The Page the Landlord Never Read
At Okerlund’s, Tina came out with flour on her forearms and a face that could have curdled milk. At the library, Lorna put up her lunch-break sign and said, “I’ll bring the folding chairs. I don’t know why. I just feel like I ought to bring something.” Old Lowell Pickett, on his bench, with his hat on his knee, did not say one word. He listened and then he stood up, put the hat on his head, and started walking in the direction of Elm Street, 2 hours early, with his cane.
By the time Walt and I turned back toward the building I had told 5 people a time of day. I had not told anyone what to do.
There was one more person on the route that morning that I have not told you about.
His name was Brandon. He was 8 years old, he was Mildred Nolan’s grandson, and he was sitting on the school’s front steps with his backpack on the wrong shoulder, waiting for the bell. I had stopped, going back, to tie my shoe, and Walt and Bishop had gone on ahead a few feet.
Brandon stood up and walked right up to my brother. Bishop’s tail moved one time, slowly, against the sidewalk. The dog did not look at the boy. He had been taught not to.
“Mr. Walt?” Brandon said. “Can I pet your dog?”
“Hello, Brandon,” Walt said. “How did you know it was me?”
“Bishop’s the only one with a coat like that.”
“That’s true.”
“Can I?”
“Ask him with your voice first,” Walt said. “Not with your hands.”
The boy was quiet for a moment. He had thought about it. “Hi, Bishop,” he said carefully. “May I pet you?”
Bishop’s tail thumped once more. Walt said, “He says you can, but only one time on the shoulder, and then he’s got to go back to work. When the harness is on, he’s got a job. He’s got a job, same as your grandma.”
Brandon put out one hand and touched the gold fur on the dog’s shoulder for exactly the time it takes to say a short prayer.
“Does he know?” the boy asked.
“Know what?”
“That you can’t see.”
I thought Walt would say something wise. He did not. He stood there on the sidewalk with his hand on the harness and the sun on one side of his face, and he was quiet for what felt like a long time.
“He’s known longer than I did,” my brother said.
The bell rang. Brandon ran. And I stood on the sidewalk of Ellerton, Kansas, with my shoe half tied and my eyes burning, and I thought: this is the dog the man called a violation.
On Saturday morning the sun came in sideways through the glass of the front door, so clean and bright that you could see every smear on it.
By a quarter to 10 there were 7 neighbors in the building, and not one of them had been told to bring anything.