Words Get In the Way (8 page)

He remembered an observation one fellow hiker had made in a trail logbook after Linden had told him about his new companions:
“To Wounded Finch: Labs will love you with all their hearts and follow you to the ends of the earth,
especially
if you feed them!”
It was true. Linden had been sitting on a sunny rock in Damascus, Virginia, minding his own business and devouring a ham-and-cheese grinder when the first of two undernourished Labs had emerged from the woods with her nose in the air. Spying Linden, she’d immediately plopped down in front of him and, with sad brown eyes, followed every move of his hand as it carried food to his mouth. Reluctantly, he’d held out his last morsel and she’d taken it with gentle politeness. A moment later another Lab trundled out of the woods and plopped down beside her. By then, all Linden had left was an apple, but the dogs didn’t mind; they were happy to share whatever he had.

Linden had spent the rest of that day and half of the next asking in town if anyone recognized the two wayward dogs, but no one did. The dogs didn’t seem worried about their lack of a home. They just followed Linden around on his inquiry and then fell into step beside him when he finally resumed hiking.

In the days that followed, their playful antics had made the trail much more of an adventure than an endurance test, and at night, their presence brought comfort and warmth when they curled up on either side of him. As the weeks passed and they hiked into New England, Linden discovered that, even though his backpack was heavier with their extra food, his heart was much lighter.

He slid the new boards out of the back of the truck, set them down on the porch, and went inside to pour a cold glass of sweet tea. He thought of the stain and went to the basement to look at the can on the shelf; it was called Pacific Redwood. Then he came back upstairs and took his iced tea outside. The dogs followed him down to the river and splashed playfully while he settled into one of the chairs. He had plenty to do, but it could wait. He needed time to think.

16

C
allie had no time to dwell on the events of that morning. She pulled into the shopping plaza and ran down her list in her head:
peanut butter, jelly, cereal, o.j., bread, spaghetti, sauce, lettuce, tomatoes, apples, blueberries, if they’re on sale, muffins would be good ... lemon for zest then ... Bisquick for pancakes ... was there syrup in the fridge? Why didn’t I write all this down?
As she lifted Henry into the shopping cart, she silently prayed that she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew and that Henry wouldn’t have another meltdown. She pushed the cart through produce, picking out the fruits and veggies she needed, and then continued past the beer case.
When was the last time I relaxed enough to have a beer?

Henry was still cooperating when they finally reached frozen food, and Callie, stopping in front of the ice-cream case, was surprised to see Vermont’s Ben & Jerry’s on New Hampshire shelves. She wondered if she should splurge. “What do you think, Hen-Ben, Cherry Garcia or their new flavor, Peanut Butter and Jelly?” Henry shook his head and began to slam his toy tractor against the cart handle, and Callie realized that her time was up. She hurried toward checkout, but when she reached the end of the aisle, her heart sank. There were only two lanes open and both had long lines snaking down the aisles. She scolded herself for not getting through the store more quickly.

As they stood in line, Callie contemplated her dilemma. A child
without
autism might not even be able to tolerate such a long wait, but for Henry there was the additional strain of too much activity, too much noise, and too many bright lights. Callie looked at her full cart and considered apologizing and leaving it, but they really needed the food.

Suddenly, Henry threw his tractor to the floor and began to scream. Everyone looked up and watched as Callie picked up the tractor and tried to soothe him, but it was no use.
Oh, God, help me,
she prayed. Two seconds later, a cashier in a red smock appeared and motioned for her to come to a new lane. Callie couldn’t believe her good fortune, and everyone in the store seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. An older gentleman even handed his key ring to Henry, and he miraculously stopped fussing long enough for Callie to finish. When she tried to pry the keys from his hand, though, he erupted into another fierce tantrum. Struggling with her son and her emotions, Callie finally freed the keys from his tight fist, handed them back to the man, stammered a quick thank you, and fled the store. Humiliated and certain that everyone was watching, she didn’t look back.

Fifteen minutes later, she parked in the shade of the old gnarled apple tree in the yard and helped Henry climb out. She gave him a bag to carry and, with her own arms full, followed him to the door. As she fumbled with her keys, she looked up and realized there was a door tag hanging from the knob. She saw the logo of the phone company and felt her cheeks flush in frustration. She tore the tag from the knob, unlocked the door, and brought the groceries inside. Henry put his bag down on the floor, lined up its contents on the kitchen table, and wandered off to the living room. Meanwhile, Callie compared the time on the clock to the time on the tag and realized she’d missed the service call by ten minutes! She stared through the screen door and then kicked it, hard, cracking the wooden panel.

Callie!
She could almost hear her father’s voice.
Get a handle on your temper!
She stared out at his gardens.
I know, Dad. I’m sorry.
For the first time since she’d moved home, she noticed that the weeds in the garden were almost as tall as the flowers.
Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll take care of them.
With a sigh, she turned from the door and began to put the groceries away.

She held the fridge open with one knee while she put away the milk, eggs, blueberries, and orange juice, and then took out the grape jelly. When everything was where it belonged, she opened the bag of Wonder bread and, as she made sandwiches for Henry and herself, she recalled how much her dad loved white bread. His favorite had been from Cumberland Farms, and although Wonder bread had been a close second, Cumby’s was definitely first. She took out two more slices and smoothed peanut butter on both of them. When she was growing up, her dad, a history teacher, had always been the one to make lunch because her mom, a nurse, had always left early. Peanut butter and jelly had been his specialty, and his secret trick was to spread peanut butter on both slices of bread so the jelly didn’t soak into the bread and make it soggy.
The peanut butter acts as a sealer,
he’d say. Then he’d cut the sandwich in half, tear off a perfect size piece of wax paper, stack the two halves on top of one another to conserve wax paper
and
lunchbox space, and deftly wrap the sandwich with crisp, neat folds that she never learned to replicate. Callie looked in the drawer for the familiar blue-and-red box of Cut-Rite Wax Paper. She’d just have to give those folds another try.

“We’re going to see Papa,” she announced after lunch. Henry was busy arranging the chairs in a neat row again but immediately stopped and headed for the door when he heard the word “Papa.”

17

“
Y
ou guys are
not
coming in!” Linden said, closing the screen door behind him. He looked out at the two wet dogs wagging their tails hopefully. “Go find a sunny spot and maybe I’ll bring out a treat.” They wiggled harder when they heard their favorite word and then plopped down promptly, thinking he meant
now
. Linden shook his head and retreated to the kitchen to make a quick PB&J on soft wheat, which he ate over the sink and washed down with a tall glass of cold milk. When he’d finished he brushed the crumbs into the sink, rinsed his glass, and put it in the dish drain, wondering when the last time was that that glass had actually seen soap.
Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I’m the only one who drinks from it.

Remembering the dogs, he lifted off the top of the ceramic canister on the counter and took out two dog biscuits. He quietly pushed on the screen door and, looking around, spied them lazing in the sun. He tiptoed down the steps and across the grass, but they heard him coming and began to thump their tails. And, after chomping down the treats, they rolled onto their backs for belly rubs. “You guys are silly, you know that?” he said. When he stood up, he felt his leg muscles protest. “Ouch! Guess I’m not as young as I used to be!” The dogs’ tails beat the ground in happy agreement.

Linden no longer noticed how much he talked to himself. It was a habit he’d picked up on the trail, and now, living alone, he did it all the time. If he wasn’t talking to himself he was talking to whichever animal happened to be nearby. They were all rescues, except for the chickens, who had arrived at the post office in a loudly peeping box. But all of the others had a story to tell, and in return for Linden’s kindness, they listened to his quiet rambling with profound compassion. Linden liked to think they understood every word.

He walked toward the barn, thinking about the work he was starting the next day. It was an ancient, winding stone wall that declared the boundaries and divided the pastures of an old dairy farm in neighboring Dublin. The farmer, old Will Harris, had died the previous October and a gentleman from New York had bought the property as a weekend retreat from the city.

Linden lifted several rings of hose from the rack, dropped them to the ground, and lifted the pump handle. Water splashed onto the ground and splattered his jeans. He tipped the water trough, gave it a quick scrub, and filled it with fresh water. The cows trundled over, followed by the inquisitive little mule that waited patiently for the cows to finish. Linden held the hose out to him and he curiously stuck his long, gray tongue into the stream of water, but when it splashed into his cavernous nostrils, he turned away. “You’re such an e.e. ore!” Linden teased affectionately, scratching his boney head.

Turning his attention back to the cows, Linden stroked Reba’s belly and remembered the first time he’d heard about the plight of the Randall breed. He’d been walking through the cow barn at the Tunbridge Fair and had stopped to admire the unusual lineback coloring of the two cows that were munching contentedly in the last stall. A young woman, standing nearby, had handed him a pamphlet.

“They’re pretty, aren’t they?” she’d said with a warm smile. Linden had nodded, and accepted the pamphlet. “They’re purebred, native to Sunderland. They were originally bred by a farmer named Everett Randall. The problem is, their numbers are dwindling.” She had looked Linden over. “Are you a dairy farmer?”

“Me?!” Linden had laughed, but when he left the dairy barn that day, he’d had the pamphlet tucked in his pocket with Cindy’s phone number on it, and he’d had something new to think about. A couple of months later, a rickety cattle trailer had pulled into the yard with Reba and Rosie inside, and Reba was already pregnant.

Cindy had climbed out; looked at the fresh hay in the barn; admired the pretty, sun-swept meadow lined with stone walls; and declared, “This little place is perfect.” They’d chatted over coffee, and then she’d climbed back into her old pickup, given one last look at the cows grazing in the Indian summer sun, and pulled away with her empty trailer rattling behind her. “Just call if you have any questions,” she’d shouted. “I’ll come down when she’s close!”

She’s getting close now,
Linden thought.
Another week or so at most.
He wondered where he’d tucked Cindy’s number, and he decided he’d better find it and put it near the phone. The cows, finally satisfied, moseyed away and e.e. ore pushed his nose into the water while Linden splashed the stream from the hose into the cats’ bowl.

He pushed down the pump handle, lifted the hose back into place, brushed off his hands, and stepped into the dusty heat of the barn. Maude emerged from her favorite sunny spot and began to brush against his legs, purring loudly. He knelt down to talk to her, and she put her front paws on his knee and talked back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small flash of gray fur scurry between two hay bales and said, “Looks like someone’s
not
doing their job.” Maude ignored his comment and pushed her orange head into the palm of his hand, purring contentedly. She finally hopped down, and Linden, respectful of his aching muscles, stood up slowly. He looked around the barn and decided that it definitely needed some attention too. He located his wheelbarrow leaning against the back wall and wheeled it around the old red pickup that was parked in one of the bays. When he’d first moved in, Mr. Coleman had explained, with a slow sigh, that he hoped to restore the truck someday. Linden had nodded knowingly.

He set the wheelbarrow down outside the first stall and reached for a pitchfork that was hanging on the rack. A dusty transistor radio was sitting on a crossbeam next to the tools, and Linden clicked it on. He adjusted the antenna and turned the knob slightly to tune in the local rock station. The announcer was just finishing the weekend sports report, and Linden listened with mild interest.

“As for all you NASCAR fans, in case you weren’t paying attention, Saturday night turned out to be the Dale and Dale show with Dale Jarrett pulling off the win at the Pepsi 400 and Dale Earnhardt following him around under caution, coming in second. After the win, Jarrett’s car ran out of gas and his pit crew had to push him into Victory Lane!”

Linden smiled at the thought of the 88 car being
pushed
into victory lane. As he began to scoop manure, he wondered if Mr. Wyeth still followed the races. Linden knew he was a die-hard Earnhardt fan, although he also liked Jarrett. Linden would never forget the race he’d gone to with Callie and her dad. It was up in Loudon and their seats had been right on the front stretch. Linden could still hear the deafening rumble of the engines and feel the rush of adrenaline as the cars roared by.