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,
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,
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