The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (5 page)

H
UBERT THE
DOG
seemed to be fast asleep. Even Stewart's standing and walking back into the kitchen to fix yet another cup of coffee did not rouse him.

They probably don't sleep good outside. I wouldn't. I'd be nervous all night. There are animals out there and all that.

He pulled out his phone and checked the time.

She'll be home in ten minutes.

He watched the dog sleep.

I don't want her to know about this. Not yet. She'll want to write about it.

Instead, he waited at the window, watching for her car to show up. When it did he ran downstairs to meet her.

“Okay if we have coffee at your place? Mine's a mess and I didn't get a chance to clean it up.”

Lisa's face tightened.

“My place is a mess, too. You want to go out and get coffee or something?”

“This doesn't count as dinner, does it? You still owe me dinner. Remember?”

“I remember. And, no, this doesn't count. You want to walk? I'm almost out of gas, too, and I don't get paid until tomorrow.”

“Sure. And I'll treat for coffee—or whatever. I got paid yesterday.”

They walked back toward downtown.

“You want to go to Café 1905?” Stewart asked. “I would have said the Rooster, but since you work there, I don't think you want to go right back.”

“The Café is fine. I like it there. I don't think many places like that still exist—being in a department store and all that.”

“Good. I eat there sometimes. I'm not much of a cook.”

Lisa turned to him and grinned.

“Neither am I. My mother told me to take home economics in high school and she seemed so disappointed to learn that they don't even offer home ec anymore at my high school.”

“Home economics? What's that? I've never heard of it,” Stewart replied.

“Way back, like in the olden days, I guess,” Lisa explained, “girls used to take home economics. Guys did, too, I think. Sometimes. A few of them, anyhow. I guess they learned how to cook and sew and stuff like that. How to follow a recipe.”

“In school? Really? They taught cool stuff like that?”

“I guess,” Lisa said. “I sort of wished they still did.”

“Me, too. That would be awesome. You know, to, like know how to cook things.”

They sat down with coffees and Stewart ordered a cheesesteak sandwich.

“We'll split it, okay? I'm sort of hungry for lunch food,” he said. “But not real, real hungry.”

“Me, too. That sounds good.”

“You can cut it, okay?”

Lisa handled the knife, deftly cutting the sandwich in two, and slid Stewart's slightly larger piece toward him.

“So you're pretty sure Mr. Arden would talk to me?”

“I guess. Some people say he's an all right sort of guy. But he yells a lot. And he always looks mad. Maybe you have to be that way to manage a supermarket.”

As they ate their split Philly cheesesteak sandwich and talked and drank their coffees, neither of them noticed Bargain Bill Hoskins making his way down Main Street, holding a packet of flyers under his arm and a staple gun in the opposite hand, stopping at nearly every wooden pole, tacking his poster just above, or just below, or over the previous
WANTED
poster, smiling with every thwack of the staple gun.

That evening, just a few minutes past nine o'clock, Stewart's phone rang, scaring both him and Hubert, who had remained sleeping upon Stewart's return. The dog looked up, eyes wide and alert, but he did not rise.

No one calls me at night. Maybe it's Lisa.…

He looked at the caller ID.

It was a familiar number. From Florida.

“Hi, Grams,” he answered. His grandmother always called after nine. “That's when the rates are cheaper, Stewart. I have to be careful with my pennies, you know.”

Stewart would have argued, claiming that there is no longer a discount for off-hours calls, but he wasn't positive that there wasn't anymore. So he did not argue with her supposition.

“Stewart, how are you?” she asked. She did not sound pleased. But then again, Stewart thought, she seldom sounded pleased.

Some people are just that way, I guess.

“I'm fine, Grams. Things up here are fine.”

Stewart's grandmother had sold her home, the only home Stewart had known, while Stewart was a junior at Penn State. The breakup of all that was familiar to Stewart had been disastrous, like four cars crashing into each other at highway speeds—Stewart, his mother, his father, and his father's mother, Stewart's grandmother.

No one escaped without injury. And some injuries remained unhealed, untended for years and years, the scabs turning into tender scars, the pain hidden by silence, civility, and forced smiles.

“Have you heard from your father?”

Why don't you just call him, Grams? He's got a telephone. He's your son, you know.

“Not recently. He's still in Coudersport. I guess he's still working for the county. I haven't heard otherwise.”

Stewart's grandmother did not speak, and Stewart grew uncomfortable in the silence.

“So, Grams, how are you?”

I think she needs me to ask.

“I'm fine, Stewart. If you called me more often, you would know these things.”

“I know. I keep forgetting.”

Silence.

“So, how's sunny Florida? I think we finally have spring up here. Winter was hard, that's for sure.”

“It's hot and humid here. Like it always is, Stewart. They give the weather for Florida on the Weather Channel.”

“I know. I guess I don't watch much television.”

“So…” she said, waiting, and Stewart held his tongue, not sure what she wanted him to say. “What about this dog business? That store that the newspaper mentioned—that is the one you work at, right? The Tops Market on Main Street.”

How does she know about the dog?

“Yes. It is. And how do you know about the dog?”

“Stewart,” she said, and then sighed loudly. “I may be old, but I don't live in the Dark Ages. There is a computer in the community room downstairs that is attached to that Internet thing. Sometimes, if no one else is hogging it, I read the news from Wellsboro. The
Gazette
is online—isn't that what they call it? I can't afford that sort of computer and all those fancy setups and wireless thingamabobs, you know.”

“Oh. Okay. So you know that a dog has been stealing rawhide bones from the store. Mr. Arden is really upset. Put up posters all over town asking for help in catching it. Offering a reward, I guess.”

Stewart's grandmother sniffed, as if an unpleasant smell had come across the phone wires.

“So, then, you're still working there. At a grocery store.”

“I am, Grams. I'm looking all the time for something better.”

Maybe she'll change the subject.

“Thebold's grandmother said he just got a new position with something called Goldman Sachs. What is that, Stewart? She said he has to move to New York City. I wouldn't do that for all the tea in China, but she said they are paying for his moving expenses. And a big salary, she said. What does that company do?”

“Stocks and securities, I think. Investing. Banking.”

Stewart's grandmother sighed again.

“Maybe you could call him. You went to grade school together. Maybe he could get you a job there.”

This time Stewart sighed, but very quietly. They were walking on familiar ground.

“Maybe, Grams. But I haven't seen him in, like, twenty years. And I didn't study finance.”

“Please do not use ‘like' in your sentences. Respect my years of teaching high school English.”

“I know. I know. It just slipped.”

“So what about this dog? Did they catch him yet? Do they think it has rabies?”

“Grams, I am pretty sure it doesn't.”

At this point in the conversation, Hubert groaned quietly and stood up, shook himself, then sat back down and stared at Stewart as he spoke.

“Well, it would be best if you kept your distance, that's all. And who is this Lisa Goodly person? The name sounds familiar. Was she a student of mine?”

“No, she wasn't. She grew up in Johnstown. I think you met her during your last visit. She works at the coffee shop.”

“That little twig of a girl? She wrote that? I'm surprised. It was actually well written.”

Stewart decided to be proactive.

“And she goes to church, too.”

A moment of silence followed.

“And how do you know that?”

“Grams, she lives downstairs—on the second floor. She saw that Bible calendar you sent me. She said she goes to church.”

“Which one? Not every church is the right church, Stewart.”

“I don't know. I didn't ask.”

Stewart heard a sharp inhale.

“And what was she doing in your apartment, Stewart? Honestly? What would people say? What would Jesus say?”

“Grams, please. She came up to interview me about the dog, that's all. In the afternoon. She saw the calendar as she left.”

Stewart could imagine his grandmother closing her eyes and rubbing the bridge of her nose—a gesture she always made when peeved, which was often.

“Stewart, I do not like this at all. Not at all. Perhaps you should rethink your decision about moving down here. The complex here is looking for a full-time pool attendant. You could do that, couldn't you, Stewart? And it would keep you out of trouble.”

Hubert turned his head to the side as if hearing a high-pitched whine coming from somewhere.

“Move to a retirement village?”

“It's a senior housing complex.”

“Grams, we already discussed this.”

He hoped he sounded firm and final.

“Maybe you should try going to church as well, Stewart. For a change. I'm praying for someone to come into your life and change your priorities, Stewart. You need to repent. And be restored. That's what the Bible says, Stewart. You don't want God to be mad at you, do you? You're not doing things to make God mad at you, are you, Stewart?”

Later, Stewart would be unable to recall anything else his grandmother said that evening. He was pretty certain that it was nothing important. And making it harder to recall was the fact that Hubert came over to him and pushed his wet nose against him, trying to get his head under his arm, trying to offer comfort, Stewart thought, during a most uncomfortable time.

A
PPARENTLY
H
UBERT
slept on the living room floor all night. There was no whining or barking. When Stewart woke, already ten minutes late, Hubert was standing, calmly, by the door to downstairs.

“Just a minute, Hubert. I have to take a quick shower and change.”

Stewart prided himself on being low maintenance and could be ready for work, showered, shaved, dressed, in less than ten minutes. This morning, he accomplished it all in seven minutes. He would have to walk fast, but that was okay.

He stopped for a moment, trying to decide what to do with Hubert. He knew that dogs had to go outside—like every couple of hours?

And being already late, Stewart did not have time to wait for Hubert to accomplish anything and everything that he needed to accomplish in the morning. Nor did Stewart have any food to offer him.

I could cut up some hot dogs, but then what would I eat?

Hubert looked up at him with a knowing look, or at least that was how Stewart interpreted it.

“If I let you out this morning, will you stick around until I get back? I'll bring dog food back with me.”

I bet the store has a private label brand of dog food. Or maybe something is on sale this week. I don't often walk down that aisle.

He would have sworn that Hubert nodded as he explained his predicament.

“Okay. You promise to come back? Or hang around here—wherever it was that you hung around before. I'll be back in six hours. Maybe a little longer. Maybe I'll stop in and see Lisa at the coffee shop. But you'll be here, right?”

Hubert grinned up at him. Then the dog stood up and waited, his nose at the door.

“Okay. Let's go. But let's be quiet, okay? I don't want anyone to know you're here. Okay?”

Stewart would have sworn that the dog did indeed traverse the steps with care. Stewart didn't know how dogs normally walked, but going down the stairs, Hubert seemed to place each paw very deliberately and squarely on the carpet runner, and not on the exposed wood.

When they got to the first-floor door, Stewart looked out, peering in both directions. His landlord, who lived on the first floor, was not an early riser. Perhaps the rents were enough to allow him not to work. Stewart never saw him going out at any regular times. He did drive a pickup truck, more battered than new, always more dirty than clean, so perhaps he did odd jobs around town.

But this morning the pickup truck remained in its usual place beside the rickety garage, which held a plethora of bins and bags and odd pieces of lumber and plywood and cans, but never a vehicle. He saw no one in the yard.

Stewart bent down and looked Hubert in the eyes. The dog seemed to smile in response.

“I'll be back this afternoon. Stay out of sight, okay? I don't know what else to do—so I am going to trust you. Okay? Got it?”

Hubert moved his head and shoved his cold nose against Stewart's cheek, as if planting a canine kiss, or a peck on the cheek, actually, in an attempt to communicate his acceptance of the day's regulations.

“See you this afternoon,” Stewart whispered loudly, and Hubert did not hesitate, but trotted off into the underbrush that was the backyard and, within a few heartbeats, was gone.

He'd better be back. He'd better.

Lisa rose a few minutes after Stewart did. She sipped at her coffee and thought she heard voices.

He never watches TV in the morning.

She went to her front door and pressed her ear against it.

I do hear someone talking. Stewart? Maybe.

Then she scolded herself for being a snoop.

I don't want to be Mrs. Kravitz—that's for sure.

She straightened up.

That's her name, right? Mrs. Kravitz. On that old TV show. On that TV channel that just shows reruns—which is the only thing to watch if you're not into the news, sports, or hunting shows.

Lisa screwed up her face, attempting to recall that specific show—a show she had not grown up with but had seen in re-re-re-runs.

Bewitched.
Right? With Elizabeth Montgomery. That's the one. And they had two different Darrins. Like we wouldn't notice the difference.

She sat down and looked at the front page of the
Wellsboro Gazette
for perhaps the hundredth time.

Bewitched.
I love that show.

She smoothed out the crease in the paper.

And this is just so great. And I owe it all to Stewart.

She finished her coffee.

I wonder if there is anything I could cook for him that is easy and cheap. Maybe I should call Mom for some advice.

She put her coffee cup in the sink.

Or maybe not. I don't want a lecture—and that's what I would get. On cooking, if not life in general. Not that I blame her, really.

Bargain Bill—who for some time now had been thinking of himself, when he thought of himself, as “Bargain Bill,” and not just “Bill”—came early into work. The used-car business, he often said, is unpredictable.

“Except no one comes in early. That I can predict. Nobody buys used cars before noon.”

But today he hoped that someone might have called him about the dog and left a message on his answering machine. He knew he should replace his ancient answering machine with something more hip, more electronic, more digital. Was that what they were? Digital? Bargain Bill didn't know for sure.

“But this old one still works. I'll keep it until it breaks. It runs fine—like a good used car.”

He opened the door with great expectations, but saw no blinking red light that would have indicated a message. He stabbed at the replay button anyway, and even then no message was forthcoming.

“Maybe it's better this way. The longer the dog stays loose, the more publicity I get. And the editor over at the
Gazette
did say that if the dog isn't in jail by Monday, he'll send a reporter over to talk with me.”

Bargain Bill eased himself into his executive-style leather chair that groaned every time he sat down, or moved.

“I should probably come up with a good story of why this is my dog and how he got away and why I'm so heartbroken.”

He looked out the window to his lot filled with cars under a canopy of red, white, and blue pennants, the spring breeze making the pennants flutter and crinkle like synthetic leaves on a plastic tree.

“And I'll have to tell the little woman to back me up on this. She can't go off on her own—like she normally does. No, this story has to sound convincing.”

With that, he took a pen that had
Bargain Bill's Dynamite Used Cars
imprinted on the barrel and began to doodle, trying to think up a story that would make sense.

At nine fifteen the canine bandit struck again.

Stewart knew it was exactly nine fifteen because he had just completed his first break of the day and managed to down his first cup of coffee for the day from the communal coffeepot in the break room. It was hazelnut flavored, which Stewart hated, but it was free coffee, after all.

That pleasant spring morning, the dog now named Hubert sauntered into the store, as he had done before, not slowing or stopping or hesitating at any one spot. As Hubert passed by Stewart, he grinned up at him, but did not slow. He quickly turned the corner to aisle five and hurried down to the display of rawhide bones, grabbed one, and was on his way out before anyone, with the exception of Stewart, had noticed his appearance.

This time it was Lucinda, a cashier on register three whom Stewart had never yet seen without chewing gum in her mouth, who sounded the alarm.

“Hey! Stewie! Call Mr. Arden! That dog swiped another bone. Or is swiping another bone. Present perfect tense.”

Lucinda was attending college online.

At that moment, Hubert looked back over his shoulder and locked eyes with Stewart. Hubert managed to grin, despite clenching a rawhide bone in his mouth. He had to wait, for just a second or two, until someone stepped on the “in” door opener—and then he charged out.

Mr. Arden thumped down the steps, shouting, “Stewart! Go after him. Now!”

Stewart shrugged, put Mrs. Weaver's tin of kipper snacks back on the belt, and headed outside at a trot.

“You better get him this time!” shouted Mr. Arden as the doors slowly whooshed shut behind Stewart. He saw the tail end of Hubert heading around the corner on Main Street, heading back to where he lived.

What if someone tails him and connects him with me?

By the time Stewart made it to Main Street, the dog had vanished.

Stewart's steps slowed, then stopped.

“That is one fast dog.”

A pedestrian down the street waved to Stewart.

“He went that way,” the man called out and pointed to the east, to Maple Avenue.

Stewart mentally shrugged to himself and set off at a trot.

I have to make it look like I'm chasing him, don't I? I don't want to raise any suspicions or anything.

By the time he made it to the corner of Main and Maple, there was no trace of any canine.

The man who'd signaled to Stewart, Mr. Ralph Dickers, commiserated with him.

“That pup can sure run, Stewie. I say that if a dog don't want to get caught, you ain't catching him. I think I said that before, but if I didn't, I plumb sure should have. That was one fast pup, if you ask me. How many times has he gotten away with it? A bunch, I bet. That dog is one slick operator, for sure. Reminds me of a dog I had when I was a kid. I think I was five. Or maybe I was eleven. That's when we lived in Coudersport. I think I was eleven. Maybe the dog was eleven. It was a big dog. Brown. Or black.”

Stewart knew it would be better if he didn't engage Mr. Dickers in conversation, or else the two of them would be there for the better part of an hour. Mr. Dickers was well known in town for carrying on long-winded monologues with a surplus of uncertain details, often with just himself as an audience.

“Gotta get back. Thanks, Mr. Dickers. 'Preciate it.”

Stewart left him still talking about the dog, or his dog, or both, and hurried back to the store. He didn't feel that he had the time to stop by the Rooster and let Lisa know about the most recent burglary. He would catch up with her this evening.

Mr. Arden had composed himself by the time Stewart returned. Standing beside him was a uniformed officer from the town's police department.

“You didn't catch him, did you?”

Stewart shook his head no.

“See,” Mr. Arden said, “that's why we need an armed police officer on site. The dog has stolen seven rawhide bones so far.”

From Stewart's vantage point he could see the officer roll his eyes, just a little. The sun glinted off the revolver he had in his holster, resting casually against his hip. The gun had a lot of area on which to rest.

“Mr. Arden, I know it must be an inconvenience, but we simply don't have the manpower to spend on a stakeout waiting for a dog.”