Callan Wink - Dog Run Moon

“Oh, shut up,” Lauren said. “This isn’t for us. You have nothing to complain about. Be happy you’re in here and not outside with all your siblings. Be happy you found the one place where it is to your advantage to be too stupid to remain at large with the general population.”

She worked at the shelter the next day and on her way past Jason’s trailer she put the chicken and rice on the porch railing. She’d written Just heat and serve! on a blue Post-it note and stuck it to the top of the foil.

—

She worked a full six-hour shift at the shelter. She walked fifteen different dogs, one at a time, in a complete loop around the property. She figured that, over the course of the day, she’d done at least five miles and she felt pretty good. Although her hands were arthritic, her knees and ankles were fine. She was still a damn good walker. Lately she’d been thinking about making one last trip up to Livingston Peak. She hadn’t done it in years. While she was strong enough to do five mostly flat miles, she wasn’t sure if she was capable of a steep scramble at high altitude. She could fairly easily imagine falling and breaking her hip. Crawling around in agony, waiting for the magpies to peck her eyes out while she was still breathing. There was still snow up that high right now anyway. She had all summer to decide if she was up for it. Maybe in the meantime she would pick up the pace. She’d take the dogs for two loops around, they’d love that. The girls who worked at the shelter would no doubt notice and make remarks. I’m in training, she’d say. They already thought she was crazy, the way she walked, fast, head down, sometimes practically dragging dawdling spaniels behind her. Tara, the sweet, chubby little thing at the front desk, was always complaining about being tired. “I wish I had your energy,” she said to Lauren. “I don’t know about that,” Lauren replied. “I’m just worried that if I stop I might not get started again.”

That evening, the chicken and rice dish was gone from the porch railing. There was no sign of life and she watched for a long time after dinner, drinking tea with her binoculars by her side, but no one came out.

A few days later she pulled out one of her remaining baking dishes and put together a tuna casserole. Rocks watched her work and she talked to him. “That’s the way it goes,” she said. “You cook for other people, better than what you make for yourself. That’s some human foolishness right there. A dog wouldn’t understand. Church ladies are always doing stuff like this. Any crisis or sad turn in a person’s life and they’re right there with a nice casserole. Their husband is at home, eating a microwave dinner, smelling all day what they got cooking in the Crock-Pot. It’s not for us, Harold. It’s for the Johnsons. Mrs. Johnson’s nerves are acting up again and I’m going to bring them this nice roast. Harold is grumbling, eating his slop, wishing that her nerves would act up occasionally so someone would make him a roast.

“Why do they do it, Rocks?” The dog, recognizing his name, tilted his head and thumped his tail on the floor. “Are all these casseroles delivered out of pure Christian compassion? Or, is it just an excuse for them to weasel themselves into the situation? A chance for them to stand on the doorstep and hand over some food, say a few condolences, all the while scanning the inside of the house, noting the state of the things so that they might have some juicy details to throw around when they get on the phone to the other old biddies on the church directory.

“I’m telling you, Thelma, it’s complete chaos over there. That poor Mr. Johnson. There were dishes piled up in the sink. I mean, a tower of dirty dishes. I hear they’ve got her over at Pine Rest. A whole handful of sleeping pills is what I heard. I made him a nice roast. I could see how happy he was to have it. I think I might make him some Swedish meatballs this weekend. Maybe you could make him a Jell-O salad and we could go over there together.

“Rocks, I’m telling you, all the charity in the world, I’m suspicious of it. And yet, here I am, a church lady that never got around to going to church.”

4.

Early summer days, maybe the finest time of the year. Mountains still capped with snow, the river on the rise, the hillsides electric green with new grass. Lauren walked her dogs at the shelter. She puttered her way through her chores. She had plenty of time left to stand at the kitchen window with her binoculars. The girl came out occasionally, always underdressed in the same pair of shorts and T-shirt. She wandered around the yard hitting things with sticks. She sometimes set out walking down the road toward the highway. She never went very far before she turned around and came back. Frequently she’d squat in the yard with a book of matches. Striking them, letting them burn down to her fingers, one at a time, over and over again. Obviously the child was bored out of her mind at best, some kind of pyromaniac at worst.

Jason emerged less frequently. Once he came out and hobbled over to the van and made some efforts to change the flat tire. He was still on crutches, and he leaned them against the side of the van as he knelt with the jack. He removed the flat tire and was going around to the back to get the spare. He was hopping along, steadying himself with a hand on the van. He’d really gotten fat. His stomach bulged over his jeans and his face was pale and doughy. He tripped over something and went down, and she kept the binoculars on him for a long time but he didn’t move. He had a hand over his face so she couldn’t see what was there but eventually he hauled himself up, retrieved the crutches, and went inside. The van was still on the jack. That had been a week ago.

Lauren had made them macaroni and cheese with chunks of ham. Now she was out of baking dishes and she was pissed off. Funny to think that, after everything, what finally drove her to his doorstep was the fact that she wanted her good Pyrex cookware back.

—

She stood on the dilapidated front porch and knocked. He opened the door, and, up close, he looked even worse — lank hair, bloodshot eyes, a gaping hole where a tooth should have been. If he was surprised to see her he didn’t show it.

“You shouldn’t have shot my steer,” Lauren said. It wasn’t what she’d planned on saying but that’s what came out.

He looked down. Shook his head. Lauren tried to see behind him into the trailer but his bulk blocked the door. There was a musty, fetid, shut-in smell. “It was just a dumb animal and it never did enough harm to you that you had to shoot it.”

Jason shrugged. His face might have been slightly red but it was hard to tell. He pointed to his foot, encased in a dingy white bandage. “I got diabetes,” he said. “They took off three of my toes.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lauren said.

“I’ve been on disability for four years. Hardly enough to get by on. And now I got a dependent.” He sighed, and grimaced as if in pain. His missing tooth was like a black portal into the cave of his mouth. “Admit it, you married my dad just because you saw an opportunity to get yourself a place because you knew he wasn’t long for the world and you knew you could take it from him. There was no other reason for a woman like you to marry a man like him.”

Jason was looking at her now, his nostrils flared slightly, and Lauren had imagined this conversation many times but now that it was happening, she realized it was nothing like what she had expected. Jason looked halfhearted, pathetic. She was old. It was a conversation that had no bearing, had no real reason for taking place. Any emotion attached was a faded shell of what had once been real hatred, fear, anger. They were going through the motions, and both of them knew it.