I had no quarrel with the arrangement. My books were placed on shelves lining both sides of the room's fireplace, and I had easy access to the beach from French doors opening to the outside patio. Comet didn't object because she had an unobstructed view of the whole stretch of sand from the door's windows. Plus, Cody was now her roommate. Comet still froze in strict disapproval, demanding exit, whenever I went outside. But once she saw me untie my “Jet Ski,” she leaped onto the bed, content with an uninterrupted nap. I had the feeling that Comet not only approved of my time with Cody, she encouraged it.

Comet became more businesslike over the summer as she learned to negotiate the medical facilities where Freddie had scheduled appointments with my longtime team of physicians. There was a big difference between those places and the retail stores in Sedona where I had trained Comet to tolerate groups of people. There the challenge was to get Comet to stay focused amid a bustling crowd, whereas in a hospital the whole environment was subdued. People waited in orderly lines, almost afraid to talk, as they watched medical personnel whispering to other patients. Couples sat with heads lowered and voices hushed. Piped music lulled other folks into an apparently comatose state.

From our very first visit to a medical office, Comet assumed a professional reserve that fit right in. Ignoring comments about her beauty and her service vest, she would march directly to the check-in counter, looking to neither the left nor the right. She adopted a bored attitude during the ensuing confusion about whether a dog should be allowed in examination rooms or near the arms of x-ray equipment and scanners. By this time, I had acquired business cards that summarized the ADA service animal dos and don'ts, highlighting Comet's right to access. The coat-and-tie demeanor exuded by this exotic animal demanded that a decision be made quickly, allowing us to efficiently complete our business. Inevitably, the technicians, nurses, and doctors would agree that Comet should be allowed to enter the sterile halls of the medical profession.

The hospital staff's strict attitude was actually a false front. After a Comet sighting, staff and doctors alike could be heard breaking out their baby patter. The sense of order often hid the genuine affection for animals that prevailed in every medical facility we visited. After the initial shock, an unspoken agreement would be reached: we won't question Comet as long as she remains professionally prim and proper. The treaty rules were suspended after a few visits to my regular providers. By then Comet had cast her spell, and instead of being treated like an unexpected IRS agent, she received the type of fawning attention normally reserved for celebrities. Receptionists may have needed to look at my records to remember my name, but Comet was hailed like an iconic athlete—Pelé, Nenê, Comet.

The series of doctor appointments validated Pam's assessment earlier in the year that I was getting worse. The medical report from the internist coordinating my care spelled it out: “Mr. Wolf has progressive paresthesia involving his legs and feet complicated by bilateral thigh and buttock pain along with dispersed lower back pains. There is no satisfactory medical or surgical remedy for his multilevel disc disease and at this time he is considered permanently and totally disabled.”

I had known for a long time that I was on a road to nowhere with my junker of a body. But I had fantasized that it might be like Arizona state route 373, a stretch of road in the White Mountains known to locals as the highway to nowhere. On Route 373 you wind through seemingly endless mountain passes, with rarely another car in sight. Your passengers get restless and bored. They doubt your sense of direction or that there is any point in riding along with you. The medical version of the journey features rising uncertainty exacerbated by guilt and depression. Each road you think might lead out of the wilderness ends at the beginning. Herniated discs, dehydrated discs, spinal stenosis, deteriorating disc disease, scar tissue, neuropathy, bone spurs, arthritic facet joints; it doesn't matter all that much. The standard treatment is always the same: weight loss, ice, rest, aspirin, physical therapy, more drugs, and additional tests. Lost in a forest of frustration, you find yourself driving in circles, going nowhere.

But
. . . at the terminus of Arizona's highway to nowhere is the resort community of Greer, a picturesque village nestled eighty-five hundred feet above sea level in a glorious mountain valley of fragrant pines. The Little Colorado River is birthed in the mountain range that rises above Greer, and it burbles through the middle of town in a twenty-foot-wide reflective ribbon filled with trout. Eating warm blueberry cobbler topped with a scoop of hard vanilla ice cream while reclining on the deck of the Rendezvous Diner is a definition of fine that not a lot of people ever know. Mix in a beauty so rare and quiet that it almost penetrates your skin, and a person can't help but feel that life is good—damn good—and the winding journey through the White Mountains was worth it. Who cares if in the winter it snows like it'll never stop and the temperature falls far below freezing? Experiencing a summer day like that makes bad weather just an annoyance.

That's what I had been trying to find these last few years—my own Greer and enough good days to make the bad ones not so bad. I had been lucky with that spinal fusion when I was sixteen. My surgeon had warned me at the time that it was not a total cure for what ailed me, but until the basketball game at the YMCA, the pain had been chased into the mountains often enough for me to frequently delight in life's homemade desserts. If my main hurdle was going to be back pain that was a few degrees more intense than bad, that wasn't an unacceptable price to pay.