Joan Kilby - Family Matters

Oh, great, someone high on life. Marc could tell right now this was going to be a long trip even though the drive took only half an hour. “Pemberton Hotel.”

Brent slid the door shut, got in and started to back out. “What’s your name?”

“Marc.” He stared out the window and pretended not to hear the driver’s friendly chatter as they sped up the highway. How many trees in these forests? Millions? Billions?

“Here you are,” Brent announced as he pulled up in front of the pub. He jumped out and lowered the ramp for Marc to roll down. “Enjoy your day.”

“Oh, I plan to have a wonderful time.” Marc handed him a couple of big bills, overtipping to compensate for his lack of grace.

Inside he went straight to the table in the far corner where he always sat. The big room seemed even emptier without Fiona but sitting at a table listening to the jukebox gave him the illusion he was doing something.

After a couple of drinks his conscience started to work on him. He couldn’t stop thinking about that damn dog, imagining the undernourished mutt sitting on a cold concrete floor at the pound, cringing and snarling every time someone walked by. That’s no way to find an owner, he wanted to shout at it. Wag your tail, look happy to see folks, muster up a little warmth and puppy charm.

He was on his fifth, or maybe it was his sixth, bourbon, his mind flipping back and forth between the dog and his last day in Damascus, when the two images merged. He heard a whimper and instead of an injured boy, he was carrying the abandoned pup through mortar blasts and crossfire. Up ahead was the brick building. If he hurried, he’d make it—

A hand gripped his shoulder. “Wha’ the—?” he said, startled into flinging his head up and back.

A familiar chestnut-haired figure in a blue corduroy shirt and jeans stood beside him. Aidan. Marc slumped down in his wheelchair. “You mus’ come here ’lot,” he joked feebly. “This’s the sec’nd time this week you been in the pub.”

His cousin took the glass from his hand and set it on the table. “I’m tired of rescuing you from yourself, bud. It’s time you found another form of entertainment.”

“Stay ’n have a drink,” Marc said when Aidan took hold of the hand grips at the back of the chair and pulled him away from the table.

“Can’t. Emily’s waiting in the car.” Aidan waved to the bartender and started for the exit.

“I can push myself,” Marc protested but Aidan was walking too fast for Marc to get hold of the turning wheels. He twisted in his chair and squinted up at his cousin. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“I’ll be mad if you drink yourself to death after surviving that bomb blast.” He started to help Marc into the truck and without the coordination to transfer himself, Marc was forced to accept.

Emily, Aidan’s six-year-old daughter stared at Marc. “What’s wrong with Marc, Daddy?”

“He’s drunk,” Aidan said bluntly.

Marc winced and turned away from the little girl’s expression of pity and distaste. Once upon a time she’d begged for piggyback rides, shrieking with laughter as he galloped her around the yard. Now, God help him, even the child could see he was sinking.

He stayed away from the pub the next day, and every day that week. But although the hangover wore off, he found he was still thinking about the pup. On Friday after his physiotherapy he checked and discovered that Fiona’s notices were still up in store windows. That meant she hadn’t found a home for the pooch. Marc tried to reason with himself—it was just a dog, for goodness’ sake—but by four o’clock the unfairness of the animal’s fate had him agitated.

“You’re going to wear holes in my carpet wheeling back and forth like that,” Leone complained. She’d just walked in the door after making her rounds as a public-health nurse and was still in her navy blue skirt and jacket. “What’s wrong with you?”

Marc stopped suddenly, blocking her way. “Would you object to me getting a puppy?”

“Do you mean that poor creature your friend Fiona brought over? Of course not. He would be a companion for Rufus with Jim and I both working full-time.”

“Great. I’ll go get him right now. Otherwise Fiona’ll take him to the pound.”

“Give me a minute to change and I’ll drive you,” Leone said. “There’s a special on rump steak at the Pemberton market.” Marc’s eyebrows rose and she added, “Not for the dog!”

A short time later Leone was pulling onto the highway to Pemberton. “What’s her address?”

Marc could have kicked himself—metaphorically speaking. He’d never asked her where she lived and of course she’d never volunteered such information. Then he remembered the notice—which he’d left sitting on top of his dresser in his hurry to be off.

“Let me think.” Shutting his eyes, he visualized the sheet of paper. Free to a good home: Jack Russell–cross puppy. Call Fiona 555-6283. With the image of the numbers imprinted on the back of his eyelids, Marc felt in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed.

A young man answered and said Fiona was out in the barn and could he get her to call him back?

“Has she found a home for the puppy?” Marc demanded. “She hasn’t taken it to the pound, has she?”

“No, the little fella’s right here, snoozing on my lap. I think she’s planning on taking him to the pound when she comes in.” The young man added hopefully, “Why? Do you want him?”

“Yes. I’m on my way now. What’s your address?”

Marc found pen and paper in the glove compartment and wrote down the address, repeating it aloud as he did so. Half an hour later they were pulling into the gravel driveway of an older-style home set on a large property outside town. Alpacas grazed in the field next to a red barn. Late roses bloomed along the footpath and red-and-gold dahlias were staked up in a garden bed under the windows.

But what drew Marc’s attention was the wheelchair ramp that zigzagged from the path to the front door.

The absurd thought struck him that she’d been expecting him. Ridiculous. The ramp was weathered and worn, obviously in use for many years.

“At least you won’t have a problem getting inside,” Leone commented pragmatically. “Did you want me to come in? Because if not, I’ll run down to the grocery store and pick up a few things for dinner.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

Leone got his wheelchair out of the car and tried to help him into it but Marc waved her off. The feeling of helplessness, of having to rely on others, was the part he hated the most. If he was forced to spend more than a few months in this contraption he’d be looking into a car with hand controls. But of course, it wouldn’t come to that.

Leone stood back while he got himself settled and wheeled over to the footpath. “Shall I push you?”

“I’m fine.” He softened his curt tone. “Thanks for the ride.”

Leone got back into the car with a promise to return in twenty minutes. Marc started up the long ramp.

IN THE BARN, FIONA RAN the brush over Snowdrop’s soft white wool and wondered what Angela Wilde was knitting with the animal’s cria fleece. Something special, she hoped. She could ask Liz to find out…

What was her interest here, she asked herself sharply— Angela and the fleece, or Angela’s connection to the Wilde family? Bill had told her he’d had to call Marc’s cousin again to pick Marc up the afternoon she’d gone to UBC Marc hadn’t been in the pub since. Had he finally found more worthwhile pursuits? For his sake, she hoped so.

She glanced at her watch and reluctantly put the brush away. No one had called about the dog. It was time to take him to the pound. With a heavy heart she walked back to the house, trailed by Bilbo and Baggins who’d waited faithfully at the barn door for her.