Christmas with Tucker (9 page)

Listening hard, I was hoping for some sign. And then I remembered
something he said to me many times before he died. He said that I should take the best parts from the men I admired the most in the world, add them all together, and then try to be that person. One thing I admired about both my dad and my grandfather was that when things went poorly, they always got back at it and tried again. They were both men who valued perseverance.

I realized that if he could talk to me today, that is what he would tell me. I could hear his voice in my ears just as if he were standing there on the bank of the creek. And if I tried hard, I could feel his touch on my shoulder, too.

No matter how bad the roads, George, we just climb back up on the maintainer and try to clear the way. That’s all we can do
.

So, right there, I gathered my resolve, stood up, wiped the tears from my face, and made a resolution not to give up.

As I brushed the snow from my jeans, something moved at the top of the hill where we collect wild Easter lilies in the spring. I thought it was a deer, until I heard a bark and saw a dog running full speed after a rabbit. It was that big red Irish setter coming to join me.

Before long, Tucker’s efforts were rewarded. A rabbit dangled from his jaws. He looked very proud and perhaps he sensed my sorrow, for he suddenly dropped his prize at my feet.

Some people might think it was an unimportant gift, but I knew that for Tucker, there was no greater offering. I had gotten my first and perhaps only Christmas present that year. He was trying to give me the most valuable thing that existed in his world. He was trying to make sure I stayed alive when doing so might mean he would go hungry.

I leaned over to scratch him behind his soft, floppy ears. “Thank you, Tucker. Thank you for being my friend.”

It was time to go home, so I dragged the tree back across the creek. It was probably too big of a tree, particularly to haul a half mile back up to the house. But if Grandma was right and a tree was going to fix my Christmas, it was going to have to be a big one.

After I crossed the creek, I looked for my grandmother, thinking she might still be out walking, but she was gone. I could see her tracks leading back to the house. Seeing her solitary footprints, I sensed her own brand of sadness and was reminded of something my mother told me before she left. She said I mustn’t ever forget that however hard it was for me to lose a father, and for her to lose a husband, it was just as hard for Grandma Cora and Grandpa Bo to lose their only child.

That night Grandma Cora put little bits of Tucker’s rabbit in with the pot roast, and we offered him a plate of his own as our thanks for his sharing, and as a treat for his last dinner with us. After a brief discussion, with all of us trying hard to keep our emotions in check—even Grandpa—we’d decided that it was only right that Tucker should go back to his owner. After dinner, I think each of us said our private goodbyes to Tucker. All I could do was sit with him on the living-room floor, stroking his red coat and feeling the warmth of his body. I had no words for how I felt.

It was very cold and dark by the time Frank Thorne pulled into the driveway.

FRANK THORNE
was in his mid-forties, thin, and had a blond handlebar mustache that went well with his cowboy boots and hat. He smiled shyly as he stood at the back door, gingerly stepping into our warm house. Tucker looked at Thorne and wagged his tail, but he stayed at my side.

When my grandfather extended his arm to shake hands, Thorne had to pull his hands from his pockets. His fingers were stained with black grease. “Welcome home, Frank.”

“It feels good to be back.”

“Do you have any work laid out yet?”

“No. Not yet.” He remembered that his hat was on and he hurriedly removed it. “Hopefully, I’ll have something soon.”

“Well, I might need some help on the maintainer, if this weather keeps up. You interested?”

Thorne paused. “I think I should have something come through any day now, but thanks for asking.” He looked at me and continued, “George, I understand you’ve taken care of my dog for me.”

“Yes, sir. I have.”

“Well, thanks.” He looked at Tucker, who was still waiting patiently at my side. “Come here, boy.” Tucker wagged his tail and approached Thorne, but not before I gave him one final pat on his silky head. Thorne knelt down and petted the dog. “Good to see you, Red.”

I could feel Tucker slipping away from me and I’m sure I sounded pretty desperate. “Mr. Thorne, I was wondering if you might sell me your dog?”

He looked at me dumbfounded. “Sorry, son, but I’m not looking to get rid of him.” He slipped a chain around Tucker’s neck. “Looks like you two have become pretty good friends, so you can come up and play with him anytime you want.”

For the first time in my life, I wanted to rip the limbs straight off another human being. My face turned red as a pie apple. Grandma put her hand on my shoulder. “Well, thank you, Frank. I’m sure George would enjoy that. You take good care of yourself.”

It was just more than I could stand, watching Thorne head out the back door with Tucker. My grandparents and I were silent as we listened to Thorne’s truck pull out of our driveway. Suddenly, afraid I was going to say or do something I would regret later, I stormed out the back door. Once again, I had an overwhelming urge to run away from all this, but I had no destination. I simply stood in the dark, snowy yard, burning with anger despite the cold. I did my best to collect myself, for the sake of my grandparents, and after a while I went back inside. I still felt powerless and confused.

The next morning, when the bus drove by Thorne’s house, I sunk down into my heavy winter jacket so Mary Ann wouldn’t see the upset in my eyes. Tucker was tied up, resting beside Thorne’s old brown truck, on a snowless patch of ground. I
wanted to jump off the bus and take him, bring him
home
, but I knew that was impossible.

No matter how bad the roads, George, we just climb back up on the maintainer and try to clear the way. That’s all we can do
. I was trying to climb back up, but I just kept slipping. The path ahead was growing harder to follow.

THAT AFTERNOON
, I got off the bus at Thorne’s house to visit Tucker. The brown truck was gone, but Tucker was in his usual spot outside, tied to the post. After knocking on the door and getting no answer, I sat on the ground by Tucker. Wanting him to know that I had not abandoned him, I held him in my arms for a few moments, wondering how to best negotiate with Thorne. Finding Tucker a good home was proving just as hard as finding the right one for me.

Thorne’s house was a mess—the paint peeled down to exposed wood, tires and car parts in the yard, and lumber strewn all about. The place looked scary to me and unsuitable for Tucker.

Armed with paper and a pencil from my book bag, I wrote a note to Thorne, opening with a little bit of salesmanship.

I stopped short of telling him that Tucker deserved a better life.

After searching for a place to leave the note, I decided to tuck it between the old, ripped screen door and the wooden front door, with its dirty glass window. As I opened the screen door, I could not help trying to look inside. As I pushed my nose against the windowpane, the front door swung open—it was unlocked. Thorne correctly surmised that there wasn’t much worth stealing. Standing on the threshold, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light, I looked around.

It was as I suspected: chaos. The house appeared to be one big room with a bathroom and a bedroom at the back. There was a table covered with beer cans, newspapers, and bottles. On one wall, there were some photographs I could barely make out. One looked somehow familiar, but it seemed so out of place that it made no sense.

Before walking in to investigate further, I called out, “Mr. Thorne?” No answer. Wanting a better look at that photo, I took a chance and stepped inside. Trying to avoid piles of dirty clothes, broken car parts, and half-eaten bags of potato chips, I walked closer to the wall of photos.

I peered closely at the photo. It was a picture of my dad as a young man with his arm looped around Frank Thorne’s shoulder. It looked like they were working on some old car, covered in
grease, with broad smiles across their faces. Not understanding why my dad would want to be friends with Frank Thorne, I hurried out the door and pulled it shut, with my note stuck in the doorjamb.

Although it nearly killed me to do it, I turned my back on poor Tucker and walked home. I couldn’t bear to say goodbye. He barked frantically and I felt awful for betraying that poor dog. I had no idea what to do or how to make things right.

During dinner, it was easy to avoid discussing what had happened with Tucker that day, as none of us seemed to want to raise the subject of the latest missing member of our household.

THE NEXT MORNING
I woke to the sound of the back door quietly shutting. I reached out for Tucker, but of course, he was not there. I heard my grandfather’s work boots as he stepped slowly across the kitchen floor and pulled a chair away from the kitchen table. There was no “snow day” announcement, as there had been for much of the last week.

Why was my grandfather sitting alone in the kitchen with the lights off at this hour?

Huddling under the covers, knowing that something was wrong, I noticed an eerie yellow glow coming up through the floor grate. I could hear Grandma in the kitchen now, but still, they were uncharacteristically quiet. Worried and curious, I got out of bed, but when I tried to turn on the lights—nothing. We’d lost power.

After quickly dressing in the dark, I went down the stairs as best I could with no light. My grandparents were at the kitchen table, talking quietly. An old kerosene lamp with a gaudy Victorian shade rested in the center of the table.

“Good morning, George.” My grandfather pushed a chair
toward me. “Sit down and let me tell you what winter has blown our way.” He chose his words appropriately as gusts of wind shook our house. There was a serious tone in his voice. Grandma Cora squeezed my shoulder as she rose from the table and started to make breakfast.

“George,” my grandfather continued, “we have our work cut out for us today.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Another sixteen inches of snow fell last night and, as you’ve already figured out for yourself, we lost power. We still have the phone line, but that might not last much longer. We’ll have to be extra careful about keeping the ice cracked on the pond and we’ll have to milk by hand—just like when I was a boy. It’s going to get a little uncomfortable around here. Can you help us out?”