Old Dog Read online

  "God, Bloomfield Airport's a cart track now. Anyway, Pap had a conniption fit when he heard. Never let us go up again with Mister Buck or Clair Raffensburger or any of the pilots."

  "They were good flyers, Larry."

  "That's my point, Adam. Pap let his fears for us rule his head. We missed some experiences that might have opened other tracks and interests. Who knows what we lost out on."

  "Somebody, maybe it was old Will Rogers, wrote, 'I never regretted anything I did, only the things I didn't do.'"

  "That's it, Dog, and you have lived pretty close to that saying."

  "Well, if I have, I've taken a lot of knocks doing it, and Will Rogers, if it was him that said it, died in a plane crash up in Alaska."

  "Do you think it's dangerous taking Timmy to Daytona, Adam?"

  Old Dog swigged again at his Mylanta. He said, "I'm going to try Riopan Plus; this stuff's lost its wallop."

  He answered his brother with care. "Maybe two hundred thousand motorcycles will be coming to Daytona. Some will be there for hell raising, but not all. The record is that no one gets killed. A few bones get broken and a lot of unreported chrome gets scraped.

  "No, it isn't dangerous. It's loud and it's carefree. Too many drink too much beer, but I don't. Some get reckless, but not the guys I visit with. Mostly we talk, ride the beach, look at bikes, and watch the races. We go to the swap meet and visit the Harley display. If you act right, the week is about as dangerous as the Bloomfield or Newport Firemen's Carnival."

  Larry laughed, "That isn't too dangerous, Dog."

  "No, it isn't. Daytona is adventurous because it is big and different, that's all."

  They rocked a little before Larry said, "OK, Adam. A week out of school won't hurt. Hell, Tim will learn a thousand times more traveling with you than he would in school anyway.

  "OK, if his mother doesn't threaten to leave or something, he can go. When is it, anyway?"

  "Second week in March we'll be there."

  "Whew, that is close."

  "It better be. After that I plan on getting my ducks in line, if you know what I mean."

  "Yeah, guess I do, Adam. You sure you want Tim to go along . . . this last time?"

  "One hundred percent sure. I've things to show and tell, brother."

  Old Dog's mind seemed to wander, as though he were examining something important.

  "I'm considering taking on a sort of personal project, Larry. Sort of clean up a mess that no one seems willing to tackle." He mused again. "Could be I've got a special opportunity here. Maybe it's a calling I can use to mean something."

  Dog shook himself into the present. "Anyway, if I go ahead with what I'm considering, it won't take long, maybe a week or two."

  Larry wondered what in hell Dog could be referring to. He supposed Adam would tell him in time. Then Old Dog delivered a stunner.

  "I'm aiming to check out of here by May first, brother. I've never hedged about having a dying plan. It looks as if I'll have the opportunity to do what I've always said I wanted to do."

  "Aw, Dog, you don't have to . . ."

  "I know I don't have to, Larry. You've got to understand that I want to, and part of it is not waiting too long. Doc Klein's going to fix me up, so even that is coming easy."

  "You're going to Alaska?"

  "That's how I've described it since I decided back in . . . when was it? Middle 50s, I guess."

  Larry Carlisle rocked in silence, admiring his brother, maybe more than he ever had, saddened almost to illness by the inevitability of Old Dog's death, but proud of his brother's will to do it on his own terms—really on his own terms, just as he had said he would for about the last forty years.

  No one listened much when Old Dog brought up dignified dying. Self-deliverance, he called it, and getting out of the way when you became a burden was part of his description. His personal plan was heard then ignored, as if Old Dog had rambled on about what he would do if he were president.

  But Larry Carlisle had always believed Adam was serious, and if fate dealt the right hand, Old Dog Carlisle would pass on the way he chose and where he chose. When, had always been the game's question, but it appeared life's lottery had even popped that date into view. May Day, an old pagan and Druid ceremonial date.

  Chapter 7

  Arlis barely held off the emotional fit her husband expected. She managed because . . . because she knew she had been acting short tempered and shrewish recently and because Larry Carlisle really did want Timmy to go off on a stupid trip with his uncle.

  First Arlis complained about missed school days, but she knew as well as anyone that grades did not crash because of flu or suspension or due to particular team or club absences. They would not because of Daytona Bike Week. Of course she groused about the dangers of motorcycle riding, but Timmy already rode behind Old Dog so often that the argument lacked impact.

  When her husband was earnest about something, Arlis listened. Larry Carlisle was a comfortable man, like a favorite shoe, and he deserved respect and consideration. He had stayed true and dependable, just as she had known he would back in high school days.

  Larry's business had prospered, and the Carlisles were reasonably secure. Arlis recognized herself as better situated than most who showed up for class reunions.

  There was a final detail that also influenced her grudging acceptance of their son's adventure. Knowingly or otherwise, the former Arlis Doyle loved Larry Carlisle and preferred to please him. She wished often that she could cast out the devils of spite and envy that popped so often to her too ready tongue. Arlis prayed fervently each Sunday for help in being less testy, tart, and outspoken.

  If prayers helped, Arlis Carlisle did not care to visualize what she would be like without them. Having the failings was bad enough, being acutely aware of them was worse. Arlis was prone to a little faith in astrology. She was a Sagittarius, and they were known for being sharp tongued and bitingly forthright. Perhaps it was all in her stars, and her best efforts never could help.

  The problem was Old Dog. He had always been a thorn. Well, not always . . . she could confess that only to herself, and only during special moments.

  She was two years younger than Dog Carlisle, the 1949-1950 crush of half the girls in Bloomfield High. Dog had a certain untamed manner that just demanded capture and pacifying by a fortunate Bloomfield beauty. That senior year, Adam Carlisle's name swam through many passionate female fantasies. The competition was severe, and although no special girl seemed to win the hero's heart for more than a few days, a hopeful sophomore like Arlis Doyle (whose first name was—surely cosmically—present as the very center of Adam Carlisle's last name) had little chance.

  Arlis did manage a private Coke date at Book's Drug Store, but despite her best eye batting and intense interest in every Carlisle vowel, Dog moved on without a backward glance. He starred in three sports, and against Newport he slammed a home run so powerful the ball landed on the roof of the high school building. Adam Carlisle truly fluttered girlish hearts.

  Larry Carlisle played in his brother's shadow. "Good player, Larry, but old Dog was the kind of athlete I like to watch."

  Unlike his older brother, Larry paid attention to Arlis Doyle. They were classmates, and it was clear to any evaluating eye that Larry would be a steady, stay at home kind of man who would work hard providing for his family.

  Larry looked like a good catch. The Carlisle's property had a nice older home, and the father was known to be slowly dying, peacefully following an only half remembered wife and mother, gone many, many years.

  Larry did not pluck heart strings the way Dog did, but Adam was gone off to war and might never return. Out of sight could be out of mind. Arlis applied herself, and Larry Carlisle fell like an overripe peach. They were married shortly after graduation and took up housekeeping in Larry's old room.

  Pap Carlisle went to his reward about on schedule and was duly interred beside his wife in Bloomfield cemetery. Then . . . Adam reappeared in Valley Forge Ar
my Hospital, wounded in the fighting, but expected to recover.

  Pap Carlisle's will had stunned Arlis. She had never suspected that everything would go to Adam. It just wasn't done that way anymore. Larry was struggling to become an insurance man, and the rewards were small. Arlis really could not imagine herself living in the same home with Adam, and whomever he ended up marrying. She and Larry would be out, and her expected comfortable security would be gone.

  Dog came home a few times, his left arm strapped to his chest. Korean War soldiers were not welcomed home as enthusiastically as World War Two warriors had been, but Dog did not appear to care. He made obligatory rounds and slept in his own room. He ate with his brother and his almost new wife, telling a few funny war stories, but avoiding discussion of when he would come home to stay and what would happen then.

  Arlis jabbed at her husband to speak up and find out if Dog was throwing them into the street. She wanted to know. Arlis just expected she was going to end up waitressing or working in a dress factory instead of keeping house, the way she wished to. She wanted Larry to ask for half of what Pap Carlisle had left, but she wisely kept that counsel. If they got put out, then she would speak out herself.

  Dog got well. He was stationed at Fort Meade, but would not be in the Army much longer. Larry was openly proud of his First Lieutenant brother, wounded and decorated serving his country. Larry Carlisle was his own man and did not feel lessened by Adam's accomplishments—but Arlis did.

  Flashy Adam, wearing all his fancy ribbons, strutting around the county, just wallowing in all the admiration simply made Arlis' blood boil. In her mind it made Larry and their steady living appear dull and hicky—like anything they did or got couldn't hold a candle to Adam the hero who had been everywhere and done everything.

  Arlis would have been appalled if a friend had suggested that she was jealous of Dog's attention-catching charisma, and that she should forget her girlish crush on Dog and be grateful for the solid, hardworking man she had. None did, because Arlis limited most of her fuming to her secret thoughts and appeared to everyone as mildly disinterested in her brother-in-law's successes.

  The facts were, Lieutenant Dog Carlisle rarely wore his uniform off-post He did not seek audiences and did not join veterans' organizations or parade in the Memorial Day activities. Dog kept mostly to himself. He roamed the woods some, with Larry's young farm hound for company, and he worked out with the weights and punching bags he and Larry had left in the barn.

  For his part, Larry Carlisle preferred to wait and see. When Adam wanted the house, he and Arlis would move out. What was tough about that? Most couples started from scratch, and they had already enjoyed a rent-free year or so.

  It was natural to feel that Pap should have divided up what he had, but their father had been a close Bible student, and some of the ancient beliefs had gripped him. Everything to the first son had turned out to be one of them. Of course, biblically speaking, the inheriting son was then to provide for his siblings. Larry could not see how Dog could do much of that. Dog, after all, would soon be unemployed and job hunting. He would have enough difficulty taking care of himself.

  Dog supposed he was going through some sort of readjustment problem. It wasn't that the war loomed in his memory or haunted midnight sweats. It was that little interested him. His attention span was distressingly short. He grew swiftly bored with conversation, after a few pages his mind drifted, and he read and reread books, magazines, and newspapers without comprehension.

  He wanted to be out of the army, and they would let him go soon, but thoughts of job seeking . . . with all the appropriate humilities and humbling perseverance thereafter was tortuous.

  The military did offer a perverse sort of freedom absent in civilian life. In the army, no one knew or cared what you did off-duty—providing you never brought reportable discredit to the service. Just be on time, in uniform, "bright eyed and bushy tailed," and no questions were raised. A soldier could race cars, chase women, drink himself stupid and bay at the moon—no one cared. Just be on the job when you were scheduled.

  Freedom held appeal, but Dog could not see a lifetime of Left, Face; Forward, March. Military regimentation countered any off-duty privileges, and the army was going to dump him anyway. It was swamped with young officers. To stay, Lieutenant Carlisle would have to attend college and touch a lot of career bases. Jump school and Ranger training were tempting, but rotten duty tours, like Korea again, were not.

  Dog wanted out, but to what he was not sure.

  Sergeant Bailey had a motorcycle. At quitting time the sergeant straddled his machine, got a good grip on the handlebars and backed into the street. He kick started, twice with the ignition off and the choke on, then a third powerful kick with the ignition on, the spark in his left hand retarded, and invariably the engine belched bluish smoke and started. Bailey revved a few times, heeled the clutch and left handed his tank-mounted gearshift into first. His boot toe eased the rocker-like clutch into gear, and the bike moved away as smooth as a stone sliding on ice.

  Lieutenant Carlisle was fascinated. Almost daily he observed the procedure and watched the sergeant lean his motorcycle around a turn and on out of sight. The rap of the engine could be heard for a long time.

  There had always been motorcycles around, but Dog had never paid attention to them. If he thought at all about motorcycles, it was that they were probably fun to ride, but they were also dangerous, noisy, and useless in bad weather. He assumed most people felt the same.

  Yet, watching Bailey move out kept catching his interest. There was appeal in the control of a powerful machine, and there appeared to be a kind of personal freedom riding in the wind astride such a responsive iron monster. Dog saw a comparison with riding a horse—the way a westerner did—solid in the saddle with places to go.

  He said, "I like your motorcycle, Sergeant."

  "Thank you, sir. Are you a rider?"

  "Nope, don't know a thing about them, but I'd like to know more."

  "What can I tell you, Lieutenant? There's nothing mysterious about them."

  "Are they hard to ride? You make it look easy enough."

  The sergeant chuckled. "If you can ride a bicycle, learning takes about fifteen minutes. I'm not saying that would make you much of a rider, but from then on it's just practice."

  "That easy?"

  Sergeant Bailey was willing to help out. "Pile on, Lieutenant, and I'll show you how."

  Dog watched as Bailey snapped an extra supporting spring into place underneath the long buddy seat. "Got to have that to carry double, Lieutenant."

  The sergeant straddled his machine and revved the engine until it warmed and smoothed.

  "OK, Lieutenant, climb on." He pointed to a pair of protruding pipes just behind his own foot pads. "Put your feet there, and don't take 'em off. I'll do all the bike supporting. Around corners just lean into the curve a little, like you would on a bicycle—nothing to it."

  Even Sergeant Bailey's gentle acceleration was startling, and it snapped Dog's head and body backward so that he grabbed quickly at Bailey's leather jacket to hold on. The sergeant hollered over his shoulder, "You'll get used to it fast. Everybody does."

  They cruised across the army post onto back roads where little traffic appeared. Bailey explained the motorcycle's operation.

  "OK, reach around me." The sergeant slid forward onto the motorcycle's gas tanks to give more room.

  "Your right hand is on the throttle. Twist it in and you'll go faster." Dog did, and the engine rumble became a deeper bellow. Speed picked up.

  Bailey said, "Your left hand controls the spark. It stays on, which is all the way in, except when you are starting the engine. Then you retard it by turning out. If you don't retard, your engine will probably kickback, and that will hurt. It can sprain an ankle or even break one. That's why when we kick over we come down on the pedal full force. Boy, you don't want kickbacks."

  Bailey was right. Handling the motorcycle felt easy. Dog operated the gea
rshift while Bailey managed the foot clutch. They leaned like one through turns, accelerating out of them with what Dog felt was sparkling power. He got off in front of his office reluctantly.

  "Damn, Sergeant, that is pure fun."

  "Thought you liked it, Lieutenant"

  Dog nodded, "I think I'll get one."

  Bailey's interest sharpened. "I can make you a good offer on this machine, if you mean it, Lieutenant. I've got orders to Germany, and I plan on shipping my car. Can't take 'em both over."

  "Hell, I don't know enough about them yet, Bailey."

  "Well, I can tell you what I know, and I'll give you a handful of Enthusiast magazines. That's Harley-Davidson's publication. Tells all about Harley riding.

  "If you're interested, I'll make the price right, but I need the bike for a week or so."

  Dog began learning. There were two American companies making motorcycles, and a number of English models were popular. Harley-Davidson and Indian were in competition, but it seemed clear that in the Maryland area, Harley had the popularity.

  Dog borrowed Bailey's cycle for practice. Riding was easy, but real control was not. As long as no difficulties arose, anyone could wheel down the road, but if something went wrong, handling a motorcycle could be a sudden and violently dangerous emergency.

  Bailey's Harley was a 1947, 45 cubic inch flathead. It was a pretty machine with some chrome accessories, but it was not the latest model and was the least powerful of Harley designs. Dog found the local Harley shop and dropped in to talk motorcycles.

  The owner, salesman, and chief mechanic was Monty. Harleys were his life. Monty's wedding had included a one hundred bike escort, and the honeymooners left town on a 1949 hydra-glide, 74 overhead.

  Of course, Monty wished to sell Dog a new machine, but he did not push too hard. "Bailey's bike is all right to learn on. Hell, I sold it to him. If you buy it, I'll take it in trade when you move up.

  "And you will move up, Dog." They stuck to nicknames.

  "About the third Triumph or Indian that leaves you sitting will get you interested in more power."