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Authors: Armistead Maupin
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him. “I’m sorry if I offended you in some way. I’ve been so anxious about my dog. I’m sure you can understand.”
Vuitton poked his long, pale muzzle through the crack in the door. Prue reached down to stroke him. “Baby,” she cooed. “It’s O.K., Mommy’s here.”
“You got proof?” asked the man.
“Look at him,” said Prue. “He knows me. Don’t you, baby? His name is Vuitton. It’s on the collar. For that matter,
my
name is on the collar.”
“What’s your name?”
“Giroux. Prue Giroux.”
The man extended his hand. “Mine’s Luke. Come on in.”
Inside
W HEN PRUE ENTERED THE SHACK, HER MIND raced back to Grass Valley … and to the tree house her brother Ben had built on the hill behind the barn.
Ben’s tree house had been a holy place, a monk’s cell for a thirteen-year-old that was incontestably off limits to his little sister and her friends.
One day, however, when Ben was at the picture show, Prudy Sue had climbed into the forbidden aerie and perused, with pounding heart, the secret icons of her brother’s adolescence: dirty dime novels, joy buzzers, a Lucky Strikes magazine ad featuring Maureen O’Hara.
Today, forty years later, Prue couldn’t help remembering the surprising
order
of Ben’s lair. There had been something almost touching about the neat rows of Tom Swift books, the hand-sewn burlap curtains on the tiny windows, the quartz rocks displayed on orange crates as if they were diamonds in a vault….
“I wasn’t expecting company,” said Luke. “You’ll have to excuse this.”
“This” was a single room, about six-by-ten-feet, furnished with wooden packing crates, an Army surplus cot, and a large chunk of foam rubber which appeared to function as a couch. A rock-lined pit in the packed earth floor was filled with graying embers. On the grate above the fire sat a blue enamel coffee pot.
The man picked up the pot and poured coffee into a styrofoam cup. “You take cream? I only have the fake stuff, I’m afraid.”
“Uh … what? … oh, no thank you.” Prue was still absorbing the room. How long had he been here, anyway? Did the park people know about this?
The man read her mind and winked. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Sweet ’n Low?”
“Yes, please.”
He cracked open the pink packet like an egg, shook it into the coffee and handed her the cup. “I thought you might like to see where your dog’s been living, that’s all.”
Vuitton, in fact, having greeted his mistress at the door, had returned to a bed of rags in a corner near the fire. He looked up and wagged his tail at her appeasingly, apologizing perhaps for such an effortless abandonment of his Nob Hill lifestyle.
Prue blew on her coffee, then looked about her. “This is … just fascinating,” she said. She meant it, too.
The man chuckled. “Every kid loves a playhouse,” he said.
Then he
is
like Ben, thought Prue.
A further examination of the room revealed additional touches of boyish whimsy. Ball fringe over the bed, forming a faux-canopy. A can of sharpened pencils on a shelf above the “sofa.” A soot-streaked map of the city tacked to the wall above the fire.
Over the doorway hung a plywood plaque, its lettering laboriously crafted in bent twigs:
THOSE WHO DO NOT
REMEMBER THE PAST
ARE CONDEMNED
TO REPEAT IT
Prue smiled when she read it. “That’s nice,” she said.
“Santayana,” replied the man.
“Life of Reason.”
“Excuse me?”
The man seemed to study her for a moment, then said quietly: “Why don’t you take your dog now?”
“Oh … of course. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
The man went to the bed of rags and roused the wolfhound. “C’mon, Whitey. Time to go, boy.” Vuitton rose awkwardly to his feet and licked the man’s hand excitedly. “He thinks we’re going exploring,” explained his keeper. “I made a leash for him, if you want it.”
He opened a box next to Vuitton’s bed. It contained canned dog food, a battered
Vuitton poked his long, pale muzzle through the crack in the door. Prue reached down to stroke him. “Baby,” she cooed. “It’s O.K., Mommy’s here.”
“You got proof?” asked the man.
“Look at him,” said Prue. “He knows me. Don’t you, baby? His name is Vuitton. It’s on the collar. For that matter,
my
name is on the collar.”
“What’s your name?”
“Giroux. Prue Giroux.”
The man extended his hand. “Mine’s Luke. Come on in.”
Inside
W HEN PRUE ENTERED THE SHACK, HER MIND raced back to Grass Valley … and to the tree house her brother Ben had built on the hill behind the barn.
Ben’s tree house had been a holy place, a monk’s cell for a thirteen-year-old that was incontestably off limits to his little sister and her friends.
One day, however, when Ben was at the picture show, Prudy Sue had climbed into the forbidden aerie and perused, with pounding heart, the secret icons of her brother’s adolescence: dirty dime novels, joy buzzers, a Lucky Strikes magazine ad featuring Maureen O’Hara.
Today, forty years later, Prue couldn’t help remembering the surprising
order
of Ben’s lair. There had been something almost touching about the neat rows of Tom Swift books, the hand-sewn burlap curtains on the tiny windows, the quartz rocks displayed on orange crates as if they were diamonds in a vault….
“I wasn’t expecting company,” said Luke. “You’ll have to excuse this.”
“This” was a single room, about six-by-ten-feet, furnished with wooden packing crates, an Army surplus cot, and a large chunk of foam rubber which appeared to function as a couch. A rock-lined pit in the packed earth floor was filled with graying embers. On the grate above the fire sat a blue enamel coffee pot.
The man picked up the pot and poured coffee into a styrofoam cup. “You take cream? I only have the fake stuff, I’m afraid.”
“Uh … what? … oh, no thank you.” Prue was still absorbing the room. How long had he been here, anyway? Did the park people know about this?
The man read her mind and winked. “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “Sweet ’n Low?”
“Yes, please.”
He cracked open the pink packet like an egg, shook it into the coffee and handed her the cup. “I thought you might like to see where your dog’s been living, that’s all.”
Vuitton, in fact, having greeted his mistress at the door, had returned to a bed of rags in a corner near the fire. He looked up and wagged his tail at her appeasingly, apologizing perhaps for such an effortless abandonment of his Nob Hill lifestyle.
Prue blew on her coffee, then looked about her. “This is … just fascinating,” she said. She meant it, too.
The man chuckled. “Every kid loves a playhouse,” he said.
Then he
is
like Ben, thought Prue.
A further examination of the room revealed additional touches of boyish whimsy. Ball fringe over the bed, forming a faux-canopy. A can of sharpened pencils on a shelf above the “sofa.” A soot-streaked map of the city tacked to the wall above the fire.
Over the doorway hung a plywood plaque, its lettering laboriously crafted in bent twigs:
THOSE WHO DO NOT
REMEMBER THE PAST
ARE CONDEMNED
TO REPEAT IT
Prue smiled when she read it. “That’s nice,” she said.
“Santayana,” replied the man.
“Life of Reason.”
“Excuse me?”
The man seemed to study her for a moment, then said quietly: “Why don’t you take your dog now?”
“Oh … of course. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
The man went to the bed of rags and roused the wolfhound. “C’mon, Whitey. Time to go, boy.” Vuitton rose awkwardly to his feet and licked the man’s hand excitedly. “He thinks we’re going exploring,” explained his keeper. “I made a leash for him, if you want it.”
He opened a box next to Vuitton’s bed. It contained canned dog food, a battered
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