The Dog That Whispered (18 page)

“Even though he couldn't go on ninety percent of the rides, he still loves amusement parks. I'm guessing he'll grow up to design roller coasters or be a ticket taker at Great America. Either one is possible.”

Hazel finished loading her clothes from the two washers into two dryers. She had only emptied half of a dainty-sized box of Tide detergent into each one.

No need to use too much soap. A half a box was plenty. And I wasn't digging ditches, and they smell clean
.

“Do your other children like parks as much as Axel?”

“I think so. The oldest doesn't want to be seen with his family—ever—so we let him wander off on his own. He's happy. We're happy. The middle one, well…he's got leukemia and this trip was on his bucket list. So, yeah, he likes amusement parks.”

Hazel was caught off guard by the casual and sudden turn of things.

“I'm so sorry…I mean…I didn't…”

“Relax. Of course you couldn't have known. And we've lived with this for two years now. We're doing everything we can to enjoy life as best we can. The doctors say it's a fifty-fifty proposition. You live with those odds for a while and you get used to it. I guess we think everyone should just be normal about it.”

Hazel had no idea of what to say. It was obvious that Jennifer was used to the awkward silences and pained looks. She smiled, as if trying to comfort Hazel's apparent anxiety.

“Maybe the Lord will heal him,” she continued. “Maybe he won't. But we are his, you know. We were never promised a rose garden—as the old song said. But we will do our best to enjoy the time he allows us to enjoy.”

Hazel simply nodded in reply.

Jennifer picked up Axel, who had now gone quiet and appeared a bit droopy.

“So tell me, Hazel, do you know Jesus?”

Hazel assured Jennifer and Axel that she did know Jesus, and shortly after that assurance the dryer bell rang and Hazel offered to watch Axel while Jennifer carried a very large load of clean clothes back to their room.

“Normally I wouldn't bother doing laundry so close to the end of a trip,” Jennifer said, “but none of us had anything clean to wear. Seriously. And five people in a minivan the whole way across North Dakota in dirty clothes is no picnic.”

Axel stared at Hazel with wide toddler eyes the entire duration of his mother's absence, unsure of what to do and who this woman was.

They were both absolutely relieved when Jennifer returned.

After Jennifer and Axel departed with a “God bless you” wish, Hazel slumped in one of the two plastic chairs in the room and closed her eyes for a long moment. The laundry room remained empty, save for Hazel, for both her spin and dry cycles. For that, she was grateful. She did not think that she was up to interacting with anyone else that afternoon.

I have never faced adversity, have I?

She looked up when the dryer buzzed and began to slow, marking the end of its cycle.

I have never really been in any sort of trial. Sure, my mother died, and that was hard, but every parent, or most every parent, will die before their child does. But to see a child suffer. That has to be terrible
.

She carried the dry clothes and dumped them en masse onto the table, and began to fold them.

I would hang some of them if I were home…

She realized what she had said, or rather thought.

There is no “home” anymore
.

She paused, the shirt in her hands, feeling the lingering warmth.

But…sure, I haven't faced really tough times…
she thought as she resumed folding,
but neither have I faced a triumph. Where is the big victory in my life?

She wondered if any of this, any of this being free and unfettered, would get easier as the days and the miles passed.

I don't think it will
.

That's what I'm afraid of
.

It will never get any better than it is right now
.

Or easier
.

She took a deep breath and held it for a moment.

Maybe I should just go back to Portland and forget about the wedding picture and my mother's husband and all the rest. All of this can't lead to anything but…but more uncertainty
.

She tilted her head, as if in deep thought.

Then slowly, slowly, bit by bit, her mouth turned into a sort of gentle smile, a knowing smile, without truly knowing.

Or not
.

She shook her head.

As they say, be careful what you wish for—because you just might get it
.

She felt a cynical minor scowl take over her face.

Did I ever ask to be rich?

She sighed.

I am pretty sure I never did
.

H
ELLO,
D
R.
K
ILLEEN
,” Wilson called out.

Dr. Killeen was sitting on the small front porch of his home, not in the driveway, this afternoon. There was only room for the wheelchair and a large cement pot that held a breath of flowers and ferns and assorted greenery. The flowers were colorful but did not match—yellow and orange and blue and white and red and green and leafy—as if some color-blind planter had bought the leftovers of a plant sale. Martha Stewart would be aghast, Wilson thought.

Thurman, as was his wont, grew excited and eager to greet someone he knew, and he bounced and pranced the entire length of the front walk in a sort of canine dance revue.

“Hello, Wilson. And hello, Thurman. How are you both?”

Thurman responded by barking loudly and tossing his head backward.

Wilson had noticed him doing that on previous occasions, and had actually looked up the behavior on the Internet, but found no consensus of opinion on what it might mean, this head tossing. He likened it to the vague, subtle head nods that hipsters give each other as they pass, too cool for a wave, just a shade of movement of the head.

Cool
.

But Thurman was no hipster, and definitely was not cool, but perhaps it was some manner of instinctual behavior.

Maybe the wolf packs way back when were made up of wolf hipsters who all practiced the very same canine head toss
.

“We're fine, Dr. Killeen. And how are you?” Wilson asked, stopping a few feet from the front stoop.

“My name wasn't in the obituary columns this morning. So that makes it a very good day.”

Thurman moved in closer and reared up, gently placing both front paws on Dr. Killeen's right thigh. The old man reached over and patted the dog's head; he cupped his hand under Thurman's chin and stared into his eyes.

“Good dog, Thurman. You've got deep eyes, you know that? The deep eyes of a prophet.”

Thurman growled out,
I do
, but Wilson knew that Dr. Killeen would not understand his reply.

“Your dog thinks deep thoughts,” Dr. Killeen said, now looking up at Wilson and squinting even more. “He's got old eyes, Wilson.”

Wilson shrugged.

“I know. I didn't pick him, remember? He was thrust upon me.”

Thurman turned his head and growled at Wilson, a growl that hinted at hurt feelings and scorn—but not really. A good-natured growling scowl.

“You mother stopped by a few days ago. She brought Thurman with her and was walking with some other woman whom I didn't recognize. And Gretna happily filled me in on all the happenings at her retirement…Village? Association? Condo?”

“Sorry about that. And they call it a village, although it's just one big building.”

Dr. Killeen waved off his remark.

“I do enjoy talking to her. Well, I enjoy talking to anyone. Once all your friends die off, you get fewer visitors, you know?”

Thurman seemed to be comfortable half-standing there, his head and shoulders in the old man's lap, the sun on both their faces, the deep lines shadowed on the old man's face, the tremble in his hands more evident in the bright sunshine, the watery eyes held to slits.

“She told me, or rather she whispered to me, that she was going to become a grandmother.”

Wilson nodded.

“It's an ongoing delusion. Ever since Thurman showed up. She's been telling others the same story.”

Dr. Killeen stroked Thurman's head, and if Thurman could purr, he would have, his eyes shut in contentment.

“Is she feeling all right? I know she's old and sometimes an idea, no matter how ludicrous, can get stuck. But other than that, she was very lucid. Cranky, but lucid.”

Wilson opened his palms skyward.

“The doctor says she's fine. Passes all his little memory tests. It appears that this becoming-a-grandmother idea is her only affectation. Well, one of her more noticeable affectations. Harmless, I suppose, but definitely on the odd side.”

Dr. Killeen stopped petting Thurman and the dog looked up, then butted his head into the old man's hand.

“She said that Thurman told her.”

“She mentioned that to me,” Wilson replied.

“I said the knowledge must give her comfort—the fact that he promised her grandchildren.”

Wilson had no reply for this.

Dr. Killeen cleared his throat, began petting Thurman again, and then said, “What gives you comfort, Wilson?”

“What?”

“Comfort. Where do you find comfort, Wilson? Or contentment? Your mother seems to have found it. To a degree, anyhow. Have you? Have you found it?”

From inside the house came a voice, calling out for Dr. Killeen. Except whoever was calling did not use his formal title.

“Clarence, do you want coffee?”

The voice was heavily accented. Wilson surmised Spanish, most likely South American Spanish. He had a knack for guessing the general origin of most accents.

Dr. Killeen winced, almost as if he had been stricken by some intense interior pain, and he looked up at Wilson, an imploring expression on his face.

“The secret is out. I went by C. Killeen—not Clarence—for so long…almost all my life. And now, betrayed by a very cordial caregiver.”

He tilted to his left, trying to get a little closer to Wilson.

“You will keep my secret, won't you?”

Wilson grinned.

“Of course. I guess we all have secrets.”

Dr. Killeen paused, then looked at Thurman.

“You're right. I hadn't thought of it that way,” he said softly. “Secrets. Goodness. Well, would you like some coffee? Margat is from Peru, and they seem to know how to make coffee that has some intestinal fortitude to it.”

“I wouldn't want to bother you any more than I have already,” Wilson replied. Apparently Thurman had not received the we-wouldn't-think-of-imposing memo, because he had already squirmed past the wheelchair and was nosing at the front door, happily growling in anticipation of seeing the inside of a new and different house.

“It's not like I have to do anything to make it. Please, stay.” And he half-turned in his chair and called back, “
Dos cafes, por favor, Margat
.”

The front door opened inward and a small woman stepped out. She had long black hair, a round peasant face, and a beaming smile.

“Come in. I get coffee.
Dos
.”

With a practiced hand, the woman, Margat, grabbed the wheelchair and pulled it inside with a strength that belied her small stature. Wilson and Thurman followed them into the kitchen, the house holding faint odors of Vicks VapoRub, mothballs, and liniment.

Or is that witch hazel? I haven't smelled that in years and years
.

Dr. Killeen was wheeled to the kitchen table and Wilson took a chair opposite him. The table was similar to Wilson's, with a shiny metal edge, flared metal legs, and a top with an amorphous squiggly pattern on it. Clarence's kitchen was much more out-of-date than Wilson's; the appliances and countertop all appeared to be at least several decades old.

Hospital clean and tidy and spartan, but old. Vintage, perhaps, would be a kind descriptive
, Wilson thought.

In a few moments, after hearing sinister hisses from some sort of coffee machine, Margat brought out two mugs of coffee, both thick with cream, and a thin scrum of foam covering the top.

“I hope you don't mind a little
crema
with your coffee. It's the only way she knows how to make it, right, Margat?”

Margat nodded and slid a plate of cookies onto the table. Thurman's ears perked up and his nose went into third gear as he stared at the plate while obediently sitting a few paces away. His nostrils opened as wide as they could, inhaling as much cookie goodness as he could without being rude.

The two men sipped and nibbled at the cookies, which were some sort of vanilla sugar cookie, with enough variations of shape to indicate they had to have been produced at home.

Wilson noted Thurman's desperate look of hunger and longing. He broke one cookie in half and extended the smaller of the two pieces to Thurman, who almost leaped at the offer of sweet sustenance. He chewed the morsel carefully and slowly, smiling as he did so.

“You have a gourmet dog there, Wilson.”

“He thinks so as well.”

Again the kitchen was quiet, save for drinking and chewing. Thurman had another half-cookie.

“You came to talk, didn't you, Wilson? Your mother said she had been pushing you to talk. Not to me, necessarily, but to someone.”

Wilson offered a weary smile.

“She has been pushing for the last forty years.”

“A long time to be silent. A long time for secrets.”

Wilson appeared to agree.

“You're a religious man, aren't you, Dr. Killeen?”

“I should hope so. It was in my job description. Being a pastor and all.”

“Touché. But what I meant was, how do you deal with real life? At Pitt, we have professors who teach church history—or the history of religion—in the history department. I spent a painful evening between a pair of them at a faculty dinner. They may have known history, but not much else. I think they were both agnostics…at best.”

Dr. Killeen cradled his half-full coffee cup in both hands, as if drawing additional warmth from it.

“I know the type,” the old man said. “There are many pastors suffering from the same twelve inch problem.”

“Twelve inch problem?”

“They have it in their head and not in their hearts. A distance of twelve inches…give or take an inch or two. To be honest, I think I was that way for years. Until I decided that knowing about God is not the same as living for God, that having knowledge is not the same as having wisdom. It takes a person willing to admit that they are flawed and human and that they only have a simple understanding of life to really get it—to get what life means—and to be fully aware of our place in the universe, and aware of God's place in relationship to us.”

Dr. Killeen took a deep breath, the passionate explanation taking a toll on his breathing.

Wilson offered Thurman another half-cookie, as if he wasn't really thinking of what he was doing.

“Let me ask you a religious question, then,” he said, his voice low, quiet, as if he was about to make a confession, about to open up to some sin in his life. “How long is God's statute of limitations?”

Dr. Killeen did not reply for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was as raspy as leaves scabbering along on the street, dancing in an early winter wind.

“This is about the war. This is about what you did. Isn't it, Wilson?”

Thurman growled something, a long, low, guttural growl, as if he was adding an addendum to the question, a clarifying statement of sorts.

Wilson did not want to answer the question, and wanted to answer the question—both simultaneously, both in equal amounts.

“Maybe.” He had spent most of his adult life not answering, not thinking about, not reliving, trying to be unaware of all that happened…back then.

But Dr. Killeen was a patient veteran of waiting, often waiting for hours or days until an answer became manifest, or years, or decades, until he could see God's hand in a life—God's direction, God's plan.

And so he simply sat, still, quiet, waiting.

Then he spoke, his words as even as words could be uttered, as neutral as words could be spoken.

“You saw things, didn't you?”

Wilson looked at his hands. He slowly clenched his fists, as if enduring a painful injection into muscle, into bone.

“You did things, didn't you?”

Wilson wanted to answer it but could not—not yet.

“Maybe.”

“And you're not sure that God will forgive?”

Wilson shrugged.

“I teach writing for a living…and I don't know the words. For this. What I feel.”

Thurman whispered his new word, louder this time, then growled it again.

Forgive
.

Forgiven
.

Wilson was certain that he alone heard it. And he was just as certain that the word, those words, were absolutely not from some deep place inside himself, not from a place that had been hidden for decades, not from a place where the guilt lived and refused to enter into the light of day.

The word came from Thurman. And Wilson did not, or would not, speculate on where Thurman had received that word.

Forgiven
.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine it.

How sweet the sound
, Wilson thought.
And how impossible
.

Gretna stabbed at the TV remote, muting the sound, and slipped it back into the pocket of her favorite housedress, the one with the paisley pattern. She shuffled into the kitchen, her right arm out, fingers just grazing the wall—for security, she said.