floating above the earth, unattached to anything and yet connected to everything. She reached into her pocket and took out a small slip of paper. On it was written “Diner Hours: 7:00 a.m.–5:00 p.m. Closed Sundays.”
“The world doesn’t have to be cruel,” Heather said as she took her daughter’s hand. “Sometimes it can be whatever we want it to be.”
THREE
WASH’S GRANDMOTHER, BRENDA, had always had a way with animals—dogs in particular. She garnered the nickname “the Dog Lady” and, for the most part, didn’t think it was something worth getting worked up over, so long as people chose discretion over valor and never said it to her face. If there was a dog that didn’t have a home, or one that had a home and simply needed a place to mend, it was brought to her. And sometimes the animals were left for years and simply became a part of the household, with no questions asked and no complaints offered by the commanding old woman.
So when the years had stacked up around her and life unfolded in its unpredictable way—taking from her a husband and a daughter—cancer for one; a car crash for the other—and she found herself with a grandson named Wash, who needed everything a child needed, the notion of turning her home into a dog shelter and clinic was as good a way as any to help the ends stay met.
And because she was an old-fashioned woman appreciative of her solitude, she liked the way the dogs always let her know when someone came calling. This morning they were at full tilt.
Wash heard what sounded like a car door closing outside, followed by the slow swish-swish sound of his grandmother’s house shoes sliding across the floor as she approached his bedroom. “I’ll handle it,” she said, looking in at the boy. “Likely as not it’s some damned reporter. Most of them got the hint, but there’s a hardheaded one in every bunch. And sometimes you just got to give them both barrels.”
Wash hoped his grandmother was speaking metaphorically, but he couldn’t really be sure. She kept an unloaded shotgun by the front door—a habit that, as legend went, she learned from an ornery cousin who lived on the other side of the state. She kept the shells for the gun in the pockets of the flowered apron she wore around the house because, as she once told Wash, “The world likes to sneak up on you, so you may as well be as ready as you can.”
“Just go back to sleep and get your rest,” she said, leaving Wash’s doorway and heading down the hall. “I’ll get this situated.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Wash said. He pulled the covers over his head and listened to the sound of the barking dogs out back as his grandmother moved to the front of the house. He heard the curtain in the living room slide back gently as she peeked out to see who had come so early in the morning. Then the knock came at the front door.
“Hell,” Brenda said, but Wash couldn’t discern exactly which “Hell” it was. She had a “Hell” for every occasion.
He heard the door open.
“Hell,” she said again.
“Hello, Brenda,” the voice said. It was a man’s voice, deep and even.
“I guess the creek done rose that high, huh?” Brenda said. “High enough to bring you back this way. Can’t say I expected otherwise. Not really.”
“How have you been, Brenda?” the man asked.
“Rose petals and beef Wellington,” Brenda replied. “I suppose the polite thing for me to do is to ask how you’ve been.”
Wash got out of bed and walked softly to the doorway of his bedroom.
“You stay right there,” Brenda said loudly.
Wash froze. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered. He’d lived with his grandmother all of his life, and he knew which commands to obey and which were elective.
“Well...” the man at the door said.
“Well...” Brenda replied.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you, Brenda?”
“Give me one good reason why I should?”
The man sighed. It was then that Wash recognized his voice.
“The world doesn’t have to be cruel,” Heather said as she took her daughter’s hand. “Sometimes it can be whatever we want it to be.”
THREE
WASH’S GRANDMOTHER, BRENDA, had always had a way with animals—dogs in particular. She garnered the nickname “the Dog Lady” and, for the most part, didn’t think it was something worth getting worked up over, so long as people chose discretion over valor and never said it to her face. If there was a dog that didn’t have a home, or one that had a home and simply needed a place to mend, it was brought to her. And sometimes the animals were left for years and simply became a part of the household, with no questions asked and no complaints offered by the commanding old woman.
So when the years had stacked up around her and life unfolded in its unpredictable way—taking from her a husband and a daughter—cancer for one; a car crash for the other—and she found herself with a grandson named Wash, who needed everything a child needed, the notion of turning her home into a dog shelter and clinic was as good a way as any to help the ends stay met.
And because she was an old-fashioned woman appreciative of her solitude, she liked the way the dogs always let her know when someone came calling. This morning they were at full tilt.
Wash heard what sounded like a car door closing outside, followed by the slow swish-swish sound of his grandmother’s house shoes sliding across the floor as she approached his bedroom. “I’ll handle it,” she said, looking in at the boy. “Likely as not it’s some damned reporter. Most of them got the hint, but there’s a hardheaded one in every bunch. And sometimes you just got to give them both barrels.”
Wash hoped his grandmother was speaking metaphorically, but he couldn’t really be sure. She kept an unloaded shotgun by the front door—a habit that, as legend went, she learned from an ornery cousin who lived on the other side of the state. She kept the shells for the gun in the pockets of the flowered apron she wore around the house because, as she once told Wash, “The world likes to sneak up on you, so you may as well be as ready as you can.”
“Just go back to sleep and get your rest,” she said, leaving Wash’s doorway and heading down the hall. “I’ll get this situated.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Wash said. He pulled the covers over his head and listened to the sound of the barking dogs out back as his grandmother moved to the front of the house. He heard the curtain in the living room slide back gently as she peeked out to see who had come so early in the morning. Then the knock came at the front door.
“Hell,” Brenda said, but Wash couldn’t discern exactly which “Hell” it was. She had a “Hell” for every occasion.
He heard the door open.
“Hell,” she said again.
“Hello, Brenda,” the voice said. It was a man’s voice, deep and even.
“I guess the creek done rose that high, huh?” Brenda said. “High enough to bring you back this way. Can’t say I expected otherwise. Not really.”
“How have you been, Brenda?” the man asked.
“Rose petals and beef Wellington,” Brenda replied. “I suppose the polite thing for me to do is to ask how you’ve been.”
Wash got out of bed and walked softly to the doorway of his bedroom.
“You stay right there,” Brenda said loudly.
Wash froze. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered. He’d lived with his grandmother all of his life, and he knew which commands to obey and which were elective.
“Well...” the man at the door said.
“Well...” Brenda replied.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you, Brenda?”
“Give me one good reason why I should?”
The man sighed. It was then that Wash recognized his voice.
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