William Maxwell: So Long, See You Tomorrow

Twisting the heel of his shoe he erased the lines he had drawn in the dirt and, with them, the ant. Then he got up and went toward the hole in the back fence.

When the man and the old man started bringing things out of the house, the dog couldn't imagine what had got into them. Bedsteads, mattresses, chairs. Tables, kitchen utensils, tools. Boxes of this and that. All out on the grass where they would get rained on.

The old man said, "Are you sure you want to get rid of this nice set of encyclopedia?"

"If you want it, put it in the car, Dad," Clarence said.

The farmyard began to fill up with people and he shut her up in the woodshed, though she wasn't meaning to do anything unless called upon. All she could see was the light that came through the cracks between the boards, but she could hear perfectly. More and more buggies and wagons kept arriving, and a person with a very loud voice kept shouting, "Wullabulla, wullabulla," and pounding on a table with a wooden mallet in such a way that it hurt her ears, and the animals seemed to be leaving! First the cows, that she had the privilege of rounding up every evening of her life. And then the sheep. She could hear them baaing with fright. Then the hogs. Then the chickens and turkeys. And finally the horses, which was too much. How was the man going to plow without them? It must be the work of the loud voice, and if the man had only opened the door of the woodshed the dog would have helped him drive that person clean off the property. To remind him that she was there, able and willing, she barked and barked.

When he finally did let her out, the shouting had stopped and all the things that had been standing about on the grass were either gone or in somebody's buggy or wagon, and the few people who were left were going, and the sun was already down behind the hill.

Clarence got a length of rope and tied the dog to a tree, which she didn't understand any more than she understood why he felt it was necessary to shut her up in the shed. Then he brought some more things out of the house — a suitcase, fishing poles, a flashlight, an axe, an umbrella — and put them in the car. The old man pointed to the doghouse, and Clarence said, "That stays here."

While his father waited in the car, Clarence walked through all the empty rooms one last time. Then he locked the kitchen door and put the key under the mat. "I'm glad this day is over," he said and, taking a firm stance in front of the car radiator, he gave the crank half a dozen quick heaves and then ran around and climbed into the driver's seat. The roar of the engine diminished as he adjusted the spark.

The old man saw the dog looking at them expectantly and said, "What if that fella doesn't come?"

"He'll come," Clarence said. "He told me it might be dark before he got here, but he promised me he'd come today."

The borrowed Model T drove off down the lane and the dog was tied up, with night coming on, and no lights in the house, and no smoke going up the chimney.

She waited a long long time, trying not to worry. Trying to be good — trying to be especially good. And telling herself that they had only gone in to town and were coming right back, even though it was perfectly obvious that this wasn't true. Not the way they acted. Eventually, in spite of her, the howls broke out. Sitting on her haunches, with her muzzle raised to the night sky, she howled and howled. And it wasn't just the dog howling, it was all the dogs she was descended from, clear back to some wolf or other.

She heard footsteps and was sure it was the boy: He had heard her howling and come from wherever it was he had been all this time and was going to rescue her

It turned out to be the man's friend from over the way. He put his lantern on the ground and untied her and talked to her and stroked her ears, and for a minute or two everything was all right. But then she remembered how they didn't tell her to get in the car with them but drove off without even a backward look, and she let out another despairing howl.

Lloyd Wilson tried to get her to go home with him but she couldn't. If she did that, who would be on hand here to guard the property?

In a little while he was back with some scraps for her, which she swallowed so fast that she didn't know afterward what it was she'd eaten. He filled the bowl with water from the pump and left it by the door of her house. Then he called to her and whistled, but she wouldn't budge. "Have it your own way, but I doubt if anybody's going to get a wink of sleep," he said cheerfully, and went off into the darkness.

She howled at intervals all night, and set the other dogs in the neighborhood to barking. The next day when the man's friend came to see how she was getting on, she went halfway to meet him, wagging her behind.

The widow fed her, and the little boys put their arms around her and kissed her on the top of her head, and she felt some better.

That night at supper, with the dog sitting beside his chair and listening as if the story was about her, Lloyd Wilson said, "You never had to tell him anything. When he died, I swore I'd never have another…."

The dog raised her head suddenly. Then she got up and went to the door: a wagon or a cart had turned into the lane at her place. She whined softly, but nobody paid any attention until there were footsteps outside and she started barking. "Be quiet, Trixie," Lloyd Wilson said and pushed his chair back from the table. In the light from the open door he saw a young man who looked as if he were about ready to start running.

"Name's Walker," he said. "I'm your new neighbor. I told Mr. Smith I'd be here two days ago but my wife took sick and we had to put off coming. She's still in Mechanics- burg, where I left her. . No thanks, that's very nice of you. On my way through town I stopped and got something to eat at the cafe. You haven't seen anything of my dog, have you?"

Seeing the rope dangling from the tree, James Walker kept the dog tied up for the next two days, though he had been assured it wasn't necessary. But he also fed her and saw that her pan had water in it and talked to her sometimes. And when night came there was a light in the kitchen window, and the dog smelled wood smoke. Things could have been worse. From time to time she wanted to howl, and managed not to. The day after that, trucks came, bringing cattle and hogs and farm machinery and furniture. And that evening the young man untied the rope and said, "Come on, old girl, I need you to help me round up the cows." She understood what he said all right, but she wasn't his old girl, and she lit off down the road as fast as lightning.

Clarence spent much of the time in his room with the door closed. He had dark circles under his eyes. His clothes hung on him. When his mother called him he came to the table, but throughout the meal he looked at his plate rather than at them, and they had to ask him two or three times before he understood that they wanted him to pass something.

His mother tried to get him to see a doctor, but he wouldn't. "There's nothing wrong with my health," he said, in such a way that she was afraid to pursue the matter.

Cletus was sure that his father would come to see them on Christmas morning, bringing presents. Ice skates was what he wanted. A rifle would be even better but you couldn't use it in town, and anyway it would be too expensive. Wayne still believed in Santa Claus. On Christmas Eve, when they undressed, their empty stockings were hanging from the foot of the bed, and they saw by the streetlamp that it was snowing. When they woke up in the morning their stockings were full, and there were more presents waiting for them downstairs. Aunt Jenny had got out her best tablecloth and roasted a capon, and there was a small artificial Christmas tree in the center of the table. They ate till they were stuffed. When they pushed their chairs back, his mother started to clear the table and Aunt Jenny said, "Leave all that till we've had a chance to digest our dinner."