Christmas with Tucker by Greg Kincaid

MAINTAINER in second gear, I pulled into the driveway. From the placement of the tire tracks in the snow, it looked like his truck was stuck. As my grandfather had requested, I graded his driveway, such as it was, parked the maintainer, and mustered my strength to knock again on that old front door to make sure Thorne was not in dire need of supplies.
    Tucker immediately started barking, but I could tell it was not an anxious or cautionary bark. He knew it was me and was just excited. I knocked again, but still there was no answer.
    I opened the door slightly and was greeted by Tucker trying to push through to the porch. Though I wasn’t an experienced dog owner, I recognized the whines of a canine that needed to get outside and do its business. After a moment he came running back to me and I opened the door again, letting him back into the house. He was jumping up and down excitedly. It seemed that he was missing me as much as I was missing him. I leaned in across the threshold. “Mr. Thorne, are you home?”
    The house was dark and the morning light was not strong enough for me to see well. I pushed Tucker aside and steppedin and gave my eyes another second to adjust to the dimness. I tried again. “Mr. Thorne, are you here?”
    I heard a wheezing noise. By the door, there was a small table with a lamp on it. I found the knob and tried to switch it on. Thorne had lost power, too. The only light came from the dying fire in a potbellied stove.
    Even in the shadows, I could tell the room was dirtier than it had been the last time I was there. Frank Thorne had not let Tucker out and the dog had left a mess or two of his own, which added to the stench. No wonder he’d been so desperate to get outside. On the sofa in the corner, not far from a window, Thorne looked up with a half-dazed stare. “What do you want, boy?”
    I felt myself quiver.
    “Go ahead, boy, spit it out.” He seemed impatient.
    “Mr. Thorne, my grandfather asked me to stop by. I mean, I’m grading the roads. We’re taking shifts because of all the snow. I graded your driveway for you. He wanted me to stop in and make sure you were all right and see if you needed anything. I’ve got some extra milk and eggs, if you need any.”
    He struggled into a sitting position. “I am too sick to eat a thing. Come over here, kid.”
    As I approached, I realized how icy cold the room was, its only heat source the dwindling embers in the stove. No wonder he was sick. I tried to navigate around the mess on the floor. When I got closer, I could see that Thorne was trembling.
    “I got that note of yours. So you want my dog?” His tone was scornful.
    Of course I wanted Tucker, but I didn’t like the way he asked the question. “I think I could take real good care of him.”
    “That dog is the only thing I got that is worth a pluggednickel to me.” He looked around and waved his arms. “This ain’t no palace.” He called to Tucker. “Come here, Red.”
    To my surprise, Tucker wagged his tail and went to Thorne’s side. The sick man ran his hands through his coat and talked to him affectionately. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”
    He looked up at me. “I tell you what, George; you drive that maintainer up to Wild Tom Turner’s place, on Blackberry Hill, and you tell him that old Frank Thorne is in a tight spot and needs two bottles of his best …” He hesitated and added, “Medicine. You bring that back to me and then we’ll talk about my dog.”
    He pulled his blanket around him and said, “How ’bout that, kid?” He coughed and collapsed back into the sofa. He was definitely sick with something, but I wasn’t sure if this was the alcohol or something else.
    “I’ll think about it,” I said quietly. I’d never heard of Wild Tom Turner or Blackberry Hill and I wondered if it was worth it.
    “Don’t think too long, boy. While you are thinking about it, throw a couple of logs into that stove.”
    I spotted some kindling and opened the