I listen to her walk across the kitchen linoleum. Any second now, the screen door will open, and she’ll interrupt my morning. I know she doesn’t intend to, but you would think after thirty years, she would know this is my special place. Back porch, hot coffee, a buttered English muffin and, hopefully, a morning sky painted by the sun; fiery orange streaks crossing the horizon — this is my place.
This morning the sun is lurking behind gray clouds. A promise of Christmas snow? It doesn’t happen often, but you never know. A good snow would be nice right about now, it might take the bite out of the sad news. I can hope.
The weighty clouds are keeping Winter’s bite out of the frigid cold that rolled in Thursday night. I don’t tolerate the cold anymore. Hot coffee used to be enough to lubricate, get the parts moving, you know. But the older I get, well, nothing shakes the cold away. I have my Carhartts on over my pajamas. My granddaughter would not approve of this muddle of fashions, but she’s not here —probably a good thing — she’s not going to take the news well.
The old hinges on the screen door complain, proclaiming my wife’s arrival. “You’re up early.” She chimes. She carries two fresh mugs of hot coffee.
I’ve been getting up at the same time for as many years as we’ve been married. But I say nothing to her. Her memory is getting sicker every day. The doctor said it would be a slow process, the memory loss that is. He was wrong.
She hands me a cup and then plants a kiss on my cheek. Her hand comes up and wipes away lipstick that isn’t there. She believes it is, a habit of many years.
I don’t waste any time, recognizing she will likely forget everything before lunchtime, “The dog is dead.” I say quietly.
She says nothing. She’s just sits there in the twin rocker, smiling at the morning.
That dang dog. It was a gift last Christmas, for my grandson. Becky, that’s my wife, was determined to get the boy his first puppy. She hadn’t taken sick yet, and Christmas was still the most special time of year for her. The pup wasn’t much. As a matter of fact, it was free. Free was good. The past three years have been tough. The government makes it harder and harder for a farmer to make a decent living. I hoped things would be better when the republicans took over, and it was for a short while. But last years’ crop was hit hard by ear rot, no politician could stop that. Anyway, not much money was put in the bank.
Becky was at the Walmart when she first saw the dog. A little girl and her mama had the pups in old cardboard box, there were six of them in there. Of course, my wife would pick the runt. That little whippersnapper couldn’t run three steps without tripping over itself. But that didn’t matter to her, she wanted it for our grandson. We left there with one more passenger sitting in my pickup truck and a fifty-pound bag of dog food in the bed. That puppy pee’d twice on the way back to the house. I fussed about the smell, but she just rolled down her window a little more; her and her smile never parting ways.
I glance over at her, sitting in that rocker. She has that same smile on her face. She doesn’t understand that Wish is dead.
“Wish” was the name my grandson tagged the puppy with. His daddy, my son-in-law, the democrat, didn’t think the notion of a puppy for Christmas was a good one. It’s probably because he still lives in an apartment building that’s not big enough for a family, much less a dog. What my daughter ever saw in him is mystery to me. But she appears to be happy, so I keep quiet. That’s harder to do than you might imagine.
Becky told her son-in-law to pipe down. “It’s a Christmas wish.” She said. “A Christmas wish is the greatest wish of all. It’s made of snow that’s never melts, touched by an angel sent by God. Every child is granted just one Christmas wish, a hope that will last a lifetime. Andy, (that’s our grandson) wished for a puppy. You can’t take away his one and only Christmas wish, can you?”
I recall watching my son-in-law squirm as I waited to hear his answer. That might have been the best part of Christmas day for me. He relented under his mother-in-law’s smile, agreeing to the puppy. The problem was that the puppy couldn’t go home with them. There was a “No Pets” policy at the place they were living. My wife, always smiling, said “No problem. Wish can stay here on the farm with us until you have a real home.” That must have stung a little bit, but I don’t think she did it on purpose.
That’s how Wish ended up staying here with us. He wasn’t much of a dog; looked like he was made up of a dozen different breeds. Mixed together like that, makes him a mutt. That dang dog chased me everywhere, always underfoot. I took him hunting with me once, maybe he could find a use. He scared away every confounded turkey within a mile with his prancing about. He would run back over to me, where I sat in the small make-shift blind, with that stupid dog smile on his face, as if he had just accomplished a great victory.
For a dog, he had no sense of direction at all. He got lost in the cornfield more than a couple of times. Becky would send me out before it got too dark to look for Wish, if he hadn’t made it back by supper time. I ate cold potatoes too many times because of that dang dog.
Getting lost in the cornfield is what ended up killing him.
The dog also laid claim to my place. I’d come out in the morning and there he would be, all curled up in front of my rocker. I’d gently nudge him with the toe of my boot until he moved away, just enough to let me sit down. Wish would just sit, watching me drink my coffee and eat my muffin. He was waiting for me to drop a crumb or two; when I did, he’d be all over it faster than you can say pickled pizza. Wish was the only dog I ever met that liked orange marmalade more than bacon.
Our grandchildren would come to visit three or four times a year. Wish would greet them with dog kisses, jumping up and down like a mad man. That was about the only time that dang dog wasn’t under my feet. And now he’s dead.
“What happened?” It was my wife. She slowly rocked back and forth in the chair. A single tear rolling down her cheek.
I thought she must be talking about the dog, can’t be for certain these days. I didn’t know how much to tell her. All she needed to know was that Wish was dead. Our grandchildren would be here later today. Wish wouldn’t be there to greet them. It was going to be hard.
I found Wish this morning. He had been out all night. I guess that was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention and Becky hadn’t noticed that he was still gone come supper time, so she didn’t make me go find him. There are many things she doesn’t notice anymore — but I should have.
When he wasn’t sittin in front of my rocker this morning I headed out to the field. Last night the temperatures had dropped below freezing, but not too cold for a dog. If he had gone into the field…
Well, he did. That’s where the mountain lion got him. Wish was dead when I found him, but it looked like he had given that big cat a helluva fight. I buried him on the north end of the field. The soil there was soft and easy to turn. No crops would be planted there for at least two more years. I said a little prayer for that dog before coming back to my place. I don’t know if dogs go to heaven or not. But if marrying Becky Cross taught me anything, it was that prayers have never hurt.
“I still have mine.” Becky said. She had stopped crying and was looking out at the dwindling cornfield. Where was she at? Her mind tends to wander away from reality without any warning.
I put my hand on top of my wife’s. “You still have what, baby?” I asked her.
“My Christmas wish.” She whispers.
For the next twenty minutes my wife spoke to me like she hasn’t since becoming ill. She said that when she was a little girl, she would always save her Christmas wish for the next year. Her family was dirt poor, farmers with brown thumbs. She said she always felt guilty when contemplating her wish. She knew she should wish for something her family needed, but being so young, wasn’t sure what that might be. As she got older, she had stopped believing in Christmas wishes, and before long forgot about them altogether. Until now.
She finished talking, reaching over she ran her hand over my gray whiskers. She smiled, “I love that sound.” She said.
Becky stood up and walked back into the house. I sat slumped in my chair, thinking about that dang dog and her story. The day was getting colder. A wind had picked up, making the brown corn stalks dance to and fro. The sound they made was soothing and my eyes felt heavy. I got a blanket out of the old cedar chest that sat next to the rockers, and settled back down. I could hear Becky moving around in the kitchen, she was singing a Christmas song that I hadn’t heard in years. I pushed back in the rocker and closed my eyes. I dreamed about my back porch and orange skies. I dreamed about my wife. I even dreamed about that dang dog.
I sat up, startled by the sound of my grandchildren running through the house. I heard the boy calling out, “Here Wish, come here boy”. I remembered the dog was dead. I need to go in and tell them, but I didn’t want to. This is why I never wanted dogs! They die, and somebody must tell the children about it. That somebody was going to have to be me, and I didn’t want to. Dang dog!
I never heard him coming. I opened the screen door, seeing my daughter and her family standing in the middle of the kitchen. Becky was hugging our granddaughter, brushing her long blond hair out of her face. The dog ran past me, almost knocking me on my butt. “Wish!”, my grandson yelled. The dog jumped up onto the boy, (he did knock him on his butt) and slobbered dog kisses all over his face.
I could only stand there staring. The dog was dead. I was certain of that. I looked at my work boots, I could still see dirt from the north field. I had buried that dog. I couldn’t understand what was happening.
Wish had no signs of the fight he had lost to the mountain lion. In fact, his coat looked brighter than ever. My grandson was laughing, trying to push the dog off. My daughter looked at me and smiled, “Merry Christmas, Dad” she said. I just stood there with my mouth hung open like a musician’s trumpet. Becky looked over at me, her smile was so beautiful. “Christmas wish.” She whispered. “Now, let’s make some pies!”.
It’s Christmas morning. As I look across the field, I think about holidays passed. The dead corn is blanketed in fresh snow. Christmas snow. It doesn’t happen very often, but you never know. The coffee is good this morning. My English muffin sits untouched. I don’t have much of an appetite.
Wish is curled up at my feet. He ignores the muffin and marmalade too. I wait to hear her footsteps on the linoleum floor. She will come out, disturbing my place. She’s been doing that for more years than I can count. I guess it was always our place.
But she won’t come.
Two nights ago, the eve of Christmas eve, I guess, I was sittin right here wondering about the chances of a white Christmas. My grand-kids would sure love that. I don’t think it ever snows in southern California. I heard a crash come from the kitchen, then my daughter screaming, “Mom!”. She was on the floor when I ran into the brightly lit kitchen. I knew right away she was dead.
The doctor said it was a brain aneurysm. She probably didn’t feel a thing. That’s good, I guess. She was baking Christmas pies, or at least she thought she was. The counter top was covered in flour, white as Christmas snow. It was on her face and her apron too. Her pretty face. But nothing else. No pie fillings, no pie pans…nothing. She died thinking about me.
A freezing wind blows across the porch. Wish moans and curls against my boots. I pat the dog between his ears, “It’s okay, boy.” I tell him. I close my eyes trying to remember.
It was too long ago to be sure. Christmas day, when I was just a boy, usually meant doing the work my old man was too drunk to do. If I had a Christmas wish, I am sure I would have used it back then.
But what if I didn’t?
I close my eyes. I see Becky’s smile.
I wish…
