It stood there, its tongue lolling out, and looked directly at him. It was a brown and white mutt with friendly eyes. It gave a hesitant wag of its tail and took a step toward him.

“Waddaya think, Hop?”

Hop responded to his whisper by tickling his hand.

The man squatted on the edge of the road and the dog trotted up to him, giving his stubbly face a quick lick with his hot tongue. It nudged his hand with its nose and sniffed. Hop slid through the small gap and hopped on the dog’s nose, pausing as the two looked each other in the eye, then up on the dog’s head and finally rested on his back.

The man looked the dog over. It had no collar nor tags and its ribs were beginning to show. He petted it for a full minute, then got up and began walking again. The dog trotted sometimes beside him, sometimes nosing into the grasses along the road, then catching up again, Hop clinging deftly to his back.

He watched the dog and its tiny passenger, riding now backward and watching the man as he walked behind them. The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. Nothing had changed. The cicadas still sang their buzz saw song, the sun still beat down its white hot light and the lilies responded with carefree orange faces. Yet he began to feel different; a small excitement somewhere in his gut, a repressed hope he’d denied. He closed his eyes and breathed in the hot air.

“What’s yer name? Shep?”

The dog stood still, looking back at him.

“Brownie? No? Look here, I’m no good with names.”

He licked his dry lips. He could feel heat radiating from his skin, his body a stove. The dog trotted ahead of him. Dust rose and settled. The sun began its slow descent. One mile. Two. He began to breathe harder. Either he was growing weary or the dog was trotting faster. Every so often the dog would stop and look back, waiting, then trot on again.

One foot in front of the other. Always onward. Why did he do this? Always. His life was a pattern of stay and leave, a wandering mission of disconnection. Five miles farther on, its sound began to wind its way into his subconscious until he heard it: water running over rock.

His life was a pattern of stay and leave, a wandering mission of disconnection.

He quickened his step and came to it, a river half a mile back from the dusty road, hidden by a dry meadow and a sudden drop from the tree line at its edge. The dog rushed its descent as the man followed him, hanging onto a bush here and there for balance. By the time he reached the bottom, the dog was splashing in the cold river, lapping the welcome water, then laying in the shallow edge, panting. He removed his boots and socks, stepped into the shallows, cupped his hand and drank. The cold water sent coolness through his tired bones. Looking down, he saw Hop, tickling the tip of his toe. The man felt hopeful, the first in a long time.

Man and dog lay on a bed of soft pine needles and slept as the moon rose and stars blinked on one by one.

A moist tongue on his face woke him. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, turning the sky from gray to violet to pink and orange and yellow. He waded in the now still water and drank freely, then pulled on his socks and boots. Rising from the piney bed, he stuck his hands in his pockets as he watched the sun’s early morning display.

“Hey. Where’s the key?” he asked, searching the ground.

The dog trotted up to him.

“Did you see it, boy? Did you see the key?”

The dog barked.

“Key?”

The dog put his front paws on the man.

“Your name’s Key?”

The dog jumped around in a circle, then lowered himself in a play bow.

“Waddaya know. Well, boy, it didn’t matter anyway, did it? Whatever that key was for might be long gone by now.”

The man began following the path upstream, then slowed to a stop.

“Key! C’mon now!”

The dog trotted up to him, looking at him expectantly, then back from where they’d come. He hesitated, looking at the man.

“Ah. Where’s Hop? Is that it?”

Key lay in the river, his head on his paws.

Maybe the mutt was more of a key than in name only. How had he gotten to a point when an animal cared more for connection than he did? He suddenly felt – he didn’t know – sad, he guessed. Lost. It was a feeling he’d not had since he’d left home at sixteen and never looked back. He’d not been acquainted with it in the twenty years of his wandering since then. He sat down, resting his arms on his knees.

What did it matter? It was just a toad, for pete’s sake, hardly as big as his fingernail. But the thought of trudging ahead without Hop – he shook his head. You had to let someone – or something – in to feel the emptiness when they were no longer there. He didn’t like it. He started on again, then stopped and looked back. Key waited, cocking one ear. He shook his head at his own weakness. A new knowledge pushed its way through his stubbornness and wouldn’t leave. He sighed. Maybe it was time. Perhaps he’d been a loner long enough. And, hard as it was to have the thought, it was possible it wasn’t weakness after all. Maybe it was strength. Maybe it was a source of strength he’d missed along the way.

Turning the other direction and starting back, he called, “Okay, Key! We can’t leave our pardner!”

Key bounded ahead of him, then began nosing along the water’s edge. The man jumped. Yanking up his jeans, he saw it perched on the top of his boot. He scooped up the toad with one hand and covered it with the other. Its tiny presence tickled his hand and he smiled.

It scooted out of his hand onto Key’s nose, hopped onto the top of his head, and found his place on his back.

Down the river’s path, they walked; one talking, two listening, three together.

Photos: 1280px-Dog_nose-Elucidate-CC-by-3.0-en.wikipedia.org_.jpg; goodfreephotos.com_.jpg; the-back-of-a-fowlers-toad-frog_w725_h483-public-domain.jpg

Lilies bloomed with glad abandon along the gravel road. The high sun shone bright and hot, bronzing his neck and arms as he trudged along. Dust, kicked up by his worn boots with every step, hung in the air long enough to cover his jeans with its brief touch. The circular saw buzz of cicadas grew louder, then quieter, then louder again.

He hadn’t decided where he was going. He just knew he needed to leave. He needed new air to breathe, fresh scenery. What was the purpose of life anyway? Not in his work, at least not the work he did. Friendships? Ha. Greetings on the street or at the corner store didn’t prove anything beyond good manners. There was that one old woman at Johnson’s Foods check-out. He’d always waited to go through her lane. She was nice. He didn’t s’pose he had any obligation to anyone. He’d paid his bills. Done his job. Didn’t poke his nose where it didn’t belong. His eyes roamed over the road ahead. It’s undulating path told him nothing of what was ahead.

He kicked an old pop can into the ditch, then stopped. Something was off with the empty sound he had subconsciously expected as the toe of his boot had made contact. Turning back a few steps, he walked into the high grass of the ditch and nudged it with his boot. A lead-like thud answered and a tiny tree-toad hopped to get out of his way. A snake slithered silently through the tall grass. Reaching down, he picked up the can, turned it upside down, and shook it. With a rattle, the noisemaker fell into his hand.

It was a key. Maybe it was to some vehicle. Probably. He slipped it into his pocket and looked around. An old junker roared past, leaving a trail of dust in its wake.

The man made his way out of the ditch and trudged on. Who would put a key in a pop can anyway? Why not just throw it away or sell it for a nickel at one of those sales so popular in the summer where one person sold old stuff and another one bought it? If it was to a car, where was the car – in a junkyard in some other county? Maybe it fit the lock of a house, but he didn’t think so. Sweat trickled down his temple and he wiped it away with the palm of his rough hand, then jumped. Yanking up his jeans, he saw it perched on the top of his boot. He scooped up the toad with one hand and covered it with the other. Its tiny presence tickled his hand and he almost smiled.

“You saw that snake too, did ya?”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Hop. How’s that for a name?” he asked the toad. “You ‘n me, Hop. I got your back. You got . . . you got . . . my hand.”

He reached the next rise of the road when he saw it.

to be continued . . .

Image: http://uploads/2014/07/standard-key-wikipedia.org_.jpg, the-back-of-a-fowlers-toad-frog_w725_h483-public-domain.jpg

I backed up and stepped on the threshold again. It creaked. I took little baby steps along the width of the entry. The old hardwood yielded slightly underneath my weight and creaked slightly every so often along the boards.

I walked back to where I had stood at the window and looked at the threshold. Was there something amiss with the lines of the house? Maybe what I had imagined was actually a bulge here and there. It was an old house, an old neglected house. I willed the spot I had peered at earlier to bulge. It didn’t.

I let out a deep breath. I wasn’t the kind to be spooked. I was probably just tired. It had been a long, empty week for so many reasons. The relationship that had prompted my escape from what was familiar as an adult to what had been slightly familiar as a child was without a doubt behind it. I had done everything I could, hadn’t I? Tried to change myself, him, and past arguments to no avail. Tried to make him see things my way, myself to see things his way. Tried. Tried. Then tried to just forget it all and found instead mice nests and cobwebs and dust enough to make another galaxy in making this house inhabitable again.

I always said I believed in possibility more than probability, but maybe that wasn’t exactly true. Maybe what I believed was that if I managed something enough – problems, relationships, dreams – I could move them from one column to the other. Anyone who didn’t believe Henley when he said, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul, was a fool. I filled the teapot, then jumped and nearly dropped it as I placed it on the stove. Whoever designed the jangle of the old phone here should be arrested! Who in the world would be calling since no one in the world knew I was here?

“Hello?”

“Oh yes! I had been trying to change it when the power went out.”

“Um, what?”

“Proof of . . . oh. I will come in person then. Thank you.”

I replaced the receiver with slightly more force than necessary. Really? Proof of my existence? Maybe their so-called policy should be put in a time capsule along with the old black phone. I stared at the old phone, my mouth going suddenly dry. My eyes darted to the cell next to it, the one I had placed there when I’d lost contact. I slowly picked up the receiver and listened. There was no dial tone. I clicked the little knobs up and down. How in the world . . .? I picked up my cell and tried turning it on, but it remained black. It probably needed recharging. I plugged it into the outlet and laid it on the kitchen counter.

The house still held my dead uncle’s furnishings, a good thing since my few possessions fit into the back of my pick-up truck. I eased into his soft, dusty armchair, sipped my tea and stared out the window. I found myself wondering where they had found him – my uncle who’d been dead a week before anyone knew it.

I must’ve dozed, for when I opened my eyes, my cold tea pooled on the floor and the slightly cracked cup lay beside it. The storm had died and left behind a damp stillness. I felt a slight, cold breeze filter from the direction of the kitchen and shivered. The day’s light had truly been stolen by the storm and by this time the trees blended into the starless night.

I grabbed an old quilt and wrapped it around my shoulders while I went to start the water boiling for a cup of tea I hoped this time to finish. As I waited, I scanned the bookshelf replete with my uncle’s old books, selected one, and took it with me and my now hot tea to the armchair. The story was benign, really. It was of a silly girl whose efforts in controlling everything and everyone around her irritated me. I was beginning to tire of it, when the pace picked up slightly. She finally encountered a situation that resisted her efforts and wandered away into the night. Two weeks later the few who cared enough to search were on the brink of finding her. I turned the page. The next chapter would finally give some satisfaction! She would get her comeuppance or learn the error of her ways, though I doubted the latter. The page was blank. What? I examined the book. Nothing appeared to be torn out. I turned the next page and the next, suddenly frantic to know what happened. There was nothing. What cruel trick was this?

I turned toward the sound of a sudden creak and felt a slight, cold breeze on my cheek. Then the lights went out.

Image: By/Tom/Murphy/VII/Own/work/GFDL/http://www.gnu_.org/copyleft/fdl.html/CC-BY-SA-3.0-http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa-3.0-or-CC-BY-SA-2.0-http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/sa/2.0/via/Wikimedia

I was just beginning to think I could make out the form of a person standing in the entry of the kitchen. It was slightly taller than I and lacked the rigidity of the doorframe. It seemed like a person, but that would be crazy, right? It wasn’t really all that clear, after all; just a nearly transparent image – more of an outline, one that I could easily be, for who knew what reason, imagining. The dark made it impossible to actually see anything anyway.

There it was again. Another creak. The form, or whatever it was, hadn’t moved. It was as still as the wall, itself. Maybe it was just my imagination after all. I glanced out the window again. Lightning danced across the sky momentarily revealing some downed branches and an overturned lawn chair. I loved that chair! I’d rescued it from the dumpster of my apartment building the summer before and replaced the ripped nylon webbing with heavy muslin in a chili pepper print. I hoped it wouldn’t be carried too far before the wind died.

I turned to check the kitchen doorway again, and my heart, which had begun beating more rapidly since the last loud thunder, seemed to be of two minds because now it stopped completely. There was no form any longer; only the faint outline of everything that had slowly been growing familiar over the past week of my living there. So had I seen something?

The lights flickered on again, though the storm raged on outside. My eyes surveyed my surroundings. Nothing had changed. All was well. Tea. Tea would be good company for such a night. I started over to fill the teapot. I would have at least two cups, and who cared if it was caffeinated on the edge of evening? The floor creaked just as I stepped on the threshold of the kitchen.

to be continued . . .

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