Say No More (16 page)

The door was barely shut when she opened it again just far enough to stick her head inside. She reached an arm around and laid a scone on the counter. “I’ll bake up a batch of my famous dark chocolate double chunk brownies and bring them along. I’m thinking of entering them in the fair this year, but some of the girls down at the sandwich shop where we meet every Friday, they think I should enter my blueberry muffins instead. Maybe you can help me decide?”

“Maybe,” was all he said as he pushed the door shut behind her.

After she left, the Old Man stood where he was until he heard the faint cough of her car engine and then the receding putt-putt-putt as she drove off into the distance. Letting out a sigh, he parted the lace curtains and peered cautiously through the window. “At least Sarah knew when to stop talking and let a man have his peace and quiet.”

He took the scone from the counter and ate it.

“S
orry, not this time,” Bernadette said to me, as she set the pan on the kitchen counter. I’d had to wait two whole days for her return. During that time, I’d perked at the sound of every car that came down the county road half a mile away. I’d even had my hopes dashed once when the meter reader came. I barked at the man until he left. He always did. I was good at keeping people I didn’t want away. When Bernadette finally came back, I’d stood on my hind legs to look out the kitchen window, let out a soft ‘woof’ to let the Old Man know, and then spun in circles until he opened the door to let me out to greet her.

She bent over and scratched my neck with her long, manicured nails. I think she kept them that way just for me. I noticed her eyes were red. Every time she touched me it seemed to initiate a new round of violent sneezing. She couldn’t control her urge to fuss over me and pet me, despite her allergy.

“They say chocolate’s not good for dogs,” she said. “Although it’s supposed to be good for people. Doesn’t make much sense, I know, but I read about it on the internet down at the literacy center awhile back and ...” Turning to the Old Man, she tapped at her glossy coral lips with a single finger. “Say, you ever thought of bringing that dog of yours down to the library for reading hour?”

I sniffed at the edge of the counter, sat back politely, and stared at the pan. She pushed it further back and wagged a finger at me.

“Naw, I don’t think so.” He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out two dark glass bottles. “Sarsaparilla?”

Eyelashes flapping, Bernadette waved a hand at her face. “Goodness gracious, Cecil Penewit. Is this a special occasion? At my house, we don’t break out the sarsaparilla for just anyone.”

“Tom Harper gave it to me for fixing his mower a couple weeks back. Almost forgot I had it.”

Her mouth plunged. “Oh.” She fiddled with the beaded necklace draped over her red blouse. “Why?”

He got out two glasses and poured their drinks. “I s’pose because I’d shoved a gallon of milk and a pitcher of orange juice in front of it. That and the light bulb is burnt out, so I can’t see in the back without —”

“I mean why not bring the dog. I meet with a group of children Mondays after school. Elizabeth, the head librarian, used to bring a rabbit, but it ... well, it expired. The little ones loved that rabbit. When it stopped coming, so did some of them. You wouldn’t think it, but those kids will do their darnedest to read a book to an animal, even the ones that struggle. Maybe because the animals don’t judge their efforts.”

“Halo doesn’t always take to strangers.”

“Halo. Such a pretty name. Like an angel’s.” She smiled at me again. Smudges of lipstick stained her teeth. “Doesn’t look unfriendly to me. Besides, didn’t Lise and Cam McHugh have a little boy? What was his name?”

“Can’t say I recall.” The Old Man settled down in his chair, this time with it angled so he had a clear view of the clock.

After downing an antihistamine with a glass of sarsaparilla, Bernadette pulled open three drawers before she found the one with the knives. She cut the brownies up and put them on plates, then brought them to the table and took her seat.

“Henry? No, too old fashioned. Youngsters these days don’t name their children that.” She rubbed at her temple. “Harvey? Howard? Holden? Hanson? I know it started with an ‘H’. Good heavens, I’m no good at this. Help me out, Cecil.”

“Humphrey?” He took a slurp of his sarsaparilla.

Hunter!
I barked.
Hunter!

“See there,” she said. “Even the dog thinks that’s ridiculous. Well, whatever his name was, she’s been around children. Bring her. It’ll give you something to do besides putter around here like a fusty old hermit. You don’t have to do anything. Just sit there with the dog while they read out loud. Will you try it, just once? If the dog doesn’t like it, or you don’t, I won’t ask again.”

To me, it sounded like heaven. Kids were different than grown-up strangers. They threw balls and gave belly rubs and giggled while they rolled on the floor with you.

“When did you say your nephew will be by?”

Bernadette flicked her wrist over to check her watch, her bangled bracelet clacking. “Well, seeing as how I told him to be here fifteen minutes ago, he should arrive any minute now.” She tapped her sparkly red fingernails against her mug. An amused grin crept over her mouth. “You’re good at that, Cecil.”

“Good at what?”

“Avoiding questions.”

“I wasn’t aware you asked any.”

“About the reading program at the library.”

“Oh, that.”

She waited awhile as he drank and looked off through the kitchen window. “Well?” she finally prompted.

I went and laid my head on his knee, puffing out my cheeks with a loud breath.
Please, please, please?

His hand drifted down from the table to alight on my head. He curled his thumb beneath the flap of my ear, placed his forefinger on top and rubbed lightly. “Mondays, you said? I don’t know if —”

Her spine shot up straight. “I’ll pick you up at three.”

—o00o—

“Damn almighty, that is one fiiine working dog!” Tucker Kratz swung a leg over the top rail to straddle the fence. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and lit one up. Pinching the cigarette between the circle of his thumb and forefinger, he inhaled, held his breath in for a few seconds, then blew out a ring of smoke. “Wild coloration for a red merle, too. Kinda pretty.”

The Old Man glared at him from fifty feet away.

“Tucker!” Bernadette swatted at the haze that drifted her way. “How many times have I told you?”

“Sorry, Aunt Bernie.” He tipped his cowboy hat back. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Actually, I do,” the Old Man said flatly. “Thanks for asking, anyway.”

Smirking, Tucker smashed the glowing end of the cigarette on top of the fence post, flicked the dead butt away and stuffed the pack back into his pocket.

The Old Man turned back to me. I was holding a flock of twenty older Barb lambs in the nearest corner of our working pasture, which he’d once told me was over two acres. Every time one stepped either way, I’d shift my position before it could bolt.

When Tucker had shown up, I’d helped the Old Man sort the ewes from the lambs in the pen next to the barn. Although the lambs had been weaned for weeks now, their mothers still remembered their babies and clamored to be reunited with them. That part was always rough, but we managed well enough, and only two ewes gave me any problem. I put that issue to rest with a quick nip to their noses.

Next, we’d taken the flock of lambs from the pen, across the open area between the old bank barn and the driveway, and then I pushed them through an eight foot gateway into the pasture, where I moved them in various patterns: squares and small arcs, diagonal lines and backward Zs. The Old Man stood off to the side, one elbow resting on the top rail, the brim of his ball cap down low to keep out the noonday sun. His crook was propped against the fence next to him. He seldom used it these days and, when he did, it was to shoo away a wayward sheep, not to force me further out, for I had long since learned the point at which the sheep would move and at what pace to push them. Boogered sheep, as the Old Man called the frightened ones, were panicked sheep, and panicked sheep did stupid things. I was pretty sure that each five sheep only had one brain between them.

“Sure does take commands well.” Tucker swung a leg over and dropped into the pasture. He walked up to the Old Man. “But then, some dogs that are great at home plumb lose their brains in a trial.”

The Old Man worked his jaw in a slow circle. “That so?”

“Yup. I see it all the time. Different sheep, different surroundings ... An’ sometimes the handlers get all nervous, like they can’t remember their left from their right. Or which obstacles to put the stock through. Dogs pick up on that.”

“Do they now?” The Old Man called me off.

I tossed one last look at the lambs, trotted to him, and sat by his left knee, just as I always did. A bothersome horse fly buzzed my ears. I twitched my hide and then shook my head, trying to dislodge it. The moment it flew past my nose, I snapped. Missed it!

“Sure do.” Tucker rolled his short sleeves up over his shoulder to show a tattoo of a bald eagle with outspread wings. The bulging muscles of his tanned arms were hardened and defined, nothing like the Old Man’s thin, pale arms, with their sagging skin, or Bernadette’s soft, plump arms. When his aunt had introduced him, she made a point of mentioning the fact that he’d been stationed in Afghanistan until just last year. He still wore ‘dog tags’ around his neck, although he’d long since grown his hair out to the point where he could pull it into a ponytail. He hitched his thumbs in his belt. “Bill Clancy’s coming from St. Louis. He’s a professional. This trial is usually a bit below his standards, competition-wise, but sure would be nice to see a local put him in his place. Think you could do that?”

The fly landed on Tucker’s pants leg. Tempting, but by the time I closed the space, the fly would be in flight again. I waited.

“I have no idea.” Gazing thoughtfully at the lambs still quivering in the corner, the Old Man stroked his neck. “But I’m game to give it a go.”

“I’ll put the word out. Just might draw the biggest crowd we’ve seen since ol’ Angus MacDonald came down from Vermont to challenge him. Course, that was way back in ’98, or maybe it was ’99. My pa used to trial his dogs, but they was just farm dogs, not fancy trained trial dogs. Ain’t nobody come within 5 points of Clancy since. Some says he has an ‘in’ with the judges, but this year it’s some young uptight chick named Jessica Zink, who couldn’t care less about reputation — hers or anyone else’s. Some hate her for that. I hear she’s a looker, though.” Tucker took a fresh cigarette out of his pack and tucked it in the corner of his mouth. Bernadette shot him a warning look. He threw his hands in the air. “What? Haven’t lit it up now, have I? Geesh, you’d think I was committing a felony or something. Ain’t against the law to do this, y’know.”

The fly landed on my nose. I jerked my head sideways, then back, snapping at air. Missed again.

The Old Man patted his leg. That was my signal to follow. We went through the gate and escorted Tucker to his jacked up truck with the dual wheels in back and the chrome pipe stacks that belched black exhaust. The young man went through some papers on his front seat, then said, “Sorry, man. Thought I had an entry form here. Just go to the web site for the Central Kentucky Australian Shepherd Club and download the flyer. And don’t wait. Deadline is next Wednesday. No day-of entries. Got it?”

The Old Man nodded. “I think so.”

He pounded the Old Man on the arm and stepped up into the cab. Before he put the key in the ignition, he lit up his cigarette, took a puff, and blew a smoke-hazed kiss at his aunt. The truck roared to life. Instead of carefully backing out, he turned a donut through the yard and sped off.

Bernadette clutched both hands to her breast. “I apologize for his manners, Cecil. The boy had a poor upbringing. His mama likes the moonshine and his daddy ain’t around no more.”

“Oh. How long ago did he pass away?”

She smiled sadly and whispered, as if someone might overhear, “Oh, he’s not dead. He’s in jail. Gambling charges. Tried to run slot machines in the back of his convenience store. He’ll be out by next Christmas. Not sure that’s a good thing, though. Tucker’s his only child, so I’ve always tried to keep an eye out for the boy. Even managed to get him a job with the county extension office through my friend Merle. Mostly, he takes care of the grounds, but he’s trying to work his way up. Merle put him in charge of the trial, since he knows a few things about livestock. His daddy ran a small cattle farm before he lost the place to gambling debts. The Army seemed to have straightened Tucker up a bit, but he’s not perfect. He’s been doing so well the last few years — relatively speaking, of course. Shame he got discharged like he did. He still claims it was all a mistake.”

“They usually do.”

“Well, I suppose I should fetch my dessert pan and be on my way, unless ... Know what? I should just leave the brownies here for you.” She patted her big stomach. “I always sample a little too much of my own baking.”

He nodded toward the house. “Tell you what — I’ll get them and you can take them to your ladies’ lunch tomorrow. Let them all try one. Then you tell them I said those were the best brownies this side of the Ohio River.”

“Why Cecil Penewit ...” Bernadette fingered her beaded necklace. “If I tell my girlfriends that, they just might think you’re sweet on me.”

He turned away and hurried into the house before I could see his expression. Usually, I’d have followed him, but I decided to stay with Bernadette. Just in case she had a biscuit crumb or two in her pocket. I stared at her, hoping, but she didn’t seem to notice me. She just kept her eyes trained on the door. It took him a few minutes to come back out, but he’d taken the time to wrap the remaining brownies individually in Saran Wrap.

As he handed the pan to her, he stumbled over his words. “Say, um ... I gave it some thought and figured, maybe, you’d like to have dinner Monday at Harris’s Outdoor Café?”