Wandering Through

I

His wife told him years ago she hoped she would pass away in the fall; on a bright and early October day with the sun at its peak in the sky, with shadows cast from the leaves and branches that only the harvest season could bring, dancing and dipping about the yard. She wanted the tang of damp earth and ripe apples in the air and, for good measure, the smell of smoke from burning leaves somewhere off in the distance would reach her – just faintly. She wanted to leave this world when nature was at its peak; just before the flower beds had been put to rest for the year and the tomato plants had been cut back, but before the steel gray of winter came. The weeks when squash and pumpkins swelled the roadside stands, replacing the patriotic colored berries of summer with the earth’s warmest and richest tones of autumn; every shade of gold and red. A descendent of farmers though far from one herself, fall had always been her favorite. Like the rest of nature, she wanted her life’s journey to end in that final gasp of the harvest, when all that she was capable of giving had been given. She died on the third of April.

Now, months into life as a widower, with restful sleep a distant memory, he spent long days followed by empty nights, replaying the last six months, the year that preceded it and the thirty-six years of their life together. Helen and Tom. The happy couple. Devoted parents of three, grown children; treasured, good friends to so many. Their lives had been full and busy and, like everyone they knew, at equal turns hard and then easier, happy and sad. Now Helen was dead and Tom had taken the early-buyout that was offered. Golden years. September had dissolved quietly into October, and in the dark of the night with a full moon casting the only light and shadows, he lay awake, the windows opened to allow the tang of damp earth. And in the ever-present emptiness his memories of life with Helen took a turn – to those fleeting years that, still unknown to anyone, he had spent stolen hours with Elle.

He had scoffed at her overture the first time; he wasn’t that type of man. But Elle had pursued him. It would be ok. They went back a long time, and knew enough of each other they could certainly keep this between them. So when he agreed to meeting in secret – just once – and he’d bring coffee, she laughed at him.

“Coffee? If it’s only to be once, let’s at least make it wine.”

Once turned to twice; one glass to two and then a pattern emerged until the desk clerk at the Wander Inn knew his face well enough to simply hand him the key to the corner room and slip the cash in his back pocket. It was Elle who had found the place; a small motel on an otherwise empty stretch of road that, in time, would be swallowed whole by the swelling suburbs that slowly but surely erased the fields of wheat and corn that had been cleared a century ago by settlers. New settlers were coming in droves, building small mansion communities, fenced in with association rules and fees. But not here, not yet. The motel, still well enough maintained inside, was far enough from any development so that traffic was rare and no one would notice and, if they did, she assured him they wouldn’t care.

The first time felt awkward and he spent less than an hour, making an excuse about a commitment with TJ; his namesake. He didn’t want to be late. But within a week he had felt guilty for leaving so quickly and, even more so, his curiosity and newfound sense of adventure got the better of him. He reached out midday on a Wednesday. Could she make Friday afternoon? He promised he would be better.

Yes.

They followed the same plan, she arrived after him and brought two glasses and one bottle. With the light-blocking curtain panels pulled not quite together, only a shaft of sun slipped through the room. It reflected off the mirror hung above the small dresser and the light cast a prism of colors in the otherwise dim space. But she looked radiant and when he told her so she blushed and said it was the daring of it all. Standing at the foot of the bed she poured them each a glass and, after just one sip, he placed his on the dresser and took her closer to him. He brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead and gently placed his fingertips under her chin.

“You’re very pretty,” he smiled. “Come here often?”

“No. Just wandering through.”

He moved his face close to hers and the kiss was soft. Unrushed. Theirs.

Slowly, he slipped free the top button of her blouse. Then the second. She began from the bottom and their hands met in the middle.

“Thief,” she whispered.

“How so?” he murmured as he removed the blouse from her thin shoulders and bent to her neck, burrowing kisses behind the veil of long, thick chestnut hair.

“You know,” she responded softly. “The buttons.” Her shoulders arched. “Rich Man. Poor Man. Beggar Man. Thief.”

After that, it became easier, though not nearly as frequent. Thief became their code word and they agreed either was free to use it, but nothing else. One text, one word. Friday afternoons, only. It went that way every few weeks or months, and on for nearly two years, as they stole away from the pressures of their lives. Away from all of the responsibilities, the demands, bills, and clashing schedules of over-scheduled kids and the preposterous expectations and blessings of work that not only paid the bills, but afforded the flexibility to meet, unnoticed. But there were children to consider and though she had pursued this, it was Elle, who every time, after their time together, would make him promise:

“Never tell?”

“Never tell.”

On a hot afternoon in July, as she was readying to ease her car from the parking lot, while he waited behind for the agreed ten minutes, she noticed for the first time the small playground behind the motel. Long unused, there was nothing but a few worn swings that hung on rusted chains. Something slipped inside her then, in a way it never had, and as she gazed at the empty swing, while the air conditioning cooled down the hot leather of the car’s interior, her eyes began to sting and then spilled over.

Inside, he scanned the room to be sure nothing was left. The remaining wine had been poured down the drain, the empty wine bottle was in the wastebasket, and the two wine glasses – which she long ago put in his charge – were wrapped in a brown lunch bag that he would tuck in the wheel well in his trunk.

Just as he started the engine his phone pinged, announcing a text from Helen. Don’t 4get buns.

He forced himself to refocus on the evening ahead; a barbecue with good friends, both couple’s kids the same ages, in second and third grade together. A relaxing Friday to kick off a summer weekend. Life was good, and Friday afternoon with Elle had made it that much more fun. And so, on a whim and a dare to himself, in addition to the buns he bought a bottle of the same label he just tossed.

When he pulled it from the bag, setting it on the countertop, she glanced at it and simply said, “We have wine.”

“I thought you’d like this,” he smiled. “At least, I knew you’d like the label.”

“I hope you picked it for more than just the pretty label,” she replied evenly, placing it in the refrigerator to chill. “Go change; they’ll be here at six.”

July progressed under sweltering skies and August followed form. The first break in the heat came after Labor Day, after school had started and the typical routines of post-summer began. Elle and Tom hadn’t been at the Wander Inn since that last afternoon in July; August vacations and the end of summer crunch kept her too busy. So in mid-September after what felt like too-long of a work week, he sent her a text on Thursday morning.

Thief.

An hour later, her reply. Thief.

At his desk, he clicked from email to his calendar and quickly typed in a meeting from 12:30 – 3 p.m. the following afternoon; and then, for good measure and solid insurance, blocked himself as ‘out’ following that.

Friday afternoon he arrived first, as usual, took the chilled bottle of wine that was resting on the passenger seat and the brown lunch bag from the trunk. He paid cash for the room and let himself in. The smell of summer that had been trapped for too long hit him as he opened the door, and he kept it propped open for a few minutes to let in the cool air.

Then he waited for Elle. She never came.

He was more than put out and feeling dejected, but knew he needed to not appear that way at home. So, on his way there he called Helen asking how her day went, did she need anything from the store or did the kids need anything before he arrived? It had been a long week and he was beat and wanted to just crash when he got there. She confirmed all was fine and nothing else needed; just himself. And then she added, in a cheerful tone he hadn’t heard in a while, that she had a surprise waiting. His mind still on Elle, he forced himself to sound excited, too.

After dinner, after the kids were tired out, bathed and focused on the television, she took his hand and led him outside. They sat tucked close, on the glider – its soft motion lulling them both. The evening was crisp. Fall was in the air.

“I missed you today.”

He hesitated just a moment, then replied, “I missed you, too.” He pulled her closer; her head on his shoulder. “So what’s up; what’s the surprise?”

She used her feet to still the glider and, after a moment, lifted her head to face him. “Tom,” she smiled. “I’m pregnant.”

His smile was all she needed to assure her all would be fine.

~

Elle and Tom were never together at the Wander Inn following that July afternoon. Life moved on and the pace of it kept them both busy. Months dissolved into years; years to decades. And just a few years before Tom and Helen planned to retire early, Helen was given the diagnosis that she had advanced cancer; she could expect a year, perhaps eighteen months. She died after eight, with Tom and their children at her side.

Now, alone and wishing they had taken the time to do more, he heard her voice; ‘We did everything we really wanted. And more importantly, we did it together.’ He cried only once in front of her, toward the end when the specter of what life would be like without her had found him, and he confessed that he was afraid. He had never loved anyone else. He never would.

At some point in the night he’d drifted off, but a draft of wind signaling the season’s last gasp came through the window and woke him. He stirred and turned his head towards Helen’s pillow. Then he shut his eyes and prayed that, when he opened them, he would catch a glimpse of her ghost; safe, so he could know. But nothing and no one was there, save for the sound of scattering leaves out in the dark.

Restless from the events of the previous day, he knew he’d never go back to sleep, so instead he got out of bed and began to dress. In the kitchen he took the keys from the hook near the back door, then reached into the refrigerator; its light spilling into a pool on the hardwood. He found the bottle he had bought the previous afternoon, closed the refrigerator, pulled the kitchen door tightly behind him and gently eased the car from the driveway, out of the subdivision and, following the moonlight, onto the rural route that led him far from town.

The stars guided him and he slowed the car and turned into the parking lot. Boarded up for more than a decade, the real estate slump happened after the old inn was sold, but before any houses had a chance to take root. In their place were fallow fields and the motel that, with each year, decayed that much more.

Tom stepped out of the car and popped the trunk. Retrieving the bottle of wine he’d taken from home, he walked toward the empty motel and sat down on the cement step of the corner room where he and Elle had spent their handful of afternoons.

He listened to the sound of nothing, save for the breeze and the shuffle of leaves. His mind went back to the previous afternoon.

It had been a gorgeous autumn day, the kind that Helen, in her romantic and dreamy way, would have described as the type of day on which she wanted to pass away; with the sun at its peak in the sky casting shadows from the leaves and branches. He’d asked Tim, their youngest, to meet him at the cemetery; her headstone was in and Tom confessed he wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone the first time he saw it. Tim had arrived first and, as his father approached, he stood waiting for him to reach the gravesite. But when Tom paused at the final few steps, the young man covered the space between them.

“You doin’ ok?” He put his arm around his father’s shoulder and gave a squeeze; though it was Tim whose eyes had begun to sting. Tom nodded.

Neither said anything for several moments, then Tom quietly offered, “I don’t know when it gets easier. But she’s at peace now. I know that.”

Tim wasn’t as certain, though he took great comfort that his father still believed so strongly.

“Hey Dad, is this right?” He gestured toward the stone’s engraving. “I mean, this is how you wanted it to read? I don’t remember her ever having a nickname.”

A few leaves fell gently to the ground as the smell of damp earth rose.

Helen ~ Elle ~ Franklin

1962 - 2019

After a few moments and a flood of memories, Tom simply nodded. Then, quietly, “It’s right.”

“When did you ever call her Elle? I honestly never heard it.”

He turned his face from the stone to his son. The sunlight and shadows danced on the younger man’s face and his eyes, always the same blue as hers, seemed extra vibrant. “Well, it was kind of private between us,” he smiled. “She once made me promise to never tell. But I’ll tell you – I remember saying it often on the day we made you.”

Tim’s eyes widened as a wave of emotions splayed through him. He’d always thought of them as mom and dad. Not lovers. With secrets.

It had been her idea; he had resisted. When Thomas, at age eight, had barged in on them late one night, forcing them both to retreat, explain and reassure, it was she who had suggested a place to which they could escape. She was half-joking at first, but began to imagine it more clearly. He thought it sounded cheap. She countered it could be an adventure; and it would only be cheap if they weren’t married – to each other.

“It could be fun,” she encouraged. “And everyone tells me to relax – not worry so much.”

“We have a beautiful home.”

“We do; and I love it. And so do our children; every square inch. Leave it to me, I’ll find a place. A few hours, every few weeks or months, who would it hurt?”

It hurt no one. And it gave them Tim. The child who had been elusive and, after years of tests, supposedly inconceivable. The doctors had been wrong. They made him in secret and then shared him with the world; he had grown up as the couple’s beloved, unexpected and treasured third child, and Thomas and Marie’s third wheel. He kept them young and busy. But even Timmy couldn’t keep Helen from dying.

Tom looked back at the headstone. “Your mom had a sense of adventure I didn’t; at first, anyway,” he smiled. “She brought it out in me. It was a name she gave herself; liked how it was French and thought it was prettier than Helen. It was something between us that allowed us, as she used to say, to color outside of the lines while not breaking any rules.”

He took a few steps forward then, bent down and traced her name with the tips of his finger. The stone was warm in the afternoon sun.

“I’m glad you included it then, Dad. It’s beautiful.”

Now he sat, alone in the middle of the night on the step of the motel, while the moon’s glow cast dancing shadows, bringing all the memories of all their years to the surface.  Every few moments, dry leaves stirred and skittered gently across the ground. 

As he opened the wine, the tang of ripe apples and florals mixed with the damp earth.  

He poured himself a drink and took a small sip.  Then he closed his eyes and, this time, instead of praying he would see her ghost or be offered a sign that she was safe, he silently blessed his wife and thanked her – for just wandering through. 

II

That morning Carter abandoned Nashville, and what was left of his dreams, was heavy and gray with humidity, with a threat of another storm coming in from the west that would, as he learned in his short time in the city, not alleviate the oppressive heat but add another veil of thick air that smelled more of stagnant water and mold than the dogwoods and pines that covered the hills and outskirts. He hadn’t slept the night before, replaying the conversation with his contact at the label who had, at one time, encouraged him to come north to Music City; his writing showed talent and if paired with the right musician, he could make a name for himself. It was all he’d needed to ditch his job at the supermarket where he unloaded the trucks on the back dock, promise his mother he’d be safe and his sweetheart that this was the break they’d been waiting for – his dream was within reach.

The first few months were hard and lonely; he’d write early in the morning after his nightshift ended at the warehouse dock where he’d found work. The pay was decent, but he didn’t connect easily with the other men. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. He’d shared with a few early on that he had moved north to write music and was sure he’d make it big in the next few months. One of them laughed outright and Carter made a mental note of a few lines that would fit into a song about how cruel people could be. Writing was his lifelong shield; the pen his sword. Everything was fodder and every encounter became the basis for a song.

Now Nashville and the dockworkers and the putrid smell from the Cumberland were all in the rearview mirror, and the only line he couldn’t shake was the one the talent agent had delivered bluntly: “You’re not as good as I’d hoped. I’ve got to cut my losses and let you go.”

It landed like a crate dropped on the warehouse floor; splintering into a hundred pieces with damaged goods scattering in all directions. And because the contact at the label who had first encouraged Carter to head north had also left town, he had no one left to turn to. Not even his sweetie. She’d written to him just a month after being apart that she was sorry, but she had started to date Henry, a mutual friend from their high school days, with whom she now worked at the In-n-Out. She wished him all the luck he deserved and hoped his life turned out.

He couldn’t go back.

He could. But he wouldn’t.

What some would call stubborn pride or a pipedream, he believed was his calling. He was a writer and his words were his best friends; how he strung them together became lasting relationships.

He knew his mom would still worry about him, but she always would. His dad had never understood his love of writing or dream of being able to put into words what others wanted to read. His parents had divorced when he and his sisters were young; their mother remarried and then divorced again. His father’s third wife was kind but their lives were occupied with everything that had nothing to do with him. In fact, the friend he missed most was his dog, Patch, the chocolate Lab who had been his most trusted friend for nearly twelve years; half his life. Patch was the only thing he remembered his father giving him. After the divorce was final he appeared one day and awkwardly passed the puppy into Carter’s arms and said, matter-of-factly, that he hoped it would patch things up between them. Someday, he’d understand why he needed to leave. Now Patch was gone; put down and out of his pain once the cancer became too hard for the dog to bear or Carter to watch. He missed his dog more than anyone he’d ever known.

He was already well north of Nashville when the idea struck him. Back on I-75, the only highway he’d been on since he left Florida, hundreds of exits stretched in front of him, up through Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio, and ending at the tip of Michigan; a state he’d never been to and, until now, had never thought he’d visit.

He needed a complete change of scene.

It was mid-summer; he’d have time to explore and find a good place to land before fall and colder weather came. He’d never experienced a true fall or winter, but what he’d heard – and read – sounded wicked cold. And he’d read plenty. In Junior High when he was first assigned to read the Nick Adams stories by Ernest Hemingway, Mrs. Gauntlet, his English teacher, had tried to impress upon the group of thirteen-year-olds that Mr. Hemingway had changed the way stories were written. His dialogue was blunt; punctuation was altered and, she added, almost in a whisper, her eyes trained on something above each of her students’ heads, “He wrote about things that, until him, would have never been published. He changed the way we have read ever since.”

Poor Mrs. Gauntlet he thought, training his own gaze on the stretch of road ahead as he traveled through the hills of Kentucky. He wondered how she managed to always be so kind and – in retrospect – passionate about writing to a group of pre-pubescent kids who were not at all interested in learning about Hemingway’s gift to literature. All but him. He loved the stories; Three Day Blow, The End of Something, Indian Camp. He wondered what ever happened to Mrs. Gauntlet. He visited her classroom once when he was in high school, when he was there to pick up his younger sister, and told her of his plans to major in English once he completed the two-year degree at the local community college. But lack of funds and willingness by either parent to help him kept that plan only that; never a reality.

The end of something, he mused. He crossed the river leaving Kentucky – and the south – in the rearview mirror.

Cincinnati overwhelmed him, even from the highway. Though his route was due north, he was jarred by the snaking tangle of the cement ribbons of highways, overpasses, bridges and tunnels coming at him from every direction; as if all of the highways he’d ever heard of converged in this one place.

A light rain started as the city’s skyline began to shrink behind him; and by the time he neared Dayton, the rain was heavier but the skies ahead looked promising. A bit further north he stopped for gas; filled the tank and in the station’s convenience store bought an over-sized, snack-size bag of Fritos, a bottle of water and two cans of Mountain Dew. Then he perused the magazine and paperback book section and, with no irony lost on him, honed in on an issue of Up North magazine that featured Hemingway’s northern retreat as the cover story. He flipped through the pages – mostly glossy photos of summer cottages, lake vistas and ads from the merchants who sold their exclusive wares in the downtown of Petoskey, Michigan where the author had spent so many summers. The article was sparse on prose, but Carter figured it was a sign and maybe he could map out some sort of plan by studying the words and the pictures. He paid the cashier for the second time, made his way to the car and tossed all but one Mountain Dew in the back seat, settled himself in and pulled slowly out of the lot, onto the service road and back on the northbound highway.

With every passing mile the rain dissipated as the traffic became thicker, and by late afternoon he decided he’d put enough miles between himself and Nashville. Tired and stiff from so many hours in the car, he pulled off in a small town just south of Toledo that appeared to have a decent selection of hotels and eateries; he’d recharge for the night and by tomorrow would reach his northern destination. And though he had no plan once he arrived there, it felt good to be so far from all that had gone wrong. But finding a room for the night proved difficult; an art festival was overtaking the outdoor shopping area where the few hotels were also located, and the vendors had taken most of the space. A few rooms were left at prices twice the usual rate, but the young man wasn’t willing to spend in one night what he’d been used to paying for a week’s rooming in Nashville. All he needed was a clean, well-lighted place, and when he declined the last room at the last hotel, the clerk suggested a small motel on the outskirts of town. It was decent, though off the beaten path.

“It’s just a few miles south of here,” she offered. “Take a right out of the main drive; same one you probably came in on. A couple miles down, you’ll see a sign to take a left, it’ll be a mile or so down from that. It’s mostly used by truckers; but it’s clean. Called the Wander Inn.”

~

“You take credit?” Carter asked, already passing the bank card across the counter.

“Sure – credit or cash; no checks.” The man took the card and proceeded with the transaction, then handed it back. A yellow Lab laying near the door was panting softly, watching the exchange and as Carter put the card back in his wallet and his wallet in his back pocket the dog thumped his tail. He reached down and gave the dog a scratch behind his ears; a few more thumps knocked on the linoleum. “You got a nice assistant here.”

“Yeah, he’s a sweet dog but he ain’t on the payroll. Been wandering around here for the last few days – no tags, no one come lookin’ for him and it’s too darned hot today to let him be outside.”

“Awe buddy,” Carter stooped down fully then. “You lost? Huh?” The dog offered his paw and looked up at the young man as he stroked the velvet ears. Their eyes locked. “I bet someone is missing you.”

“Maybe,” the man offered plainly. “More likely he was dumped. We’re far enough out for some asshole to think this’d be a good place to abandon a dog. I don’t live too far from here, and this is no one’s dog that I know.”

“Well at least he found a good place.”

“For now,” he offered. “He can’t stay here. I have two at home; or I’d take him.”

Carter looked up.

“Wife says no more.”

He continued to rub the dog’s ears and, in return, the dog began to lick his hand, the way Patch used to. After several moments he stood up and the dog followed, giving a long, satisfied stretch. “Can’t believe someone could just leave a dog out in the middle of no -- ” he stopped short, “so far out here.” He stroked the dog’s head who, standing up, came almost to Carter’s hip. “He can stay here tonight, right?”

“Till I leave, sure. But can’t ask my night guy to watch him. He’ll probably show up again tomorrow.” The man passed a room key to his guest. “Room eleven; around the corner. No smoking; let me know if you need extra towels or anything else.”

“How many days you say he’s been hanging around here?”

“Since Monday, I guess; nearly a week.” He paused and then offered, “I’m here till nine if you need anything.”

~

By late afternoon Carter was back in the small lobby of the motel presenting the dog with his new collar, a stuffed squeak toy, a few peanut butter treats, and a full measure of gratitude to the manager who agreed to bend his rules, just once, and let the dog stay in his room until morning. If no one inquired between now and then, the dog was his.

He had remembered seeing the pet supply store in a strip mall earlier when he’d made his initial rounds searching for a room. And before he had purchased the supplies for the dog, he’d checked the bulletin board in the store’s entry for any flyers about a lost yellow Labrador. None. Before that, after he’d settled into the motel room, he’d called the local police, sheriff, animal shelter, and another listing the operator had given him for a local pet rescue. Nothing.

In his room, Carter had pulled back the heavy curtain on the window that faced the side parking lot of the motel; his was one of just three cars. A semi was in the back lot and he recalled passing the truck’s driver coming out of the office when he’d first came in. He saw an old swingset, worn and rusted. His thoughts went back to the dog then. And to the people back home in Florida and the few he’d met in Nashville. Disappointment and abandonment were all too familiar to the young man and as he considered all the people and places he’d known and trusted, he noticed a woman crossing the dusty parking lot. Attractive, alone and approaching a car nicer than he could ever afford, she slipped in and adjusted the mirror and turned on the engine. But instead of leaving, she sat; car idling with her gaze off toward the swings.

He watched for several minutes, taken by the scene, as if watching a silent movie. But as the heat waves rolled up from the parking lot and blurred the image, the movie lost focus. And then, after a few minutes, she eased out of the lot, out onto the road. He glanced down at the clipped notes and phone numbers he had written on a napkin in his attempt to find someone who cared about the dog. And then another movement outside caught his eye; a man in his mid-to late-thirties, khaki pants and white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up approached the third car, a black sports coupe. He popped the trunk, deposited a brown paper bag inside and casually put on his sunglasses. A gold wedding band on his left hand caught the sun, and the rays reflected brightly as he slid into the driver’s seat. He moved with a cool confidence, and Carter thought of the whole scene that had just unfolded and wondered if, somewhere down the line, another young boy would get a puppy to help patch things up.

~

The night was quiet and still. Despite the heat, Carter left the door to the motel room propped open just a bit to balance out the refrigerated air blowing out of the small wall unit. Outside, the sky was a canvas of purple that faded to mauve and then pink till it met the silhouetted field of corn across the road.

“What am I gonna name you – huh?” Carter lay stretched out on the bed, face to face with the dog who blinked his eyes and extended a paw, and then drifted off again. The stillness of the night was comforting, and as he lay quietly thinking of names, he glanced out at the motel’s sign. Wander Inn illuminated the night in an iridescent yellow glow.

“Ernie?” he whispered. The dog remained still. A cricket’s call came through the door.

He studied the dog a few minutes more. “Galileo?” The dog opened one eye for just a moment and then let out a soft sigh, as if to signal ‘You can do better.’

Just then, the headlights of a car turning into the parking lot interrupted his thoughts and after a few moments Carter realized he was holding his breath. He finally rose from the bed, took a spot by the door to the room and waited to see if someone had arrived to claim their lost dog. But after a few minutes it was clear; no one was looking for either of them.

Now, nearly midnight, he had taken the dog out for the last time, locked and bolted the door and pulled the shades low. Finally allowing himself to believe that he and the dog were a pair, his thoughts began to wander. While the dog lay sleeping, he sipped the warm Mountain Dew, his legs propped on the end of the bed while he jotted a few lines of an idea for a song that had been working in his head most of the evening. At the top of the page he wrote Wandering Through.

~

Carter sat quietly with Gulliver, resting quietly behind him at the edge of the stream that wound its way through Elk Rapids before meeting the northern-most shores of Lake Michigan. A copy of North Woods and Words magazine was beside him; the cover photo of himself and his dog smiling back. In the years since he had passed through that small Ohio town where he found Gully, Carter, too, had finally found the place to call home.

He found Hemingway’s summer escape in the town of Petoskey where he first gained work in one of the local marinas. He knew nothing of boats, but all he’d had to say was that he was from Florida and lived on the water most of his life. The job was his. A string of other jobs, mostly dependent on the seasons and the different needs of tourists, kept him steadily employed the first two years, and then he found a more stable position at a small bookstore in the Gaslight District of the old town. His love of literature – and writing – began to turn pleasant conversations with patrons into solid sales for the owner. Within six months he was made assistant manager and the following summer, when the owner approached him about partnering with him to open a second store just a bit south, in Traverse City, he accepted.

The evening before he left Petoskey he stopped for dinner at the City Park Grill, the same restaurant that Hemingway had frequented during his summers in the north country; though it had been known then as The Annex. Lore had it that the author sketched out many of his stories there and, at first, Carter was enamored with the place for that reason alone. But as he became a regular, enjoying conversations with the staff and other patrons, and sketching out his own work – from the week’s list of tasks and projects to his own writing – the call of Hemingway’s ghost had quieted further into the background. His own life had taken root.

Later, as dusk was approaching and he made to leave the restaurant, Carter stopped to say hello to an older couple who was having dinner at a table near the entrance. They frequented the bookstore often and she had come to count on his recommendations for the next good read. In turn, she encouraged Carter to pursue his own writing while he did such a good job recommending other authors. He asked them to come see him in Traverse and explore the new bookstore; he had many ideas for it and was anxious to begin.

“You’ll be terrific, Carter” she said, her grey-blue eyes shining. “And we’ll make a point to come and see it. Just remember what we’ve talked about. Your own stories deserve to be told, too.” She smiled softly then and directed her eyes and slender, wrinkled finger to a quote from Hemingway that was engraved on a stone plaque above the door: All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.

~

Once the bookstore opened, Carter’s life became busy. Gulliver became the shop’s mascot; as much a fixture as the worn shelving and old tables that held the books, and the frosted globe chandeliers that hung from the original tin ceiling. A coffee bar in the back of the store was established a few years on, and on Tuesday evenings Carter hosted book discussions with a small group from around the town and outskirts. Over time, the group grew in size and popularity; several of the regulars shared their aspirations for writing and formally chartered the Northern Writer’s Guild. A monthly newsletter followed and it grew in circulation, featuring reviews and original writing as well as recommended books for readers of all interests.

Carter found a full sense of contentment in his daily work; but he never gave up writing. More than lyrics, he’d begun to write short stories. The characters and the backstories came easily and the more he drew them, the more confident, and at peace, he became with his craft. When he shared with his fellow Guild members what finally became the finished version of Wandering Through, they encouraged him to submit it widely. After casting it to national literary journals, monthly and quarterly reviews, it was accepted by a little-known regional magazine that often featured aspiring writers from Michigan and other Midwest states. It gave Carter a sense of accomplishment, and he was proud to see his name in print; but it didn’t provide the validation he’d sought years ago. He already knew he was a good writer. And he now possessed something more that had eluded him far longer than being published. Carter was happy.

In addition to fiction, North Woods and Words had become northern Michigan’s travel and all-around features magazine. And when the fiction editor had read Wandering Through, she sought him out and found the magazine’s next cover feature when she learned he was also the co-owner of a thriving independent bookstore in the historic downtown section of Traverse City. The article practically wrote itself and highlighted interior shots of the shop’s preserved architectural features as well as the activities of the Guild and Carter’s personal journey of writing.

During the interview Gulliver lay at the feet of his beloved master as Carter recounted his path that led him from south to north; from searching to contentment. The editor and the author sipped wine and shared a charcuterie at an outdoor café as they chatted for nearly two hours. Toward the end of their conversation she asked if he wondered still about Nashville, and whether, if he had stuck it out, he might have made it big in that industry?

The sun was warm on his shoulders and it reflected off the blue of his eyes as his mind searched for the right answer. Did he wonder? Yes. Did he regret leaving? No. Had he not left when he did, Gulliver wouldn’t be with him today. Each step was both epilogue and prologue. The end of something; the beginning of something else. But instead of sharing all of that Carter simply said, “Maybe, at one time, it was nice to think so.”

He paused and smiled, and then added, “But I found my words – my voice – and the stories worth telling, once I wandered away.”

III

October

It’s been not quite two months since his death and she still isn’t sure which stage of grief she’s in or, for that matter, if she’s in any stage at all. Is inertia a stage? A different word for one of the phases, perhaps. Again, she wonders if it matters; she has no one to share her grief with – save for the dog who has truly saved her. A few friends were there in the first few days, but the connections aren’t as deep as they once were, and they have their own lives. She gets it. She’s been on the other end, too. The sympathies and condolences are heartfelt, but another’s death is just a blunt reminder of everyone’s mortality and there’s only so long someone wants to, or can, dwell there. The daily grind may be put in perspective when someone passes; but it’s still required.

Either way, tonight she’s thinking more about the list of things she had intended to do that day; the gardens in the yard need to be put to bed for the winter – they’re just a few small carefully measured plots in an otherwise expansive yard that stretches out to the cornfield that goes seemingly on into infinity. The ropes and stakes remain where his pole barn was to be built. The stakes cast long, straight shadows from the tall pole of the utility light he’d installed – a vast rectangle of yard always reminding her of the wood shop he had planned to build. She loved the farmhouse; he loved the acres and the quiet. They’d worked hard and this was to be their reward. Now, the house has become her refuge more than a dream fulfilled.

She gazes out into the yard and wishes she’d at least done the gardens. One had tomatoes and zucchini, the two others her annual marigolds and zinnias. The rabbits and deer have done a number on them and there isn’t much left to pull, but what remains is unsightly and she knows he would have cleared the spaces weeks ago. Maybe tomorrow.

Now, it’s a few minutes past midnight and she realizes that Clover, who she let out for last call more than an hour ago is no longer under the kitchen table where she’s been sitting in the dark since she let him back in. She angles her head to look in the living room, he’s not on the couch so she pushes back the chair; its scrape across the bare wood disturbs the calm. She turns on the nightlight under the stove’s hood and walks down the hall to the bedroom. The dog is on the bed, on Bill’s side. Head on his pillow, facing out. He opens his eyes just slightly as she begins to undress; she places the sweater on the back of the chair and leaves the jeans on the floor at her feet. Tossing the bra in the basket at the bottom of the closet she reaches into Bill’s drawer for a T-shirt. They used to sleep naked, to be skin to skin. Now she depends on the white cotton T that, with each washing, smells more like nothing at all.

In bed she turns on the lamp and glances around the room. The glow is warm and comforting because it’s so very quiet tonight, outside and in, and she wishes she were tired enough to go right to sleep. She’ll read a bit first, but before she opens the book, she leans over to give the dog a gentle kiss; his tail thumps and he lifts his head and glances at her. The light of the moon casts across the sheets. She pets the silk of his ear and offers another kiss and then whispers that she’s sorry she hadn’t noticed he’d left the kitchen. She’ll do better. Tomorrow.

~

In the morning, she sips her coffee on the back porch; Clover is sniffing around the dead tomato plants and weaving in and out of the bed. His paws rustle the dry leaves and every few minutes he seems to hop with excitement to another area of the garden. While he’s standing still, she hears the rustle again and realizes he’s playing with a chipmunk and then sees it scamper up the limb of the nearby tree. The dog is left gazing up and whining, looking back at her a few times until it’s clear the tiny creature is gone. He ambles back to her side then, lays down on the cool cement at her feet and lets out a grumbly sigh. She assures him it’s ok; Chip will be back. He lifts his head to her, and she promises again. “He’ll be back!”

He sits up quickly and looks at her face with anticipation, tail wagging. She realizes then she was too enthusiastic, unconsciously using the voice she used when Bill would arrive home after a long shift. The dog whines again and is up on all fours. She reassures him it’s okay but feels badly. His deep brown eyes are pleading. She knows he’s longing for him, and she reaches down and envelops him in a hug and whispers in his ear. And once she’s said it, she says it again. Today.

By noon the two have played a long game of catch, she’s put to bed one of the garden patches and is making a list of items she needs from the grocery. She’s gotten in the habit of going only when she thinks of something, but it’s inefficient and costlier; the latter of which doesn’t bother her much. Money, ironically, is not the issue. Nor is time for that matter – it seems all she has, but how she’s using it is wrong. She needs to organize herself better; her days need structure, and her life needs purpose. She’d had both once.

By late afternoon the October shadows are creeping across the yard, and she has accomplished more in this day than in the collective of the last several weeks. There are some boxes in Bill’s closet she’s wanted to sort; but the first – and only time – she began to go through one she had been interrupted by something or other. She decides she’ll try again, so after a long shower to rinse off the dirt and remains of the day, she towel-dries her short, cropped hair and puts on one of his T-shirts and her most comfortable jeans, pours herself a glass of wine and whistles for Clover to come sit by her. They’ll do this together.

Two hours later, when all but the last of daylight is being nudged away by the evening, she is still in the same spot, though only a few items were removed from the box because, once she pulled out the magazine, she’d taken the time to study the photos and read – and re-read – the cover story.

She remembers him – the dog anyway; that beautiful yellow Labrador who someone had clearly dumped on that long stretch of country road. Bill had kindly fed and kept watch over him. He’d wanted to keep him; she had told him no – three dogs would be too many. Wouldn’t the other two be sad or feel crowded? He’d gently assured her that dogs don’t think that way and he had no doubt they had enough love for yet another dog. But he didn’t push. The dogs were their children; or what filled the absence of them, at least. He wouldn’t push harder; and when the young man who came wandering through that hot summer had shown his compassion and commitment to providing a good home, he was content and assured the dog would be fine.

Then she regretted her reluctance because of course, they both loved dogs. As a little girl she had once thought it would be fun to open a hotel for dogs. Not a kennel, but an actual hotel for dogs with all the amenities. She’d always dreamt big.

She sighs heavily and Clover cocks his head; would it have been so hard to take in another? She remembers now that she had even thought about trying to find the young man in case the dog and he weren’t working out – but what kind of person takes back another’s dog? And even if she was that kind of person – and she was not – there was no way of knowing where the two had gone, once they’d driven away.

But now she knows. She knows the dog, named Gulliver, had a wonderful life. She’s happy for them both but realizes, too, that was years ago, and she imagines that sweet Gulliver has also passed and she feels a profound loss for the young man who rescued him and made him his companion. How has his life turned out? The article shares so many of his accomplishments: a writer. Owner of a bookstore. A life of apparent adventure and dreams realized.

She takes another long sip of the wine, and the dog repositions himself closer to her, head on her lap. She strokes his ear; the velvet comforts her deeply. She thinks about Gulliver again and, without thinking too much about it, reaches to sift through the box, a few letters, postcards. And then, a folder marked in the familiar, neat script she knows so well and misses so much takes her attention and, once the notes on the pages begin to register, they take away her breath, as well.

It's late. The sun is completely gone replaced by an orange harvest moon that is throwing shadows across the lawn and the field beyond. She’s read the contents of Bill’s folder several times now and, with each reading the fog that she’s felt surrounding her for so long continues to lift. She’s looked up the phone number to the bookstore that Carter runs; it’s still in business and the website lists him as the owner and manager. It’s clearly thriving, there are pages about book groups, writing clubs, guest authors, recommended reading, and even a children’s section entitled Adventures with Gulliver with the dog’s choice of stories for kids, as well as word games and writing contests.

She has also made a list of the things she needs to do and has arranged them in chronological order to the best of her knowledge; never having done any of this before it’s all just a guess but for the first time in a very long time – since before Bill died, before they bought the land and this old farmhouse, even before the Wander was sold in exchange for the cash that would fund their dreams to become a reality – she’s genuinely excited about something.

Long after midnight she’s finally starting to feel tired, knowing it was the adrenaline of the afternoon and evening that kept her going. She’s excited for tomorrow and clearly Clover had sensed her shift in mood, though he padded down the hall about an hour ago and put himself to bed. She knows she should get some sleep, too but then glances at the ‘To Do’ list she made earlier and decides then is as good of time as any to write the letter to Carter. There’s so much to share.

July

It’s been a decade since Carter was in Ohio, but the road feels familiar and the heat is making waves on the pavement up ahead that reminds him of that hot summer day he first passed through, met and became inseparable with Gulliver. He remembers how the idea of that first story he would ever publish had come to him and how he half-held his breath that entire evening, hoping no one would come by to claim their dog. His dog. He can finally smile at the memory of his beloved companion. He mourned Gulliver’s passing deeply but, in time, did what he knew was best, and what Gullie would have wanted. He rescued another. Or, more accurately, Carter was rescued – again.

He had never imagined how, years ago, sharing that cover story from North Woods would begin the friendship with Bill the way it had. Bill’s kindness had brought he and Gullie together. And since then, many times over, he’d come to understand that the beauty and surprise of life was finding the truest friends through the most seemingly simple and chance encounters. The two exchanged a handful of emails each year; Carter shared mainly about the bookstore, his success in writing and living up north; Bill about his plans for Cathy and him, now that he could afford them. He hadn’t known about Bill’s death until Cathy wrote him last fall and shared it all. The two men had last exchanged brief emails in early summer, the accident that took him was in September; just as the leaves were beginning to turn their rich, fiery colors; and when sheaves of them would scatter in the rain and cause young, inexperienced drivers to easily lose control.

Carter refocused on the road and, though still a good half-mile away, it began to come into view and was just what he’d pictured from his conversations with Cathy over these last many months. The large white farmhouse and the bright red building off to the right; the only two structures in an otherwise vast expanse of green and, beyond that, fields of corn and soybeans that seemingly stretched forever into the blue horizon. The scene was so sharp, the colors so vibrant, he thought of a children’s book illustrated in all the primary colors to show a happy farm scene. And then he thought of Cathy and how the brightness and warmth could never fully capture how his friend who, against a backstory of heartache and loss, had found the strength to make her husband’s dream come true.

He slowed the truck and Sam, the Goldendoodle, leaned to the right when Carter made the turn onto the long drive up toward the house. Sam took notice of Clover who had been relaxing on the wraparound porch and, upon seeing the truck approach, bounded down the drive with tail wagging. Sam sat up straight, glancing at Carter with a look of enthusiasm as well as question in his eyes.

“It’s just a play date, Sammy,” Carter assured as he reached to rub the scruff of the dog’s neck. “Don’t worry, you’re not going anywhere.” He shifted the truck into park and cut the engine; the summer afternoon was quiet save for the sound of chimes gently floating from the porch and Clover’s happy barks of greeting. Carter fastened the leash to Sam’s harness and, as Clover continued to bark and wag and greet the visitors, Cathy came from the side door of the house; it clapped loudly behind her, and she stood for a moment on the porch watching as Carter and the dog emerged from the truck and stretched out from the ride.

“Welcome!” she called out while rubbing Clover’s soft fur as the dog stood on his hind legs, his front paws on the split-rail fence that separated him and the two guests. “He won’t leave the yard but let me hold him while you open the gate. I hope the ride was okay!” She made her way toward him as he maneuvered the gate and, once inside the yard, they allowed the two dogs to get to know each other. When their approval of the other was acknowledged, Carter and Cathy moved toward each other and embraced for several moments until she pulled away and wiped a few tears from her eyes that were completely eclipsed by her smile. “Don’t worry – they’re happy tears!” Sam and Clover had come to share the hug and Cathy laughed as she bent to stroke Sam’s curly ears. “Well hello Samuel Clemens, I’m so happy meet you!”

“It’s so good to finally meet in person,” Carter smiled. “It was so kind of you to ask me to come down – that you wanted to share all this,” he nodded toward the pole barn. “That is huge! I can’t wait to see it all.”

Cathy laughed in acknowledgment, “I may have gotten carried away – but I wanted it perfect.”

Carter nodded again as he took it all in; all of it feeling familiar as if he was visiting a friend he’d known his whole life, instead of meeting for the first time. She really did look happy, and younger than he knew she was. She was taller than Carter, but lean and angular in the most elegant sort of way; with a deep tan that made the crystal blue of her eyes and short silvery hair seem even more vibrant.

“Well come on in; let’s get something to drink and let you settle for a bit then I want to give you the tour. I’m so excited for you to see how it all came out.” The two climbed the stairs as the dogs continued to play in the yard until Sammy took notice that his man had left and he bound up the stairs to the house, followed by Clover. Cathy opened the door and they came in with tails wagging, continuing to explore the other until, finally, they both rested on the cool wood of the kitchen floor watching their people, both talking happily; a tone for Clover that, for too long, had been all too unfamiliar.

~

It had been a good and full afternoon. After showing him around the barn and how she’d had it specifically designed and appointed with all the equipment and amenities needed, they took a drive into town, stopping at the small grocer where Cathy picked out fresh salmon she grilled for dinner, accompanied by the roadside stand tomatoes and a cucumber from her own thriving garden. She’d made a pie as well, but they decided to wait a bit and were now relaxing again on the porch swing, enjoying the cool of the evening. They found that conversation between them was easy, but so too was the silence and they were in their own thoughts for several minutes before Cathy, looking off in the distance, said quietly, “I think he’d be happy with it.” The sun was just beginning to make its decent in this golden hour and the entire world was bathed in an overlay of warm light before the sky began to go from its brilliant blue to all the shades of purple. It reminded him of his first night with Gullie; it reminded Cathy of every night with Bill.

“I think he’d be very happy,” he replied and then added, “Most happy for you. It’s exactly what he wanted for you.”

She nodded then and sighed contentedly; Clover and Sam were stretched out, exhausted from the day. “Tomorrow starts a whole new everything for me,” she said. “I’m scared and excited and so happy and still – sad, all at once. Just so many emotions.”

“That’s completely understandable.” He looked out across the cornfield and, after a few minutes offered, “Few people are as brave to take the step to make their dreams come true. And most spend a lifetime looking for what will make them happy, when you clearly understood it’s the simple things that bring the most joy.”

She smiled. “Once we sold the motel – or more accurately the land it sat on, we talked about so many things we could do; places we could travel to if we wanted, things we could buy without worrying. Sometimes I still worry if I prevented him from seeing more places, having more adventures. But – you know that just wasn’t us; either of us. The more we talked about trips or some sort of adventures,” she shrugged as if still not completely understanding her own self, “the less we wanted to leave here. I don’t know. Maybe we’re supposed to want more, but – we were content. We were decidedly not wanderers,” she smiled. “He loved his hobbies; woodworking the most, listening to a game in the background and – just being. We loved being together. With the dogs. Enjoying a glass of wine, or the first cup of coffee every morning. A good movie. The sunset. And after working in an office all those years, doing everything the way you’re supposed to, well, I just liked the freedom of being – myself.”

Carter nodded, “You don’t need to explain, or justify, what makes you happy.”

She leaned forward and took in the expanse that was all hers. A tear escaped, and then another, before she offered softly, “We just wanted to live happily here.”

Clover lifted his head and looked at his lady for a few moments. And Carter offered as assuredly and kindly as he could, “And that you found a way to live happily, here, Cathy, is a wonderful way to honor Bill.”

She nodded and brushed away the tear and offered a smile, looking toward the barn, “I’m so grateful you were able to come this weekend; that we had the chance to meet. This has been a good day. And thank you for hanging the sign. I could have had one of the workers do it, but it seemed fitting you do it.”

“I’m honored,” he said. And after a few moments he offered, “You know, I’ll probably write a story about it.”

She nodded and laughed softly. “I figured. And, knowing how you write, you’ll make it a beautiful story.”

He countered gently, “It already is.”

And then after a moment Carter nodded to the sign hung just above the barn door; the words not as easily read now in the fading light, but the shape of the capital W, as well as the silhouette of the fields, moon and dog carved out from the metal were catching a shaft of the setting sun perfectly, as if she had designed it that way. “I truly believe every one of the dogs who passes this way and gets to live out their life at the Wander Inn will be eternally grateful.” He turned toward her then, “Grateful that two people cared enough to share their lives with them. And, more than anything, were confident enough to be content.”

Then he lifted his glass and added quietly, “To Bill.”