The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (26 page)

“And you have money?” she asked.

“No. I don't. That's what makes it so bizarre.”

Neither of them had paid much attention to where they were walking. Across the street was the Wellsboro Park, almost in the center of town. In the center of the park lay a sculpture inside a large fountain. Without needing to ask, they both walked toward the sound of the water. A ring of benches surrounded the fountain. A few other people were in the park that evening, but if asked later, Stewart would not have been able to tell you if there was one or a hundred.

From off in the distance, a few blocks over, perhaps, came the sound of music. It was a live band doing “All the Hits of the 60s, 70s, and 80s.” It was like listening to a car radio three or four cars over. It provided a pleasant background, and you could talk over it.

Stewart waved his arm, indicating that Lisa should take her pick of the benches. She chose the one farthest from the other people, the one bench that was more in the nighttime shadows than the others.

She sat and Stewart sat and she sidled up closer to him—not in a pushy way, he thought, not in an aggressive way at all, but out of a desire to be close. He put his arm around her shoulder and she leaned her head against him. She reached out and took his other hand in hers and they sat in silence for a long time, for at least one full set of whatever the band was playing: three Beatles tunes, one from the Jefferson Airplane, the Young Rascals, and two by Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Stewart knew them all.

“I listen to the oldies station a lot. I like that better than the music on the Top Forty.”

Lisa voiced her approval and nestled closer to him.

“I like the older stuff, too,” she said. “Simpler times.”

From the distance an owl called out.

“Barn owl?”

“Screech owl,” Stewart said. “I was sort of a nerd back in high school. I watched birds a lot.”

Lisa squeezed his hand.

“Maybe you can teach me about them.”

“I'd like that.”

They sat for a very long time that evening, just being together, just listening to the sounds of the water and the lonely sounds of an owl patrolling the night skies.

D
AY SIX
of Hubert's incarceration was noted by more people than just Stewart and Lisa.

Heather Orlando arrived in town, her news crew in tow, and interviewed all the constituents again—from Bargain Bill, who almost broke down on camera, to Mr. Arden, who almost went apoplectic on camera, claiming that the “bandit dog” was being coddled in a luxury cell, being walked three times a day and being fed “on the backs of the poor taxpayers of this town.”

Bargain Bill ran into the house nearly breathless. “I'm going to be on TV again.”

His wife looked up from her word search book with a puzzled expression.

“For what? You didn't win the lottery, did you?”

“I don't play the lottery. For the dog. My poor, lost, jailed dog. Heather Orlando from Pittsburgh came back to town and interviewed me about my lost pooch.”

His wife carefully put her pencil in the book, closed it, making sure that the pencil would stay where she put it, and looked up at her husband, now with a pained expression.

“Bill, he's not your dog.”

“Shhh,” Bargain Bill replied. “You said you would go along with this. You promised. And business has been fantastic. I sold four cars yesterday. Four. On a Wednesday. In the middle of the month. That has never, ever happened before.”

His wife raised her eyebrows, a skeptic's response.

“Listen, if I can sell four cars on a Wednesday, then that dog is mine forever.”

She sighed, deeply, theatrically.

“Well, that's nice.”

Mayor Joe Witt saw the TV News van pull up outside his office and he groaned, reaching for the bottle of antacid tablets he had in the top drawer. After popping just two tablets, he grabbed a small mirror from the second drawer and gave his appearance a quick review.

The tie is okay. I wish it were a brighter color—like red, or even yellow. They say bright colors increase confidence in people. I saw that in a recent
Insurance Monthly
.

He grabbed his sport coat and quickly put it on, even though his tie clashed a little, according to his wife.

He ran his palm over his thinning hair, making sure there were no errant flyaway strands that the camera would catch.

He took a few deep breaths, hoping that he could sound polished and adept in front of the camera. Then he stepped away from his desk and nearly tripped over the chair leg, catching himself at the last moment, and hearing the disturbing sound of fabric ripping in protest, and immediately feeling a new sense of ventilation toward his backside.

Heavens to Betsy,
he thought.
Now I'll have to keep my back to the wall.

And it was at that moment that Heather Orlando and crew entered his insurance office, almost overwhelming his easily overwhelmed assistant with bright lights and brighter smiles.

The first question: “So tell me, Mr. Mayor, exactly what is a ‘special council order of enforcement'?”

And at that moment, Mayor Witt wished he had taken three antacids, instead of just his normal two.

Kevin Connelly and John Stricklin sat at “their” table in the Wired Rooster, speaking in hushed tones. Both of them, independently, had seen the Action News van as it made its way through Wellsboro and they both knew, with a bit of a sinking feeling, just what it was there for.

“They have to be here about the dog and the ‘special council order of enforcement,'” John said, his tone nervous and anxious.

“I think so, too,” Kevin whispered back. “I never thought it would get this far.”

“What are we going to do? It's not a law. You made the whole ‘special order' up.”

Kevin winced at the thought.

“I know. But we all voted yes on it, so none of us are off the hook.”

“Blisters and toes, this stuff doesn't happen in Wellsboro.”

“I know,” Kevin replied, sipping on his second latte of the morning.

They sat in morose silence for a while—at least a half latte's worth of quiet.

“Well, what's the worst that can happen?” John asked.

“They could fire us,” Kevin replied, then laughed. “Or hold a special recall, I guess. Hard to fire a council member. But to tell you the truth, that wouldn't be so bad, would it?”

John nodded. “No. It really wouldn't be.”

“But they won't.”

“I know. They'll keep us on and make us suffer, won't they?”

“Yep,” Kevin agreed, and drained the last of his latte, the lid of the cup making slurpy, siphoning noises as he did.

“So, Stewart, you have made my return to Pennsylvania an absolute impossibility, do you know that?”

Stewart sat in his living room and, with her every word, he slumped a little closer to being totally horizontal.

“What?”

“You heard me, Stewart. You were harboring a criminal. People who do that go to hell, Stewart.”

“Grams, it's a dog, for Pete's sake. He's not a criminal.”

“You watch your language, mister. You know what happens to people who swear and curse, don't you?”

They no longer have to talk to their grandmothers?

“Sorry. But Hubert is just a dog. He's not a criminal.”

He heard his grandmother sigh, loudly, a loud, deflating sigh of absolute resignation.

“I can't ever show my face anywhere near Wellsboro again. Not even in Lewisburg. You have made my return impossible. People would point and snicker and gossip and laugh. That is what would happen, Stewart.”

He sat up in the chair. He scowled, then let his expression go back to normal.

“Were you planning to come back, Grams? You said when you left you never wanted to see this place again. So when were you planning on coming back? Soon? This summer?”

Stewart's grandmother did not answer. There was only silence.

“Grams, I have to go to work now. Sorry the pool position didn't work out. But I really don't like the water all that much, anyway.”

And as Stewart clicked off the call, he suddenly felt better than he had felt in a long, long time.

Heather Orlando swept into the Wired Rooster like a small celebrity hurricane.

“Lisa,” she called out as she entered, camera crew trailing her. At first every customer and every employee stared at Ms. Orlando and her bright pink suit and toothy smile, but when she uttered Lisa's name, everyone pivoted, almost in unison, to stare at Lisa.

“Your last story was perfect, Lisa,” Ms. Orlando gushed. “Absolutely perfect. It was funny and sad and it almost made me cry: the poor dog, locked away in a dark cell—for the sin of being a dog.”

Lisa hoped she wasn't blushing, but she could feel the heat in her cheeks.

To get this sort of endorsement from a celebrity newsperson—wow.

“You're why we came back up here today to do a follow-up story. My producers have been bugging me to get the latest scoop on what's happening. You have a minute to sit and chat?”

Lisa's manager of the day shrugged and waved her off.

“Go, Lisa,” he said in a whisper. “She's drawing a crowd and it's midafternoon. That never happens. So go and talk. And mention the Wired Rooster a couple of times if you can.”

With Heather seated across from her, a bright light shining on her, and camera lenses seemingly inches from her face, Lisa tried to recap the last story she'd written for the
Gazette
,
written in Stewart's apartment, as he sat across the kitchen table, smiling at her. It had been hard to make it sad and emotional when she'd felt happy and emotional instead.

In the story, she admitted her involvement in the situation, and that she'd participated in aiding and abetting the nefarious canine criminal—but she insisted she did so out of love for the sweet animal, who had no doubt suffered abuse and deprivation before he arrived in Wellsboro and found safety and solace with Stewart Coolidge.

Even Dave Grback, the crustiest of crusty, curmudgeonly editors, said he had admired her balance between pathos and “well…not pathos.”