Last night when I finally went in, I decided I wanted to sleep in the living room like I had to when I was a kid. It was either the living room on the blue corduroy pull-out couch or in the garage on one of the two trundle beds under the windows. Those beds would squeak when you crawled in.
It was nice sitting out in the dark.
Now, it’s a slow morning.
I’m on my back.
I woke up on this new couch. Faux suede. It’s tan. It seems wrong.
I have to sit up soon.
I’m fighting against it.
Or no. I’m just not sitting up, not getting up because it feels good to lie here in the quiet.
But I’m getting hot. The ceiling fan’s moving slowly, but it’s clicking.
Sit up.
Try to see what’s clicking on the fan. I think it’s just the pull chain swinging funny.
Where’s the dog?
Going slow for the both of us.
Call him. Hey. Come here. Where are ya, bud?
I woke up earlier for a second and he was with me, so he must have gotten up to get in the bed we’re usually in.
Yup. There he is.
He moves across the room.
Stops, bows, and stretches.
Okay, I’ll get up.
I’m up.
He wants to do something today, I can tell.
Give me a sec.
We did something yesterday.
Now he expects it.
And I love him so I will.
Looking at me that way, bud, okay. Me too. Something. I don’t know what. We will.
First, get up, get going, get things lined up, follow things the way they’re going.
Put water on. Feed the dog while it’s heating up.
Still early enough for the dog at the lake?
Haven’t even looked at the time yet. Look. Yes. Got a little bit. I’ll bring him down. Quick coffee, then get ready.
Shoes, hat, sunscreen, the leash, shit bags.
All right, let’s go, bud.
At the bottom of the hill. He howls. Stops in his tracks, snout to the sky. He’s pointing.
Detour into the woods as a distraction. Stand at the spring that dips under the road. Where Mémère used to fill up jugs with the spring water.
In the pine pitch along the spring, there’s an impression, almost a gouge in the earth as long as my leg. The dog’s pulling me toward it. To sniff at it.
Could be anything. I don’t know.
Let’s go, bud.
Out of the woods.
Back on the road.
Turn onto the path to the lake. As we do, we can hear the bullfrogs.
Glad we keep going.
With the time we have.
There’s a snapped line floating from a branch like a spiderweb above the creek. Pause, look. It’s bouncing around in the wind; sometimes it disappears in the sunlight. I can tell it’s line. I can follow it back to a bobble tangled in the leaves. Could be one of mine from years ago. Kids. Rushing a cast in a pinch, swearing we saw the big bass.
Probably not, though, the bobber looks too new.
Sometimes it seems there are more people up here, more kids fishing than there’s ever been. Sometimes it feels like the lake’s empty like it’s never been.
We turn around and walk through the boats. Up the beach, through raked sand, to a table, and sit.
Mr. Poole, who swims across the lake and back every morning, is just getting out of the water now.
I wave hello.
I’ve heard people calling him Tad, but that doesn’t seem real.
He walks through the sand too, back to his table. Watch him sit and put a towel to his face.
It’s sweet.
Feel a little pang of sadness, hot-sore jealousy. The pinch inside. How I might not make it like that. I want to be old here. But it’s been coming back, I think.
If it is, it is.
I don’t want to think about it.
This time with the dog.
This time with the dog here.
It’s beautiful.
The dog’s quiet with me. It’s nice. He can be, sometimes. Notice it gratefully. Rare for him. I like that he’s quiet right now. I hope we see the loon. Maybe hear the loon, but I know that could get him going.
See the Deacon show up. There’s a few people with him walking behind him. Four guys. And he’s avoiding me. Which is fine, because the dog already shot up and cocked his head at them.
These must be important people.
The important people.
I think about letting the dog go.
But I can’t, for his sake. I love him. Get up and go. Start our walk back. Stop a few steps into the path out. Try to half-secretly watch. It’s fine if he sees me.
The Deacon’s standing in the sand with them.
I think, God, I should go rake the sand around them.
They’re facing the lake. He’s pointing. They’re nodding.
They start stripping off T-shirts, glasses, hats. Getting ready for a swim. And they do.
Walking out till they can’t touch.
They’re swimming for the dock.
A few of them seem to struggle.
The first few get there. Then the Deacon.
The last two.
I go back to the beach.
Rake where I was sitting. Can’t forget. I’m responsible. I’m not dealing with anything if I don’t have to.
I grab the rake and take care of my spot. Bring the rake over to where the Deacon and his folks’ stuff is. Lean the rake against the table.
They’re sitting on the dock listening to the Deacon, who is standing up now, say something. He’s talking and moving and gesturing. He looks odd, off. He pauses. Stops and points over in my direction.
I stare back.
I wave.
Let’s go, bud.
We walk around the yard some. The dog started sniffing and tracking something once we turned up the driveway. I wish I hunted him. If we’d started him sooner.
Probably still could, though.
He’s a little too old, as far as I know, to train him. He’s not old. At all.
Too old for that. The training. Being conditioned that way. Disciplined.
Might be a little difficult.
I watch him moving around. Nose down, tail up.
I don’t know.
Maybe we could.
We could try.
We do the perimeter of the yard, spiral into the center, and I notice the firepit’s been dragged. You can see the lines in the sand. And there in the torn-up moss.
I feel like I want to do an errand. Take a little drive. I imagine the Deacon will be tied up a little while with whoever he’s with.
Get another blade for the handsaw. For the next round of X’s.
What else do I need?
Probably enough time to go out to the megastore.
Sounds nice. Could stop at Jonston’s on the way back. Smoked bone for the dog. He loves all the fat and marrow.
But I’ve got to think of what I could get at the big store.
Right? I should go there. I’ll think of what else on the ride or be reminded when I get there. I know there’s something else I wanted to get.
Keys.
Double-check things.
Triple-check.
I’m off.
Backing down the driveway.
Stop.
Get out, run to the back slider, pull on the handle. Locked.
Around to garage slider. Same thing.
Go out the front next time. Hard to get in that habit. We’ve never really used the front door like that.
Feels good to take a drive. Static sound from the driving on the dirt road.
Flick around the radio stations. For a good song or some kind of talk a local station would have that I like to hear sometimes.
Look around at the light and the trees. The fern in the shadows. The blue, the pale-tan dirt road, dusty trees. For a second reminds me of the desert, getting the dog. I miss it. It was working. Was breathing good. Miss it. Dog loved the heat, chasing lizards, laying in the aloe shade.
Be quick on this errand. No dilly-dallying.
Like the way it feels to change from dirt road to pavement. The other way better, though.
A pitch shift, sound change. Like you’ve entered something. You’re in a new place that sounds like that instead.
Windows are half open.
Not thinking anything.
Peripheral blue.
Park and put the windows up.
It feels like summer in the parking lot. On the dark tarmac. Macadam. Tarmacadam. Grab a cart on the way into the garden department. Pushing the cart’s a tinny version of driving the car.
Put a couple small terra-cotta pots in the cart.
Thought of something else.
Knew I could.
I’ll take a couple strawberry plants from the yard with me when I have to leave.
Look for the saw blade.
Cart smoothed out from rough outside ground to inside polished concrete. Think of driving again.
Inside to the saws and saw blades.
Walking up an aisle past a stack of lawn chairs.
Sit outside tonight. Sit quiet and have a fire. Get a couple things for the grill at Jonston’s too.
Check real quick here. The grocery side of the megastore.
I’m here, right?
The big animal chase the other night. Probably wouldn’t’ve happened if I was sitting there. Right? It could. I’d worry about the dog and what he’d do.
But if it’s late enough, he won’t be out with me. He’ll have asked to go to bed.
I feel like I didn’t have a thought all night.
It’s getting late.
Nothing much is happening.
No Deacon.
No animal chase.
Too late for me to pay attention. I can’t tell what I hear.
Wind?
The fire’s dimming out. Smoke’s getting in my eyes.
Head’s starting to pound.
A little shaky.
Get up to go inside. I go and sit on the couch. Curling over. I’ll watch a movie. I’ll watch the beer-smuggling outlaw with the rival sheriff.
Watch, though, something’ll happen outside now that I’m in and I’ll miss it.
Pot of water thing. Won’t boil if you’re watching.
Nathan Dragon is a frequent contributor to NOON Annual. His debut story collection, The Champ Is Here, was published by C4G Books in December. He edits Blue Arrangements with his wife, Raegan Bird.
Illustration: Joshua Burwell.
