And with that, she disappeared inside.
I didn’t run home, because that little bit of alcohol had made me feel shaky. But I definitely got myself home. I think I can honestly say that a big part of me was still unable to process what had just happened.
Chapter Four
The Lady
When I got out to the cabin the following morning, everything had changed. And I knew it immediately.
The dogs were no longer moping on the porch. They had been in their doghouse, but they heard me coming as I trotted down the hill, and they came spilling out. Pouring out, I guess I should say. Just like the old days.
I put on the gas and they ran with me.
Somewhere in the back of my head I knew that must mean the lady was home. But I put it out of my mind again because I had missed this so much. I had needed this so much. I think the dogs had missed it, too. They ran with their mouths open and their tongues lolling out. It looked for all the world like they were grinning widely.
Then I started to worry about what the daughter had said: that her mother had seen me running off with the dogs. I wondered if she had seen me that morning. Probably not, I figured, because she was likely still confined to bed. But the thought continued to nag at me. And, as I think I’ve said before, I couldn’t run through those woods and think any real thoughts at the same time. That was the whole point of doing the thing.
I slowed to a jog and then stopped.
When the dogs noticed, they came back and bounded around me in circles, hoping I’d go on.
“We better go back,” I said.
They were clearly disappointed. But they did as I asked.
I could feel their tails hitting the backs of my thighs as I knocked on the door.
“Mrs. Dinsmore?” I called.
I pressed my face close to the edge of the door. The edge that would have opened in if she could have gotten up and opened it. As if it would increase my chances of being heard through solid oak. Then I raised my volume a few notches, realizing that would be more helpful.
“You don’t have to get up, Mrs. Dinsmore. Don’t get up for me, okay? Because I know you’re still probably feeling pretty bad. It’s just me, Lucas Painter. You know, the guy who was coming to see the dogs? I just wanted you to know I was feeding them while you were gone. They weren’t eating, actually, but I made sure they had it there if they wanted it. And I made sure they had water. They did drink a little water. And I came back at sundown and locked the food up in the shed so it wouldn’t draw raccoons or coyotes or whatever. I didn’t want the dogs getting into it with the wildlife. Anyway . . . I just wanted to say I’m glad you’re—”
I got no further than that.
The door swung open.
In front of me stood the lady whose life I had saved. Zoe Dinsmore. She was not tall, but built big and solid—a little overweight but not huge. Just built like a tank. Her face was creased and set hard. Maybe against me, or maybe it had been that way before I was even born. Her expression made her daughter look like a happy, friendly elf in comparison.
I took a step back.
She just stood there in the open doorway, taking me in. Sizing me up, from the look of it. She was wearing a blue checkered nightgown that came up high around her neck in a ruffle. It didn’t seem to suit her at all. She was not a frilly woman, to put it mildly.
After a second or two of staring at me in silence she nodded a couple of times. Not approvingly. More as though she had resigned herself to taking me as I came, disappointing though she seemed to find me.
Or maybe I was reading too much in. Maybe it was life in general that kept falling short of her expectations, and maybe I was only getting the brunt of her disapproval because I happened to be standing in her line of vision.
She opened her mouth and spoke, and I heard her voice for the first time. It was gravelly and deep, as though something had happened to her throat. Or maybe it was the voice of a woman who’d been drinking hard for years. It was impossible for me to know.
“Would you take the dogs if anything happened to me?”
My head spun with her words, and I remembered the promise I’d made to her daughter. How could I forget it?
“I can’t,” I said. “I couldn’t if I wanted to. My parents would never let me have even one small dog.”
“Maybe you could come here and take care of them.”
“No,” I said. And I was surprised by the firmness I heard in my own voice. “No, they would hate that. It would kill them to have to live out here all alone. You should’ve seen them while you were in the hospital. It would’ve broken your heart. They were miserable. They wouldn’t eat. They would hardly even pick up their own heads. You can’t do that to them. They need you.”
I paused, and braved a look at her face to see how my very direct words were settling in.
For what seemed like a long time she said nothing.
Then she croaked a simple statement into my face.
“You’re not as helpful as I’d hoped you’d be.”
She opened the door wider and invited the dogs inside with a sweep of her arm, and they happily accepted the invitation.
She started to swing the door closed, but I stopped it. And her. Stepped forward and stopped the door with my hand, and stopped
