“Hmm? What do you mean?” She was combing her hair and straightening her skirt and blouse.
“The Dan Emmett statue,” Dwight said patiently, “that statue of him.” He slowed the car so she could see. Trudy gazed out briefly, and then turned to look at Amelia Anne in the backseat, who was sound asleep.
“Oh, no, Dwight. That’s not a statue of Dan Emmett. The Historical Society only had enough money to preserve his house. Over on Mulberry Street . . .”
But neither Dwight nor Trudy was paying much attention to the other at the moment, and when Dwight pulled into Scofields he was swept through with relief and surprise at the delight with which he was filled at being back in familiar territory. He found himself overwhelmed for a moment with a lessening of anxiety, an ecstatic headiness he had only ever felt before as a child in these same surroundings. He couldn’t remember any particular incident in childhood that had brought about that quick wash of pure gladness; he couldn’t remember any particular incidents, although he clearly recalled his astonishment at the intensity of his brief euphoria.
He pulled into the seldom-used, shallow semicircular drive on which the three houses of Scofields fronted. Generally all the family and most everyone else used the separate drives of each house that ran in back of the property, where it was easy to park. But Dwight wanted to get a look at the houses as they must have been envisioned by Leo, John, and George Scofield before the turn of the century. They were handsome Greek Revival-style houses, large by 1940s standards, and garnished, now, with later ideas of a porch here or there, a gable where light was needed. They were nicely spaced, one from the other, given their proportions.
Agnes’s house had originally been built for John Scofield and was positioned sturdily between the other two. Leo’s house, where Trudy had grown up and where Robert and Lily Scofield Butler lived, was its original white painted brick, set farther back and on the western flank of the compound. Uncle George’s tall white house, to the east of the others, still served as his Civil War museum, and Dwight’s and Trudy’s first impression was that nothing had changed in all the time they had been away. The grass was vividly green in the unexpectedly fierce June sun, but the leaves of the old trees that lined the drive were so dense that no light at all interrupted their shade, and Dwight’s initial euphoria embraced the lush beauty of this small Ohio town. When he was growing up in Washburn, it had never occurred to him to compare it with anyplace else.
As soon as he and Trudy stepped from the car, though, Dwight was confronted by a medium-size dog that came hurtling around the corner of the house, followed languidly by Will Dameron, who whistled for the dog. “Pup!” he said. “Come on back here! Pup!”
Agnes hadn’t expected Dwight and Trudy until dinnertime, and she opened the wide front door—which was used so seldom that it always stuck—and hurried across the front porch and down the steps to meet them. Will had stayed over the night before, and he and Agnes had been sitting drinking coffee when she heard the car and saw that it was Dwight and his family. It had annoyed Will to be hustled out the kitchen door. “For God’s sake, Agnes! Why would anyone care? We’re just having some breakfast!” But Agnes had learned caution in what she revealed to her children. She was concentrating fiercely on collecting herself. She didn’t even notice Pup’s persistent growl, which erupted into frantic barking when Dwight gave her a hug, although the dog didn’t seem as distressed when Trudy, too, came forward to embrace her mother-in-law.
Amelia Anne was leaning against her mother’s knees, not yet having shaken off her heat-drugged and intermittent sleep. Her face puckered as she came completely awake, and she turned and reached up mutely to her mother in that universal gesture of children when they want to be picked up. Trudy bent automatically and scooped her up, propping Amelia Anne against the convenient ledge of her body created by the baby who was due in less than three months.
“Oh, let me help with all this,” said Agnes, but she didn’t offer to take Amelia Anne, who still buried her face against her mother’s shoulder. Agnes thought it was likely the little girl would become hysterical if she were handed over to anyone else. Agnes had seen it happen more than once. When a tired or crying child was put into the generously open arms of a stranger and then became even more disconsolate with terror. Generally that hapless do-gooder was immediately viewed with annoyance and slight suspicion. Agnes had seen it happen even with school-age children now and then.
She began to collect various items that Dwight had put out on the grass, and Dwight continued to unpack the car while keeping a close eye on the dog, who watched him with equal attention. Will Dameron finally relieved Trudy of Amelia Anne, who let out a loud whoop of surprise as Will swung her in an exaggerated arc and settled her comfortably on his shoulders. She became quiet and somber as she clung to Will’s hair and looked down upon them all.
Finally the whole group managed to straggle into the front hall, the dog as well, who became frenzied with barking when Dwight crossed the threshold with an air of authority. “Mother. The dog. Does that dog come in the house? Maybe Mr. Dameron could leave him out back.” He had always liked Mr. Dameron well enough, but it seemed to Dwight that he was taking a lot of liberties—was assuming an unusual intimacy with the family and with the household—that his mother wouldn’t usually have permitted. Especially allowing his dog to make itself at home in her house, where she had never welcomed any animals or pets. Dwight thought that Will Dameron should know to go home, or wherever else he had been headed in town.
Will clapped Dwight on the back. “Now, Dwight! ‘Mr. Dameron’! Well, that would be my father. Let’s don’t have any more of that! I’m ‘Will’ to you and your family! I hope you’ll do me that courtesy! But I’ve got to get a move on,” Will said, “and Pup will follow me out, I imagine.” He looked at Agnes for a moment. “So supper is about six o’clock?” he asked, and she nodded. “Just let me know if there’s anything else I can bring,” he told her and then turned his attention back to Dwight. “I wanted to bring your mother the last of the beefsteak tomatoes and some fresh corn. A new hybrid. You can see what you think of it. It
is
sweet,” Will said.
“You don’t need to worry about the dog,” he added. “I don’t think Pup would hurt anyone unless they really did threaten your mother. He’s part collie, I think. Or some part working dog. Wants to herd everything, and he’s been protecting the place long enough now that he’s just feeling important with so many strangers. Just showing off.”
Will carefully lifted Amelia Anne up and over his head, handing her to Trudy, who smiled her thanks. He leaned forward to give Trudy, then Amelia Anne, a kiss on the cheek each and a kiss for Agnes, too. He offered a quick handshake to Dwight before taking his leave.
Dwight was relieved to see the dog trot alertly out the door with Will. A few minutes later, though, as Will’s car pulled out of the drive, Dwight was offended to see the dog at the screen door once again, and even more annoyed when his mother opened the door without hesitation to let him in.
“The dog’s staying here?” Dwight asked. “That seems to me a real imposition. He’s really made himself at home.”
Agnes was distracted and guiltily assumed Dwight meant that it was Will who was too comfortable in her house. “Oh, well. It is nice to have him around the place. It’s nice to have a little company, especially since Robert and Lily are out of town. And I suppose he must feel pretty isolated out at the farm. He’s been a good friend.”
“Well, I’m glad, Mama. I’ll tell you . . . we’re all just tired out from being in the car so long,” Dwight said more calmly, realizing that he had been ungracious to Mr. Dameron, ungracious to Agnes herself. But he made the mistake—as he was speaking—of gazing in the dog’s direction. Pup tensed immediately and began anxiously issuing a successive two-bark warning.
Dwight’s voice became strained once more. “But, Mother, even if the dog’s good company when you’re by yourself, I don’t think it made sense for Will Dameron to leave him here this particular day!” While Dwight had turned to speak to Agnes, Pup quieted and backed away a few steps. After a moment or so, however, he barked twice more and then kept it up at regular intervals.
“Oh!” Agnes said. “I thought you meant . . . No, Dwight. He’s not Will’s dog. He lives here. He’s my dog. Honestly, he won’t hurt you,” Agnes said, waving in the dog’s direction. “He just doesn’t know you. Go on, Pup! Scat! Scat! Will’s right about that. Pup’s just showing off.” But the dog stayed where he was, just inches from her skirt; he canted his head toward Dwight and continued to issue warnings in staccato bursts, his front feet shifting in excitement. Agnes remonstrated halfheartedly. “No, Pup! That’s not a good dog!”
“He doesn’t look like a pup to me,” Dwight said matter-of-factly. “I think he’s pretty much full-grown.”
It was a dazzling day with a pure blue sky and such clarity that the sun streamed into the front hallway exactly like a children’s book illustration of sunbeams falling from heaven. And Agnes was dazzled herself at the sight of Dwight’s bright hair glossed white by the glare, and at this first look at Amelia Anne, who had her father’s coloring exactly. Agnes stood looking at them with a small, shocked smile on her face, because this little girl could have been one of her own children. Amelia Anne burrowed her head into her mother’s skirt under Agnes’s scrutiny.
Agnes was in sole charge of seeing to the homecoming of Dwight and Trudy and their daughter, with Robert and Lily away, and she found herself uncomfortably and surprisingly bashful. Dwight and Trudy had seemed grown-up but not adult, exactly, when she had last seen them. Trudy was busy with Amelia Anne, but on Dwight’s part, he, too, felt oddly ill at ease.
Agnes Scofield’s competent jurisdiction over the Scofield compound was so ingrained an idea that not one of the children who had grown up there gave it much thought at all. But each one, as he or she returned to Washburn after the war, was taken aback. On that Sunday in June 1947, Dwight had been euphoric when they had finally reached Scofields, but gradually he began to feel a dismaying letdown. He and Trudy had decided at the last minute to trade off driving while Amelia Anne slept so that they could drive straight through without stopping, and they arrived home at Scofields about eight in the morning, anticipating baths and breakfast and fresh sheets. It hadn’t occurred to Dwight to let Agnes know about their change of plan. After all, he and Trudy were going home, and, also, he had wanted to leave open the possibility of stopping somewhere overnight if he and Trudy got too tired to stay on the road.
The dog continued to stand with his head raised and his forelegs slightly splayed, barking to warn Dwight off and refusing to back down until Agnes finally gave his collar a jerk and spoke to him with clear annoyance. Pup didn’t want Dwight on his territory, and he obeyed Agnes with reluctance. Dwight was affronted; it seemed to him not only uncharacteristic but unkindly secretive of his mother to have acquired this dog behind his back, without consultation.
Their father had brought home all sorts of pets when Dwight and Claytor were young—cats, turtles, birds, and dogs, too. Dwight couldn’t remember that his mother had ever been swayed by his father’s enthusiasm for any one of those pets. In fact, it struck Dwight suddenly that, even in the face of their father’s delight—and a pleading eagerness on his own and Claytor’s part—she had steadfastly refused to admit their charm, although, of course, she had never neglected them. But the animals had all come to a bad end, as if his mother’s adamant indifference to them had been toxic.
Turtles escaped their shallow bowls only to be found months later, their empty, overturned shells swept out from beneath a chest of drawers, so that the frantic pedaling of their short, spatulate turtle legs—as they must have tried to right themselves—was only too easy to imagine. One morning Dwight had come down to the kitchen, where the canaries’ cage was suspended from the ceiling as a precaution against cats, and found the tiny metal door ajar with nothing inside but two pairs of small, reptilian bird feet. Not even a feather was left.
But cats also disappeared sooner or later, or were discovered flattened in the road two streets away. Pet rabbits died mysteriously overnight, and not a single dog had developed a loyalty to the household and become a family pet. So Dwight was both bemused and irritated by the presence of his mother’s dog.
He and Trudy and Amelia Anne followed as Agnes took them through the house, the dog nearly hobbling her at the knees and barking alertly as they crossed each threshold, although Agnes didn’t pay any attention to the noise. The dog preceded her as she led them along the back hall, where she opened the doors to the dining room and the little study to let light into the hall. And as they made their halting circuit of the rooms through one door after another, Dwight observed furniture rearranged, wallpaper faded, a water stain on the dining-room ceiling. All this was an insult to his affectionate memory of his life in the house, to his idea of his own place in the world. His discovery that everything was not as he remembered made him feel foolish, duped, gave him an injured feeling of somehow being betrayed.
After all, this was Agnes presiding over the property; this was the one person to whom he felt entirely known, and here she was, preoccupied with some strange dog. This was the person he thought of as his mother but who was inviting people to dinner left and right on Dwight and Trudy and Amelia Anne’s first day home, not considering the fact that they might be tired, that the three of them might only want to see the family. And what did it signify that—upon close inspection—the house had a worn, disheveled look about it, that the yards had gone to seed?
Agnes seemed to have let the rooms become shabby, even threadbare. And although the children had dreaded Agnes’s persistence when she got a bee in her bonnet about getting some little chore attended to, Dwight was disturbed that so many things around the place appeared to need repair. Trudy glanced at him curiously when he spoke to Agnes with a clear note of petulance.