Fortunes of the Dead (19 page)

“Looks like the doggie is thirsty, Leo. Get me that bucket by the side of the barn, and let's fill it up with the hose.”

Leo instantly obeyed; proving, once again, that he understood when he wanted. Again, Kate had doubts. Perhaps her son was not autistic. His skills of interaction and understanding skyrocketed whenever an animal was involved.

The dog was mindful of the hose. Once the bucket was half full, Kate stopped the stream of water, and set the bucket just a little closer. The dog waited a long minute, but neither Kate nor Leo made a move, and he inched closer, lapping the ice-cold water with a frantic grace.

“Hungry,” Leo said, and ran back to the house.

The dog stopped lapping, finally, and shook his head, slinging drool and water across the bottom of Kate's jeans. She dropped to her knees and opened her arms. The dog hesitated, then went straight to her. She was flattered by his trust, and stroked his neck and back, feeling the ribcage beneath the coarse black fur. She took hold of his collar, and saw that his last vaccination was eighteen months ago, that his name was George, that he lived at 307 Cedar Lane.

Kate heard the crunch of gravel in the drive, and looked up to see Leo carrying one of the casserole pans.

“What have you got there, Leo?” Her son didn't answer. Kate realized that he had the meatloaf she'd put together early that morning. “Honey, no.”

But Leo had already set the dish before the dog, and George pushed his snout into the carefully molded loaf of raw meat. Kate sighed.

She took a certain satisfaction from George's appreciation. The dog did not hesitate over the bits of onion, red pepper, and Worcestershire sauce, and was clearly delighted by the raw eggs and bread crumbs. Kate hoped George would keep the sudden influx of raw meat and spices on his stomach, but figured on the high probability that he would be sick at any minute and throw it all up.

George, however, did not seem to be distressed by the size and richness of his meal, and wrapped it up by shoving his nose back into the bucket of water and sloshing liquid on his coat, Leo's foot, and Kate's knee. He checked one more time to ensure that the Corning Ware was licked clean, then veered suddenly away, heading for the edge of the woods.

“Doggie …”

Kate looked down at her son, who wrapped both arms around her leg and watched George disappear into the woods. Her jeans absorbed Leo's tears.

“It's okay, sweetie. He just needed some food and water, and you and I were there to help him out.”

Leo tilted his head back, looking up at Kate.

“What is it, Leo? Ask me in words.”

Leo would not say, but Kate knew what he wanted to know. Her son's direct gaze and full attention were more than she usually got.

“He'll be back, Leo. Feed a dog and he's yours—it's written down in some rulebook somewhere. He may even come back tonight. We can make him a warm bed on the porch. Let's get that rug in back of the shed, and fold it up. That would make a nice doggie bed.”

But when Kate and Leo circled to the back of the barn, the rug was no longer there.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

For Kate and Leo, one of the highlights of the Norris/Clinton area was a log cabin restaurant called Golden Girls. For less than five dollars you could choose from the list of dinner specials and get a home-cooked meal, and a basket of homemade yeast rolls, cornbread, and biscuits.

Kate and Leo liked to sit in the back section because it was nonsmoking, and because Leo could look out the windows to the parking lot behind the restaurant. Golden Girls was one of the few restaurants where Kate felt comfortable. By their third visit the staff knew Kate and Leo well enough to seat them at their favorite table.

Tonight Kate had run out of groceries, which gave them a perfect excuse to eat out. It took twenty minutes to guide the battered Jeep Wrangler seven-tenths of a mile down the steep gravel driveway, then along the two-lane road past houses, mobile homes, and the occasional small farm. This effort got Kate to the tiny town of Norris. From there it was another twenty to thirty minutes to Knoxville, or an easier fifteen to Clinton, which was also a small town, but bigger than Norris. Kate found it an effort to go anywhere, particularly with a four-year-old in tow.

Even when her husband was not in the Jeep beside her, Kate could hear him tell her not to ride the brakes as she inched down the steep driveway. She didn't know how else to get down the mountain safely.

Cory's objections echo in an endless loop in the back of her mind. Kate can't get his opinions out of her head, so she argues with him mentally even when she is alone, to prepare for the real fights that come swiftly, with little warning.

Kate hated their arguments—long tedious harangues where Cory kept at her with a relentless adamancy. She dreaded the way he crowded her, how he clutched her arms or pressed both hands on her shoulders. He cared as much for the small issues as the large and there were no limits to what he would do to prove a point. He once spent eighty-five minutes trying to convince her to slice lemons in quarter sections rather than eighths. Kate saved her resistance for the large issues—her son, his suspected “autism,” whether or not they should try and break the lease on this rental. She, who had lived happily in the countryside all of her life, hated the house, the remoteness; she was homesick for Kentucky. She would pay anything to leave.

The majority of the clientele at Golden Girls fell into an age range between forty and ninety, a significant number of them used walkers, and Kate once saw a set of teeth left behind on a table. Golden Girls had no pretense whatsoever, and came as close to eating with the family as you could get without actually seeing your relatives. Wearing jeans was just fine. Being dressed-up after church was fine, too. It was one of the few places Kate could take Leo and relax.

Leo was not at his best in restaurants. He was unfocused, restless, prone to rocking in his seat and emitting sudden loud noises; sometimes he just stared, refused to eat, and kicked his feet very hard. Never once had anyone in Golden Girls asked Kate what was wrong with her child, or stared at him or seemed uncomfortable having him in the room.

Two men, the older one in overalls, the other in a brown sweater and khakis, were seated in a booth in front of the television—currently tuned to a ball game somewhere that was not Tennessee. Kate always seated Leo with his back to the screen. She never liked the way TV hypnotized her son, and she never let him watch unless she was really pressed, or he needed calming down. And even those times made her feel guilty.

Leo was in constant motion tonight, and unusually connected. Probably the result of time spent with George.

The dog had reappeared at sundown the day after they'd fed him meatloaf, trotting straight up to Kate, the obvious pack leader, and dropping a mud-stained sweater at her feet.

“Ah,” she had said. “A scavenger.” She picked up the sweater, as George seemed to expect, holding it by the edge with thumb and forefinger, wrinkling her nose. It was at one time a rather delicate pink cardigan with tiny pearl buttons, cashmere, expensive, and petite. No doubt the owner had been desolate to lose it; but the stains were copious, crusty and dark, and Kate left it draped it on a peg, out of George's reach, outside Sophie's stall near the refuse bin. The sweater would go to the dump on the next trip out.

Kate began by making it clear to both boy and dog that George, no matter how welcome, would be an outside dog. She had gathered up two old towels for a makeshift dog bed, and George slept contentedly on the front porch the next two nights.

Kate, meanwhile, called the Anderson County Animal Clinic who had issued the rabies tag hanging from the dog's worn-out collar, and learned that indeed, George was one of their patients, though they were under the impression he had emigrated. His owner, Clarise Hardinet, had lived just a few miles from Kate's mountaintop. Upon her peaceful death in her sleep some ten months ago, her son had cleared out the household, sold the antique cookstove, and taken charge of the dog.

“You think maybe George escaped and was trying to go home?” Kate asked. If George had an owner, they would have to give him up.

The woman on the other end of the line was honest and opinionated. “Most likely the son just turned him out. Dirk Hardinet's just like that—he's not much on dogs, or any other kind of animal that's not dinner.”

Kate's intention to part with George died a swift and unrequited death, and just like that she and Leo had a dog for real. According to the entire staff of the animal clinic, George was a candidate for canine sainthood, and, even better, up-to-date on his shots. It was suggested that Kate bring George in for a checkup, where he was found to be seriously underweight, happily negative on heartworm and lime disease, and sadly suffering from the various infestations that plague a homeless dog who is down on his luck. He also had a painful and itchy ear. Kate and Leo left the clinic with ear wash, healing antiseptic ear gel, heartworm pills, and flea protection, as well as a thirty-pound bag of Hill's Science Diet for Seniors. So far George had run up a tab of one hundred eighty-nine dollars and a meatloaf. Kate put the vet bill on her Bank of America Platinum Visa.

An impending thunderstorm the third night set George to pacing up and down the front porch. He did not ask to come in. His expression was one of stoic uneasiness; he was clearly expecting the worst. Kate brought him inside to the basement, where he stayed quietly for one hour and twenty-three minutes, pacing up and down the hideous gray-and-brown-flecked indoor-outdoor carpet the owners had put down on the concrete floor. Kate, not immune to George's air of discomfort, let the dog out of the basement. He ignored her invitation to sit near her on the living-room floor, and proceeded straight upstairs like a dog who knows exactly where he is going, and settled in the hallway outside Leo's open door.

Kate stayed upstairs for the next two hours, cleaning the master bathroom and keeping an eye on the dog. Hours later, exhausted from sentry duty, both George and Kate fell asleep. The next morning Kate discovered George on the throw rug beside Leo's bed, which was where he had slept ever since.

Kate looked at the list of specials on the menu and laughed. “Here, Leo, they've got meatloaf.” She turned the menu where Leo could see the handwritten list of choices in the back plastic sleeve. “See, Leo? That spells meatloaf.”

“Doggie,” Leo said, without looking up.

“Okay, there's meatloaf, broasted chicken, pot roast, and chicken livers.”

“Chee-kin,” Leo said.

“Broasted chicken? Like fried chicken, Leo?”

But she'd lost him. “Okay, Leo, I'm going to order you the chicken unless you say different. And mashed potatoes and green beans. And milk.” Kate immediately heard an echo of Cory's voice, telling her that Leo didn't talk because she talked for him.

“It's Kate, isn't it? Kate Edgers?” A familiar woman stood shyly at the edge of the table.

Kate smiled automatically. “Let's see, you're—”

“Your insurance agent. Rebecca Turner? The Turner Agency?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, you're out of context. But I knew you looked familiar. Sit down, come on.”

Rebecca Turner looked wistfully over her shoulder at a side booth where a cup of coffee steamed next to a crumb-crusted puddle of water. A half-filled glass of ice water sprouted two straws, and a lemon slice had been tossed to the other side of the table. An enormous purse of astounding ugliness was open on one seat. Kate wondered where purses like that were sold, imagining a special section in a musty department store. A yellow legal pad, pages covered in large loopy script, sat at an angle from the sugar packets and salt and pepper shakers.

“Just for a minute,” Rebecca said. She looked cautiously at Leo, as if he might fly out of his chair and bite her neck. Kate recognized the look of a woman who was childless by choice.

“Hello,” Rebecca said.

Leo ignored her, and Rebecca turned away, social obligation to child fulfilled. She leaned forward, shoulders rounded. “I was wondering if you got the letter I sent.”

Rebecca was a pretty woman, green-eyed, with long brunette hair pulled back in a sloppy chignon. She wore red lipstick over full, bee-stung lips; no eye makeup. Her brow was creased, as if she'd been worrying or had a headache; maybe both. She had a gentle, nonthreatening demeanor and seemed to be totally absorbed in her work.

I hope she's not going to try to sell me life insurance or annuities
, Kate thought.

“I was concerned,” Rebecca said. “I didn't get an answer and I wanted to make sure everything was okay, and that you got your coverage taken care of somewhere else.”

Kate frowned. “Did the policy lapse or something? I think I'm paid up, but I can make sure and look at my checkbook when I get home.”

“No, no no, do you think I would bother you about that in a restaurant? No, girl, but your husband … you know he took you off the auto policy when he added the life insurance?”

“What life insurance?”

Rebecca frowned. “The policy he took out on you last month. Your signature was on the app. He said when he brought the check in for the life insurance that you were going off the joint auto policy, because even with the discounts it was going to be cheaper for you to have your own policy with another company.”

“I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. Are you saying that Cory took me off the car insurance policy?” Kate did not voice her other thought—that Cory could take a life policy out on her without telling her.

Rebecca leaned across the table and there was a knowing look in her eyes. “Kate, he took you off the auto policy three weeks ago, and if you didn't get another one somewhere else, you're not covered.” It was clear from Rebecca's tone of voice that she considered no auto coverage on a level with jumping out of an airplane sans parachute.