Send Down the Rain(7)

I studied his various diplomas. “I attended school . . . just not in a traditional classroom.”

He looked again at the clipboard in his hand. “You’re sixty—”

I finished for him. “Two.”

He nodded. “You’ve got some hardening. Probably some blockage. The diabetes can contribute to it. I won’t know what I’m dealing with until I get in there and take a look.”

“What’s this going to cost?”

He did not look impressed. “Does it really matter?”

I shrugged.

He glanced at my chart. “You could get it done for free at the VA, but you probably already knew that.”

“I wouldn’t let them operate on my dead body.”

“Can’t say I blame you.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you let me schedule you for next week. It’s painless, and you’ll feel a lot better.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well . . . one of two things will happen. You’ll be dead before you hit the floor, or if you don’t die, we’ll split you up the middle and then crack most of your ribs trying to sew the pieces of your heart back together.”

I mumbled, “Not sure medicine can do that.”

He leaned in. “What’s that?”

I pulled on my shirt. “Next week will be fine.”

He glanced at my shirt pocket. Eyeing the pack of Camels. “You’ll have to quit those.”

“I don’t smoke them.”

He laughed. “And I bet you don’t inhale either.”

I stood and tucked in my shirt. He was an inch or two shorter than me. I looked down. “Doc . . . your bedside manner leaves a bit to be desired.”

He bristled. “How so?”

“Before you accuse a man, you should know his story.”

He was half my age. Young enough to be my son. Maybe it was my tone that convinced him. He changed his tune. “Why do you carry them then?”

“To remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That this hard heart you keep poking at was once tender and knew how to laugh and love and feel deeply. No amount of stents will bring that back.”





4

The percolator gurgled behind me, and the aroma of coffee hung in the air. I filled two mugs, placed one opposite me across the table. Then I lit a Camel unfiltered cigarette and set it next to the second cup, where both steam and smoke trailed up. I closed the worn brass Zippo lighter, flipped it over, and ran my fingertip along the engraving. Remembering. I pricked my finger, checked my fasting blood sugar, which measured 177, then drew out three units of insulin and injected it into the fatty tissue just above my belt line. I swallowed four antacids, mumbled something to myself about uppity doctors, and followed them with a glass of milk and a few Oreos.

Outside the wind howled. Downward sleet had turned to sideways snow. On the table sat a Mason jar half full of sharks’ teeth. I spilled a few on the table and picked through them. In one hand, the teeth. In the other, the lighter. Each a memory.

A familiar whining rose up from outside the front door. Rosco had returned. I slid my mug along the table, letting him know I was inside, and the whining grew louder. A moment later a paw scratched the front door. I shuffled my chair and he whined again. Rosco was working me and I knew it, but he’d always done that.

Up here, people pride themselves on their bear dogs. It is not uncommon for a prized bear dog to sell for upwards of twenty thousand dollars. Easy. Rosco was some shade of Rhodesian ridgeback mixed with a little North Carolina mountain mutt for good measure. He was a big dog. Came to mid-thigh, long lanky legs, big paws, big head, could run all day and night and then some, and he had powerful shoulders and jaws. Ridgebacks were bred to fight lions in Africa. But Rosco was a long way from Africa, and he was currently standing out in the snow and he was hungry.

I didn’t own Rosco. He used me for food, a warm bed, to pull the ticks off him come springtime and rub him between the ears at night. Truth be told, he liked to wander for days on end, chasing every female dog twenty miles in either direction, but when he grew tired or hungry or lonely, he was a pathetic pansy with a pitiful moan.

I slid my mug again and smiled. He’d laid his muzzle flat against the threshold and was blowing snot beneath the crack of the door. The whining had transformed to a muffled bark. I pulled open the cabinet, which squeaked, and the tempo of the breathing doubled. I popped the lid off a can, and a rhythmic thumping told me Rosco was spinning in circles, his tail thumping the door at every turn. I dropped the contents of the can into his bowl, cracked two raw eggs on top, covered that with a layer of dry dog food, and then soaked the whole thing in heavy cream. When I finished, I looked out the side window. Rosco was standing in front of the house, facing the door, howling.

I turned the handle, and the howling immediately stopped. I stood in the doorway and raised my eyebrows. Rosco sat spine-straight. Ears trained on me. I folded my arms and he lay flat on his tummy, paws forward, head up. He’d been gone four days—he had to be hungry. A tiny whimper escaped his throat. I stepped to the side and nodded. Rosco stood, walked inside, and sat, his head pivoting on a swivel and his tail wiping the varnish off the wood floors. Staring at me, then at the bowl. Then at me, then at the bowl. I sat, crossed my legs, and nodded.