The Other Side of the Bridge (42 page)

So he did not tell Jake to go, and not having told him to go, he didn’t watch him, either. The days passed, but still Arthur told himself that everything was fine, that Jake would leave soon of his own accord. That there was no reason, no need, to tell him to go.

THIRTEEN

TOUGH TIMES FOR DAIRY INDUSTRY

WEAN LAMBS AT FIFTEEN WEEKS

—
Temiskaming Speaker,
June 1960

L
ate on Saturday afternoon when Ian got home from the farm he and his father drove out to Ernie Schwartz’s place and chose themselves a little Irish setter bitch. She slept for most of the trip home on an old towel, on Ian’s lap. It was a long drive and they’d forgotten to ask when she’d last had anything to eat or drink, so when they got home they took her into the kitchen and put a bowl of water and the saucepan full of Mrs. Tuttle’s Irish stew on the floor for her.

“It’s what we got her for, after all,” Dr. Christopherson said. “To deal with the stew.”

The puppy took her responsibilities seriously. There was more of the stew than there was of her but she polished off most of it. When she had finished she stood rigid for a moment or two, eyes bulging slightly, and then opened her mouth and sicked the whole lot up onto the floor.

“I guess that was predictable,” Dr. Christopherson said. “We should have given her just a spoonful to begin with.”

“It looks exactly the same as when it went in,” Ian said. “No better, no worse.”

Then the puppy stepped in the sick and slipped and fell in it, so they had to take her down to the lake and give her a bath. When she was clean they put her down on the warm yellow sand to dry off and watched her try to shake herself. She couldn’t seem to get the hang of it—every time she managed to work up a little momentum she fell over—and in the end they had to give her another bath to get the sand out of her coat. Ian’s father wafted her up and down in the water, supporting her with a hand under her belly—she was so small his one hand held her like a cradle—and she looked up at him, this giant being who kept baptizing her, her eyes anxious but trusting, her fur, soft as feathers, spreading out around her in the water like a halo.

They carried her, dripping, back up to the house to dry off on the grass, and sat down on the bottom step of the porch to watch her. She tried several more times to shake herself, falling over each time, and then forgot about it and began exploring, staggering around in circles, nose down, tail in the air.

“She’s gutsy, isn’t she?” Ian said. “Less than two months old, just left her mum, set down in a strange place with people she’s never seen before, and she’s exploring already.”

All he asked of her, this small scrap of wet fur, was that she be family, friend, and companion to his father for the rest of her days. She just had to go on his rounds with him and lie at his feet in the evenings and protect him from loneliness and unhappiness and old age. That was all.

“The advantage of a small brain,” his father said. “She’s living in the moment and the moment is good.”

“That sounds like a philosophy, not a small brain.”

His father considered it. “You could be right.”

She’d met a grasshopper and didn’t know what to do about it. She pounced, it sailed away; she galloped after it, pounced again, it floated off from between her paws, she tripped over her own feet and fell in an untidy chestnut-colored heap.

“She always falls on her left side,” Ian said. “You notice that? Could her legs be shorter on that side or something?”

“Unlikely,” his father said.

She was on her feet again, spinning around after the grasshopper who’d rashly returned to tease her. She snapped at the air and then ate something, crunchily.

“Was that it?” Ian said.

“Yup. She’s quick.”

“Are you kidding? That was luck.”

“Nonsense,” his father said. “She’s a born hunter—she’s going to be a great gun dog. That reminds me, where’s the rabbit?”

“Around the back in a cardboard box.”

“A strong enough cardboard box?”

“Yeah,” Ian said. “I think so. I’ll have another look at it before we go in.”

He wanted to sit right here on the step forever. It had been hot as a bread oven all day, but now the heat was easing and the air was so heavy it was like sitting in a bath. He wondered how many more times he would sit like this with his father. Not many.

The puppy gamboled up to them. His father stretched out his hand and she licked his thumb and then began chewing it vigorously.

“Ow!” he said. “No, no, no—your teeth are sharp.” He gently prized her jaws apart, removed his thumb from her mouth and stuck it in his own. With his free hand he smoothed her ears and she licked him rapturously, then galloped off.

Old Mr. Johnson appeared, shuffling around the corner, heading their way.

“It’s Saturday,” Ian said, though without rancor. It no longer bothered him as much as it used to that people took advantage of his father. In the process of correcting Jake’s view of his father’s relationship with the people of Struan he’d corrected his own as well. The truth was his father wanted people to take advantage of him, if that was what they were doing. He needed them as much as they needed him, and that didn’t stop at five o’clock on a Friday afternoon.

“He’s old. He forgets.”

“Like everyone else in this town,” Ian said. “A town full of old people with lousy memories.”

The old man had reached the gate and half-opened it, but now he’d seen the puppy and he paused to watch her.

“A puppy,” he said after a minute or two.

“You got it in one, Mr. Johnson,” Ian said.

“Bitch or dog?”

“Bitch.”

“Whatcha gonna call her?”

“Molly.”

The old man thought about it. “Wasn’t there one called that before?”

“It’s tradition, Bert,” Dr. Christopherson said. “It’s such a good name we’re using it again.”

“Oh,” the old man said. The three of them watched the puppy behaving like a puppy.

“Not very good on her feet, is she?” the old man said.

“She’s young,” Dr. Christopherson said. “You weren’t very good on your feet at that age either.”

“I’m not much good on them now,” the old man said. “And that’s a goddamn’ fact.”

“You don’t do too badly.”

“Did you see the sign on the gate, Mr. Johnson?” Ian asked.

“What sign?”

“The one on the gate.”

The old man looked down, then bent stiffly and peered at the sign. “What’s it say?”

“It says, ‘Please close the gate.’ We were kind of hoping everybody would see it.”

“Nobody reads signs,” the old man said. “And anyways, she’ll find another way out.”

“We’ve checked the fence all the way around,” Ian said. “There aren’t any gaps big enough for her to get through.”

“I’ll betcha a quarter.”

“Okay,” Ian said. “Done.”

“Anyways,” the old man said. “Now I can’t remember what I’m doin’ here.”

“Waterworks?” Dr. Christopherson suggested.

The old man thought about it, then shook his head. “Nope.”

“Constipation?” Ian offered.

“Nope.”

“Your toes?” Ian’s father said.

“Nope.”

“Maybe you’re just out for a walk,” Ian said. “It’s a nice evening.”

“Nope. I came for a reason.”

“Heart leaping about again?” Dr. Christopherson said.

“Nope.”

“Memory?” Ian said. His father frowned at him but the old man thought it was funny.

“Ha!” he said. “Nope, memory’s perfect.” He thought some more. “Maybe I only came for a checkup.”

“You’ve just had it,” Dr. Christopherson said. “You’re in better shape than I am.”

“Where’s Molly?” Ian said, suddenly realizing that she wasn’t there.

“She went around the back of the house,” the old man said. “Probably dug a hole under the fence, miles away by now. You owe me a quarter.”

But as he spoke she came galloping around the corner of the house. She’d found an old gray sock and was killing it savagely. They watched her shake it violently back and forth. It flew out of her jaws and into the air and when it landed she crouched down and waited, panting and delighted, hoping it would move so that she could kill it again.

“Wonder where she found the sock,” Ian said. He didn’t recognize it as one of his or his father’s.

As if she heard him Molly pounced on it again, seized it in her jaws and brought it proudly over to deposit at his feet. It was only then that they realized it wasn’t a sock.

“That’s pretty damned quick,” Mr. Johnson said grudgingly. “Catchin’ a rabbit at her age—even a little ’un. Pretty damned quick.”

“You two have to get a move on,” Mr. Hardy said. It was Monday morning and he had summoned both Ian and Pete to the school to see him, despite the fact that they were now on vacation. “You need to get your college applications in now. By the time the exam results come out it will be too late. I want both of you back here tomorrow morning—you, Christopherson, at nine; you, Corbiere, at half past—decisions made, pens in hand.”

They cycled back to the reserve, went straight down to the dock, got into the
Queen Mary,
puttered around to Hopeless Inlet and tossed the anchor overboard. It was raining, a quiet, gentle rain, dotting the surface of the lake with a billion tiny circles.

Pete picked up his jigger, stuck a bug on the hook, and dropped it over the side. Ian attached a lure to his line, cast it out across the water, and began slowly reeling it in.

“So,” he said.

Pete nodded.

“Decision time.”

“Seems so.”

They fished. Pete caught a trout. He dropped it in the bottom of the boat and said, “Thought you’d made your decision. Thought you were going to be a pilot.”

“I am,” Ian said. “It’s your decision we’re talking about.”

“Why didn’t you tell Hardy?”

Ian didn’t know the answer to that one. “I will. Tomorrow.”

The rain was trickling down the back of his neck. He looked around for a hat, or something to use as a hat, but there wasn’t anything. The rain was warm, though, and not unpleasant. Pete was twitching the jig up and down in the water. Ian said, “If you don’t tell me what you’ve decided to do in three seconds flat, I’m going to throw you overboard.” He felt nervous, and didn’t know why.

“I’m not going on,” Pete said.

Ian looked at him, sure he must have heard him wrong. Pete let out a little more line from the jigger.

“What?” Ian said.

“I’m stayin’ here. Me and a couple of the guys are going to set up a little fishing business for the tourists. Make sure they don’t catch all the good fish. I think we can make a pretty good thing out of it.” There was a tug on his line; he hauled in another trout and knocked it on the head. He glanced over at Ian and said, “You better keep reeling, man. You’re gonna snag your hook.”