east.
Squirrel Hill at one time was old Jewish, and Jewish old money. The houses were not what anyone might call palatial, but they were large and solid and brick and substantial, making a statement as to their owners—that they had arrived, that they had come to America from the old country and had made it and built a big brick home on a big lot and there was even a room for a garden in back, if so desired, or a gazebo or a patio with electric lights strung out over the expanse.
Wilson knew that the sumptuousness of the houses in this neighborhood could never match the sumptuousness of newer homes in trendier, more up-and-coming neighborhoods, but he liked it nonetheless. While the demographics were in a state of flux, to Wilson the area recalled a simpler time, a time when there was truth and beauty and permanence and solidness.
Now there was no solidness.
He walked along with some purpose. Thurman growled a bit as they trotted along, as if he was endorsing, or enjoying, the pace.
They turned a corner five blocks later and headed north.
Wilson must not have been used to the spring sun just yet and felt beads of some small perspiration on his forehead.
He was not fond of sweating, not like this.
The beads of sweat on his forehead were tangents of past memories.
He reached up, swiped them away before the salt and the sweat fell into his eyes. He slowed down, Thurman keeping pace, a step to his side and a half-step behind, like a well-trained dog should walk with a person, exactly how they should walk.
Wilson wiped at his forehead again.
“Maybe we’ll do this at dusk, Thurman. It will be cooler.”
Thurman growled Okay and added that he didn’t mind the warmth.
Wilson turned another corner and headed back west.
From the corner of his eye he saw a man at the top of a driveway. It was a slight incline—Pittsburgh was a city built on hills, after all. The driveway wasn’t all that steep, but a car might have trouble climbing the expanse if snow were packed into a layer of ice.
Thurman saw the man too. He must have, because he slowed and offered a bark. Thurman had yet to bark in Wilson’s presence. He did growl a lot, and mutter and whisper just under his breath, but this bark was new, and it took Wilson by surprise.
The bark was a friendly bark, a bark of greeting, if Wilson had been asked to classify the bark on some sort of dog/English translation grid.
The man at the top of the driveway was seated.
Wilson now felt obligated to stop and look, which he did not want to do—not with anyone—but Thurman did bark and that required something.
Wilson waved. Well, sort of waved. He reached up, palm out, and acknowledged the man.
“Dr. Steele,” the man called out. “Good to see you. It’s been a while. How’s your mother?”
Thurman looked up and growled.
You know man?
Wilson leaned forward, as if three inches of a closer view would bring anything into closer focus. He noticed then the wheelchair. And then he remembered.
“Dr. Killeen, how are you?”
“Just fine, Wilson. Your mother?”
“She’s fine too,” Wilson responded, hoping the conversation would not go on much longer.
“Tell her I said hello, would you?”
“I will.”
There was silence.
Then the man in the wheelchair spoke.
“I see you got a dog.”
Wilson nodded.
“I guess.”
Silence.
Then Wilson waved and set off walking again. Thurman’s leash grew taut before he began to follow.
Then the dog growled.
Who that?
Wilson wiped at his forehead again.
“It’s a long story, Thurman. And not one I want to get into. Not now.”
Fog blanketed Portland in the morning, muffling and concealing, and to Hazel the outside environment perfectly mirrored how she felt. She padded about her smallish apartment, drinking only a single cup of coffee, unusual for any morning, even more unusual for a Sunday morning. She left the Sunday Oregonian newspaper on the kitchen counter, still wrapped in its protective plastic sleeve.
Squirrel Hill at one time was old Jewish, and Jewish old money. The houses were not what anyone might call palatial, but they were large and solid and brick and substantial, making a statement as to their owners—that they had arrived, that they had come to America from the old country and had made it and built a big brick home on a big lot and there was even a room for a garden in back, if so desired, or a gazebo or a patio with electric lights strung out over the expanse.
Wilson knew that the sumptuousness of the houses in this neighborhood could never match the sumptuousness of newer homes in trendier, more up-and-coming neighborhoods, but he liked it nonetheless. While the demographics were in a state of flux, to Wilson the area recalled a simpler time, a time when there was truth and beauty and permanence and solidness.
Now there was no solidness.
He walked along with some purpose. Thurman growled a bit as they trotted along, as if he was endorsing, or enjoying, the pace.
They turned a corner five blocks later and headed north.
Wilson must not have been used to the spring sun just yet and felt beads of some small perspiration on his forehead.
He was not fond of sweating, not like this.
The beads of sweat on his forehead were tangents of past memories.
He reached up, swiped them away before the salt and the sweat fell into his eyes. He slowed down, Thurman keeping pace, a step to his side and a half-step behind, like a well-trained dog should walk with a person, exactly how they should walk.
Wilson wiped at his forehead again.
“Maybe we’ll do this at dusk, Thurman. It will be cooler.”
Thurman growled Okay and added that he didn’t mind the warmth.
Wilson turned another corner and headed back west.
From the corner of his eye he saw a man at the top of a driveway. It was a slight incline—Pittsburgh was a city built on hills, after all. The driveway wasn’t all that steep, but a car might have trouble climbing the expanse if snow were packed into a layer of ice.
Thurman saw the man too. He must have, because he slowed and offered a bark. Thurman had yet to bark in Wilson’s presence. He did growl a lot, and mutter and whisper just under his breath, but this bark was new, and it took Wilson by surprise.
The bark was a friendly bark, a bark of greeting, if Wilson had been asked to classify the bark on some sort of dog/English translation grid.
The man at the top of the driveway was seated.
Wilson now felt obligated to stop and look, which he did not want to do—not with anyone—but Thurman did bark and that required something.
Wilson waved. Well, sort of waved. He reached up, palm out, and acknowledged the man.
“Dr. Steele,” the man called out. “Good to see you. It’s been a while. How’s your mother?”
Thurman looked up and growled.
You know man?
Wilson leaned forward, as if three inches of a closer view would bring anything into closer focus. He noticed then the wheelchair. And then he remembered.
“Dr. Killeen, how are you?”
“Just fine, Wilson. Your mother?”
“She’s fine too,” Wilson responded, hoping the conversation would not go on much longer.
“Tell her I said hello, would you?”
“I will.”
There was silence.
Then the man in the wheelchair spoke.
“I see you got a dog.”
Wilson nodded.
“I guess.”
Silence.
Then Wilson waved and set off walking again. Thurman’s leash grew taut before he began to follow.
Then the dog growled.
Who that?
Wilson wiped at his forehead again.
“It’s a long story, Thurman. And not one I want to get into. Not now.”
Fog blanketed Portland in the morning, muffling and concealing, and to Hazel the outside environment perfectly mirrored how she felt. She padded about her smallish apartment, drinking only a single cup of coffee, unusual for any morning, even more unusual for a Sunday morning. She left the Sunday Oregonian newspaper on the kitchen counter, still wrapped in its protective plastic sleeve.
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