Something pushed at my foot. I pushed back, woke up and found that a dog was looking at me with soulful brown eyes. An English springer spaniel, white and brown, its stub of a tail wagging madly. In his mouth he had a dirty green tennis ball, which he dropped on my blankets. He gave a little muffled woof, and then nudged the ball with his nose.
‘Sorry, pal,’ I said, sitting up and wincing at the pain in my back. ‘Not in the mood for playing much.’
A voice from beyond the rocks: ‘Sorry, that’s all that damn dog wants to do sometimes.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Truly,’ the voice said.
Some of the saplings and brush were pulled away, and an older man with a thick white beard, black coat and overalls was peering into my little resting place. A boy of about seven or eight was next to him, rubbing at a red nose that was dribbling snot. The boy’s hands were empty, but the older man had a shotgun, which at least wasn’t pointing in my direction.
The man said, ‘The dog’s called Tucker. My name’s Stewart Carr, and this is my grandson Jerry.’
‘Hello to all of you,’ I said. ‘The name is Simpson, Samuel Simpson. If this is your property, I’m sorry I trespassed and slept here.’
‘That’s OK,’ Stewart said. ‘At least you weren’t partying or driving across my fields or shooting a cow and thinking it was a deer.’ Then the English springer spaniel woofed again and started to worry at the ball. ‘Tucker… You see, the thing is, the dog just purely loves to play. You could spend hours just tossing that damn ball back and forth, and he won’t get tired. But we get tired after a while, which is why he likes to find strangers to play with. He picked up your scent and saw a potential playmate.’
‘Makes sense to me,’ I said. ‘Look, if you don’t—‘
‘Where you from, Samuel?’
The boy was sniffling some, still rubbing at his nose. He had on a red wool cap with a blue pom-pom that seemed about three sizes too big for him. I looked back at his grand-father and said, ‘Toronto. Canada.’
Stewart nodded. ‘I know where Toronto is. You lost?’ ‘Surely am.’
‘Where you headed?’
‘To the nearest highway.’
Another nod. ‘UN, am I right?’
The dog’s tail was wagging and drool was actually running down his chin, he looked so excited at the prospect of playing with me or anybody else. I said quietly, not raising my voice, ‘Stewart, if you’re going to turn me over to your militia, then send your grandkid away and go ahead and shoot me. Because I’m not going. I’ve already spent some time with them and I’m not going back.’
The boy’s eyes were wide and Stewart spat on the ground. ‘Do I look like a monster?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Who did you have a run-in with?’
‘The county militia. Headed by a guy named Saunders.’
‘Saunders? Fat and with a beard and not enough sense to pour piss out of a boot, even if the instructions were printed on the heel?’
‘Sure sounds like him,’ I said.
‘Bah,’ Stewart said. ‘‘Fore everything started going to the shits he ran a lube-oil place, where you go in, get your oil changed, and then leave after twenty minutes or so. Then he got some surplus army gear, a few weapons and some friends as dimwitted as he is, and poof! Now he’s a colonel in a county militia. Well, shit, son, just ‘cause my name’s in a phone book, it don’t make me a telephone repairman. I don’t have nothing to do with him or his friends. But come along up from there, we’ll get you fed and on your way.’
I got up slowly, started rolling up my blankets. Stewart nudged the young boy and said, ‘Crawl in there and give ‘im a hand.’
So Jerry came in and said his first word since I’d met him—‘Tucker!’—and pushed the dog away. He helped me roll up the blankets and I tied them off with the plastic strips. Then Stewart helped me out, back onto the field. It felt good to be standing and I said, ‘You don’t have to feed me. Just point me in the direction of the highway and—’
Stewart interrupted. ‘The radio said a lot of crap is going on, so I don’t think you want to be walking anywhere out in the open right now. And what’s the problem? You ain’t hungry?’
I think he could’ve heard my stomach grumble at the mere mention of food. I said, ‘I’m hungry, sure, but I do want to make some time. And no offense, the last time I got something to eat the woman feeding me turned me over to the militia.’
‘Where was that?’
‘A general store. The Cooper General Store.’
Stewart nodded and started walking, and I went with him. ‘She’s another one. Sweet Jesus, Samuel, you sure had a run of bad luck, hooking up with her. Look. If you’re dead set on making your own way, fine. I’ll point you there. But your face is all cut up and you look like you could use a wash and a meal. Then you can get going. The choice is yours.’
By now the muddy field had joined up with a dry and unkempt lawn. In front of us was a two-story farmhouse, with an attached barn and a couple of outbuildings. A dented red pickup truck was parked in a dirt turnabout. I coughed and looked over at Stewart and his grandson. ‘That’s a nice offer. Really it is. I’m just gun-shy, that’s all.’
A firm nod. ‘‘Course you are.’
I shifted the blanket roll in my hands. ‘Why, then?’
‘Why, what?’
‘Why are you feeding me, a stranger and trespasser? I mean, you could have just sent me on my way and I would have been happy with that.’
Stewart slung his shotgun across his back, slapped me on the shoulder. “Cause that’s a neighborly thing to do, that’s why. Something a lot of us forgot last spring. Now let’s get going.’
I walked a couple more steps and then the dog cut in front of me, dropping the tennis ball again at my feet. I picked up the ball, warm and slimy with dog drool, and tossed it down the gravel driveway. The dog raced after it, moving almost at an angle, before snapping it up and then trotting back proudly with it in his mouth.
‘Tucker,’ the boy said.
The dog dropped the ball at my feet, and Stewart laughed and kicked it away. ‘You get caught up in that, you’ll be here till suppertime. Come along, Tucker. Jerry, get the leash and bring that damn dog in.’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘OK,’ Jerry said.
Then we went into the house.
The kitchen was cluttered and had a big range and a refrigerator that had drawings secured to it with little magnets. I apologized for tracking mud in with my soiled boots but Stewart just waved me off, putting his shotgun down in the corner next to a collection of boots, shoes and half-chewed dog toys. Tucker came in, gulped down some water from a dish and then collapsed on a blanket by the refrigerator, breathing hard, tongue hanging out. Stewart pointed out an adjacent bathroom and I went in and used a real flush toilet for the first time in a long while. I washed up with hot water and soap and examined my face. I was about another week away from having a serious beard—which was probably for the best—to cover up the bruises and scrapes along my forehead and left cheek. I scrubbed my face, winced a couple of times, and then dried myself on a towel that proudly stated it was from the Buffalo Hyatt Hotel.
Back in the kitchen, waiting for me at the table, there was a mug of tea, which I sipped, enjoying the strong taste. My stomach was now wide awake with the smells of wonderful things cooking. Stewart said, ‘‘Bout another ten minutes or so, we’ll have something good to eat, just you wait.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how to pay you, but—’
Stewart moved his bulk over to the refrigerator, popped open the door and bent down, coming back up with a fistful of eggs. ‘You get back to the UN, you just might say that not all people out here are killers. You think you could do that?’