Saving Shiloh (5 page)

Mostly it's candy, the homemade kind—lollipops for Becky, fudge for me, and peanut brittle for Dara Lynn. Dara Lynn hates peanut brittle, and her mouth turns down so at the corners Ma has to give her a nudge. But Aunt Hettie has dinner waiting with roast beef so juicy I
wish Shiloh was there so I could share mine with him.

“Now you've got to be prepared for that nursing home,” says Aunt Hettie as we finish her caramel spice cake. “It's not the finest in the world, but the nurses do the best they can.”

We go see Grandma right after we eat, before Becky turns cranky, needing her nap. I guess what hits you when you walk in a nursing home—this one, anyway—is that it don't—doesn't—smell so good. Like the bathroom needs cleaning and the food's overcooked. There's eight or ten people in a room with a television in it, all of 'em watching a boys' choir singing “O Holy Night.” Two of the women are asleep, and one old lady, tied to her wheelchair with a bed-sheet, is tapping on her tray with a spoon.

We sign in at the desk, and a young woman in a red Santa Claus cap says that Grandma's around somewhere, and then here she comes, flyin' down the hall in her wheelchair, banging her gums together 'cause she hasn't put her teeth in yet, asking everyone did they see her snow shovel.

Dad goes over and stops the wheelchair before she can run into the artificial tree.

“Merry Christmas, Mother,” he says, kissing her cheek. “I brought the family to see you.”

“It was right outside my door,” says Grandma, not making any sense.

“What was, Mother?” asks Dad.

“My brand-new snow shovel, right outside my door,” she says, and fastens her eyes on me. “You take my shovel?”

“No, ma'am,” I say.

Becky's backing away, trying to squeeze behind Ma's legs, but Dara Lynn's just staring, her eyes bugging out like a frog's.

“We brought you a present, Grandma,” says Ma, putting a box in her lap.

Grandma tears away at that wrapping paper, got fingers like claws, almost, nobody to cut her nails except Hettie, and Ma leans down to help get the ribbon off. Grandma pulls out a robe, a rose-colored robe with a flower on each pocket.

“It's got to have pockets,” says Grandma, handing it back to her, “I don't want a robe without pockets.” Ma tries to show her the pockets, but Grandma's talkin' about somethin' else now. It pains Ma, I can tell.

The nurse comes over and suggests we wheel Grandma around the nursing home so she can see the decorations in the dining room and parlor. It gives us something to do. Ma and Aunt Hettie stay in the reception room to talk, but Dad pushes Grandma's wheelchair, and us kids troop along.

Becky's got the idea that we come to see Santa, and now she spots some old man with a beard sitting at his window.

“There's Santa!” she yells excitedly. The man turns and laughs.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he says, holding out his arms, and I take Becky inside his room to say hello. She sits on his lap and tells him what all she got for Christmas, and he's so tickled. Becky don't even notice he only has one leg.

But Grandma wants to go. “That man is
no good
!” she says to Dara Lynn. “He stole my change purse.”

“Mother, your change purse is right there in your pocket,” Dad tells her as we start off again, and Becky waves to the man with the beard.

But Grandma goes on about how she lives in a den of thieves and liars, and how if Dad really loved her, he'd get her out of this place.

It hurts Dad, 'cause it was more than Aunt Hettie could
manage to care for Grandma at home, and it'd be even worse for Ma, with a family to look after, too.

“I ever get old and crazy, just shoot me,” murmurs Dara Lynn.

After we tour the whole building and take Grandma back to her room, we read the Bible together and then we all sing “Silent Night.” For the first time, Grandma gets real quiet—studies us hard while we're singin'—and I see tears in her eyes, like maybe for the first time she remembers who we are.

But by the time we get our coats, she wants to roam around in her wheelchair again. She's got her new robe over her shoulders like a cape now, won't let nobody touch it, and says she's got to go see the man with the beard and get her change purse back.

The attendant winks at us. “You go on,” she says. “I'll handle this.”

So we go back out to the Jeep, and spend the rest of the day at Aunt Hettie's. Becky takes a nap on her bed, and Dara Lynn and me put together a jigsaw puzzle of a pepperoni pizza, and I'm thinking how Dara Lynn and me are getting along fine right now, why can't we get along like this all the time? I wonder does it have anything to do with Shiloh being my dog, when all the while what Dara Lynn really wanted was a kitten?

We have a light supper before we leave—cold roast beef sandwiches—and then we set out. Sky's almost dark, but the snow gives off light so it don't seem as late as it is. Starts to snow some more, too.

Ma says, “It's always hard to visit Grandma and it's always hard to leave.” Her own ma died a few years back, so Dad's is the only ma she's got.

We see we left the lights shining on our outdoor Christmas tree when we pull in the drive, and it's a welcome sight, but I'm lookin' around for Shiloh. Usually he'd be dancin' down the drive by now, head goin' one way, tail the other.

“Where's Shiloh?” Becky asks, missing him, too.

“Probably running around with that black Labrador, I'll bet,” says Ma. “Nice that he's got a friend.”

I'm thinking, though, that it's not often our whole family's gone the way we were today. Usually Ma's home while Dad's at work and we're in school. But this time we've been gone from almost eleven in the morning to eight at night, time enough for a dog to wonder if you're ever comin' back. Go lookin' for you, maybe.

We walk inside and turn on the TV to get the last of the Christmas music we'll hear all year, and when my Steelers watch says ten o'clock and Shiloh's still not back, I put on my boots and jacket and go out on the porch.

First I just stand on the steps and whistle. Never did learn to whistle like Dad can, though. Mine's a puny little noise that don't travel much beyond the cedar tree.

“Shiloh!” I call, and my voice echoes against the hills. “Here, boy! Shiloh! Come on, boy!”

Nothin' stirs but the bushes, branches blowin'.

I clump down to the end of the drive, hands in my pockets, shoulders hunched.

“Shiloh!” I yell, loud as my lungs will let me. “Shi . . . loh! Shi . . . loh!” Air's so still I figure that dog should be able to hear me a half mile off.

Then I stand real still and listen. Used to be I could hear his feet scurrying through the field or down the path from the meadow, but I know that with all the snow, that dog
could be right behind me and I wouldn't hear a thing 'cept his collar jingling.

I walk to the bridge and yell some more, then go left and follow the road in the other direction, bellowing like a new calf.

Nothin' answers but the wind.

I
t's hard to sleep that night. Our sofa's got more lumps than bean soup, and every time I turn over, I pull out the blanket from the bottom.

I get up about two in the morning and stand at the window. Moon's almost full, and the snow sparkles like diamonds. I'm not lookin' for moonlight or snowlight, though—only Shiloh. We keep the shed door open on nights like this so he can go in there and sleep if he comes back late. But I know my dog; he'd make at least one detour up on the porch first to see if somebody was awake to let him in. Not a fresh paw print anywhere.

I'm thinking of the hunters we heard up in our woods. Deer season's over now, but there's possum and coon to hunt; rabbit and groundhog, too. What if a hunter took it in his head to steal Shiloh? You ride along and see notices posted on trees about a dog missing, and most of the time
someone's made off with it—someone who wants a good hunting dog, or a watchdog, or both.

I get this sick feeling—what if I never see Shiloh again? What if somebody's got him chained, beatin' on him like Judd used to do? All I got to remember him by are yesterday's paw prints, most of 'em half covered now by new snow. I lay back down and fall asleep out of sheer sadness.

•  •  •

Don't have to go to school till the second of January, so Ma lets us sleep in next day. Can't believe I sleep till nine thirty, and I only wake then because I hear dogs yipping out in the yard. I sit straight up.

“Shiloh's back!” says Ma from the kitchen. “My stars, what's that dog got now?”

I leap off the couch and run to the door. There's Shiloh and the black Lab. Shiloh's got a piece of orange rag in his mouth, and they're playin' and tuggin' at it. Thing about dogs, they can get enjoyment out of the most common ordinary object you could ever imagine. I'm so happy to see him I pull on my jeans, push my feet in my shoes, and grab my jacket. I run outside and wade through the snow to where Shiloh and the Labrador are chasing each other around and barking.

Rag looks like a piece of vest a traffic cop wears. I'm hoping those dogs didn't get in somebody's clothes basket or, worse yet, run off with somethin' belonging to the sheriff. I stick the rag in my jacket pocket and reach down to hug my dog. “You're weird,” I tell him. “You and your friend both.” He gives me the wettest kiss this side the Mississippi.

When I go in the house, Shiloh follows for his breakfast,
and the Labrador trots off, lookin' for some other mischief. Becky's up, wantin' me to play Candy Land with her—most boring game in the whole world, but I do.

Ma's feeling good this morning, I can tell. Shiloh's back, Christmas is over, she's done her duty by Grandma Preston, and she's in the kitchen making cinnamon rolls. She sings along with the cassette I give her:

“The roughest road in the valley,

Longest I ever did roam,

But the sweetest path in the country,

Because it leads me home.”

I tell Dara Lynn it's her turn to play Candy Land with Becky, and I call up David Howard. After I hear what he got for Christmas, my presents don't sound all that much. He got two computer games, a pair of Nike Air Gridstar crosstrainers, a basketball, a sleeping bag, four books, a Chicago Bulls T-shirt, and a horn for his bike. And that was just from his folks. He still has presents coming from his grandparents.

“Why don't I come over to your house tomorrow, and we'll check out the creek bank where Judd had his accident?” says David.

“Okay with me,” I tell him.

Dad's got the
Tyler Star-News
with him when he comes home, and while he sits in the kitchen talking to Ma, I take the paper in on the sofa and look through it, see if there's anything more about the missing man from Bens Run. Don't find anything of interest except a story about a car crash up in Wheeling, an escape from the county jail, a robbery up in Sistersville, and a hunter who shot a man over in
Marion County by mistake. Nothing about nobody from Bens Run.

David Howard's mom drives him over the next morning, and it's the kind of gray winter day that can't decide if it's going to rain or snow. We plan to head out for Middle Island Creek soon as we eat lunch. Becky, of course, goes and asks David to play Candy Land with her, but he don't have little sisters, and don't know you got to let Becky win. When it's him doing the winning, Becky slides down off the chair and runs in the bedroom, then comes back out later with a towel over her head so no one can see she's been cryin'. David must think I got the strangest family!

Ma says lunch is ready. It's only hot dogs and soup, but there's cinnamon rolls for dessert, the frosting still warm.

“You boys playing in or out this afternoon?” Ma asks.

“Out,” I tell her. “Maybe do some hiking.”

We put on our jackets and head down to the bridge, Shiloh trotting along behind. I point out the place the pickup went over, and we crawl down the bank, our feet turned sideways.

“Nothing to see!” I say to David. “Everything's covered with snow.”

But David keeps going. The thing about David Howard is he don't let real life get in the way of his imagination. If he wants to find clues that Judd Travers murdered the man from Bens Run, then David'll find plenty; just won't happen to be the right clues, that's all.

Shiloh's comin' down the hill after us, glad to be doin' whatever we are, though he's no idea in the world what that is.

David turns and points at Shiloh. “Sniff!” he says.

Shiloh wags his tail.

“What you doing, David?”

“I'm telling him to sniff. If there was a dead body buried down here, I'll bet a dog could find it.”

I laugh. “Shiloh don't even know the word ‘sniff,' ” I tell him. So David says it again, and gets down on all fours, trying to show my dog what to do. I fall down in the snow laughing my head off, and Shiloh falls on top of me, joinin' in the fun.

We're rolling around on the bank, havin' a wrestling match, when all of a sudden my knee hits somethin' hard.

“Ow!” I yell, and push David off me.

Shiloh comes runnin' over like a snowplow, pushin' up snow with his nose, and before you can blink, he's dug up a man's boot, frozen hard as cement.

D
avid and I sit on our knees in the snow, turning that boot over and over.

“Evidence!” says David, his eyes snappin'. “This could put Judd Travers behind bars for life.”

That's the way folks feel about Judd, see. They remember how he was—and maybe still is, far as I know. His meanness to dogs and people, the way he cheated and lied. When you've done all the things Judd did, how do you get folks to start trusting you? It's true he might be tryin' to change, but the tryin' part still needed a lot of work.