The Bookshop on Autumn Lane (5 page)

T
he old collie sat down, cocked his head, and whined. With those dark eyes rimmed by graying fur, he looked at me like I was supposed to know what he was thinking. I hated it when he did that. Human speak was tough enough. But dog speak did not come naturally to me. Since we'd been together, I worked hard to interpret his sounds and gestures. Usually I figured he was hungry. But a nagging sense that I wasn't understanding him kept bothering me.

I ruffled his ears. “Come on, carnivore dog. Let's find you some meat!” Poor thing. It would have gone easier on him if he had been thrust on a meat-loving person who lived on acres of green grass and had sheep to chase. But he was stuck with a homeless vegan like me.

I left the doors unlocked, hoping for a book thief, and headed toward the one restaurant in town that appeared to be open. Along the way, we passed the vacant grocery store that abutted the bookstore. The sign above the door was gone now. It had been called something like Kreap's Grocery Store when I lived here, but I always thought of it as Creepy's. Not because I couldn't read the name properly, but because it was dark and empty, even then. A Laundromat called the Sit and Spin stood on the corner. If Aunt Gertrude's washing machine in the cellar didn't work, that would be handy. On the opposite corner stood a small building with a sign that read
Colon Cleaners.
That stopped me in my tracks until I saw the faded outline of a Y at the end of
Colon.
At least someone in this town had a sense of humor.

The other stores on Main Street were few and far between. False clapboard fronts were the genius of some 1970s architect who should have been run out of town. It was supposed to evoke a lumber-town character, but instead it made Truhart feel like a Western ghost town. The only thing missing was a tangled ball of tumbleweed rolling down the street.

The end of Main Street was the only place that showed signs of life.
Cookee's Diner
, the sign on the roof read. Several cars parked in angled spots in front guaranteed people, and the smell of something cooking on the griddle promised a tasty treat for my furry friend. I hoped they would have something for me. Even in a large city, it wasn't always easy to find food with no milk products, eggs, or honey. I couldn't imagine what it would be like in a small town like Truhart.

I knelt down in front of the dog. I didn't own a leash. And even if I did, I wouldn't have tied him to it. Not after the way I found him.

“Stay if you want to keep hanging with me, dude. Otherwise, good luck.” He raised his ears and tilted his head. He had heard me say that before. Yet he always waited exactly where I left him when I returned. Old faithful. He might be old and wimpy, but he was going to make someone a great companion someday.

A bell above the door jingled. The soothing aroma of coffee and the haze of fried food filled the diner. Beside a front window were three large booths covered in faded blue vinyl. I glanced up at a sign above the counter:
Large Booths for 3 or More
, and felt a kinship with the two men sitting at the largest booth at the end of the counter. I loved people who ignored the rules.

A tall, balding man stood behind the counter. He was dressed in a white T-shirt, white pants, and a large apron that said
If you don't like my cooking lower your standards.
He greeted me. “Our waitress isn't back from picking up her granddaughter. But I can help you when you decide what you want. Whatever you want, we can fix it. But we try to impress our newer customers by giving them menus.” He handed me a menu, then returned to the other end of the counter. The men in the booth were arguing. The cook got in on the debate.

While they talked, I pretended to read the menu.

“—I don't care if the county looks like a cesspool, I'm not paying more taxes to make the mayor's wife feel like she lives in Paris,” argued a wiry, white-haired man wearing a faded plaid button-up under gray coveralls.

“I agree. But a community center and a better-looking downtown might attract more business and summer tourists,” said the cook.

“We've got an ice cream stand and putt-putt golf. That's all they need, Mac,” said a small, angular-faced man. He wore the same kind of gray overalls as the man across the booth from him.

“The lake is our big attraction. Not some sort of chic shopping district,” said his buddy.

“Did you just use the word
chic
?” asked the cook.

The white-haired man looked over at me and winked. “I learned it from my wife. Every time she watches that HGTV channel, she moves furniture around and paints a room.”

The cook pointed at me with a greasy spatula. “We need a woman's perspective. You're not going to defend that, are you?
Chic
is a stupid word.”

I raised palms toward them to show I took no offense. “I don't own a couch to move or a TV to watch, so no defending here.”

“A lady after my own heart,” the cook said, lifting a spoon in the air. “Now food is different. Definitely worth spending time and money on. What can I get you, my dear?”

“How about oatmeal and coffee?”

His mouth turned down.

I looked outside and saw my friend, with those two furry ears and dark eyes of longing, looking through the door. “To go, if you don't mind. No butter, no cream or milk.”

The cook reached for a pot from the rack and turned to the stove. “Breakfast so late? Are you sure? You're tall but you look like a good wind could blow you over. Can I fix you an omelet and hash browns on the side?”

“No thanks, I don't eat eggs.”

“Allergies, huh?” he asked over his shoulder.

“No, vegan.”

That made him stop with his spoon in the air. “Vegan?”

“Isn't that some sort of weird satanic ritual?” one of the men at the booth said. The other man chuckled.

The cook stepped in front of me and lowered his body until his elbows rested on the counter. “I have never met an actual vegan. I've certainly never cooked for one. What don't vegans eat again?”

“Meat, fish, poultry, or any other animal by-products.”

“Eggs?”

“None.” I shook my head. My no-egg policy had already been established, but I knew I'd have to say it again until it sank in.

“Is it because they are a rooster away from being baby chicks? You do know that the eggs aren't fertilized, don't you, honey?” He said it as if I was ten years old and finding out the truth about Santa Claus.

“I know. It's because I like and I respect chickens.”

“So do we. I respect a good chicken sandwich,” said one of the men at the booth. They both laughed. I was used to it. I crossed my arms and sighed.

“No egg-eating at all, huh?”

“No eggs.”

The cook's dark eyes, framed by thick eyebrows with wayward strands of hair, made him look kind. I didn't want to insult his own views on food and animals.

“It's my
thing
. I don't like to see animals harmed in any way. I have concerns about their treatment and living conditions. Oatmeal is filling, so I'm good.”

The small man decided to keep up the comedy skit. “Those oats are rolled and tortured before they get in your bowl.”

“Stuff it, Vance!”

“What? Oats are alive. Besides, who orders oatmeal at a diner?” he muttered.

“My customer comes first and I won't have you treating anybody with disrespect.” The cook picked up a coffeepot and grabbed a Styrofoam cup.

“Jeez, Mac, ever since his lordship came to town, everyone's been all about manners and respect.”

A woman with startlingly bleached short hair walked in from a back room with a young girl in hand. “Vance, Murdock. I didn't realize the garage was closed for the day?”

“Now Corinne, we're only having fun.”

“Fun, my—” She looked down at the girl and bit the top of her lip.

“Hi, Uncle Murdock.” The girl said it so sadly it made the men at the booth frown.

“Hi, peanut.” He sent a questioning look at the older woman.

The girl had the beautiful wide-set brown eyes and perfectly shaped round face that accompanied Down syndrome. Wet tears rimmed her eyes and she was hiccupping as if she were still recovering from a long cry.

The man called Murdock cleared his throat. “No disrespect intended to the lady, Corinne. We're just funnin' with her.”

“No problem, I'm used to it,” I said.

The woman led the little girl to a booth. As they passed me I smiled. The girl stared at me and I caught the hint of interest on her face.

“Here's a crayon and some papers to draw with.” She was briefly distracted as the woman helped her draw shapes.

“The school ended up sending her home again?” Mac asked as he placed the coffee in front of me.

“That P.E. teacher made her sit in the corner of the gym during relay races. She was still crying when I got there.”

I sipped the coffee, remembering times when I had suffered a similar fate in school. It was horrible when you wanted nothing more than to be included. Classmates were very perceptive. They figured if an adult could exclude a kid from the class so easily, they could too. The teacher decided you didn't belong in gym, spelling, or social studies, and the kids made sure you didn't belong at their lunch table, recess, or anywhere else.

Mac placed a bowl and spoon in front of me. He nodded toward the sidewalk. “I assume your friend isn't vegan.” Then he put a plastic bowl with several pieces of chicken in front of me. “Bring the dish back when you're finished.”

“Thank you.” How did he know? I looked down at the bowl and felt my mood lift like the girl's with her crayons and paper. Sometimes it was the little things that made life better. I wanted to say more, but he was already back at the stove.

When I exited the diner, the dog stood up and wagged his tail. He circled me as if I were a GI returning from an overseas post. “I've only been gone a few minutes, take it easy.” He was a neurotic mutt. I never knew if it was his fear of hunger or of being alone that made him act that way.

I settled on the curb next to him and we ate in companionable silence. When he finished, in something like thirty seconds after he started, the dog burped and lay down next to me. “I don't know why I put up with a carnivore canine like you.”

“What's his name?” I looked up. The little girl stood next to me.

She was one of the few people who had gotten his gender correct.

“I don't know.” I looked back inside the diner to make sure someone knew she was with me. The older woman stood behind the glass door and watched us.

“You don't know his name?” A shy smile was washing away her tear-stained face.

“Unfortunately, no.”

She shook her head. “Everyone has a name.”

“What's yours?”

She looked back at the door, making sure it was okay to keep talking to me. The woman nodded at us. I was amazed by the trust the lady put in a virtual stranger like me. But then again, this town was so small, they probably didn't understand the stranger danger that city-wise folks worried about.

“My name is Jenny.”

“I'm Trudy.” I held out my hand and she shook it with a grin and giggled.

Then her attention was back on the old collie. She crouched down and smiled at him. He wagged his tail. He was a ham. He loved attention.

“He needs a name . . .”

“He isn't my dog. So it doesn't seem right for me to name him.”

“Who's is he?”

“Nobody's. He's still trying to find a home.”

“He doesn't have a family?” Her smile disappeared.

“He belonged to someone I knew, but that man didn't seem to want him.” The backstory on that was not kid-friendly.

I had just returned to Oakland after working as a roadie with a post-psychedelic surf-rock band when the package from Aunt Gertrude's lawyer caught up with me. I decided to stay with an old friend until I could get Lulu out of storage and hit the road for Truhart. I had forgotten about my friend's ugly love affair with tequila. That night, I lay on his couch listening to the rain beating on the roof, and counting the minutes until morning. When I heard a series of whimpers from outside, I went to investigate. I discovered the old collie tied to a shed, his fur so wet and muddy that I couldn't tell for sure if he was even a dog. He wouldn't come near me, even when I enticed him with a soggy piece of bread. I kept trying different foods until he couldn't resist the bologna. I cut the rope and loaded him in Lulu.

It took me a week to untangle his matted fur and even longer to get a little meat on his bones. But only a day to win his trust and friendship.

“Do you want to pet him?”

Jenny nodded. I reached for her short fingers and held her hands until she relaxed. Then I placed her hand on the dog's back and let her bury her fingers in his fur. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened as she clenched and unclenched her fist. The dog turned his head and nudged her hand with his nose. She fluttered her lashes and stiffened.

“It's okay. He's a good boy. He won't hurt you.”

Then he licked her wrist. She laughed and pulled her hand away. It took several more tries to reassure her that the dog wouldn't do anything more than lick her hand. Jenny reached out her hand. The dog extended his neck until his nose was in her palm. He licked her fingers.

She looked me squarely in the eye. “He needs a name.”

Her simple words held such conviction that I felt like I was in the presence of a philosopher. There was no way I could let her down. “I guess we can give him a temporary name until his family decides.”