Thereafter, the worse scalawags will continue to search for him,
though by less effective means. They have been at work on this world for a while, and they do not welcome interference with their plans, which are the antithesis of those that Curtis has inherited from his mother. The battle has been engaged.
He and his four new sisters, his aunt Gen, his brother Noah, his brother Richard yet unmet, and his sister-become will be Gypsies for a long time, because even when he’s no longer detectable by scanners, he will be safest if he stays in motion and works in secret. Besides, the job requires extensive traveclass="underline" You can’t save the whole world from an office in Cleveland.
From time to time, not often but dependably, as he gives the Gift of a dog’s dreams, he will encounter people who, once having received this power from him, will be able to pass it along, as he can. Each will go forth in a caravan of his or her own, sharing the Gift with still others all across the world, in every vale and peak of every continent.
The first of these is Leilani. She will not be going out on her own for many years, but the time will come. She shines.
Ms. Tavenall passes three more checks across the desk, and this time Noah whistles.
“I’ve postdated them at one-month intervals,” Ms. Tavenall says. “Use them as you need the money for ongoing expenses.”
She glances at the computer on her desk and smiles.
From where he sits, Curtis isn’t able to see the screen, but he knows what’s on it. Earlier, following the card trick, perched upon the lady’s chair and holding a stylus in her teeth, Old Yeller, under Curtis’s influence, had typed: I AM A GOOD DOG. I HAVE A PLAN, BUT I NEED FUNDING.
“By the time you’ve used those three checks,” says Ms. Tavenall, “we’ll have worked out an entire funding scheme for the long term.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Noah says.
“I’m the one who needs to say thank you,” Ms. Tavenall insists. “You’ve changed my life twice now… and this time in a way I never imagined it could be changed.”
Her eyes fill with those beautiful human tears that express not anguish or grief, but joy. She blots her eyes, her cheeks, and blows her nose in a Kleenex.
Curtis is hoping for a huge funny horn-honk of a blow, like Meg Ryan cut loose with in When Harry Met Sally, but Ms. Tavenall hardly makes any sound. She’s so discreet, genteel. He wonders if it would be good socializing if he asked for a Kleenex and then faked a huge funny horn-honk of a blow to amuse her.
Before Curtis can decide this thorny question, Ms. Tavenall throws her tissue in a waste can, rises from her chair, blinks back her tears as best she can, and says to Noah, “The other issue may be more difficult. It’s not simply a matter of writing a check.”
“His aunt and uncle have legal guardianship,” Noah says, “but I’m pretty sure they’d be willing to relinquish it. They parked him in that care home after his parents died, and they never see him. He embarrasses them. I think the issue will be … financial.”
“Bastards,” she says.
This somewhat shocks Curtis because he has until now been under the impression that she is too much of a lady to know the meaning of such words.
“Well,” she continues, “I’ve got good attorneys. And maybe I can pour a little charm on these people.”
“You?” Curtis says. “Oh, Ms. Tavenall, call me a hog and butcher me for bacon if you couldn’t drown them in charm anytime you wanted.”
She laughs, if a little oddly, and tells him that he’s a lovely boy, and he’s just about to reply to the effect that he never was the sassy-assed, spit-in-the-eye malefactor that some have accused him of being, when Jilly races into the study with a white rag in his teeth, pursued by Rosie and Old Yeller.
Apparently, Jilly felt left out when the game was tug-rope-for-two. He’s found this rag and has somehow convinced his playmates that it is a better toy. Now they must have it, must have it, must, must, must.
“Jilly, here!” Ms. Tavenhall commands, and Jilly at once obeys, wiggling with delight as he approaches his mistress. “Give me that, you silly pooch.”
Denied their must-have, the three dogs plop onto the carpet, panting from their play, grinning at one another.
“Since the congressman proved to be what he proved to be,” Ms.
Tavenall explains to Noah, “I’ve been throwing out a lot of things. I certainly don’t want any mementos. Jilly must have snatched this from the trash.”
The rag isn’t a rag, after all, but a T-shirt. On it are printed four words and an exclamation point. The dot of the exclamation point is in the form of a small green heart.
Reading the words on the T-shirt, remembering the man from whom Old Yeller had stolen a sandal along the interstate highway in Utah, Curtis says, ‘”Love is the answer.’”
“It’s true, I suppose,” Ms. Tavenall says, “even when it’s said by people who don’t mean it.”
Rising from his chair, Curtis Hammond shakes his head. “No, ma’am. If we’re talking about the answer, then that’s not it. The answer, the whole big enchilada, is a lot more complex than that. Love alone is an easy answer, and easy answers are what usually lead whole worlds into ruin. Love is part of the answer, sure, but just part. Hope is another part, and courage, and charity, and laughter, and really seeing things like how green pine trees look after a rain and how the setting sun can turn a prairie into molten gold glass. There are so many parts to the answer that you couldn’t possibly squeeze them all onto a T-shirt.”
Time passes as always time does, and the caravan settles one late-spring afternoon in a campground near a lazy river, where willow trees stencil filigrees of shadow on the purling water.
As dinnertime approaches, they bring blankets, hampers loaded with delicious things, and numerous dog toys to a grassy bank, where frogs sing and butterflies dance in sunlight as ochery as old brass.
Polly brings her Diana, a beautiful black Labrador. Cass has her Apollo in tow; he’s a handsome yellow Lab.
Here is Noah with a big old goofy mutt named Norman, and the cocker spaniel, Ladybug, is the sister-become of Richard Velnod, alias Rickster.
Aunt Gen, Micky, and Leilani are accompanied by Larry, Curly, and Moe. These three golden retrievers are actually female dogs, but Aunt Gen chose the names.
Larry, Curly, and Moe were all obtained through golden-retriever rescue organizations. In the past, all three were abused, neglected, abandoned, but they are happy dogs now, with lustrous coats and quick tails and soulful eyes.
The other dogs were all rescued from pounds, and their pasts are filled with suffering, too, though you wouldn’t know it to watch them chase balls, leap for Frisbees, and wriggle-wriggle-wriggle on their backs in the grass with all four paws in the air in absolute joyous celebration of the playful Presence.
Curtis, of course, has sister-become. And though all these dogs could tell enthralling stories if they could talk, Old Yeller’s story ‘ surely is and most likely always will be more enthralling than any of theirs.
Games without dogs are played, as well, though Leilani insists there will be no three-legged races. Rickster and Curtis play a few rounds of Who’s the Gump? a game of their invention. The object is to reveal an act of supreme dumbness that you have committed; the winner is the player who, by the judgment of a third party, has done the dumbest thing. Sometimes Leilani and Curtis play Who’s the Gump? and Rickster judges. Sometimes Micky and Curtis play, while Aunt Gen serves as judge. Everyone likes to play the game, but they seldom play with each other; they all want to go head-to-head with Curtis. What fascinates Rickster, not just as a contestant but also as co-inventor of the game, is that Curtis usually wins, even though he is an ET, has had the benefit of massive direct-to-brain megadata downloading, and is arguably smarter than all of them.