The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (16 page)

L
ISA STOPPED
just for a moment, just by the door to her apartment, and texted Stewart “Good morning,” then ran down the steps and into her car. She checked her phone again, this time for the time.

I'm almost late. If I get the green light at Maple, I'll be fine.

The Wired Rooster was too small to have a complicated and expensive time clock, so employees were on their honor, more or less, to start and stop at the correct, preapproved times. And Lisa took pride in being on time, in never slipping out a few minutes early, even though her shift manager did cut a few minutes off his workday all the time, brazenly and without any apparent regret.

She busied herself with her setup tasks for the morning, putting up two sheaths of paper cups, filling the appropriate slots with lids and sleeves, making sure the sugar and sweetener bins were full, filling the metal containers with milk and half-and-half—all the sort of things that most customers took for granted.

As she worked, a few sleepy customers wandered in, looking ruffled and a bit disoriented. Robert, her shift partner most mornings, was able to handle their simple orders without any help.

“Black coffee.”

“Coffee with cream.”

“Coffee with cream and sugar.”

As the morning progressed, customer orders became progressively more complicated, as in “a double decaf shot, no-fat, no whip, caramel, iced, two-story latte, with room for milk.”

Early is easy, later is complicated. Like life, I guess.

As she worked, she began to replay her conversation with her mother over and over in her mind. Lisa attempted to find a context for her mother's nearly overwhelming anxiety. Lisa was well aware that her mother had suffered in a cruel marriage for over a decade, leaving her husband, Lisa's father, when Lisa was only six. And as a young girl, Lisa was not fully aware of the pain a bad marriage, a bad partnership, created, and the long-term ripples of caution and heartache it caused.

Maybe she is right…that I should wait. I should make sure. I should have waited before—but I was sure we were in love. Love and sex. Sex and love. They're confusing.

She arranged the yellow packets of artificial sugar in the small metal bin.

Maybe I'm just hearing the ticking clock…but I have a long time for that. Maybe not as long as I think, but I have time. Another twenty years, right? Or is it fifteen, now? They say to be safe, all of those choices should be made by the mid-thirties. So that leaves at least ten years.

She took a spray bottle and began to clean the inside tables. It was still too chilly for anyone to sit outside in the morning. The afternoon shift could clean off the tables outside when it was warm enough to do so.

Most of my friends from school are married. Some with kids already. Some with two and three kids already. And here I am in Wellsboro, single and without a career.

She took a broom and swept the sidewalk outside, to get any stray leaves or paper that appeared overnight.

Am I sure he believes? That's what my mother keeps insisting on. “Make sure that the two of you are on the same page spiritually.” Mark and I weren't. Mark was a big mistake. I was so sure he was the one. He made everything sound so good—and he was a liar. We went too far. Too far and too fast.

She closed her eyes for a moment.

But that is water under the bridge, right? Time to move on. Time to hit the restart button.

She stopped sweeping and looked down Main Street. Traffic remained light. Wellsboro was a small town, after all, and traffic never became congested, not really.

My mother has been alone since I was six. She made one mistake and is still paying for it. I don't want that to happen to me. Maybe it's better to be safe. I don't want to be sorry. One scare was enough.

The e-mail was only two lines long, but Lisa was ecstatic.

“The last article was great. Keep it up—you'll be working in Pittsburgh in no time.”

The e-mail came from Heather Orlando.

In Pittsburgh.

The Heather who was on television.

On Pittsburgh television—on a real news show.

She must be getting the paper in the mail—or is reading it online. This is great. She knows who I am—and what I can do. Wow.

Customers at the Wired Rooster confirmed Miss Orlando's evaluation. Without a single dissenting opinion, Lisa had collected dozens of kudos after each article appeared.

“Makes the
Gazette
almost worth reading.”

“You're really funny. Why are you working here?”

Indeed. Why?

“Are you going to work for the paper full time? You should.”

Besides the congratulations, another group of customers acknowledged seeing the article, and they left it at that.

“Saw your thing in the paper.”

“I liked the picture of that dog. He's a cutie.”

“They hiring here?”

At least that's better than saying they hated it.

Lisa decided if she was going to be an actual reporter, she needed to do some real reporting.

The Hubert story is really cute. But I probably need to show more depth than just cute.

That afternoon she returned to her apartment, changed into more business appropriate attire, put fourteen dollars of gas in her car, and headed to Lewisburg, some seventy-five miles to the south.

She had called the number of the now shuttered dog rescue organization and heard an electronic voice announce that the phone number was no longer in service. The Web site was still operational, and from that she found the names of the two co-directors. She looked up their personal phone numbers, and addresses, but rather than call, she decided to investigate in person. She carried her notepad and pictures of Hubert, as well as one of Bargain Bill Hoskins.

She wanted to make sure his story was true—about Bargain Bill claiming he had adopted Hubert just before the shelter had closed its doors.

Sounds too convenient, if you ask me.

The drive took longer than expected.

Everything on these back roads takes longer than expected.

The first name and address she had was for an Emily Sillers on St. Paul Street.

The man at the gas station said, “You can't miss it. If you see the airport, you've gone too far.”

Lisa never saw the airport and parked in front of an untidy ranch house with a full lawn of uncut grass. The garage door was lined with rust stains and leaned a few inches askew. She got out and walked toward the front door.

A door creaked open from the house next door.

“You looking for the Sillers?”

“I am. I'm Lisa Goodly. With the
Wellsboro Gazette
.”

She said it firmly, as if that association gave her the right to come, unannounced, to a stranger's house and pepper her with questions.

“They ain't here no more. At least she ain't. The mister, I ain't sure of. But she moved a couple of months ago. Right after she closed that dog shelter of hers. I heard it was some sort of what-cha-call ‘marital discord.' I ain't saying that for sure, but that's what I been hearing. And he was never round much, anyhow. So now I got to cut their grass or else the neighborhood looks like it's going to hell in a hand basket, pardon my French.”

Lisa tried to remain professional and not appear crestfallen, even if she was.

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I wanted to ask her about the shelter.”

The voice came out from behind a storm door, the glass so cloudy that Lisa could not be sure exactly who or what she was talking to. She stepped a little closer. The voice belonged to a man, an older man, no doubt retired, from the casual looks of his mid-afternoon dress: baggy work khakis and a scooped-neck white T-shirt. Or at least a mostly white T-shirt. His white hair formed an incomplete halo around his ears and the back of his head. He took a half step outside, holding on to the doorknob.

He's got a kind face. Just dresses horribly.

“You might try that other lady. There wuz two of 'em. Two ladies who ran it. The shelter. I thought they were both sort of odd, you know what I mean?”

The pot-and-kettle cliché.

“Not in that sort of weird way. But taking care of strays and protesting at the mink farm out on Henderson and saying that eating a cheeseburger is wrong. That kind of weird, you know?”

“That would be Judy Kubista? Am I saying that name right?” Lisa asked as she flipped her notepad open.

“Beats me. I knew there wuz two ladies. She used to live over on Washington. You know, around the corner from Domino's Pizza. But I heard she moved.”

Lisa was striking out.

“Would you know where?”

The old man shook his head.

“Nope. I mean, she used to work over by Dor-Day's Sub Shop. I saw her in there a few times. Taking care of dogs and making subs don't appeal to me much. Maybe they know where you might find her.”

“Do you know the address?”

“Over on Market. You can't miss it. It's like downtown, sort of.”

Lisa scribbled down the name in her pad and closed it.

“Well, thank you so much for your help. Really appreciate it.”

The old man grinned widely. He was in need of some serious dental work as well.

“No problem. I had no idea that you Wellsboro people came all this way to sell your newspaper subscriptions. Long drive, if you ask me.”

Lisa was about to explain that she was not selling newspapers, but stopped herself and decided not to go there.

“Now, I ain't been getting newspapers here since Truman. Got no use for 'em. All a bunch of lies, you know. You seem nice enough, but I ain't got use for them newspaper people or them television people. You tell your editor that I ain't interested in subscribing. Okay?”

Lisa smiled at him, her best walking-backward-while-keeping-an-eye-on-someone smile. “I will be sure to tell him that. Thanks so much for your help, though. And have a good day.”

The old man nodded several times.

“You, too, young lady. You, too.”

Hubert was spread out on the rug in Stewart's living room, letting the afternoon sun warm his stomach.

He could not remember how long he had been cold and miserable. Dogs are not adept at recalling numbers or accurately judging the passage of time.

All Hubert knew was that he had been cold for a very, very long time, many, many days and nights—so cold that he, once or twice, had dipped into despair, all but certain that he was simply a dog, disposable and forgotten, and that he had no business thinking that someone, somewhere, was watching out for him and leading him and keeping him from undue suffering.

The cold can do that to your soul.

And now Hubert luxuriated in allowing the sun to beat down on his chest and stomach, making them warm—nearly hot, actually, and letting the heat sink deep into his being and his bones.

Then his eyes snapped open.

He scrambled to his feet and shook himself aware.

He knew what to do. Or at least, he knew what to try to do.

The thought simply appeared in his mind, and because of the sudden and total surprise, he knew. Sometimes dogs just knew. It was the way nature worked.

Hubert was pretty sure that while he was a smart dog, he was not skilled in formulating complicated plans.

I know enough to get by today. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

Hubert smiled a canine smile, to himself, happy that the idea was there. That he knew what to do next.

They need to be together. And I need to help. I need to do all that a good dog can do to make that happen. It is so simple.

He listened for the sound of footsteps outside the door. All was quiet.

They need to be together. I can try to do that. I can.

He took a deep breath.

I can try to get that Stewart and that Lisa person together. I can do that. I can try to do that.