I hear Ellie’s car drive up to the front door.
Sylvan told me about the theater once. I feel like I’m watching a stage play.
Sylvan comes in looking tired.
He takes off his tweed jacket and stretches out on the couch.
Ellie carries a paper bag.
“That doctor’s office made me sick,” complains Sylvan. “There must be an ocean of germs there. That’s why I don’t like going to the doctor.”
“You went there sick,” says Ellie.
She takes bottles of medicine out of the paper bag and sets them by the sink.
She sits on a stool next to Sylvan.
“He wouldn’t let me know what the doctor said,” Ellie says to me.
“You are not my mother,” says Sylvan, his arm covering his eyes. “You are much more beautiful than my mother.”
“Thank you,” says Ellie.
“He has a fever,” I say.
Sylvan takes his arm away from his eyes and stares at me.
“How do you know that?”
“I’m a dog. I smelled a fever, and I can hear chest rumbles in you.”
“See?” says Sylvan with more energy. “I don’t need a doctor. I have a dog!”
“Take your pills and drink lots of water,” says Ellie.
“I don’t much like water,” says Sylvan.
Ellie laughs a lot.
“I’ll be back tomorrow for the class if you’re well enough to have it here,” she says.
“Only if someone reads a real poem,” says Sylvan.
“Curmudgeon,” whispers Ellie as she kisses me on the top of my head.
“Rest,” she calls as she goes out the door.
Sylvan doesn’t rest.
He smiles at me as he sits at the computer.
“I like that girl,” he says. “And I heard her call me a curmudgeon,” he adds as he types.
“I guess there is nothing wrong with your ears,” I say.
“Thank you, Doctor Dog,” says Sylvan with sarcasm.
“And you took care of Sylvan,” said Nickel.
“I did.”
“Like he took care of you,” said Flora.
Nickel’s voice was soft, but I could hear him even with the storm outside.
“It’s almost as if Sylvan saved you and brought you here so you could save us.”
“Maybe. One night, late, Sylvan read me part of a poem he had written about me. He called it ‘HE the Poet’s Dog.’” I closed my eyes to remember it.
HE THE POET’S DOG
PICKS UP MY DROPPED WORDS
HE
CARRIES THEM IN HIS SOFT MOUTH
LIKE TREASURES
TO BURY
FOR LATER
SO
HE THE POET’S DOG
CAN PASS THEM ALONG
AND I CAN FOLLOW.
Flora put her hand on my back.
“All this time I’ve been mad that Sylvan left you. But maybe he didn’t really leave at all.
“At all,” she repeated softly.