Dead Dogs and Englishmen (29 page)

They brought zinnias, antique
roses, daisies, black-eyed Susans, and pansies. Tall delphiniums and foxglove were brought in by pickle jar and mayo jar and canning jar. Lavender came in antique vases or clutched in sweaty fists. Leetsvillians stripped their gardens and the surrounding summer hillsides, bringing their offerings. A constant stream of neighbors and friends tip-toed into Dolly's hospital room: formally presenting their gifts to our newest town hero.

One by one and two by two they came to stand in awe at the foot of Dolly's bed, staring in admiration at the woman the
Northern Statesman
credited for the capture of what Bill called “The Monster of Torch Lake.”

More brownies than any woman should eat were dropped off on paper plates and old china. Orange and applesauce cakes appeared. The hospital brought in a long table for the food: casseroles and plates of ham, homemade breads and ‘put-up' pickles, lots of macaroni and cheese, and even a bowl of Harry's canned fish, though it wasn't going as fast as the ham.

Women from the library came with books; Eugenia and Gloria from EATS came with meatloaf. Farmers and their wives brought eggs and one whole chicken. A steady stream of migrant workers came with holy cards and plates of tostadas and enchiladas. Men from the gas station and the small engine repair brought bags of chips. People from the Skunk Saloon, among the first to arrive,
brought beer but got kicked out at the first pop of a cap. Jake
Anderson, the owner of the saloon, brought goldenrod in an old catsup bottle. The flustered nurse made him take it away at the same time she cleared the room of beer drinkers.

Dolly's plain hospital room—a private room since the floor nurses couldn't contain the crowd, nor the eating, nor much of anything else—was filled with celebration, with Dolly holding court from between the sheets, dressed in an open-down-the-back green hospital gown which required the room being cleared when she had to get up and go to the bathroom.

I sat off in one corner most of that day, watching the procession of well-wishers and Dolly, laid out on her glowing white bed, caught in long rays of sunshine coming through the large windows that overlooked the hospital laundry.

Dolly's obstetrician, Doctor Cornell, came in three times that afternoon, garnering admiration from the collected crowd.

“Baby's doing fine,” the elderly gentleman told everyone again and again, bowing his great head of white hair as if serving the queen. “Dolly's pain comes from three broken ribs. I'm keeping her a few days to make certain everything stays okay with the baby.”

At this point Dolly frowned hard at me. “You pulled me too damned hard,” she groused.

I smiled and reminded her I'd saved her life.

Then I thanked her for saving mine. We'd decided early on we were even on that score.

Cate, Dolly's grandmother, was there, back from the world excursion that never happened. She'd gotten as far as Grayling, turned around, and found a young couple to bring her back to Leetsville. “I knew it in my bones,” she told everyone. “Knew my Delores needed me.”

Cate arranged the flowers on the windowsills or set them on the floor. She bustled around the hospital room in her funny shoes and feathered hat like an elderly, come-down-in-the-world queen.

Jeffrey was gone before evening. Dehydrated from no water or food for three days, he'd been treated and released. When he came into Dolly's room to say goodbye I could see, in his eyes, that physical pain wasn't the worst thing he faced. The Diaz family—father, mother, and two young boys—had been in that dark room with him. Dead. For three days he'd felt around the walls only to stumble over another cold body, until he'd confined himself to a single corner, waiting for someone to come. “Or to die,” he'd said.

When he was leaving I hugged him. “Come back whenever you can,” I said, very close to his face. Meaning it. Sorry to see him leave.

He looked directly into my eyes. There was a wistfulness there, a kind of cautious hope. His smile was rueful. “Sure will …” he began, then stopped.

I figured I'd never see Jeffrey Lo again. The north country didn't hold good memories for him.

I watched him walk out the door, that neat blue suit rumpled, his shoulders slumped, the Nikes dirty. Confrontation with true evil can do that, I thought, knowing I'd never be the same again either.

“Where am I supposed to put all these things?” Dolly groused as Flora Coy struggled through the door with a bucket of lavender stalks.

“It's for your bathroom,” Flora whispered in her carrying voice as she pushed her big pink glasses back up her nose. “You know what they're like in the hospital.”

She carted her bucket into Dolly's private bath.

Bill Corcoran dropped by after taking Courtney to the airport, on her way back to England. She would get everything left of her mother's estate, including the Michigan ranch—since Cecil Hawke used stolen money to buy it, and left no other heir.

At a little after six, Lieutenant Brent and Officer Omar Winston walked in. They had been involved in the investigation all day. Brent, as usual, sucked the air out of the room with his big, uniformed body. He went to stand by Dolly's bed, at full attention, delivering his thanks, on behalf of the Michigan State Police, for Dolly's heroic actions in stopping a murder.

Mine.

Omar Winston was too small to be much of a presence, but his face showed real concern for Dolly. He went straight to her bedside, a large wrapped box under one arm and a big bouquet of pink roses stuck out in front of him like a shield.

Dolly looked at the huge bouquet and groaned. “Now where in hell am I gonna put more flowers?” she demanded. “Makin' me sneeze already.”

Cate shushed her and took the roses from Omar's fist. She pulled a chair close to the bed for him to sit while Brent remained behind him, hands crossed, shoulders back in his usual military stance.

Omar set the wrapped package on the bed beside her.

“What's this?” Dolly scowled at the prettily wrapped box with a baby rattle attached to the bow.

“It's not for you.” Omar cleared his throat. He reddened from his forehead to his chin and out to the edges of his ears.

“Then who?”

“Who do you think?”

She made a face, pulled herself up in the bed so Cate could plump her pillows, and pulled the box toward her. “Hope you didn't spend a lot of money.”

He shook his head. “You might call it a present from all of us at the post in Gaylord. Just to thank you …”

Dolly carefully removed the ribbon and handed it to Cate. She pulled off the paper and handed that to Cate too. The box was securely taped so Dolly swore, then ran a fingernail along the edge, cutting the top free. She opened the box and pulled back the tissue paper, seeing what the rest of us couldn't. Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes took on an unDolly-like softness.

“You gonna take it out?” I asked, as curious as the others gathered around, gawking over each others shoulders.

She reached in and pulled a little blue suit from the box, holding it up in front of her.

“Is this what I think it is?” Dolly frowned hard at Omar.

“Lieutenant Brent's wife found it for me … er … us.”

She sniffed a few times, then held up a tiny cop suit with epaulets, a painted-on gold star, and snaps along the inner legs.

Eugenia and some of the others snickered, drawing an angry face from Dolly.

She ran her hand over the little uniform. “Can't wait to see her in it.” She beamed up at all of us.

“You know it's a ‘her'?” I asked.

She shook her head, then stole a quick glance at Omar Winston. “Just guessin'.”

“I didn't mean what I said about you not being the godmother,” Dolly looked back at me slyly, from the corners of her eyes.

I nodded. Fair enough. I wouldn't have let her get away with it anyway. We were friends. Friends stand by each other.

“You can be the godfather, Omar,” she said toward the anxious little man. “If you wanna be.”

He began gulping and looking from side to side. She'd silenced him.

Soon she was grumping about the mess on her bed, brushing off the box and wrappings, but holding tightly to the tiny cop suit with gold buttons.

It was late. People began to leave. Lieutenant Brent soon excused himself.

I looked over at Omar, expecting him to go with Brent. He sat with his hands folded in his lap, back straight against the upright chair. He never cracked a smile, just sat there with his eyes on Dolly, who intentionally ignored him.

“Hope you get back to work soon,” he said once, leaning toward her, his voice tiny. He tried to take her hand in his.

Dolly whipped that hand away and stuck it under the blanket where there was no chance of him grabbing her.

Omar sniffed and sat back. The place under his left eye started ticcing away. He blinked again and again and licked out at his lip.

I got up and stretched, hoping he'd get the hint. He didn't. Didn't even turn to look at me. He just sat on, that little nerve under his left eye ticcing.

I pulled my shoulder bag from the back of the chair. I was figuring I'd have to nudge the guy out of the room so Dolly could rest. He was a guy bent on doing his duty, and the police post in Gaylord had sent him to deliver their thanks.

I stood in the doorway, after waving goodbye to Dolly.

Dolly's left eye stayed right on the little blue cop suit she still held in her hands while her right eye wandered off, exploring the room.

Omar's nervous cheek kept ticcing as he licked at his bottom lip and cleared his throat again and again.

I looked from Omar to Dolly, truth finally dawning.

Tic. Tic. Tic.

That wandering eye …

Ticcing.

The eye off looking at nothing.

Oh lord, I groaned, as a picture of a tiny baby girl flashed through my head.

Tic. Tic. Tic.

That eye wandering off on its own.

All I could think, as I went out into the hall and pulled the door shut behind me, was …

Oh no.

Poor baby.

It was the middle
of August when fall first hit the edges of the woods, slowly turning the leaves a deep, blood red.

The tent worms were gone—at least for that year. From time to time, as Sorrow and I walked the woods, I stopped and put my hand against the rough bark of a tree, letting my skin become accustomed to the feel of deep grooves and scaly surfaces. I wanted, for just a moment, to transfer my pity to the mute, tall giants; give them my fervent hope that the evil worm wouldn't come back again in spring.

I'd read that trees produce an enzyme that would protect from future worm attack. It seemed so smart to me, to outwit evil.

Like the worms, Cecil Hawke's evil was gone from our woods too. I was proud that Dolly and I had faced it, saved each other, and done away with him. But we had no enzyme to protect us from the future.

I'd kept the copy of Cecil's book. The original was taken by the police to molder in a dark evidence room until someday it would disintegrate into nothing.

At first I thought of inviting Dolly and Bill and Harry for a ritual burning of the book, but I couldn't. Burning evil, I realized, was best carried out alone. Best done as the sun went down, the pages thrown into a blazing log fire set at the bottom of a deep pit.

I chose a night and did the burning furtively, with only the natural world as witness. It doesn't take more than one who has seen true evil, to keep watch and know as flames lick the papers; as words ignite—letter by letter and page by page.

I watched alone down at the shore of Willow Lake while the sun set and the water behind me turned black. As self-appointed gatekeeper, I poked my stick at papers trying to escape the flames, separating pages, letting the fire lick up between them. The burning embers rose and soared toward whatever was out there in a sky slowly filling with a million stars, but no moon.

I made sure not a single word escaped whole. I poked and burned until the last of the flames disappeared and the world was cleansed of Cecil Hawke.

It was deep night by the time the fire burned to a single flickering spark. I stepped down on that last spark, grinding it beneath my shoe.

I could leave then, parting the ferns and making my way toward my brightly lighted house where the dog I loved waited, where a phone call could change my life, where there was possibility and hope and absence of evil.

No breeze ruffled the ferns.

No late, nesting bird sang off among the willows.

There was no one nearby.

Still, as I walked silently along my path, I thought I heard a thin, high voice coming from out over the dark water behind me.

I stopped to listen.

Lilting words at the edge of hearing.

A Noel Coward song.