Whippoorwill

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by Joseph Monninger

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.hmhco.com

Jacket photograph © 2015 by Susan Fox/Trevillion Images
Author photograph by Theodore Taigen
Jacket design by Christine Kettner

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-0-544-53123-9

eISBN 978-0-544-63649-1
v1.0915

For my dog, Laika.
Last of the sled dogs.
No truer heart ever lived.

If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

 

—
A Farewell to Arms
by Ernest Hemingway

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

 

—The Merchant of Venice
by William Shakespeare

A
T NIGHT
I could always hear him.

He turned on his chain, trying to find a comfortable spot, and you heard a moment of quiet as if the whole world waited to see what he would do. Then the chain chinked just a little and you could hear him huff and then fall into his dog box, the heavy thump of his body on the boards, the chain lifting a notch to accommodate his neck.

Sometimes he whined and I could hardly stand it.

It turned minus thirty one night and he still stayed outside.

“It's New Hampshire and it's late February,” my dad said. “What do you expect?”

He sat at the kitchen table fooling around with his motorcycle parts. He had his big beard then, his winter beard, and he hardly had cheeks for all the whiskers. He wore a quilted flannel shirt and red suspenders. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses from Walmart perched on the end of his nose so he could see one of the parts.

“He shouldn't be outside,” I said, looking out the door at the porch thermometer.

“No, I guess not,” he agreed, “but we can't start a war with the neighbors.”

“The heck with them,” I said. “I hate them. We shouldn't care about them if they can't bother to care about the dog.”

“That's no way for a sixteen-year-old girl to talk, Clair. We can't judge other people so easily.”

“He could die.”

“All things die,” he said, not looking my way.

He meant my mother, I knew, but he was being poetic.

That night, in the cold, I threw some leftover breakfast sausages to Wally. They landed close enough to his pole so that he could get them, but he didn't even respond. The snow had covered his back legs, and for a long time I stood watching, trying to tell if he had frozen to death. He looked back at me. His two nostrils streamed puffs of white air. White air, white night, white moon.

A black lab named Wally.

A dog is a social animal. Tying a dog out on a pole by himself is about the cruelest thing you can do to a canine. Dogs live in packs and some scientists say they care more about other members in their pack than they do about humans. They only care about humans if you become one of their pack.

Instead of tying a dog out by himself, it would be kinder to shoot him.

My bedroom looks out on the Stewarts' property. I could see over the stockade fence that separated our cruddy yards, and I watched Wally from the time he arrived in mid-February. The Stewarts are what people in New Hampshire call Whippoorwills. It's a north country name for trash hounds. The Stewarts have at least five cars in their backyard in various states of disrepair, two half-beat Farmall tractors, both spotted orange, a snowmobile so rusted, it looks like it wants to grow into the earth, an aboveground swimming pool that has collapsed on the north end so that it lies crushed and broken and useless, a trampoline that works, a stumpy white pine, at least five truck axles, and a dozen chicken pens, built above ground to house rabbits and a couple of guinea hens.

Wally was one more piece of junk.

We aren't much better.

My dad, John T. Taylor, is a wannabe biker. He has a Harley Softail, which, if you know anything about motorcycles, is supposed to be a big deal. He rides with a pack of guys called the Devil's Tongue, and they aren't as tough as they'd like to be, but they can intimidate the local New Hampshire people when they thunder up and down Route 25. You can feel them in the ground when they pass, and they always remind me of locusts or buffalo when I see them traveling. If you know who they are, though, they don't scare you a bit, because you understand my dad, for instance, is a heat and plumbing guy, and the Devil's Tongue leader is a little weirdo named Jebby. Jebby looks like a rhinoceros, all shoulders and neck, except he is only five foot four and pigeon-toed. Jebby is a rural mail carrier, which means he drives around on dirt roads shoving mail into boxes. He has a blinking light on his Jeep, and he eats turkey sandwiches at the same highway turnout every day of his working life at 12:10 sharp. That's where my dad sometimes finds him to talk about rides. The other guys are more or less the same, tradesmen and grease guys, and you can't be around them without understanding they sort of like the idea of being in a motorcycle gang, but they could never commit to being in a real one like the Hells Angels or the Iron Horsemen. After Mom died about three years ago, the motorcycle became more central in my dad's life, and he's always working on it, one way or the other, with the small kitchen television blasting and the breakfast table covered with newspapers and machine parts. Jebby comes by sometimes, and so do some of the others, and what they seem to like most is
talking
about riding. They rhapsodize about riding without helmets, and about Bike Week in June down at the Weirs in Laconia, New Hampshire, and part of me can't stand to listen to their ridiculous talk, and another part of me is glad my father has someone to talk to. He's kind of a loner—well, we both are—and sometimes it feels like we are two dice rattling around in this cruddy old house, and that when my mom died, she gave us a great big shake and we've been rolling ever since.

For what it's worth, my mom, Sylvia, was what people call flighty, when they're being kind, and undependable, when they're being mean. She was a part-time art teacher at some of the elementary schools here in New Hampshire. She drove around in an old Subaru station wagon and went to different schools and worked with the kids. She specialized in found art. Found art is when you take old junk and make something more interesting out of it.
The junk suggests its shape to you,
she'd say. What that really meant was the porch of our colonial house was so jammed with crud, you could barely squeeze through it, but Mom didn't notice. She was always going to yard sales or buying some cheap junk at Second Comings, the church secondhand store. It was a disease with her, really, like a hoarder who uses other people's discards to seal herself off from the world. Walling herself off, living way down inside herself, constituted my mom's real art.

I
WAS RAISED
a Catholic, but I've only gone to Mass a couple times. I usually went when my mom was on some turn-over-a-new-leaf kick, but I remember Father Poloski saying one thing that stuck with me. He said you could commit a sin by doing wrong, a sin of
commission,
but you could also commit a sin by ignoring something wrong in front of you, a sin of
omission.

Wally existed in front of us all, and I did nothing for about fourteen days. Maybe a little longer.

I suppose that's some kind of sin.

Here's what changed my life and made me approach Wally.

It was mid-March and lousy out, but the weather had turned warm enough to just melt the snow off most of the backyard. I sat in my room listening to music, or doing something stupid, and I'm not sure where my dad was. Maybe he was napping, I don't know. But when I happened to look outside, I saw Danny Stewart standing about two feet in front of Wally with some food. They fed Wally scraps, that's all, because they were too cheap, or broke, to buy kibbles, and normally they simply threw junk into a pail and dumped it out on the ground in front of him. On this day, though, Danny lobbed chunks of food at Wally and the food bounced off the dog's big head. Danny laughed and kept digging in the pail, throwing things in an arc toward the dog, and Wally looked around, dazed, the food bouncing off his head. Then Danny started pelting the dog with the food, throwing it as hard as he could, and Wally still thought they were playing. The dog looked up with an expectant expression, his tongue sideways in his mouth, and now and then he snuffled down and ate a piece of the food Danny threw. I couldn't stand the disconnect: Danny hitting the dog with such pure pleasure, and the dog receiving it as the only kindness he was likely to uncover in his endless isolation. If Wally had cowered, or whined, I might have been able to endure it, but the image of the dog hoping he had a playmate, or had at last a companion of some sort, killed me.

I tapped on the window. Danny looked up. He appeared to feel the tiniest bit guilty at being caught throwing food at the dog, but when he saw it was only me, he lifted his hand and shot me the bird. Danny was seventeen, and had his own car, and he thought he was cooler and worldlier than any of the other kids in the neighborhood. When I shook my head telling him to stop, he double pumped the bird at me. Then he dumped the rest of the food on the ground next to Wally and walked back inside.

I watched Wally afterward. He kept staring at the back door where Danny had entered the house. His eyes didn't move and he didn't bend down to get the food scattered around him. Food is one thing, attention is another.

Father Jasper was an old man, a semiretired priest, when he wrote a book with the simple title
My Pack.
He put into it everything he had learned about dogs over his seventy-eight years. He published it himself and gave it away free until a New York publisher discovered it and reissued it under the same title. Within three months of its commercial publication, it became a runaway bestseller. During the wave of its success, Father Jasper refused invitations from the media; he did not go on the usual television shows to promote the book, despite repeated requests and soaring sales. He released a simple publicity statement saying that he found in a dog's love the merciful acceptance he hoped to receive from God and from his fellow inhabitants of earth. Few photographs of him made it onto the Internet, but when they appeared, he always had a dog by his side.

With the money he earned from the book, he bought a hundred-acre tract of land in Maine, set up a school, and began teaching other people what they could learn from their dogs. He called it the Maine Academy for Dogs. People pay to bring their dogs for training. They live in spartan dormitories, train with their dogs seven days a week, and get to know their pets in an entirely new way. Father Jasper and his staff take homeless dogs off the streets around the country and train them to become exceptional pets for families. They sell the trained dogs to families who want an extraordinary pet. Also, dog lovers donate to the Maine Academy for Dogs because they want to sponsor good dog citizens.