Family Matters

Jason, his wheelchair parked beside the table, was still brushing the puppy. “Hi.”

Marc came to an abrupt halt on the threshold of the kitchen and threw her an odd look.

“This is my brother, Jason,” she said. “Jason, this is Marc Wilde.”

“No wonder your voice sounded familiar on the telephone!” Jason exclaimed. “Wow! I can’t believe you’re actually in our kitchen. The last time I saw you on TV you were in Damascus with bombs going off….” Jason’s voice trailed away as he realized what he was saying. “Gosh, Mr. Wilde, I’m sorry. About what happened, I mean.”

“Forget it. Call me Marc.” Marc wheeled closer to peer at the dog. “How’s the pup?”

“He’s coming along,” Fiona said. “I took him to the vet for his shots and a microchip in his ear for identification.” She paused. “The vet estimated he’s about eight weeks old. He’ll be the right age to be neutered in four months. You will do the right thing, won’t you?”

“Don’t worry— I’m not in the habit of leaving progeny scattered in my wake and neither will my dog.”

He’d spoken absently and without even looking her way, yet Fiona felt heat creep into her cheeks. Good grief, anyone would think she was someone’s maiden aunt. She moved to the other side of the island benchtop to get out the bag of dry puppy food. He’s here for the dog, she reminded herself.

“You can take this to get you started,” she said, setting the bag by the door. “Be sure to give him plenty of water.”

“I’ve owned a dog before.” Marc reached out for the puppy and Jason handed him over. Immediately the dog began trembling.

“He’ll get used to you before long,” Fiona assured him, worried Marc might change his mind even now.

Marc held the puppy and stroked it for a few minutes. The trembling increased. He put the dog on the floor where it huddled instead of running around and exploring. “Is he sick?”

“Just scared,” Fiona said. “The vet checked him out thoroughly.”

“Does he ever bark?” Marc asked.

Fiona glanced at Jason. “We’ve never heard him.”

“Has he got a name?”

“I’ve held off calling him anything because I thought his new owner should name him.”

Fiona stood between Marc and Jason and the three of them stared at the cowering pup. He really wasn’t the most prepossessing animal.

“I’ll call him Rowdy,” Marc said at last. “Give him something to live up to.”

Fiona couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure he will in time.”

“Can you stay for dinner?” Jason blurted out. “I made minestrone soup. It’ll give Rowdy time to get to know you before you take him away. And,” he added shyly, “I’d love to hear about your experiences in the Middle East.”

Marc looked surprised at the unexpected invitation. “Thanks, Jason—”

Fearing he was about to add a “but…” Fiona jumped in. “It’s awfully short notice, Jase. I’m sure Marc has other things to do. Plus his aunt is coming back for him.”

Marc glanced at her. “I could always call Leone on her cell phone and ask her to come later.”

“Great!” Jason said. “I’ll heat up some garlic bread.”

“Fine,” Fiona said wondering why she was reluctant for Marc to stay. Jason needed more male company, especially now that high school was over and his friends had gone off to college and new jobs. But not Marc. Instinctively she felt he would be a disturbing influence, infecting Jason with his discontent.

Marc’s presence made the kitchen seem crowded and it wasn’t just because his wheelchair took up extra space. Fiona moved nervously around the room, pulling out the table, setting an extra place, aware of Marc’s gaze on her as he petted the dog.

“I gather you like Greece,” he said, nodding at the posters.

“I’ve never been,” Fiona admitted. “But I’d like to.” She paused to gaze at one of the posters. “Something about the light and the blueness of the water and sky attracts me.”

“You’ll go someday.”

She uttered a short laugh. “In my dreams.”

Fiona carried the food to the table and they seated themselves. She bowed her head to say a few words of thanksgiving and then handed around bowls of Jason’s steaming savory soup and hunks of buttery garlic bread sprinkled with fresh herbs from the pots she grew outside the back door.

In response to Jason’s prodding, Marc told them tales of his travels through war-torn countries. She noticed he didn’t embellish his own role or glorify war, concentrating instead on the bravery and fortitude of the local people who survived in near-impossible conditions. A different side to him shone through, one she admired.

“You’ve got a knack for bringing their stories to life,” Fiona said. “Yasmina, the schoolteacher, seems as real as, well, me.”

“People aren’t that different the world over, not where it counts,” Marc said with a shrug. “Jason, this soup is delicious.”

Jason blushed to the roots of his hair. “Thanks.”

“How old are you, seventeen, eighteen?”

“I turned eighteen last month.”

“Then you’ve finished high school,” Marc said. Jason nodded. “What are your plans for the future?”

“I want to go to university—” Jason began.

“Good plan,” Marc said. “Education opens doors.”

“—but Fiona won’t let me,” Jason finished.

Shocked her brother would say that in front of a stranger, Fiona froze as Marc turned to look in her direction.

CHAPTER FOUR

MARC’S GAZE FLICKERED from Jason to Fiona, trying to fathom the undercurrents of tension that had suddenly risen to the surface between brother and sister.

“That’s not strictly true, Jase,” Fiona said tightly. To Marc she added, “We’re exploring his options.”

Jason pulled apart the crust of his bread. “We’ve explored my options so long the fall term’s begun and it’s too late to enroll.”

“Have you checked to see if you can put in a late application?” Marc suggested carefully.

“What’s the use?” Jason muttered. “We can’t afford for me to go to school.”

“There are loans, bursaries, possibly even scholarships if Jason’s marks are good enough,” Marc said.

“His options include working for a year to save money for tuition,” Fiona said.

“I’ve read the textbooks. I can do the work,” Jason replied. “Why should I wait?”

Fiona cast a meaningful glance at her brother that said as clearly as words, enough, then turned to Marc. “Would you like some more soup?”

“No, thank you.” Marc laid down his spoon beside his empty bowl.

An awkward silence descended over the dinner table.

Fiona rose and gathered up the empty dishes. “I’ll get Rowdy’s bed and then drive you home,” she said to Marc. “I hate to rush you but I have studying to do. Jason, can you please disconnect that so-called music before we open the door?”

While Jason disappeared to another part of the house Fiona went to the laundry room and came back holding a cardboard box with one side cut down and packed with an old blanket. She put the box on Marc’s lap and the puppy and his bag of food inside. “I’ll go bring the car around.”

Jason returned and wheeled as far as the front door with Marc. “Sorry things got a little uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Marc hesitated, wishing he could say something more. Jason was a nice kid who deserved a break. But what could Marc do to help him? “Good luck with your studies.” He made his way slowly down the ramp, careful not to tip Rowdy out of his box.

Fiona was waiting with the passenger door open and the trunk up. Marc transferred to her car and stroked the shivering dog while she loaded his chair.

“You shouldn’t hold him back,” Marc said when they were heading down the dark country road that led through Pemberton to the highway to Whistler.

She stared straight ahead, her hands gripping the wheel at the regulation ten and two o’clock positions. “I know how to take care of my brother.”

“I’m sure you do. But if he’s eager for a career why not do what you can to help him get one?”

“What goes on between Jason and me is none of your business.”

“What if something happens to you? Who’ll look after him if he doesn’t have some way to provide for himself?”

She slowed to a halt at a four-way stop and swiveled in her seat to face him. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that? I’ve got a plan. I’ve worked out our future. The problem is, Jason’s young and wants everything right now.”

“Fine. No need to get defensive.”

“I’m not being defensive,” she said, moving through the intersection. “You’re interfering.”

“I only said—”

“Don’t!”

He held up his hands in silent surrender. She was right; it was none of his business. “How long has Jason been in a wheelchair?”

“Since he was eleven.” Tension still gripped her voice; if anything it had increased. “His spinal cord was severed in the same car accident that killed our parents.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Were you also in the car?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “I walked away with a broken arm.”

“My mother was killed in a car accident when I was five,” Marc told her.

“And your father?”

“He’s been gone for fifteen years now.”

She glanced sideways and in the dim light of the dashboard Marc caught an expression of understanding. “We have something in common,” she said. “We’re both orphans.”

For all intents and purposes, that was true. “I was lucky. My aunt and uncle were like parents to me and Nate and Aidan, like brothers. How old were you when you lost your folks?”

“Eighteen. I’d just started university. I was home for the weekend when the accident happened. I never went back to school.”

“How did you get your teaching degree then?”

“Correspondence courses while I worked at the pub. It took me six years.” She sounded more resigned than bitter.

“It would be understandable if you were reluctant to let your brother get easily what you worked so hard to achieve.” Marc chose his next words carefully.

“You’re wrong,” she interjected, shooting him an indecipherable look. “I don’t begrudge Jason anything.”

She denied it so quickly, so vehemently, Marc wondered if it were strictly true. “Still, caring for your brother under those circumstances would have been hard enough but with Jason also in a wheelchair… You’re a mother to your brother and a savior to lost dogs.” Marc regarded her thoughtfully. “Who takes care of Fiona?”

She flinched, just a tightening of her hands gripping the wheel but he knew he’d hit a nerve.

“I take care of myself, thank you very much,” she said with a hint of the steel that must have supported her all these years.

She turned off the highway and onto the road that led to Tapley’s Estate. Marc studied her in the street-light. Something else had surfaced just then, too, a wistfulness, as if she wouldn’t mind, just once, being taken care of herself.

A few minutes later Fiona pulled into Jim and Leone’s driveway and parked the car. With proficiency born of practice she unloaded Marc’s chair and held it while he transferred into it.

Rowdy’s sniffing nose poked timidly above the lip of the cardboard box. She leaned over to stroke the puppy’s head. “Bye sweetie,” she crooned. “I’ll miss you.” To Marc she said, “Take good care of Rowdy. If you have any questions or problems just give me a call.”

As she pulled out of the driveway, Marc wondered aloud, “Does it have to be about the dog?”

“SIT, ROWDY. NOW, STAY. Staaay….” Marc wheeled a few feet away then glanced over his shoulder. Rowdy was creeping hesitantly after him.

“No, no, no,” Marc chided. With a combination of pushing on Rowdy’s rump and pulling up on his lead Marc got him back into a sitting position. “Sit. Stay.”

This time he wheeled backward down the driveway, keeping a stern eye on the dog. After a moment’s hesitation, Rowdy started inching forward on his belly, ears flattened, wagging his tail in a submissive posture.

They were out in the front yard because Leone had complained about the dog’s nails scratching her hardwood floors. But with all the distracting scents and sounds of the outdoors Rowdy was finding it hard to stay focused.

“Okay, boy, we’ll try it once more.”

He maneuvered Rowdy back into position. The dog sat for all of thirty seconds until a crow flew out of the spruce tree at the side of the house. Rowdy darted after it, barking loudly.

“So you’ve got a voice. Hurrah,” Marc said wearily. “Come, Rowdy.”

The dog ignored him. When the crow flapped his wings lazily and flew to a pine across the road, Rowdy charged after it, and was narrowly missed by an approaching car.

“Rowdy! Come!” Marc called, wheeling to the end of the driveway.

Rowdy looked over his shoulder at Marc as if to say, “are you kidding?” With more spunk than he’d shown thus far, he barked and continued to chase the bird. Marc called insistently, alternating between an angry and an encouraging tone. Nothing worked.

He was forced to follow the dog down the road, finally cornering Rowdy in a driveway where he was playfully barking at a beagle behind a gate.

Marc dragged Rowdy back to his own yard, scolding, “I can’t run after you if you take off. What if you get hit by a car, or someone even more bad tempered than me dognaps you?”

Rowdy stretched his long body out on the grass and rested his muzzle on his paws, gazing up at Marc with wrinkled eyebrows as if he was as perplexed as Marc about how to solve the problem.

“I should never have agreed to take you,” Marc told him. “It’s all Fiona’s fault for guilting me into it. No, don’t look at me with those puppy-dog eyes. I can’t train you properly and once I’m out of the chair I won’t be around to look after you. I ought to take you to the pound right now.”

Rowdy crawled forward on his belly and lovingly and thoroughly began laving Marc’s bare foot with long flat swipes of his tongue. Marc’s first instinct was to push him away but a second glance stopped him. Rowdy was concentrating his efforts on a scabbed over scrape he’d gotten when he’d bumped into a sharp corner after a shower and not felt it.

The dog was cleaning his wound with intense doggy devotion. It gave him the oddest feeling.

“Come on, then, mutt. We’ll find an obedience class.” Marc wheeled up the sheet of plywood Jim had put in place as a makeshift ramp and into the house. Rowdy trotted along on his short legs, apparently quite happy to obey when he agreed with the directive.

Marc spent half an hour on the phone trying to find a class but the one in Whistler was full and not accepting new members. Another class was starting in Squamish in two weeks but Marc didn’t want to ask Leone or Jim to drive an hour each way.

“There’s always the library,” Marc told Rowdy then caught himself. He was talking to a dog.

“Did I hear you say you were going to the library?” Leone came into the room dressed to go out in black slacks and a dark green blazer with an autumn-colored silk scarf. It was Wednesday, her day off. “I can drop you there on my way to the hairdresser.”

“Thanks.” Marc put Rowdy in the fenced backyard with a bone and a squeaky toy, telling him, “I won’t be long.”

Built on the model of an alpine village, Whistler sparkled in the autumn sun beneath the glistening peaks of Whistler and Blackcomb Mountains. Tourists from all over the world strolled along the pedestrian-only lanes and squares, browsing the well-kept shops and restaurants. Sports enthusiasts, from mountain bikers in padded shorts and body armor to glacier skiers in long nylon pants and dark goggles rode or strode purposefully toward their individual pursuits, many heading for the chairlifts at the edge of town.

Leone pulled into the handicapped zone in the library parking lot. “How long do you think you’ll be?”

“I’m not sure,” Marc said. “I might go to the pub afterward. I’ll get a taxi back.” He could let Fiona know how the dog was doing. After a week’s abstinence he had a thirst but it wasn’t for bourbon.

Leone fingered the ends of her scarf, her expression troubled. “Marc, honey…”

“I know what you’re going to say,” he forestalled her before she could lecture him on his drinking. “But I’m a big boy. Don’t worry about me.”

“Jim and I do worry. You’ve never drunk too much before, not even when you first came of legal drinking age. Excess alcohol isn’t good for your health and it might even affect your recovery.”

“I know,” Marc said, smoothing out the curling ends of the Band-Aids covering the blistered pads of his palms.

Leone noticed and heaved an exasperated sigh. “When are you going to do something about your hands? All it takes is a phone call to Nate and he’ll bring you a pair of leather cycling gloves. I’ll do it for you.”