David Wroblewski - The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

Doctor Papineau was inspired to contemplate the population of dogs on the Ark, and from there the conversation turned back to Singer and Indigo. Edgar’s mood had lightened, briefly, while he worked the dogs, but as Claude began explaining the history of the kennel, it turned wretched again. Mr. Benson didn’t question Claude’s authority, though to Edgar every word he spoke marked him as an impostor. Now Claude was explaining about Buddy and the blood tie between the Sawtelle dogs and the Fortunate Fields breeding program. That surprised Edgar-he thought what he’d learned through the letters was a secret, or forgotten, but it wasn’t, and there was no reason Claude wouldn’t know. Now he was explaining how many dogs they placed each season and how the breeding program established by Edgar’s grandfather worked; how half the dogs they placed went to families who had already owned a Sawtelle dog; how the majority of breeding dogs were fostered by farm families nearby. And as Edgar sat and listened to Claude, he wondered why he hadn’t plunged the Impala into the trees when he’d had the chance.

When they finished dinner, his mother brought out Doctor Papineau’s cheesecake and poured coffee. Mr. Benson commented on the cheesecake, and Doctor Papineau chimed in with his shopworn joke. Something about it made Edgar angry. Whenever he looked at Doctor Papineau he saw that fatherly hand laid on Claude’s shoulder and he thought the old man was a fool to let himself be manipulated so transparently. Even the new owner had begun to bother Edgar. Most wanted to get away from the table as soon as possible, to release their dogs from their stays and touch them, but Mr. Benson seemed oddly incurious. The dogs were patiently holding stays; Singer was even dozing. But anyone could see they were waiting to spring up and investigate the man all over again.

Then Mr. Benson turned to Claude.

“Now, I’ve got something to ask, and you should just say no if I’ve overstepped. Of course, we’ll get to this tomorrow when we work through the branch contract and pick out stock, but I’d be obliged if I might have a look at your kennel. That’s a fine barn. I haven’t seen many like it since I passed Killeen. And I want to see for myself what sort of magic happens there.”

Claude and Doctor Papineau were looking at the man with equally self-satisfied expressions. Edgar turned to his mother.

What is he talking about?

She waved him off with a small gesture. He signed again.

Why is he talking about a branch contract?

She turned to him, her expression calm, but beneath that, flushed with anger.

Not now, she signed. You haven’t wanted to talk for weeks. We’ll discuss it later.

What does he mean, selecting stock? Breeding stock?

Not now.

Mr. Benson was watching the exchange and he leaned back.

“I don’t mean to be rude. It was just itching at me. Maybe that’s for tomorrow.”

“Not at all,” Claude said. “I have to tell you, though, there’s nothing magic to be found out there. Just slow, steady work.”

Claude led Mr. Benson outside, followed by Edgar’s mother and Doctor Papineau. Singer and Indigo loped ahead. Edgar stood on the porch. He recalled that game of canasta they’d played the autumn before. You can get anything you want in this world if you’re willing to go slow enough, Claude had said. At the time, Edgar had taken it as beer-fueled backwoods munificence, but now he heard it as a perverse taunt.

When did you start wanting this so badly? he wondered, watching Claude walk alongside the stranger, explaining what they did as something to be replicated, capitalized, multiplied. Was it one of those afternoons you spent on the barn roof watching us all? Were you surprised at what your brother had accomplished after you left? Or have you been thinking of this for longer than that? How slow have you been willing to go?

From out in the yard, Mr. Benson’s voice rose in reply to some question Claude had asked.

“I have good news for you there,” he said. “I talked with the son, James, the night before I left. He’s very excited about this idea, calls it a unique opportunity. He keeps saying over and over: a Caruthers dog, a milestone in catalog merchandising-the first time a breed has ever been brand-named. Says he’s got a mock-up of the Christmas wish-book on his desk, pups on the inside of the front cover and everything. Course, they’re the wrong kind of pups right now, but they can fix that picture in one day flat.”

Almondine walked up behind Edgar and stood at the threshold of the kitchen door. He’d wanted to make amends with her all evening, but now he was seething again and in his mind he saw her lying in the workshop, light streaming over her like some kind of painting, and Claude at work. He swung the kitchen door shut and made sure the latch caught. He trotted after the others. The long twilight had faded. A fitful wind shook the maple. To the west, the canopy of the forest shivered against the darkening rim of blue.

“I forget sometimes what it’s like to be this far from city light,” Mr. Benson was saying. “Our night sky is never this black, with San Antone so close. D’you ever see the northern lights?”

But before anyone could respond to the man’s question, something curious happened. A gust of wind passed through the yard, carrying with it a sheet of warm rain, translucent and swift. The drops pelted the roofs of the vehicles and splashed thinly across them all. The dogs snapped at the air. Dust rose from the driveway. Then the rain was gone, returned to the night. Everyone looked up. There was nothing overhead but a field of stars.

“That don’t surprise me,” Mr. Benson said. “That happens back home. Rain’ll fall smack out of a clear sky. That rain could have been in the air in North Dakota and only now touched ground.”

They’d come to a stop in front of the barn, near the leaden pock of quicklime where the grass had once turned white. The man squatted down to stroke Indigo’s chest. It was the first time he’d touched either of the dogs since dinner, and when he stood again he produced a handkerchief from his pocket and wrung his hands in the cloth and pulled it along each finger.

“It occurs to me every once in a while that it’s raining somewhere, even when the sky is clear-there’s more water in the air than we’re apt to think. You took all the water out of the air, there’d be a flood that only Noah would recognize. When I can’t make sense of things, I try to think big enough to see rain falling somewhere. Water’s always moving-that’s the view I try to get. If it’s not falling, it’s coming up through the ground getting ready to fall again. That comforts me, I can’t say why. Sometimes I only need to get above the treetops. Late afternoons where I live, you can see half a dozen big ole bull thunderstorms coming along, shafts of light between them and rain trailing underneath like a jellyfish. Sometimes, though, I have to go up high enough to see most of the whole country-way, way out to California-before I see rain and clear sky both. That’s all in my mind, of course. But no matter where I am, if I can get to where I see it raining and where it’s clear, that’s when I can do my most powerful thinking.”

Then Mr. Benson caught himself.

“Good God,” he said. “I didn’t realize how long I’ve been sitting alone in a truck.”

Edgar’s mother laughed and they walked into the kennel. None of them seemed to take more note of the rain, though to Edgar, it had felt like a hand brushing his face. For a moment he was unable to move. When he caught up, the dogs began to bark. His mother hushed them, a small thing that impressed the man greatly. Mr. Benson started asking questions: how long did they let the pups nurse, did they believe in docking dewclaws at birth, why didn’t they use sawdust instead of straw, and so on. Claude took down the master litter book and pulled a file at random and talked about the breeding research and the log sheets and the scoring, all with great authority, like a man describing furniture. Edgar’s mother led Mr. Benson up to the mow and showed him the fly lines, the floor rings, and all the rest.