Tango: The Tale of an Island Dog (14 page)

Called out of their beds by a blaring siren, a crowd of villagers huddled near the One-of-a-Kind sign. As the stretcher passed, they quizzed McKenna with their eyes for an explanation of what had happened.

As the ambulance sped away, McKenna picked Pup up and held him over her wildly beating heart. “You did good, little dog. You did good.”

How had Pup descended so steep a set of stairs so quickly? Had he jumped? And how had he killed that rat in such short order? The dog had always seemed so helpless.

“I didn’t think you had it in you.” She smiled.

Meanwhile, Priscilla had taken center stage in the circle of villagers. McKenna was relieved to have their eyes focused on somebody else. When the postmistress said “sweaters” and “jam” in the same sentence, McKenna’s chin dropped.

The sweaters! Miss Gustie’s beautiful, expensive sweaters! How could she have been so stupid?

As the wailing of the siren diminished, McKenna
stroked the downy, fawn-colored fur on the little dog’s forehead. “I guess you and Miss Gustie are even. First, she saved your life, and now you saved hers.”

For two days, the “Closed” sign hung on the door of One-of-a-Kind. The uniquely beautiful sweaters and other woolen works of art sat untouched on the shelves. In the village there was a general consensus that Miss Gustie’s shop must not close. Miss Gustie could ill afford to give up her bread-and-butter, even if she did dislocate her kneecap, break a few ribs, and fracture her hip going down into her cellar for jam.

However, when it came to finding someone to work in Miss Gustie’s shop, every person in the village, it seemed, was already tied up with a sixteen-hour workday, seven days of the week.

On the third day of her hospital stay Miss Gustie made it clear to Doc Tucker, who made it clear to the rest of the villagers: McKenna Skye, if she was willing, was to manage One-of-a-Kind and continue to care for Pup, as well.

In hushed tones villagers questioned whether the young stranger could be trusted with such a great responsibility. Gossiping tongues flapped like the
wings of gulls in flight.
Why, the value of Augusta’s antiques alone … the expensive sweaters … all it would take... I heard it was raspberry... what is Miss Gustie thinking?

When Jack Tucker got wind of it, he let it be known—in no uncertain terms—that he would take personal responsibility for Miss Gustie’s decision. He’d also get the sweaters cleaned. The villagers were silenced.

By the very next day, One-of-a-Kind woolen works of art by Augusta Smith were being sold at Enchanted Candles from nine in the morning until three in the afternoon; and enchanted candles by McKenna Skye were being sold at Augusta’s One-of-a-Kind from three in the afternoon until nine in the evening. The gate in the picket fence was always open.

But, sometimes, on evenings after McKenna closed up shop, Pup would curl up next to her on Enchanted Candle’s whitewashed floor. McKenna would count the money—first, what belonged to her, and then what belonged to Miss Gustie.

She’d chew her fingernails and rub her forehead, thinking about foster homes and social workers and people getting paid to take care of her because no one really wanted her for real. She’d see herself sneaking out of the village, on her way to Toronto, with nothing but her backpack and loads of money.

She’d wait for her friend, the fox, to follow, but she knew, deep in her heart, that the fox would refuse. Then McKenna would look into Pup’s eyes, aglow in the light of an enchanted candle’s strong flame. She’d find her ragged bunny and slowly wind the key. When the Bun-Bun’s lullaby ended, McKenna would spread all the money on the floor.

And there she’d sit, cross-legged—one bare ankle sparkling with silver—dividing what was hers, and what was Miss Gustie’s, into two unequal piles—fair and square—exactly like Miss Gustie expected.

About a week after coming home from the hospital, in the quiet time between the dinner hour and the first act at The Village Playhouse, Augusta heard shouts coming from the direction of the Cody house. Loud sounds spilling out of her neighbor’s house were quite familiar, so, at first, Augusta paid little attention. If the racket got worse, she’d close the windows.

Certain words, however, became louder and more distinct: “I won’t go! I won’t go! I’m not going, and you can’t make me!”

Augusta rolled her wheelchair over to the bay window and pulled back the curtain. In the Codys’ yard, a woman with a briefcase and a stern look on her face was speaking with Big Bart. At his side, McKenna appeared extremely agitated. Augusta tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Meanwhile,
Pup whined and whimpered and scratched at the front porch door.

“Mind your own business, Pup,” she told the dog, but he didn’t listen. When the front door wouldn’t open, he made a beeline toward the back.

With a sinking heart, Augusta let the curtain drop, but as soon as she did so, the bells above her shop door jingled with urgency. McKenna burst into the house, to the small parlor, where Augusta was sitting with her hands clutched in her lap. Pup was not far behind.

“Miss Gustie, please! Please don’t let them take me.”

McKenna’s charcoal eyes were wild with fire. Augusta felt weak in the face of such—such—what could she call it? Fear? Desperation?

“Please! She said I had to get my things and go with her NOW!”

Stay calm
, Augusta told herself.
Weigh your words carefully
.

Augusta rubbed the deep creases on her forehead. “Who said?”

“Mrs. Gaspé! That social worker. She says that if I don’t go with her, she’ll call the police.”

Augusta’s insides were unraveling.

And, if the truth be told, Augusta’s first thoughts were about herself.

How could she get along without McKenna’s help? The girl had been a lifesaver—wouldn’t accept a dime, insisted that helping others was the Mi’kmaq way.

Besides, Augusta fretted, what could a fusty old woman in a wheelchair do? A twelve-year-old girl, to whom she’s not even related, begging her to intervene—how could she?—on top of her own fall? … No, no, it was all too much.

“Miss Gustie, please!”

The dog—well, with the dog, she’d acted on impulse, but McKenna was a child! No, not a child—almost an adolescent with needs and desires and expectations, and, and—

Augusta took a deep breath. “I’m afraid, my dear, that you have no choice. There are rules about such matters. The woman is only trying to do her job.”

“Fine! Nice knowing you!” shouted the enraged girl.

The angry bells jangled. The door slammed. Augusta sighed, whatever words she might have wanted to say stuck in her throat.

“Oh, what are you looking at?” she asked Pup angrily. “It’s none of my business—isn’t that what Jack said?”

Augusta peeked through the holes in the lace curtain. McKenna’s long hair was flying like a black flag as she ran down Main Street toward the wharf.

“Oh, my,” Augusta mumbled.

Augusta thought that someone would have chased McKenna. But there, at the picnic table, sat Big Bart with his head in his hands. The social worker’s hand was poised on the door handle of her car. A little row of Cody kids stood nearby—dumbfounded, it seemed.

Augusta glanced at the dreamcatcher that hung on the wall above a steel-framed medical bed that was set up in the parlor.

A few days after Augusta complained that her pain medication gave her nightmares, McKenna had fashioned the webbed hoop out of green branches, cotton string, strips of leather, colored beads, and feathers. Truly, a work of art.

“Long ago, the spider gave his web as a gift to a grandmother of our people, who’d saved his life,” McKenna explained. “Now you’ll remember only the good dreams. Your bad dreams will get tangled in the web.”

Augusta hadn’t had a nightmare since. She reached for the phone and punched in Jack Tucker’s number. Who else could she call?

“There’s nothing you can do, Gustie. Let go,” Jack advised. “You’ve got enough trouble, eh? But if you want, sure, I’ll swing by.”

When Jack showed up a few hours later, he announced, “Big Bart got rid of the lady from the
county. She was furious about being lied to. Didn’t faze Big Bart. He told her that McKenna had to stick around Victoria long enough to close up shop before she cleared out. He’d drive McKenna back to the North Shore next weekend. The lady made him sign some paper. Big Bart was steamed, I tell you.”

“Then it’s final? McKenna’s going back into foster care? The Codys have decided against her?”

“For sure. Jeannie’s dead set against it.” Jack adjusted the slide on his string tie. “But McKenna’s not going back into foster care. Mrs. Gaspé said a foster home is no longer an option. She found a place for McKenna in some residential school.”

“Where? McKenna’s going to leave the island?”

Jack shrugged. “What’re you going to do? It is what it is.”

“Oh, those Codys.”

“Come now, Gustie. That’s not the right family for a girl like McKenna.”

He rolled up the sleeves on his plaid shirt. His forearms were deeply tanned, his hands large and strong.

“She’s like that little dog of yours. She needs a home where someone can give her the kind of attention she deserves.”

Augusta raised her voice and spouted, “Why, Jack Tucker, I certainly hope that you are not implying
that
I
take her in? Why don’t
you
take her in? There’s plenty of room in that big empty house of yours. She’s good with animals. She’d be a tremendous help to you, I’d bet.”

“I’m too old and set in my ways. You know that, Gustie.”

“Well, it’s not too late to change, I always say.”

Jack glanced at his stainless steel watch. “Listen, I’ve got a bunch of sick cows to attend to.” He took a folded square of yellow paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Augusta. “Here. In case you’re interested.”

“Hello! Hello! Are you open?” a woman’s voice called as Jack let himself out.

Augusta slipped the yellow paper into her skirt pocket.

“Yes, I am,” Augusta called. “I’ll be right with you.”

Augusta recognized the voice of the woman with the fancy pet products business. The woman made Augusta uncomfortable. She’d be glad to get paid for her work and get rid of her.

“Is my order ready?” the woman asked.

“Yes, indeed,” Augusta answered as she rolled herself out to One-of-a-Kind by way of a small ramp with a slight incline that Jack had fashioned.

Blind to Augusta’s obvious injuries, the woman’s
blue-shadowed eyes were sparkling. However, she was not looking at the cardboard box overflowing with fringed woolen scarves for small dogs. Her sights were set on Pup, who was lying on the padded rocking chair.

“Oh, there’s my boy!” Without so much as asking, the brassy blond woman lifted Pup and held the squirming dog out in front of her. “He’s a Yorkie, right? Purebred?”

“That will be three-hundred and sixty dollars,” Augusta said brusquely. “Thirty-six scarves at ten each.”

“And how much for this precious, precious pooch?”

How much for the dog? Who did this woman think she was?

“The dog is not for sale,” Augusta snapped.

The Pampered Pooch woman set Pup back on the rocker. She laid three hundred-dollar bills and three twenties on the table. “For the scarves.”

Next to the small pile of bills, she put another hundred dollar bill. Then, as if she were dealing cards, the woman stripped four hundreds out of the wad of money in her hand. “Will you take five hundred for the dog?”

Augusta was aghast. “The dog is
not
for sale.”

With an impassive face, the woman dealt a
second hand. Six hundred, seven hundred, eight hundred …

“The dog is …” Augusta paused, arrested by a vision of the sky-high stack of unpaid bills on her writing table.

Pup, with a slight quiver to his ears, sat upright, straight and tall, as if prepared to do battle.

The woman squeezed Pup’s teacup face. “You are such a cutie! A perfectly perfect model. I’ll put you in my shop window, and—”

She faced Augusta, looking like a Rottweiler who was used to getting her own way. “A thousand dollars for the dog,” she offered. “Take it, or leave it.”

Augusta steered her wheelchair close to the rocking chair and, grimacing, pulled Pup into her lap.

Augusta’s strong, calm, and almost inaudible voice betrayed her rankled emotions. “No, thank you.”

The woman scooped up the taller stack of bills. She laid down her business card. “In case you change your mind,” she said smugly.

Once the impudent woman left the shop, Augusta’s anger erupted. “Who does she think she is? As if I’d sell Pup to the likes of her!”

Augusta ripped the business card into tiny pieces.

Then she pulled the square of paper out of her skirt pocket. “Dorothea Gaspé, Social Worker,” Augusta read quietly.

Another uppity woman who probably thinks she knows what’s best for everyone. Her hands shaking, Augusta started to tear this paper as well.

Pup cocked his head to the side and gave her a quizzical look. Augusta caught herself before she went any further. “You’re right, Pup. I’d better hang on to it, just in case.”