*****
"Here you go." He handed her the steaming cup of hot cocoa and she accepted it gleefully. It was the first cup of the season and exactly as she liked it, with just enough marshmallows to cover the top. They were already beginning to melt. She pulled her feet up onto the swing's seat and scrunched her body together tightly as she deeply inhaled the warm, chocolate aroma.
"You're the best," she remarked before taking her first sip. Like a child, she savored the sticky, marshmallow film on her lips before licking it off. He sat down beside her and caused the swing to shift just enough that she had to reach forward and steal another sip before her drink ended up in her lap. Assured she wouldn't spill, he settled in and pulled the blanket she'd been hogging across his lap.
"Man, what a beautiful afternoon," he remarked. It was, indeed. The temperature had dropped to the mid-fifties and the leaves were beginning to fall in earnest. Days like that were the very reason they'd purchased that house in the first place – the large, oversized, wrap-around porch was the perfect setting to enjoy a fall breeze, or a summer morning. Having only moved in the weekend prior, this was their first time being able to actually sit and enjoy the peacefulness they'd hoped to experience with their village home. It was on that porch where they would sit for years to come, talking about their days, planning their future, holding each other closely, and eventually rocking their children. That day, though, that day the sun shone brightly, the breeze blew slowly, and time stood still. That was the day the dog walked into their lives.
They were sitting silently, sipping their cocoa, when a dog walked up the steps and sat down in front of them. He was a boxer, and judging from the grey that was just starting around his muzzle, he was likely around six to seven years old. He had a tennis ball in his mouth and his tiny nub of a tail beat wildly. The dog gently placed the ball on the bench between them as if they were his people and he belonged there with them on that porch.
They grinned at each other before she picked the ball up and threw it over the porch railing. The dog leaped excitedly to his feet and charged after it, bounding straight from the deck to the ground and foregoing the four steps in between. In seconds, it seemed, the dog was back, and they repeated the process. After at least a dozen throws, the dog returned and placed the ball on bench as he had each time before. This time, though, he placed his right paw in the air. She shook it, then he, and then the dog turned and ran down the stairs and was gone.
"Well that was interesting!" she exclaimed.
"He must belong to someone in the neighborhood," he said in reply, tossing the ball in the air as he did. Remarkably, despite the number of times the dog had just had that very ball in its mouth, it remained dry. He rolled his eyes, shook his head, and dropped the ball into the bowl atop the wicker side table beside the porch swing. They went inside and didn't think about the dog again, until it arrived the very next night. Again they played their game of fetch, and again, after a dozen or so throws, the dog left them with a shake, a bark and the ball, and left. Each day, every day, for the next five or six days, the dog returned and they repeated the ritual. Finally, the curiosity got the better of him. After the dog went bounding off to retrieve the third throw he spoke.
"I'm going to follow him this time. I've got to see where he lives, maybe talk to his owner. This dog cracks me up!"
She readily agreed with the plan and, when the dog dropped the ball for the last time and raised his paw, she winked at him. They shook, he barked, and the dog was gone. This time though he leapt to his feet and was down the stairs instantly. The dog trotted ahead in the distance and he followed, picking up his pace when the dog rounded the corner and left his sight.
When the dog came into his line of sight again, it was much farther ahead. Thankfully though, it wasn't so far ahead that he couldn't see it turn to the right, down a driveway, and into the back yard of a house up ahead. He followed, and when he reached the house called out "here boy! I got your ball!" as if the dog would answer. When it didn't come to him, he ventured around the side of the house to the back yard, only to find it empty.
"Huh," he remarked aloud with confusion. He hadn't heard anyone call the dog's name, nor did he hear the opening of any doors. Adding to conundrum was the fact that the yard was fenced, the only way in or out being through the opened gate through which he'd just passed.
"Can I help you?" a voice asked from behind him, startling him.
He turned quickly and replied apologetically. "No, I mean yes. I apologize," he began, stumbling over his words. "I didn't mean to intrude. I followed your dog here. He's been coming to our house every day, and I just wanted to see where he lived and meet his owner. Which is you, I presume?"
The old woman smiled, and choked back tears. "You must live at 247 Elm."
Surprised she so accurately guess his address he answered "Yes, actually. How did you know that?"
"Come, come inside young man," she offered, waving her wrinkled, arthritic hand in the air to beckon him to follow her. Curiosity got the better of him, and he did. She led him to a small parlor off the side of the foyer. Meticulously maintained, the room boasted a twelve foot ceiling with mahogany trim. The red, toile wallpaper though obviously antiquated, still had a regal sheen to it. He offered him a seat and he accepted. With a slight gasp belying her strained effort, she managed to rest her aching body in the chair opposite him. With a gnarled finger, she tapped on the phot album on the table between them. Skeptically, he reached forward and opened it.
"Wow," he remarked as he flipped the pages. "Is this you?" he asked, pointing to a black and white photograph of a stunning beautiful young woman. The old lady nodded proudly. He smiled and turned his attention back to the photos, and stopped turning the pages suddenly. On one page there was one, singular photograph, of the beautiful young woman kneeling. She was kneeling beside a broad-chested boxer, holding a tennis ball in its mouth. The photo was sixty years old if it was a day.
"I don't understand," were the only words he could muster. The old woman simply nodded and reached forward, instructing him to keep flipping pages. He did, and on each page there were more photos of her, together with the boxer. Playing fetch. Floating on a raft in a lake. Sleeping soundly in the middle of the floor of the parlor in which he now sat. It was the last page, though, that caused his face to go pale. The younger version of the old woman stood on one side of the dog, and on the other stood a man. If he'd not known any better, he'd have sworn he was looking at a photograph of himself. From the hairline, to the eyes, and even the watch worn on the right wrist to indicate that the man was left handed, every last detail of the man made him feel as if he was looking into a mirror.
"He lived at 247 Elm. He was one of my best friends. We were inseparable, he and I. Every day he'd visit me, or I him. We'd play with that dog for hours. Each day, every day, we'd laugh and smile, until he left for the war. I never saw him again. That dog would go to his house every day, until eventually one day he didn't come home either."
"Are you telling me that we've been visited every day by a ghost dog?" The only answer the woman gave was a raised eyebrow. "This is crazy," he muttered.
"Stranger things have happened," the old woman whispered absently as more tears welled in her eyes. She turned back to him. "You look so much like him. Even your voice. He's been waiting for you," she explained as she nodded to the dog in the photo. "He wasn't the same without you."
"Ma'am, you understand that I'm not him. I don't know who this man was, but I can't be him."
Again she replied with nothing more than a mournful smile. She rose, patted him on the shoulder, and left him alone in the parlor. He continued flipping through the old photos and marveled at the resemblance of the man anyone else would swear on a stack of bibles was him. But the dog, the dog though… There was similarly no questioning the fact that the dog depicted was one and the same as the canine that had been paying him a visit each day, as both animals bore a white triangle of fur just behind the nose, and a thin white stripe between the eyes.
When he'd finished, he looked for the old woman so that he could say thank you, and goodbye, but like the dog she too seemed to have disappeared. Shaken, he left and returned home. When he got there his beautiful wife greeted him, but her smile left her when she saw the look on his face.
"Are you alright? You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"Yeah," he muttered. "Kinda." They went inside and he explained simply that the dog lived up the street with an old woman and didn't elaborate. She let it go, but thoughts of that afternoon kept him up the entire night.
The next day she had gone out to run errands the evening after work. He sat on the porch alone, and waited. The sun was fading and he was about to doze off having come to the realization that he was losing his mind. And then he heard the familiar pitter-patter of paws across the wide, wooden porch planks. When he opened his eyes, his friend had returned.
"Hey buddy," he said to the dog. He reached forward to pet the dog on the head. As he did, the dog leaned forward and placed its paw on his knee. They sat there for a few minutes like that, foregoing the evening game of fetch, and enjoyed each other's company in silence. "Good dog."
When the sound of her car pulling in the driveway reached their ears, the dog stepped back, bounded down the stairs and was gone again. He followed it down the stairs and watched it go until it rounded the corner. "Hey babe," he said as he leaned in, gave her a kiss and took from her a couple bags of groceries.
"Hey you! So, did you friend come back today?"
He grinned. "Yeah. Yeah he did."
© 2014 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.
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