Chapter Eight
By the following Tuesday, Sam had delivered the worktable Kate had ordered from the Mercantile and set it up in the center of her studio. She was pleased with her purchase. It was a good-sized table, though not so huge as to completely dwarf the small studio, and the top was a durable plywood that would stand up to the abuse of soldering and glass cutting. She couldn’t wait to use it.
She had completed the template for her surprise project for the church. Circular in design, it would have a diameter of thirty-six inches, making it one of the largest stained-glass windows she’d ever attempted. It would be a big undertaking, especially since it was so detailed. But Kate loved a challenge, and she couldn’t wait to see people’s faces when they saw it brightening the plain-Jane sanctuary.
The next step in the process was selecting the colored glass for the piece. She chose several shades of green and brown, with blue and white and touches of red and purple, deciding which she wanted where. Then she taped her template to the table and began the meticulous task of cutting the glass; first in measured strips to make the small cuts easier to accomplish. Then from those strips she cut the smaller pieces, setting each one on its designated spot on the template, careful to make sure it would fit exactly when the time came to put all the pieces together.
As with drawing, the glass-cutting phase of the process seemed to pull her into another world, a calm world where only she and her creation existed. There were few things like it. Cooking had the same effect, as did baking, and she relished those tasks almost as much as this.
She wondered if God felt the same way about creating the world. Did he get a sense of purpose and fulfillment in watching something new come from his own hands as she did? She couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t, especially since people were created in his image.
She pushed the small glass-cutting tool into the green glass as she followed the lines of the template. The cutter made a zipping sound and left a tiny line on the glass’s surface. Kate lifted the glass and tapped along the line’s edge, then with a quick flick of her wrist, she snapped off the perfectly shaped piece. It was a job that took a little getting used to. At first she’d been timid about snapping the glass, afraid the whole piece would shatter with the motion. But in a short time, she’d come to trust her ability to press hard enough with the cutter so that the glass would break off easily after she tapped it. Any pieces that weren’t exact after the first cut were either recut and snapped off using the pliers or taken to the grinder for more precise finishing. The rounded pieces she took to the glass-cutting saw, which was made just for curves.
She’d been working for hours before she raised her head and realized it was eleven o’clock. Rising from her stool, Kate stretched the muscles in her back that had gone rigid from being bent over in the same position for so long. Sometimes getting older wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She extended her arms and shook them out as well.
She walked into the living room when the sound of the mail truck pulling up to the box drew her attention outside. She waved to the long-bearded mail carrier whose nickname was Fish. She’d never heard what his real name was, but he seemed happy enough with Fish, though why any grown man would want to be known by such a smelly pseudonym was beyond Kate. Slipping on her shoes, she went out to the mailbox, which contained the usual smattering of bills and junk mail. She padded back into the house, tossed the items on the kitchen counter, and poured herself another cup of coffee.
It had been more than a week since Patricia had told her that Marissa would be too busy to see her. Kate wondered how she’d be received if she came by today. She’d been thinking of the pair nonstop since their last visit. Marissa had been so in need of a friend. Kate’s heart ached at the thought of the ill girl all alone in her room, and poor Patricia doing her best to care for her, yet bedraggled and worn down by the task.
The savory aroma of the barbecued beef she’d put in the Crock-Pot earlier that morning tempted her senses and drew her to look through the glass lid. It was a simple recipe, just a pound or two of beef with pickle relish and her homemade barbecue sauce. She’d set it to cook when she’d first gotten up, so now it was bubbling in juicy tenderness. Then a thought occurred to her, and she pulled down a package of buns and scooped some of the barbecue into a glass bowl, which she covered with its plastic lid. She retrieved a container of coleslaw from the fridge, then found her purse and car keys and headed to the Harrises’. Food had worked before, she decided. Maybe it would work again.
When she arrived at the red Colonial, it was dark inside. The blinds were drawn tight against the day. Kate rang the bell, half expecting no one to answer, so when Patricia opened the door, she was surprised.
“Good morning,” Kate said tentatively. Then she lifted the paper bag that held the barbecued beef, buns, and coleslaw. “I brought lunch.”
Patricia’s expression softened, and the vulnerability in her eyes nearly tore out Kate’s heart.
“Let me feed you,” Kate urged. “It’s the least I can do...Okay? See, barbecued-beef sandwiches and coleslaw.”
A trace of a smile tugged at Patricia’s lips.
“Ah, a weakness!” Kate said.
Patricia blushed, and the women shared a chuckle as they made their way to the kitchen. Patricia pulled down three white ironstone plates. Then she retrieved a scoop, flatware, and three glasses. Kate took up the scoop and prepared the hot sandwiches, with a heap of coleslaw on the side. Steam rose from the delicious-smelling meal.
“Marissa will like this, and having you back,” Patricia admitted. “I’m sorry...again. You’ve been so persistent, and so kind...”
Kate smiled kindly. “Don’t you worry about it—you’ve been under tremendous stress.”
She handed a plate to Patricia, then took the other two herself. She followed Patricia to Marissa’s room, which was quiet except for the faint sounds of “Blue Suede Shoes” coming from the CD player next to her bed. Marissa’s eyes were closed, and her head scarf had slipped, revealing her bald head beneath. Her face was gray and had a waxy appearance. Kate waited as Patricia bent over to talk to her daughter, setting her plate on the bedside table.
“Hey, honey,” Patricia said. She lightly touched Marissa’s shoulder. “You want to wake up? We have some lunch for you. Kate’s here. She brought barbecued-beef sandwiches. Doesn’t that sound good?”
Marissa nodded in response.
“She had another round of chemo yesterday,” Patricia explained. “She’s still feeling pretty weak from it. They said her red count might be down a little.” She turned back to her daughter. “Come on, honey. Time to wake up. You need some food to help you gain your strength.”
Marissa opened bleary eyes that were longing to droop shut. Then when her gaze turned to Kate, she released a glimmer of a smile. “You’re here.”
“You didn’t expect me to stay away, did you?” Kate said. She raised the plate for Marissa to see. “I brought you lunch. Are you up for it?”
Marissa nodded and struggled to push herself to a sitting position, but she fell back exhausted.
“Come on,” her mother said. She reached her arms around her daughter’s back and helped her to sit. Then she propped pillows behind her and set the tray across her legs.
Marissa gave her a grateful look.
Kate handed her the plate of food along with a spoon. The three sat and enjoyed the meal together, though Marissa ate very little.
Patricia was sitting on the edge of the bed, alongside her daughter. She placed a hand on the bedspread where Marissa’s legs were. “The treatment has seemed far worse than the leukemia at times,” she said.
Kate nodded her understanding.
“Next week is the last one,” she went on. “Then we’ll find out if she’s in remission.”
“Maybe I’ll grow some hair again,” Marissa said, and weak though she was, that touch of humor in her voice warmed Kate’s heart. “Maybe you’ll get to meet the old Marissa after that.”
“Let’s hope that happens,” Patricia said.
THAT AFTERNOON Paul, Eli Weston, and Jack Wilson met at the home of Jack’s aunt. As they sat in the small living room, sounds of Aunt Susan bustling about the kitchen in the back of the house filtered down the hall. Scout ran frantically around the threesome, eager for anyone to give her a pat on the head.
No one had said a word since they’d all taken their seats. Jack traced circles on the country-blue fabric of the couch with his finger while Paul waited. Eli folded his hands together and let out a heavy sigh.
Aunt Susan’s home was a pleasant enough place on the northeast corner of Ashland Street and Quarry Road. A Cape Cod, the house had a classic feel with a country touch. Handmade quilts and coverlets were draped across the backs of padded chairs and the couch. A fire in the Ben Franklin wood-burning stove at the center of the living room glowed with midwinter charm. Paintings of old farmhouses and horses with buggies spoke of a home that was well loved, as did the many antiques throughout the room. Hardwood floors were covered by a thick area rug in a deep shade of blue that complemented the couch where Jack now sat.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Paul said. “Come on, Jack, surely you know that moving to your aunt’s house won’t resolve anything. It will only escalate matters.”
Scout came alongside Paul and nudged her nose into his knees, the jingle bell on her blue collar tinkling. He patted the animal on the head, which only served to further excite the dog. She tried to climb onto Paul’s chair with him, but he pushed her back.
“Down,” Paul said. The dog tilted her head at him and sat.
“Carl can end the fight whenever he’s ready to admit the truth.” Jack pushed his dark bangs out of his eyes and glanced down the hallway.
“How likely is that to happen?” Eli asked.
Now Scout was beside Eli, begging for attention. She jumped up and made a whoof sound. Eli ignored her.
Jack merely shrugged his shoulders. “Scout’s my dog. What else can I say? Carl wrote that essay to try to steal the prize that belonged to Scout’s rightful owner—me.” He punched his forefinger into his chest.
Paul wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe Carl too, but they couldn’t both be telling the truth. What bothered him most was that they were so willing to tear apart their relationship over it. That he couldn’t understand. He thought of his own brother, Charlie. He’d give anything to have him back for a day, and he wouldn’t waste it with silly bickering.
Just then Aunt Susan came into the room bearing a tray of desserts. “How are you boys handling yourselves in here?” she asked. Paul noted a faint Scandinavian accent in the way she said you with a long o, as if it were spelled yoo. When Scout saw her, she was instantly at the woman’s side, nudging into her legs as she walked and circling her.
“Oh, you silly pooch,” Aunt Susan said.
Eli offered her a smile. “We’re doing fine, Miss Wilson.”
“Call me Susan,” the plump blonde woman said. In her late sixties or early seventies, Jack and Carl’s aunt was about five feet tall, if that. She had a double chin and a jovial smile. Her pale hair was caught up in a sort of beehive, though Paul was sure that couldn’t be the right name for the style. Hadn’t beehives gone out of vogue in the sixties? She wore a pearl necklace and matching earrings, and a blue-and-white-checkered apron covered her pink housedress.
“Would you like some cheesecake and hot cocoa?” she asked Paul.
The thought of Kate’s reaction to the sugar-filled dessert gave him pause, then deciding he’d exercise later, he took a plate and a mug.
“Thank you,” he said. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
She offered the same to Eli, who also reached for a helping.
“It’s no bother,” Susan said. “I keep treats like this on hand since Jack came to live with me. Got to keep up his strength, ya know.”
Paul looked dubiously at Jack, who simply smiled in return. The fog was beginning to clear.
“It’s just a crying shame these boys can’t get along,” she added. She set the tray on an end table, then took a seat in the gliding rocker that flanked the glowing fireplace. Scout was right beside her, trying to nose into the cheesecake on her tray. Susan patted the dog’s head and said in a milquetoast tone, “No no.” Surprisingly the dog obeyed. Scout took a step back and sat facing Susan.
She reached for the poker and gave the fire a nudge. Once the flames were back on course, she retrieved her own snack. “My brother, Zeb, would be so upset if he knew what his boys were doing to each other. Thank the Lord he’s fairly oblivious to such things these days. Jack,” she said, turning her attention to her nephew, “surely you and Carl can come to an agreement.”
Jack ignored her.
“Susan, do you know who owns the dog?” Paul asked her.
She shook her head no. “When I moved from St. Paul, Scout was already at the house.”
At hearing her name, Scout turned her head and opened her mouth in a sort of smile.
“I have no idea how they got her, and of course the boys aren’t exactly helpful in telling us that story, are they?” She leaned forward as if she’d just spoken a big secret. “She’s a good doggie, though, aren’t you, girl?” Susan’s voice dissolved into baby talk.
Jack rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. “Don’t you have something to do, Aunt Susan? In the kitchen?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. The hurt expression on Susan’s face was unmistakable. “I’m interrupting. You’re absolutely right, Jack. You boys need to have your talk.” She stood, cheesecake and cocoa in hand, and Scout stood with her. “I’ll make myself scarce.”
She left. The sound of Scout’s nails on the hardwood floor followed her to the back of the house.
“You didn’t need to send her away,” Paul said.
Jack made a hmmph sound and took another bite of his cheesecake. “You should be talking to Carl. That’s who you should be talking to. He’s the one who’s lying, not me.”
Paul thought of his conversation with Nehemiah the day before and offered up another prayer for wisdom, but no great burst of inspiration came to him. Thanks a lot, he thought.
Instead, a scratching sound near the front door sounded in his ears.
“Oh, that dumb dog,” Jack muttered. “Aunt Susan, can you take Scout out?” he hollered.
There was no reply.
“Why don’t we take her out?” Eli suggested. “It’ll give us a chance to get some fresh air.”
“Fresh air?” Jack repeated sarcastically.
The three men rose and walked to the entry closet to put on their coats. “Aunt Susan, we’re taking Scout for a walk,” Jack called.
She came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her eyes were ringed in red, and splotches on her cheeks told them she’d been crying. “That’s fine, dear,” she said, sniffling before returning to the kitchen.
When they opened the door, Scout ran out ahead of them. A blast of cold air bit at their cheeks. Paul tugged his Columbia jacket closer around himself, then he tucked his mittened hands into his pockets. Scout was nosing the ground in a frantic pace, sniffing here and there as if something exciting was under the snow.
“Get back here,” Jack called to her. The dog raised her head to look back at him, then returned to her sniffing. “I said get back here, you dumb mutt!”
Scout ignored him this time.
“You and Carl could share the earnings, you know,” Eli offered.
“Are you kidding? After all the work I do to take care of that dog? Why should I give Carl anything?”
“He is your brother,” Paul said.
“Brothers don’t steal from each other,” Jack said.
Scout had found something interesting across the street; she trotted toward the railroad tracks.
“Get back here!” Jack shouted. Scout only quickened her gait.
The men picked up their pace to try to catch up, but Scout must have thought they were playing tag, because she took off in a full-out run.
“Scout!” Jack shouted again. But within moments she had disappeared up the railroad tracks, headed north toward the Depot Inn, one of the fanciest restaurants in Copper Mill. They all called for her, to no avail.
“Let’s get the truck,” Paul suggested.
With Eli in the lead, they ran to Paul’s pickup, which was parked on Quarry Road next to Susan’s house. Jack squeezed into the middle, and Eli slammed the passenger door just as Paul squealed the tires and pulled out, headed toward Main Street. He sped north, careful to watch for traffic as his eyes searched for the small cocker spaniel. “Do you see her?” he asked.
“No,” Eli said. “Wait a minute...There she is.” He pointed ahead.
The dog darted across Quarry Road, causing a black Ford Focus to screech its brakes. The car just barely missed hitting her. But she was still on a tear. She flew across snow-covered lawns, making it difficult to track her from the truck’s street-side view. Paul took a quick right onto Main, only to have to stop at the intersection while a mother and three toddlers crossed the street in agonizing slowness. She looked at the men curiously, as if wondering why they were in such a hurry. Or perhaps she’d never seen three grown men crammed in the front seat of a pickup truck.
Once she was across, Paul hit the gas.
“Where did she go?” he asked.
“Try left,” Jack said as his eyes scanned the neighborhood. “I saw a movement over there.” He pointed toward the Baptist church on Hamilton Road. Paul turned that direction, but when they neared the church and slowed down for a closer look, it was obvious that what Jack had seen was a poodle wearing a thick orange-wool doggie sweater. His owner glanced at them and gave a wave.
Paul pulled a U-turn and stopped the truck across from Carl and Jack’s home, which was right next to the Chronicle building. “What now?” he asked.
“Let’s just drive the streets,” Eli said. “She’s got to turn up.”
Jack merely crossed his arms over his chest and grunted. “Dumb dog,” he muttered under his breath.
They drove for well over an hour, combing the streets of Copper Mill. They even went so far as to head north on Smith Street toward Joe Tucker’s backwoods cabin, but there was no sign of Scout. She had simply disappeared.
Heading back toward town, Paul made a left onto Mountain Laurel Road and drove east toward the high school. Still no Scout.
“We’ll have to call the vet, see if anyone turns her in to the Humane Society,” Eli finally said.
The Humane Society in Copper Mill was actually a part of the local veterinary clinic. A few cages for stray cats and dogs were kept in the back of the clinic, where the animals were well taken care of until either their owners showed up or kindhearted citizens came to adopt them.
Eli pulled out his cell phone and searched for the number, then relayed the information on the lost dog. “We last saw her on Hamilton—” he began.
“No,” Jack interrupted. “That was the poodle. We last saw Scout headed east toward the Town Green.”
“Oh, the Town Green,” Eli corrected himself. “Yes, she’s a cocker spaniel, orangish in color, female.” He placed a hand over the mouthpiece. “Did she have a collar?”
Jack nodded. “A prissy blue one that Aunt Susan bought her, and a jingle bell.”
“Did you get all that?” Eli asked the person on the other end. The person on the other end of the line must have heard because Eli didn’t need to repeat the information. He pressed the End button and said, “They said they’ll call if she turns up.”
“Great,” Jack said. “Now I’ll never get my prize money.”
“I don’t get it,” Paul said. “Why do you need to have the dog to collect the prize?”
“Part of the prize is a photo shoot of me with the dog. You know, one of those ads for dog food or whatever.”
The thought crossed Paul’s mind that Jack could simply find another cocker spaniel for the shoot, but then he decided not to mention it. The last thing he needed to do was encourage more deceit on the part of the two Wilson brothers.
In the few minutes it took for them to get back to Susan’s house, Eli’s phone rang with news.
“She’s been spotted,” Eli relayed the news. “Over on Sweetwater Street down by the old quarry. We’ll meet you there,” he said to the person on the line. “She can be hard to catch, that’s for sure.”
Paul hit the gas, heading south out of town toward the strip mall, where the old quarry was located. Before they even reached the spot, however, they saw Jim Hepburn’s rusty white pickup truck parked along a wooded section of the road just before the entrance to the parking lot. Paul pulled his pickup to a stop behind it, and the three men got out. Sounds of barking and shouting emanated from the woods, so Paul, Eli, and Jack took off, following the noise. They darted around tall pines and into a stand of deciduous trees, where the undergrowth was quite thick. The snow grew deeper, slowing their movement and filling their shoes.
“Where are you?” Paul called out to the volunteer dogcatcher he’d met only once before.
“I’m up here,” a voice returned.
They followed the sound up the ridge. It was steep going, and the dog’s barking was incessant as they approached the spot. Paul wondered what was causing her such stress, but when they came into a clearing, the answer to that question was all too evident.
Scout had cornered a skunk.