Say No More (22 page)

“Good girl, Halo,” he said, as we walked side by side to the outer gate. “But then ...” — his voice went soft, cracked just the tiniest bit — “you always are.”

P
raise is a wondrous thing. Intoxicating and uplifting. The drink of the ears. The drug of the soul.

We were showered with it. The exhibitors who had gone earlier in the day clapped Cecil on the back. They shook his hand. They recapped the tense moments of our run, the obvious triumphs, commiserated with him over the difficulty of his lot of sheep, praised him again. He shrugged it all off as mere luck.

“Amazing run.” A short red-haired man with freckles clasped Cecil’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Just ... amazing.”

“Thank you, Becket. Parts were a bit rough, but I s’pose we got the job done.”

Bernadette kissed him on the cheek. Her pride was barely containable. She hooked her arm through his and leaned against him as they walked toward the truck to put his crook away and get me a drink of water. “They’re saying you ought to win this thing, Cecil.”

He puckered his face up, then rinsed his mouth with water from the bottle that she handed to him. “Naw. Clancy’s run was smooth. He did his in half the time.” He tucked his crook under his arm on the side by me as we walked along. “Besides, doesn’t matter whether we win or lose. She’s an honest dog. She did what I asked of her and then some. Can’t wish for more.”

“She’s your favorite girl, isn’t she?”

He stopped, looked her square in the eye. “
You’re
my favorite girl.”

A declaration. Not public, but unmistakable. He removed his hat, bent his head toward hers.

I looked away. I’d had my moment. This was theirs.

—o00o—

The exhibitors, along with an impressive number of observers, had collected at the back of the building that housed the judge’s box. Dogs sat calmly at their handlers’ knees. Fifteen minutes had passed since our closing run and tension mounted as the judge and her assistants tabulated scores, their pencils scratching furiously, fingers tapping away at calculator keys.

Finally, the door opened and Jessica Zink emerged. Right behind her were the two people who had added scores for her that day, handed her the proper score sheets, and run the clock. Over the hours, her long pale braid had loosened. She brushed a stray lock from her face and addressed the crowd with the usual platitudes about how many nice runs and promising young dogs she had seen. She read through the placements for the Started and Open classes, then handed out the score sheets to the remaining qualifiers.

Clancy stood off to the side, one shoulder propped against a young tree, as he emptied a can of soda down his gullet. Brooks was asleep at his feet.

“And now for our top four placements in the Advanced class.” Zink flipped through the entire stack briefly, pulled out the bottom four, and placed them on top. “I’ll announce the remaining qualifiers after this. As for the rest of you ...” — she gave a smile that was more polite than apologetic — “I’ll be happy to discuss the scores and where I may have deducted points after the conclusion of awards.”

Arms crossed, Cecil looked down at the ground. Whatever had caused him discomfort an hour ago had faded. The color was back in his cheeks, the tension gone from his face. He appeared more agitated by the constant stream of small talk from the other competitors than anything. Cecil was always cordial with others, but he could only take so much before he sought to retreat to solitude. Most people would have itched with boredom to rise every day, work alone on a remote farm, and go to bed with no one to talk to but a scrappy little working dog. But Cecil found a unique beauty in that peaceful setting, a fulfillment in the mundane. We were alike that way.

“In fourth, we have ... Dylan Walton and Spin.”

A man standing next to the flagpole dipped his head in disappointment, then raised his hand to gentle applause. The pair wove through the crowd to accept their rosette.

“In third ... Maggie Kirton and her partner Cirrus.”

A scream of elation broke above the soft clapping of hands. Everyone turned to the back of the crowd where a woman wearing a Cincinnati Reds cap and mirrored sunglasses jumped up and down. Her dog, a perfectly groomed blue merle male, leapt into the air and barked. Her friends hugged her. She bounced her way to the front, hugged the judge, and had her picture taken.

On the way back, Kirton pumped her fists above her, the streamers of the rosette twisting around her forearm. The judge raised the stack of papers in her hand to hush the crowd. The air crackled with anticipation.

“Today’s runner-up was ... from St. Louis, Bill Clancy and his dog Brooks.”

Shock flashed over Clancy’s features. His fists clenched. He molded his face into a plastic smile to show off bleached teeth. As he passed through the crowd, his pace a tad sluggish as if he were reluctant to accept the consolation prize, he nodded in acknowledgment of their congratulations. When he passed by Tucker, however, his cordial glance became a brief glare.

Cecil, who had not witnessed the exchange between the two, expelled a breathy sigh, then checked his watch. “We’ll have to rush home to get the girls put away before sunset, Halo.”

His lips drawn tight, Clancy snatched the runner-up rosette from the judge a little too abruptly.

“Nice work, Mr. Clancy,” the judge told him as she held up the envelope containing his prize money.

“Could’ve been nicer, apparently,” he muttered, taking the envelope from her.

Bernadette wedged her way between a young couple and their children to give Cecil a pinch on the arm. “Do you know what that means?”

“Goodness gracious,” Merle chirped beside her. “I haven’t seen this much excitement since Jasper passed his kidney stone.”

Cecil shook his head. “Means we didn’t even make honorable mention. Come on, Halo, time to head home.”

Just as he turned to go, Zink raised her voice. “I think today’s winner was a surprise to us all.”

Bernadette blocked his exit and jabbed a finger at his chest. “Just wait, will ya?”

“Even though this team didn’t have the quickest time, and parts of the run looked, well, ugly, it was the best example of teamwork I’ve seen since the 2005 Nationals. Congratulations are in order for Cecil Penewit and Halo.”

“I told you! I told you!” Bernadette screeched, her bosom heaving every time she bounced on the balls of her feet. Her bracelet and necklace clacked like a pair of maracas.

Cecil blinked at her. “Who did she say?”

Merle slapped him on the back. “You, you old goat. Now get up there!”

I nosed the back of his knee to prod him along.

Half the county, it turned out, already knew who Cecil was. There had been pictures in the local rag of the two of us attending story time at the literacy center. We were small town celebrities. The soft-spoken shepherd who owned the farm at the end of Sweet Potato Ridge Road, childless and widowed long ago, was engulfed by a sea of congratulations.

It seemed to overwhelm him as much as it uplifted him.

With a shy smile and twinkling eyes, he accepted his awards with humility. He shook the judge’s hand and posed with her for the photographer, who was also the reporter of The Messenger, Faderville’s only newspaper. But instead of mingling with his admirers or granting an interview, he ducked out the back way.

Cecil and I caught up with Clancy just as he was packing his pop-up canopy into the side door of his gooseneck trailer. The trailer was twice as long as his truck. Through the open door, I could see the inside of the place, decked out with velour benches, oak cabinets, and brass trim everywhere. A palace on wheels compared to Cecil’s modest home.

“Mr. Clancy.” Cecil raised his hand to his brow in a half-wave.

“Congratulations on your win, Mr. Penewit.” They clasped hands. “You made the best of a bad situation and proved your dog’s talents.”

“Thank you, but I just wanted to tell you, before you go, what an impressive dog you have there. Finest I’ve seen in all my years — and that’s quite a lot of years.”

Clancy zipped up his canopy pack and slid it through the door. “He’s done some winning here and there. Six national champions in the first four generations of his pedigree. Three all-around titles himself.” He turned, searched out a small cooler, and set it inside the door. “How’s your girl bred, by the way? Looks like she might have some Windy Knoll in there. Maybe some of Ted Kinnard’s Boss behind her?”

“I don’t really know,” Cecil said. “Never bothered to find out. Just the pup of an old neighbor’s dog. Farm lines mostly. Does what she was bred for. That’s all that ever mattered to me.”

“That right?” Clancy piled a few more things inside his trailer. “You ever think of breeding her? ’Cause if you ever do, Brooks here is a top sire. I’d be interested in taking a pup from the litter in lieu of a stud fee. Can’t say as I’ve ever done that before, but for one of hers, I would.”

“I’m flattered, really am, but she’s spayed.”

“Kind of a shame, but I understand.” Clancy locked the side door to his trailer, dug into his pocket for his keys. “Well, I’m headed up north to Michigan. Another big trial next weekend. Busy time of year. Usually spend most of the summer on the road.” He climbed into the cab of his truck. Brooks sat up to peer past him at us. The key clicked in the ignition and the engine purred to life. “See you at Nationals in two months?”

“Naw, can’t leave the farm.” Cecil looked off into the crowd that was still filtering from the stands toward the barns and the midway.

A smile alighted briefly on Clancy’s face, then vanished as he let up on the brake. “Bye now.”

“Good luck.”

A family of eight strolled in front of Clancy’s truck. He grumbled a few unheard curses, waited until the row was clear, then pulled out.

Cecil clutched his left arm, kneading it for a few seconds. My nose sought out his hand, hanging limply at his side.

“I’m ready to go home, too. Maybe we’ll stop and get you a hamburger on the way?”

I barked my agreement. I would have preferred French fries, though.

A teenage couple walked by, their hands in each others’ back pockets. In the boy’s obsession with his mate, he failed to notice the trail of popcorn he was leaving behind. I vacuumed it up as we walked along.

“First, though,” Cecil said, the pupils of his eyes reflecting the bright colors of the Ferris wheel, “I promised Bernadette a ride.”

—o00o—

The glass of the unlit bulbs of the Ferris wheel sparkled a brilliant white in the late afternoon sun. Somewhere a cow bellowed. Pigs oinked in greedy protest. Geese, ever contrary, honked. The laughter of children on the Tilt-a-Whirl spilled through the air. Bells dinged at carnival games. Not far from us, the roller coaster went ‘clunk-clunk-clunk’ as it climbed on its tracks. Its nose dipped. Hands shot in the air. Screams ripped the atmosphere as it whooshed downward. I flattened my ears, the vibrations of its descent tingling against the pads of my feet.

We turned into a horse barn. Cecil patted the lump in his pocket. Bernadette stood halfway down the row with her friend Merle and a man I assumed was her husband Jasper. The men, when introduced, shook hands. Cecil led me inside a stall, heavy with the scent of hay and fresh manure. He unclipped my leash and bent close.

“I won’t be long,” he whispered to me. “An hour, at most.”

His promise should have reassured me — Cecil was always a man of his word, honest to a fault — but instead it dropped like a lead shot through my gut. I’d had this feeling before. But when?

He stroked the fur along my backbone. “Wish me luck.”

I swiped a paw on his pants leg.
Don’t go!

Once again, he didn’t hear me. He stood.

Jasper locked the stall from the outside, and they went off. The shadows inside the barn grew long, until my little corner of the world was cloaked in darkness. I dozed off and on, the day’s events streaming through my memory, playing over and over like a film on a loop. As memory melted into dreams, the past came back to me: that bleak winter at Estelle’s, how my toes had been numb for months and my belly tight with hunger, how Ned Hanson had kicked me and later buried my mother in the manure pile. Then further back: to the day of Cam and Ray’s funeral, and the day that they died. And somewhere in there: Hunter’s arms draped around my neck as he cried softly into my fur while we waited for Lise to find us.

“Hunter, this way. We’re late.”

I scrambled to my feet, shook myself fully awake. The sides of the stall were high, but an old trunk and a half-used bale of hay had been left in the front corner adjacent to the sliding door. I hopped up on the bale, then the trunk, and stuck my head between the wide bars.

The center aisle was empty, the overhead suspended lights casting intermittent circles of yellow light on the packed sawdust. A wiry haired brown and white terrier slept on the lap of a young girl in tight white leggings and a dusty black blazer as she dozed in a folding canvas chair next to one of the stalls. Across the aisle, a chestnut pony nickered and bobbed its head at me. I woofed softly in reply. Further down, two older women seated on portable stools played a game of cards over a barrel.

In the stall behind me in the row outside, an old black horse snorted to get my attention. Nibbling at the top edge of the stall, he gazed down at me with rheumy eyes. Gray hairs confettied his long muzzle.

I sat, lifted a paw in greeting. He nickered softly, as if to say, ‘Welcome to the neighborhood, kid.’

Didn’t want to tell him I didn’t plan on staying here long. As soon as Cecil came back, I was going home. There were still chores to do and if we had to do them by starlight, we would.

I turned around, ready to descend my little staircase and go back to sleep until Cecil came back for me. He had said it would only be an hour, but an inkling of worry had begun to gnaw at me. I wasn’t sure how long an hour really was, but he’d made it seem like only a short time and it had to be more than an hour by now. It wasn’t like him not to get home in time for evening chores.

The old black horse moved. Just past his sagging flank, the crown of a tawny-haired boy floated. Recognition tugged at my memory. He turned, gazed blankly at me with light blue eyes. Stopping, he raised himself up on tiptoes, so I could see his face more plainly. There was something familiar in his gaze, in the gentleness of his mouth, in the line of his nose. He blinked, reached out to stroke the ragged mane of the old horse.