The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (18 page)

“So your day was bad, too?” Lisa asked, after she had recounted her fruitless trip to Lewisburg.

“My father called. He never calls. Seems my grandmother called him. And she never, never calls him. Lots of triangulation. They have some nasty, deep-seated mother–son issues.”

Lisa nodded, then replied, “Triangulation? About what? Unless it's none of my business. And that would be okay. I mean…you know. Friends.”

“Sure.”

And how do I answer this? Do I tell her what they've been talking about?

Stewart swallowed and began. “Lisa, my grandmother's friend—Edna—saw us together at the Frog Hut and called her and now she thinks we're in a serious relationship and actually called my father so he could ‘talk some sense into me.' And she wants me to move to Florida to take a job as a pool boy in her senior center. That sort of triangulation.”

I'm tired of hiding things.

“Oh.”

Lisa stared at her feet for a long moment as they walked in silence.

“That is a bad case of triangulation. I mean, not us being together—not that that's bad—but—oh, I don't know how to put it.”

Lisa did appear to be honestly flummoxed by Stewart's revelation.

“I know,” Stewart said. “It is confusing.”

Lisa stopped and placed her hand on Stewart's forearm—not the one with the leash, but the other one. Hubert noticed it, stopped and sat, and stared at them, rapt.

“Listen, Stewart, my mother…well, she sort of said the same thing. It's a long story.”

“Everyone's story is long and filled with all sorts of twists and turns.”

That was almost poetic. Where did that come from?

Lisa offered him a crooked, knowing smile—affectionate, intimate.

She brings it out in me. It's Lisa.

“They seem to be worried—I mean, our families—your grandmother and my mother—you know, are worried about us following in their footsteps. Or missteps, I guess. Neither of them—or none of them, I guess, would be more proper grammar—none of them had the best of marriages or relationships.”

Stewart nodded.

“But just because they had a bad experience, that doesn't mean we have to shut ourselves off from the world, does it?”

“No. It doesn't.”

“We're friends, aren't we, Stewart?”

Lisa's voice had gone a little trembly and a little pitchy, as if she were doing her best to keep it in an even tone.

“We are.”

“And we don't have to worry about what other people think, do we?”

“We don't.”

Lisa looked up at Stewart; her eyes glinted with a trace of a tear, but not a sad tear—a tear of awareness.

And then Stewart decided to take the lead, after Lisa had taken the lead in all the previous encounters of a close physical nature. He stepped closer and enveloped her in a tender embrace—not a hug, not fierce like that, but a gentle and kind embrace, enveloping. Just a protective embrace. An understanding embrace. No more than that. Lisa stiffened just a bit, then relaxed and embraced him back, there in the dark, far removed from any streetlight or prying neighbor or parent or the rest of the world.

And Hubert stood and danced about them whimpering with happy growls, tangling them both in his leash, tangling them so badly that they broke the embrace with laughter and smiles.

The next morning, after Stewart left for work, and after Lisa left, Hubert made his way to the door. He stood and placed his front paw on the shiny metal thing and pushed down. The metal thing yielded with a click and the door opened an inch. Hubert pushed his nose against the door and nudged it open. He sniffed. He carefully made his way down to the landing where the Lisa person lived. He sniffed again and smelled flowers. Then he listened for a long moment, listening for the person who lived below them all. That person carried a musty smell of sweat and some acrid scent Hubert recognized from a long time ago, a stale, fermented scent.

He did not like it, any of it.

But that scent made that person easy to locate, even from a great distance.

Hubert stood behind the door on the porch, still hidden. He sniffed again, deeply.

The other person was not here. He was sure of that. The scent was here, but not strong.

Hubert nudged the door open and hurried across the backyard, not looking left or right, not running, but trotting fast. He jumped over the log where he had stayed those first few nights. He sniffed. There had been no visitors. He did note the scent of squirrels and a possum, but those were common and near universal.

Hubert shook himself, snorted once, and set off at a fast walk.

He was headed to town. He was headed to the store.

That person Stewart said it was bad. And maybe he means it. Maybe I shouldn't do it. But that Stewart person has probably never been hungry. Not as hungry as I was. He doesn't understand. I don't want to be hungry again. That Stewart person would do the same if he were hungry.

Hubert trotted on, his eyes moving left and right, seeing everything, making sure that no one noticed him, staying hidden in the shadows as best he could.

And afterwards, with the bone in his mouth, he heard the shouts, the high-pitched squeals of someone, the footfalls of a human person giving chase, the panting of a human person who could not run fast nor long, a pursuer who never came close to catching him.

And in a few moments, in the time it took a fast dog to run several blocks, Hubert was home, the first door open and the second door open.

He buried the bone next to the three other bones he had stored under that flat, soft thing. The bones would be safe there.

The other bones have been there for many days and that Stewart person has not seen them. He is not a very good hunter. Or maybe he's just not hungry yet.

Hubert let his breathing come back to normal. He took a long drink of water, then circled on that flat, soft thing several times, lay down, and let the sun cover him in warmth and happiness.

T
HE
T
OPS
Market felt more crowded than the normal Wednesday. Everyone in the break room remarked on it.

“It's because of that stupid dog,” Troy said with an exasperated groan. “He's making me work harder than I want to work.”

Several of the cashiers agreed with him.

“Seems that everyone wants to come in to take a chance on seeing the dog bandit in action.”

Stewart thought it best if he entered into the discussion, making it clear to everyone that he had no knowledge of the dog's whereabouts—or, worse yet, whether someone in town was actually harboring a fugitive and choosing not to call the proper authorities.

“And now that he's stolen another bone today, we'll be even more crowded tomorrow. I think the
Gazette
is doing another article on it,” he offered.

A chorus of groans and mumbled objections were offered in reply.

“Somebody should tell that rag of a paper to lay off. We're tired of having to work harder. I mean, I didn't sign up for this.”

Stewart nodded enthusiastically.

I haven't really worked all that much harder. A little busier, but it's not like before a holiday or anything.

“Well, they better catch that stupid animal soon. Did you see that cop slip and fall chasing him? Makes you proud of the city's finest, don't it?”

“Come on now. That dog is fast. And the cop was wearing new shoes. They're slippery when they're new.”

A few eyes rolled in response to that.

The buzzer went off announcing the end of break. Stewart stood and stretched and made it look like he was overworked as well, even though he wasn't. He couldn't be sure, but he thought some of his fellow employees had been giving him the once-over as he spoke—as if he were withholding some information on the canine bandit.

Or maybe I'm just being paranoid.

That evening, Stewart tapped at Lisa's door.

“I bought two subs at the deli today. They're on sale. Have you eaten yet? Hubert wants you to come up and join us for dinner.”

Lisa smoothed back her hair as Stewart spoke, as if she had been napping on the couch when he knocked, which she had—but she didn't want him to know that.

“Uhh…sure. Can I bring anything?”

Stewart hesitated, not knowing what sort of answer might be expected.

Subs are dinner. What is she asking? Bring what?

“Maybe some soda—if you have it? I have chips.”

Lisa smoothed out her blouse as she hurried to her refrigerator.

“Two cans left. Diet okay?”

“Sure.”

They sat at Stewart's kitchen table with a sub wrapped in white deli paper in front of each of them.

“Maybe I could say grace?” Lisa asked with a tired smile. “Since you cooked and all.”

“Oh. Sure. That's fine. Grace. Sure.”

Lisa folded her hands together and bowed her head. Stewart did, too, but kept his eyes open. He wasn't all that certain what might be expected and he didn't want to be surprised, midgrace, as it were, by having to add something.

“Dear Lord, thanks for Your blessings. Thanks for friends. Thanks for this food. Bless it to our bodies, in Your name, Amen.”

That's it?

Stewart added an “Amen” as well, remembering how people on TV do it when someone prays.

Stewart unrolled his sub and began to tell Lisa of the semi-pandemonium Hubert had caused at Tops this morning.

“We all thought Mr. Arden was about to have a heart attack. He came screaming out of the back room like he was on fire when someone shouted ‘Dog bandit in aisle five!'”

Lisa put her hand over her mouth to laugh, obviously thinking that laughing with an open mouth filled with a partially chewed Italian sub was poor table manners.

“He and the policeman who was in the store for some totally other reason—and not there watching for Hubert—nearly crashed into each other. And then the cop slipped and fell over rounding the corner from the parking lot to Main Street. It was like a TV show.”

“I should be taking notes on this,” Lisa said between bites and laughter, “but it's too funny. I'll write it up later. And then you can jog my memory if I forget anything.”

“Sure.”

For the first time in months, perhaps years, Stewart felt at peace—not totally, not completely, but more at peace than he had felt since…well, since grade school.

And maybe even before that.

Lisa must have noticed that he had grown quiet. She smiled to fill the silence.

Hubert sat on the floor, midway between them, staring at each as they ate, obviously hoping that something would fall from the table to the floor, some small part of a sub, as it were, so Hubert might be able to taste the food that they were eating, which smelled delicious.

His head went back and forth, as if he were following a tennis match from the top row of a large stadium.

Then he stopped for a moment, and simply stared at Stewart, as if he were seeing him anew.

Stewart noticed his increased interest and stared back.

“Lisa, does Hubert look different to you?”

She shrugged and swallowed.

“I don't know. Hubert, look at me.”

Hubert reluctantly turned to her.

“How do you think he looks different? Good or bad different?” she asked.

Stewart's face scrunched up as he tried to put his feelings, his intuition, into the right words.

She's better at this than I am. She would know just the right words to use.

“I don't know exactly. But like he has a plan? Like he's figuring things out.”

“What sort of plan?” Lisa asked.

“I don't know. But he's looking at us differently. Different than when he first showed up.”

Lisa tilted her head, like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle, and pursed her lips.

“Maybe.”

“It's the way he looks at me, or you, or us, when we're together. That's what different.”

Lisa folded the paper that her sub came in, neatly, into a perfect square.

“Maybe his plan was to get us together. Dogs like to be part of a big group. I read that on the Internet. The more dogs, or people, the safer they feel.”

“Maybe that's it,” Stewart said. “He does seem happier when you're up here. Like he's been thinking of how to get you here, and now you're here, that makes him more content, happier. I see that in his eyes. I think so, anyhow.”

Lisa reached over and gave Hubert a palm-sized piece of yellow cheese.

Hubert loved cheese in any form. He ate it quickly and looked up at her with undisguised affection.

“Maybe that was his plan. It's working, if it was.”

Stewart crumpled up his sub paper into a small ball and tossed it toward the open wastebasket, coming within a few inches of making the shot. But he didn't, so he retrieved it and placed in the wastebasket.

“The garbage can isn't covered. Hubert doesn't pull things out of the trash?”

“No. Do dogs do that?” Stewart asked.

Hubert growled softly, and looked as if that would be the last thing he would ever consider doing.

“My grannie had her garbage can under virtual lock and key. She had a few garbage-loving dogs. But not Hubert?”

“Nope. Not once. He doesn't even sniff garbage cans when we pass them on our walk. I thought dogs did that sort of thing.”

Lisa shrugged. “Hubert has good manners.”

“And a plan,” Stewart added.

“And it's working, isn't it?” Lisa added. “It's a good plan, isn't it?”

This time she blushed, just a little, confirming the truth of the situation.

“It is. Thanks, Hubert.”

And Hubert growled happily in response.

When Lisa left Stewart's apartment that evening, she scratched Hubert's neck, making him growl/whimper in appreciation, and gave Stewart a short kiss on the cheek, again, and again. Stewart appeared nervous and jittery by her closeness.

Hubert glanced at her as she kissed Stewart, and it appeared to Lisa that the dog acknowledged her power over Stewart.

It's not power. He just gets all teenagery when I'm the least bit forward.

She returned to her apartment and switched on the light by the sofa, took her shoes off, and placed them in a rack of cubby holes for shoes she'd bought at the Target in Selinsgrove when she first moved in.

A place for everything, and everything in its place.

She liked Stewart's apartment, and while he was by far the neatest man she had encountered in some time, she liked the neatness and order in her apartment more. The coffee cups were lined up in two rows. The drinking glasses took three rows. Cereal boxes in her small pantry were lined up by height and/or thickness. The clothes in her one large closet were ordered as well: all darks on one side, all other colors to the other side, short tops in the middle, growing longer as you moved to the end of the closet rod.

How can you operate when things are messy?

She put on an old sweatshirt (bottom drawer) and a pair of track shorts—her standard bedtime attire. The outfit she had worn today went carefully into her laundry hamper, with the fabric bag forming the liner, so when she went to the Plenty O' Suds Laundromat all she had to do was grab the bag and head out.

You save a lot of time not having to pack a laundry bag.

She positioned her phone on her nightstand and plugged it into the recharging cord.

As she did, it danced and vibrated in her hand.

She did not recognize the number, but it was in the 412 area code—the original area code for Pittsburgh.

“Hello?”

“Well, if it isn't our star reporter. Hi, Lisa, this is Heather Orlando.”

It took a moment for the reality of that to sink in, and another moment until Lisa had found the wherewithal to answer the phone in a cogent manner.

“Ohh…sure. Hello.”

She didn't do a great job of assembling herself in a cool, collected manner.

“I have been following with great interest the ongoing saga of the bandit dog of Wellsboro. Seems like no one is any closer to catching him, are they?”

“No,” Lisa replied, getting her bearings now. She related the latest incident of thievery.

Heather was laughing as she told the tale.

“I've been following your stories, Lisa. They're good. Very good.”

Lisa wanted to demure and say that they were only puff pieces and they weren't that good and that the
Gazette
is an awfully small paper, but she held her tongue.

“Thank you,” she said instead.

I read that declining a compliment is like insulting the person who gave you the compliment—like they're not smart enough to see the real truth.

“I get the feeling that you don't think Bill Hoskins is telling the truth about the dog.”

“And you would be right.” Lisa hesitated for a moment, unsure how much to share. “This is between us, right? Off the record, as it were.”

Heather laughed again.

“Of course.”

“He's lying through his teeth.”

“I got that impression from your last article.”

“It wasn't that obvious, was it? I didn't mean it to be obvious.”

“No, no, not at all,” Heather replied.

Lisa thought she sounded more blonde and more pretty on the phone than most normal people.

“But after a while, Lisa, you get a sense about people. And you get a sense about good reporting. I'm just reading between the lines, that's all.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

“No, that's a compliment. And I've shared your work with a few people in the newsroom here—and with a few people I know over at the
Post-Gazette
.”

At a loss for words, Lisa felt her mouth hanging open in surprise.

“So when are you coming to Pittsburgh? There are people here you should meet. And who want to meet you.”