The Dog Who Danced (Excerpt)

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You gonna fi nish that?” Artie stubs a blunt fi nger in the di-

rection of my En glish muffi n. We’re sitting in a Travel

America rest stop, one of the several that we’ve visited on this

west- to- east run. He likes to keep on schedule; I like to pause

for an hour and get the blood fl owing in my legs again after

hours in the cab of the eighteen- wheeler, inhaling Artie’s ciga-

rette smoke and drinking warm, fl at Coke. TAs are little shop-

ping centers, catering to folks who live on the road, modern

Gypsies, with anything you can think of for your vehicle from

oil to mud fl aps to little bobblehead dashboard fi gures of foot-

ball players and Jesus. Th e restaurants off er big man’s meals, all-

you- can- eats—chicken- fried steak, biscuits, apple pie. How

hungry can a man be who has sat in a rig all day, keeping busy

with radio and Red Bull?

“No. Take it.” Unlike the majority of the people jammed into

the booths and bellied up to the counter, I have no appetite, no

desire to heap my plate with eggs and sausages. Th e good hot

coff ee is enough for me. I’m hoping that Artie will stay put long

enough for me to visit the ladies’ shower room.

I’m riding shotgun with Artie Schmidt because I need to get

back to the East Coast. He comes into my bar pretty regularly

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—+1The Dog Who Danced • 5

when he’s not on the road. It was Candy’s idea, hitching the ride

instead of fl ying. She knew that round- trip airfare would make

me have to choose between rent and food; and a one- way ticked

might mean that she would have to fi nd another girl. Besides,

this way I could take Mack with me. Th e idea of being in my

stepmother’s presence without an ally was unthinkable. Going

with Artie meant that I could take my dog with me, and there is

no way I’d subject my Sheltie to being cargo.

Frankly, it was Candy who convinced me that I had to go

east in the fi rst place. My stepmother didn’t reach out often, or

at all, so when she called to say my father was failing, it was al-

most impossible to get past the fact that it was Adele on the

phone, rather than take in the fact of my father’s dying. Wicked

stepmothers are only in fairy stories, right? I’m here to tell you

that Cinderella had it good compared to what that woman put

me through. But Candy said I should go, that it was important.

Family is important. Right. Despite my better instincts, I set my

course eastward and signed on with Artie Schmidt. Mack, my

blue merle Sheltie, right alongside me. Th e boyfriend who gave

Mack to me is long gone, but my little man stays, keeping his

long, pointy nose at my heels wherever I go.

Candy Kane— and that’s her real name— runs a decent tav-

ern just outside the city limits of Seattle. I’ve lived pretty much

everywhere. Starting when I walked out of the house the day

after high school graduation, getting as far as Somerville, where

I bunked in with a pair of roommates I found on a message

board in a coff ee shop. Th en down Interstate 95 to Brooklyn,

where I might have stayed; then Florida, then Louisiana and

Texas. I have made my way as far west as California, and as far

north as Washington State, where I’ve stayed put longer than

anywhere else. When I look at a map of the United States, touch

all those big cities and little towns that I’ve spent time in, I see

that I’ve been moving in a slow clockwise circle around the


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+1—6 • Susan Wilson

country. When we’re getting the place ready to open, before the

fi rst happy- hour customers come in and want to watch ESPN or

CNN, Candy calls me over when Jeopardy is on; I can nail the

geography questions.

My point was never to return to my starting place, New Bed-

ford, Massachusetts. I’m like the old- time whalers, seeking my

fortune far from home. Instead of the ocean, I travel along ma-

jor highways. Instead of ships, I own clunkers good for only a

few thousand miles. Instead of whales, I ‘m not sure what I’m

seeking. Ahab had revenge in mind. I just haven’t found the one

place that will hold me still. When I was young, I thought that

there would be a man to tie me down, but it never worked out

that way. And no job was ever lifelong interesting; not one has

ever gotten me to sign on for the retirement plan.

You might think that having a kid would have kept me in one

place, or at least slowed me down, but even that failed to root me.

Every time I pulled up stakes, I told my son that no matter where

we were, we were at home as long as we were together. For a

long time, that was true, but then, well, it wasn’t.

So, here I am, circling back to my starting point in a direct

run down Interstate 90, New Bedford– bound.

“I’d like a shower.”

“And I’d like to keep on schedule. You’ve already slowed me

down with twice as many pee breaks as I take.”

“You pee in a bottle.”

Artie pulls off his greasy Tractor Supply cap and runs his fi n-

gers through his stringy hair, resettles the cap, and drags a long

breath. “Five minutes, or I swear to God I’ll leave without you.”

Artie has said this before. I smile and grab my duff el bag,

which nestles at my feet. It contains everything I need and noth-

ing that I don’t. Th at bag and I have a longer relationship than

most married couples. I pull a couple of dollars out of my back


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pocket and drop them on the check. “Give me seven and I’ll

meet you at the truck. Go buy yourself a pack of gum.”

“Justine. I mean it. I come in late with this load and I’m

fucked.”

“Th en don’t hold me up talking to me.” I shoulder my duff el

and stride off to the showers.

Once Artie fi gured out that I meant it, that I was paying him

three hundred bucks to let me ride east with him, and that didn’t

include any physical stuff , he’d turned sullen. It’s funny how the

barroom personality can be so diff erent from that of the real

person. Mr. How’s My Girl quickly became Mr. Cranky. Tough.

I’m not taking this ride for the company. I keep Mack between

us, and get out of the cab while Artie catches a few hours’ sleep—

walking Mack around quiet parking lots, sitting at empty picnic

tables and sipping cold coff ee— then unroll my sleeping bag and

crawl into Artie’s man- smelly bunk to catch my own z’s. Artie

doesn’t want Mack in his bed, but that’s okay. Th e dog curls up

on my seat, his little ears twisted in my direction, so I know he’s

not really sleeping. On guard. Shelties, miniature collies, are

guard dogs by breeding. His instincts are to watch the hills for

wolves. Artie is on notice every time Mack stares at him with

his ea gle eyes.

Th ere are three shower stalls. One is broken, and the other two

are in use. I should forget about it. I wash my face and brush my

teeth. Whoever those two women are, they are fl ipping taking a

long time. I fl oss. I wait. I know that Artie is getting pissed. Fi-

nally, the shower turns off . Now I have to wait for Miss America

to dry off and get dressed. “People waiting out here!” I shove my

washcloth and toothbrush back into my bag.

No answer. Th e second shower shuts off . Th e room is sud-

denly quiet except for the sound of towel against skin. I look at my

watch. My time is done. I pick up my duff el, and, miraculously,


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Shower Queen exits the booth. I can do this in one minute. I

can’t stand the feeling of dirty hair. I hate that I smell like day-

old sweat and Artie’s cigarettes. I can get in and under and out

in two minutes, tops. I won’t dry my hair.

Artie will be pissed, but I’m confi dent that he’ll just bitch,

not leave. I strip.

Five minutes later— it can’t have been more than fi ve

minutes— I emerge from the shower room, wet towel rolled up

under my arm, duff el over my shoulder, and my hair, wet and

unstyled, hanging to my shoulders. I’m in the second of three

T-shirts I’ve brought and the same jeans I started out with. But I

feel better. I’ll fi nish the job in the truck, put on the mascara and

fi nger- wave my hair.

As I promised, and only a couple of minutes late, I head out

the automatic doors, making straight for the truck lot. Maybe

thirty semis are lined up in rows, Roadway, Bemis, UPS, May-

fl ower Movers, and in de pen dents with family names on the cabs

and unmarked trailers behind. Rigs with full berths above, rigs

with shiny red and chrome, fancy lettering, rigs with more lights

than a carnival midway. And campers. Campers snuggled up

between the big guys, tagalongs and fi fth wheels; double- axle

motor homes. Four- wheel- drive trucks with engines that rival

those powering the big rigs.

I don’t see Artie’s truck. I look to the diesel pumps and then the

line for the truck wash, but he’s not there. I start to trot down

the lane between trucks. His rig isn’t distinctive, a plain dull

green. He’s hand- lettered his name, Arthur B. Schmidt, on the

driver’s door in an uneven attempt at block letters— the Schmidt

is narrower than the Arthur. He’s hauling a trailer that he was

hired to haul. Nothing to distinguish it from the others. But I

can’t have missed it. It’s been my home for the past two days.

“Artie, for God’s sake, stop teasing.” I say this under my breath,

but the panic is rising, a sour taste in my freshly brushed mouth,


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the taste of trouble. I stop looking for Artie. I know that he’s

gone. Th e mean SOB has called my bluff . He’s taken my three

hundred bucks and abandoned me in Ohio.

Th en it hits me, like someone has punched me in the stom-

ach. Mack was in the cab. My dog was in the truck, where I’d

left him after giving him a quick walk in the doggy rest area.

He’s been waiting for us to come out and give him a little treat

of Artie’s leftovers, a bowl of fresh water. I can’t believe that Artie

would have driven off with him. Th ere’s no chance Artie would

keep him. He’s dumped him into the middle of this parking lot

of bulls.

I call and whistle. Mack won’t know where I am, and he’ll be

frantic. I am frantic as I begin to run, my wet towel lost on the

pavement, my duff el banging against my back. “Mack! Mack!

Come, boy. Mack!” My mouth dries out and I can’t whistle any-

more.

Mack is obedient; if he hears me, he’ll come like a shot. He’s

not the type of dog that would wander around; he’ll be looking

for me, his nose to the ground, maybe heedless of the danger of

being in this active parking lot. All of a sudden, it seems like

every truck in this parking lot starts its motor in a cacophony of

diesel. Mack can’t hear me over the noise; I bend to peer be-

neath the behemoths, looking and looking for the fl ash of white

and gray that will be Mack. I can’t fi nd him. I stop dead in the

path of a moving truck. Th e driver slides a hand out his window,

waving me across the lane.

Okay. If Mack isn’t here, then Artie still has him. I circle the

TA building. Artie’s yanking my chain. If he’s still got Mack,

then Artie hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s not going to do that. He’s

got to be here. If he’s back on the road, there’s no way he’s going

to turn around and come back; the time he’d lose in playing me

would be too precious.

But there are no trucks on the other side of the building, just


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family cars, a horse trailer, and a Harley with a one- legged rider

parked in a handicapped spot.

“Have you seen a dog? A Sheltie? Gray with black streaks.

White ruff ? One blue eye and one brown eye?” I keep talking,

as if adding to the description will make the answer become yes.

Th e one- legged rider shakes his head, which is swathed in a

fi lthy red bandanna. “Nope. Sorry. Th is is a tough place to lose

a dog.” Like a lot of the rugged men I meet, he has a sympa-

thetic voice, which does not match his tough appearance.

I collapse onto a bench in front of the building, all the strength

in my legs gone, my heart thumping with a disconcerting loud-

ness. I fi ght back the tears. In my experience, tears have never

been useful, neither relieving pain nor off ering comfort once

shed. What I need is a plan. I need to stop Artie.

Artie has driven off with Mack.

@

Mack sleeps with his brushy tail curled up over his pointy nose.

Tucked up like this, he’s a small package of dog, burrowed into

the sleeping bag Justine has left unrolled on the bunk behind the

driver’s seat. He’s quite pleased to wait, dozing, waking, dozing,

for the people to return to the truck. Th ere might be a taste of

something good as a reward for being quiet and patient.

Th is mobile living is a bit boring, but he is satisfi ed with the

almost constant presence of his Justine. Usually he has to doze,

wake, doze for a long time every day until Justine comes back

from her day away from him, smelling of beer and fried food.

He loves that smell; once, when she took him with her to work,

just to pick up her check, he immediately recognized the place

as where she went during the day. Th e lovely odors defi ning her

away time and making it comprehensible to him. Who wouldn’t

want to be in a place that smelled like burgers?

When only Artie got back into the cab, Mack merely opened


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one eye. He isn’t a big fan of the guy, but that’s mostly because of

the stink of his cigarettes and the fact that the man ignores him.

Mack is more accustomed to having Justine’s males be friendly,

sometimes even presenting off erings. Good stuff , like rawhide

chews and squeaky toys. Th is guy just talks and smokes and, once

in a while, gets too close to Justine. Th at’s when Mack will fi nd a

reason to squeeze himself onto Justine’s lap. No need to show

teeth, just be there, a reminder that he is in charge, that she is his

person.

Artie lights up another cigarette, not even rolling the window

down to release the smoke. Mack tucks his nose deeper under his

tail, his jack- in- the- pulpit ears turning like miniature radar de-

tectors to catch the sound of Justine’s feet on the pavement. Artie

drums on the steering wheel, fi dgets with the arrangement of

knickknacks on the dashboard, cranks down his window, and

ejects the butt of his cigarette. “Goddamn. She’s pushin’ me.”

Mack keeps still. He wishes Artie would be quiet so that he

can listen better for Justine. Th e dog lifts his head to sniff the air

as the window goes down, but the cigarette stink is an impene-

trable barrier, obscuring even the fresh air outside, and Artie’s

head blocks his view. She’ll come. Justine will be back. She al-

ways comes back.

Th e fi rst day that he lived with Justine, he learned that les-

son. A mere baby, a pup of few weeks, he’d been taken away from

his mother, his littermates, and the only human hands he’d ever

known. He was boxed and carried to Justine. When she took

him up and rubbed her inadequate human nose against his

pointy one, he fell in love. And then she left him, putting him

back in the box that would be his cave, his home, until he out-

grew it. Th en she came back and let him out. Fed him, cuddled

him on the couch, named him. He never worried about her ab-

sence again.

Mack is startled back into full awareness as Artie hollers a


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stream of tongue language that Mack doesn’t recognize word for

word, but he gets the meaning. Th e man is angry. Th ere is no one

here for him to be angry at, unless he’s angry at him, so Mack

shrinks even more into the dim closet of a bunk. Suddenly, Artie

starts the truck, and the rumbling vibration of the big engine fi lls

the air. Th e gears grind and the truck moves forward. Justine isn’t

here. Maybe Artie is going to fi nd her. Mack’s soft whine is shad-

owed by the sound of the diesel engine. Th ey pull away from the

other trucks and shoot down the TA access road. In a minute,

they are back on the highway. Justine is not there.


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The Dog Who Danced (Excerpt)