The Hurried Gift

Kind providence placed a screen of magnolia and bay around the heart of Augusta to shut out change and preserve the past. Even in 1971, the War of Rebellion was more than a memory. Separation and loss tempered families left behind. Their reckless inability to forsake love was a fault of necessity. Old-blood Georgia women never surrendered. They were too staunch and steely. It was impossible to decide whether their lives marked the place or the place marked them. But they were there, and the place was there, and it was a kind of victory.
    Women preserved what was left of tradition, that beauty of emotion that is a Southern reality. Hidden behind tall hedges and cloistered by iron gates waited sunny islands of a life forgotten. Deep in the middle of the city grew fields of corn and soybeans run over by wild pea that served no purpose other than shelter for quail.
    Bird dogs were a part of Georgia riches that could not be stolen by war. Waving white lines carved across lowland hills were symbols of freedom. Dogs held a spiritual connection with their owners. The pillared houses existed only as artifacts of souls. Each was presided over by a matriarch whose ancestors had refused to be uprooted, the heart of a South that never died.
    Tom Nash was a newly commissioned lieutenant at Fort Gordon. Like the young of all species, he felt immortal. But he was no fool. Vietnam waited patiently for him. Running his old pickup with burnt rings and living on TV dinners, he held back his travel pay and advertised for double guns. The anticipation of possession tempted him to stay alive.
    When the phone rang, the woman’s voice was dignified, reserved and to the point. “Sir, do you know a good deal about guns?”
    “I know a little, Ma’am.”
    “What would you do with the gun?” she asked.
    “Hunt, Ma’am.”
    “What if I told you I had a Premier Grade Smith?”
    Tom paused. “I’d say it was more than I could pay.”
    “Well then, you must come along.”
    Near the outskirts of Old Town, Tom stopped before a huge gate almost blocked by bay heads. Above the lock stood a wrought-iron dog frozen on point. Tom pulled the latch bar, drove through and wound along a sandy lane between deep black ponds and live oaks draped with waving arms of Spanish moss. He moved down a darkened path toward the invisibility of wealth. The last turn revealed a beautiful Low Country cottage perched in the sunlight and sheltered by giant tupelo. Old-growth cypress shut out the noises of the city and left Tom a hundred years in the past.
    When the truck stopped, an English setter emerged from an otherwise empty kennel. Every pen had an open gate. But the dog sat behind an invisible line and waited. A strikingly beautiful woman drifted onto the cottage porch and gazed down with intensity. She was somehow regal . . . old without being old. As soon as Tom saw her, he knew that she was part of an era that marked people by their purpose.
    “Come into the house, Mr. Nash. I’m Louise Adams.”
    Tom walked into the shadow of the doorway and felt the cool breeze that drew out of the darkness. He turned in time to see the old dog’s nose settle onto its paws. There was a sadness in the setter’s eyes that could not be missed.
    Mrs. Adams led him through an open hall and into a paneled study. A giant mahogany desk dominated the center of the room. Bookshelves lined every wall. Bamboo fly rods lay on their ledges, and pyramids of old decoys were stacked above them, staring down with indifference. Perched casually on the edge of a table was the L.C. Smith. The shotgun was almost hidden by pictures of hunters and fishermen, soldiers with medals, and Victorian ladies on horses.
    Tom paused before a photograph of two men. One was about his age and wearing a uniform. They were surrounded by setters running, barking and jumping high into the air . . . dogs laughing. Even in the stillness of the photograph, Tom could hear them bark. “That’s my son, David, with his Dad,” Mrs. Adams said.
    Tom only glanced at the L.C. Smith. He knew without looking that it was perfect. It was the mark of a man. The room told all there was to know regarding the firearm, its owner and the world of privilege. Mrs. Adams seemed annoyed that he didn’t pick up the gun.
    “Sit down, Mr. Nash, and tell me what you are about.”
    Tom was at a loss to answer that question. “I’m at Fort Gordon,” he said.
    “I know that, young man. You have the look of a soldier. But shooting is particular business. Do you think the Smith is suitable for your purposes?”
    He flinched at the question. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.
    “What might those purposes be?” she said. “I’d hate to think that someone bought the gun who didn’t appreciate it.”
    Tom began to realize that it was a test. “The engraver was Albert Kraus,” he said. “It is a bird gun . . . a work of art.” He spoke slowly so that she would realize what she was giving away.
    Mrs. Adams seemed amused. “What would you pay for such a gun?”
    “Do you need the money?”
    “I might,” she said.
    “I’d tell you to take it to Sotheby’s.”
    “What if I sold it cheap?”
    “I couldn’t do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “Ma’am, I couldn’t enjoy something that I stole from a widow.”
    She stared deep into his eyes without admitting or denying anything. “My husband told me to find someone who would shoot it.”
    Tom sat up straight, consciously considering the reality of his situation. Slowly, he nodded. She slid a bill of sale across the desk. The price was one hundred dollars. Tom searched for something to say, but no words seemed adequate.
    The woman stood up and moved to the door. There was nothing dawdling or sentimental in her manner. “What do you like to hunt, Mr. Nash?”
    “Quail hunting is my favorite, Ma’am.”
    “Good,” she said. “You’d better be taking the old dog then.”
    Tom stopped short. “Ma’am, he’s a beautiful animal, but I couldn’t take him. He’s too old. If I took him now, he’d pine away in a week.”
    Mrs. Adams steered Tom out to the porch. “That’s why I’m giving him to you. My husband died a few days ago. The dog won’t eat. He’s wasting away.” She straightened and looked off into the dark quiet of the woods. “I know you think it’s strange that I’m doing all this in a hurry. But I had to make a decision. That devil forced my hand. He just wanders around looking for Bill.” She turned to smile at the dog. “See his ears twitch. He knows we are talking about him. Perhaps the old fellow won’t make it. But with you he has a chance. Some things have to settle themselves.”
    Mrs. Adams reached into her pocket and pulled out several 16-gauge shells. She pointed to a spot through the trees. “His name is Beau. Take him out and walk him around. There’s a covey over there.”
    “You mean shoot, here, in the middle of the city?” Tom asked.
    “The quail and I have been here a lot longer than these horrible encroachments. It’s God’s world, and He won’t hold it against us. I opened the pen to see if the poor soul would roam out on his own, but he knew that I was just fooling him.” She turned to walk back into the house. “Try, Tom. The gun is yours, whatever happens. Take the dog if you are willing. You are the right kind of boy.”
    Tom was left standing in silence, caught by the trap of his own integrity. He walked out to the setter and looked at him with a critical eye. Beau was gaunt. There was no sheen to his coat. His sides heaved wearily, and his large black head leaned against the gate post. Yet there was still a light in the old dog’s eyes. He rolled upright as Tom approached and held out the gun’s open chambers. But he seemed puzzled that Tom cradled the gun. Beau would not be deceived. His gaze shifted to the window of the house. Tom turned and saw the curtains move.
    Tom dropped two shells into the chambers of the Smith so that Beau could hear their hollow ring. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away. There was no pleading or looking back.
    The field that Mrs. Adams had indicated was thick with partridge pea. Tom could hear the pods rattle as Beau trailed behind. Suddenly two dozen quail leaped into the air. Tom never raised the gun. As they fanned out across the field, he turned to the setter with a look of reproach. The dog’s head dropped. Tom followed the birds. Slowly the old dog circled and began to hunt. When he pointed a single, Tom killed it and waited for the retrieve. Beau performed flawlessly, without effort. But as he returned with the bird, the dog stopped. He seemed lost. The setter was looking for Bill. After a moment, he brought the quail to hand.
    “Come on, Beau,” Tom said. “Let’s go home.”
    Tom left the quail on the side of the steps. Having no dog box, he opened the door of the pickup. The old dog hesitated and looked back at the house. Mrs. Adams came out to stand near the porch railing. Her eyes were bright, and her face was drawn. Yet without a word, she waved her hand to shoo the dog away. Beau hopped onto the front seat and sat looking at the world that he was leaving. Across Augusta, he stared at the wonders of a lighted path. He rode stiffly and uneasily as any human might who was forsaking a home for the unfamiliar.

Four months passed as the pair got to know each other. The dog’s strength improved, and his coat began to shine. Beau was good at his craft . . . artful. Once again he enjoyed crisp days of winter winds and the smells of his ancient world. He quivered on point with that personal excitement of knowing the center of the universe.
    Tom was most pleased by a small thing. The setter never stopped looking for Bill. It was more virtue than fault. Even in disappointment, Beau lived a life of anticipation.
    One day just two weeks after the end of quail season, the old dog walked slowly over to where Tom sat, poked a cold nose against his hand and curled up on his feet. After a few moments, Tom felt the setter’s heart stop beating. He waited, breathing deeply, trapped by a last togetherness. Tom could not bring himself to cry. Everything was done.

Tom drove the dog out to bury him at the edge of Louise Adams’ private field. He convinced himself that it would be a kindness to get the setter in the ground quietly, so he didn’t knock. Instead he started walking right to the field carrying the dog in his arms. Suddenly the side door flew open and Mrs. Adams came rushing out. She didn’t say a word, but as Tom looked into her eyes he could tell that it had been a mistake to presume on a private matter.
    Gently, Mrs. Adams touched the dog’s ears. Finally she said, “I can see that he was fit.” Tom nodded. “That’s good,” she whispered. Tom turned back to the hidden field. “No! Not there.” Mrs. Adams took his elbow and pulled him near the house. She went inside and immediately came back with a quilt. Tom followed her around the corner and down a path toward the edge of the woods.
    They soon came to the railing of a family cemetery. Tom leaned his shovel against the wrought iron, lowered Beau to the grass and opened the gate. There seemed more new graves than old. All of the stones were small. Even the marker for Bill and Louise was no bigger than a sharecropper’s stone. Yet beside it was a white marble statue of an English setter. Tom froze. “Why didn’t you make me swear to bring him home?”
    “No need to ask for promises that might not be kept,” Mrs. Adams said. “The grave is open. There is a cover board.”
    As Tom worked to clear the grave, he looked at the marker’s brass plaque. Under Beau’s registered name was the inscription “An honest dog.” Then came two rows of Field Trial Championships. Once the grave was opened, it looked like the resting place for a child.
    Mrs. Adams had spread out the quilt and pulled Beau into the center of it. Tom could see in its piece work the names and dates of a hundred setters to which the dog was linked. Tom folded the corners of cloth across the old dog, grasped the ends and lowered Beau into the darkness. Mrs. Adams never cried.
    Tom labored until the grave was full. When the work was done, he felt awkward and empty. He wished that Mrs. Adams would speak. But there was only silence. Stepping forward, she kneeled to touch the grave. The act left what seemed a terribly small hand print.
    “At least . . . the old dog has finally found his way,” Tom said. “Now your husband won’t have to hunt alone.”
    Louise Adams looked up. “He’s not alone,” she said quietly. “David is there. Two days before I called you, he was killed in Cambodia.” She stood up, dusted the dirt from her knees like a little girl, turned and walked away. When she was gone, Tom stepped across two old graves to look at the fresh earth on the other side of Bill’s stone. Under a newly chiseled name was a Silver Star.
    The hardest part of leaving was not deserting the graves. It was moving past the dog kennels, now totally silent. Perhaps because he felt that it was for the last time, the drive down the lane was more difficult than bringing the setter home. Tom pulled the truck to the side of the road. A gentle breeze moved the trees and stirred dying grasses. He knew it was a wind that moved over other widows and other soldiers, but that knowledge gave no color to a winter landscape.
    Tom had always thought that he understood strength. What he had seen was something undeterred by defeat, more timeless than mortality. For the first time in his life Tom felt tied to a place. It was a place that now barely existed. He could not stay. Tom knew that he would shoot the Smith many times. But in the end it would be unimportant, except for the memory.

Steve Cherry resides in southern Kentucky. When not outdoors, this former military officer and media advisor monitors the stock market. His stories have been published internationally, and one was made into a major motion picture. Steve is presently looking for a puppy to replace his friend of 14 years, an English setter named “Cat.”