“What man?”
She pulled out a piece of paper. It was not a scrap like we have at my house, but a whole sheet of white paper (though not creamy, like what you have for letters), and she began to write.
Her script, as you would imagine, skimmed across the page. It was lovely and perfect, her
t
’s crossed and
i
’s dotted like a printing press in action. It was cursive, which I cannot read easily and certainly cannot decipher upside down. She folded the sheet and boldly penciled a name on the front: Donald McKenna.
“Take this down to the Farmers’ Market. Sometimes he’s there more than one Saturday a month. But I
had
told him next week.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, taking the note from her.
“You wanted to know about your dog,” she explained. “I cannot get a book for you, but I can get you a source. Fine man. He lives in your neck of the woods — near Goode. You go on, now. See that man.”
I tell you, Miss Anderson, I didn’t want to go see any man I didn’t know. But I did have a little curiosity, I admit. And saying no to Miss Anne Spencer is like saying no to Mrs. Warren. It is just not done. So I strolled down the big hill to the market on Main Street.
There were lots of people. I didn’t see a face I knew. Not that I’ve ever met a Mr. McKenna, but I suppose I thought I’d see someone I knew who could help me.
I was more than a little annoyed at that point. You ever pulled that hill up Polk Street? It’s practically straight up, so I admit I was peeved. And then I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked straight into a barrel chest and a plaid flannel shirt. I tilted my head to look up.
“You’re from Mrs. Spencer,” he said, and he pulled the note from my hand. I must have looked puzzled. “There are phones in the world, girl. I got a message to look for you. You’re as she described. You’d not expect that a poet couldn’t describe a person, now, would you?” He looked me up and down. “She says you have a dog.” His blue eyes darted across the page, his head bobbing and his bright white hair going every which way. Those six words boomed out. His accent was peculiar, sort of rolling in his mouth before it burst out.
“I have a dog.”
He looked at me then. Hard. His quick gaze swallowed me as I took a long look at him — his hearty head of white hair, a nose much like a beak, and white caterpillar eyebrows that wiggled back and forth over his eyes. It was clearly his turn to talk, but he wasn’t saying
anything.
I waited a little longer, but the caterpillar mustache he had that matched the eyebrows didn’t shift a bit. He wasn’t going to talk.
I repeated, “I have a dog.”
“You said that.”
“She’s a border collie.”
“So Mrs. Spencer said.”
I shut up then, Miss Anderson. I told you, I’m not walking on eggshells anymore. I didn’t ask him to talk to me, so I wasn’t about to scrape along trying to eke out a conversation.
We stood there then for well onto five minutes. Five minutes, Miss Anderson, is a long time to stare at a man you don’t know.
He finally spoke, his loud voice filling the space around me. “Lady tells me you want to work your dog.”
“I don’t know what that means, ‘work my dog.’ She does aplenty.”
He smiled at that. “Bet so. Can’t stop a border collie from working.”
It went on like that for quite some time, Miss Anderson, him saying three words, me adding four. Seemed to fill a long time, but all of a sudden I found I’d agreed to bring Shag to meet him one day, and I was on my way pulling that hill.
I’m wondering what I’ve gotten into. A white man with a funny way of talking and a face alive with hair. Kind of feels like I’m stepping into a hole I can’t see the bottom of. I’m tempted to not show up, but like I said before, I am a mite curious. And if it will help me make Shag her best, if it will help me look out for her in some way, I will go as deep as I need to go.
He
She pulled out a piece of paper. It was not a scrap like we have at my house, but a whole sheet of white paper (though not creamy, like what you have for letters), and she began to write.
Her script, as you would imagine, skimmed across the page. It was lovely and perfect, her
t
’s crossed and
i
’s dotted like a printing press in action. It was cursive, which I cannot read easily and certainly cannot decipher upside down. She folded the sheet and boldly penciled a name on the front: Donald McKenna.
“Take this down to the Farmers’ Market. Sometimes he’s there more than one Saturday a month. But I
had
told him next week.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, taking the note from her.
“You wanted to know about your dog,” she explained. “I cannot get a book for you, but I can get you a source. Fine man. He lives in your neck of the woods — near Goode. You go on, now. See that man.”
I tell you, Miss Anderson, I didn’t want to go see any man I didn’t know. But I did have a little curiosity, I admit. And saying no to Miss Anne Spencer is like saying no to Mrs. Warren. It is just not done. So I strolled down the big hill to the market on Main Street.
There were lots of people. I didn’t see a face I knew. Not that I’ve ever met a Mr. McKenna, but I suppose I thought I’d see someone I knew who could help me.
I was more than a little annoyed at that point. You ever pulled that hill up Polk Street? It’s practically straight up, so I admit I was peeved. And then I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked straight into a barrel chest and a plaid flannel shirt. I tilted my head to look up.
“You’re from Mrs. Spencer,” he said, and he pulled the note from my hand. I must have looked puzzled. “There are phones in the world, girl. I got a message to look for you. You’re as she described. You’d not expect that a poet couldn’t describe a person, now, would you?” He looked me up and down. “She says you have a dog.” His blue eyes darted across the page, his head bobbing and his bright white hair going every which way. Those six words boomed out. His accent was peculiar, sort of rolling in his mouth before it burst out.
“I have a dog.”
He looked at me then. Hard. His quick gaze swallowed me as I took a long look at him — his hearty head of white hair, a nose much like a beak, and white caterpillar eyebrows that wiggled back and forth over his eyes. It was clearly his turn to talk, but he wasn’t saying
anything.
I waited a little longer, but the caterpillar mustache he had that matched the eyebrows didn’t shift a bit. He wasn’t going to talk.
I repeated, “I have a dog.”
“You said that.”
“She’s a border collie.”
“So Mrs. Spencer said.”
I shut up then, Miss Anderson. I told you, I’m not walking on eggshells anymore. I didn’t ask him to talk to me, so I wasn’t about to scrape along trying to eke out a conversation.
We stood there then for well onto five minutes. Five minutes, Miss Anderson, is a long time to stare at a man you don’t know.
He finally spoke, his loud voice filling the space around me. “Lady tells me you want to work your dog.”
“I don’t know what that means, ‘work my dog.’ She does aplenty.”
He smiled at that. “Bet so. Can’t stop a border collie from working.”
It went on like that for quite some time, Miss Anderson, him saying three words, me adding four. Seemed to fill a long time, but all of a sudden I found I’d agreed to bring Shag to meet him one day, and I was on my way pulling that hill.
I’m wondering what I’ve gotten into. A white man with a funny way of talking and a face alive with hair. Kind of feels like I’m stepping into a hole I can’t see the bottom of. I’m tempted to not show up, but like I said before, I am a mite curious. And if it will help me make Shag her best, if it will help me look out for her in some way, I will go as deep as I need to go.
He
Similar Books
