As she pushed me out the door, the fleeting question of why Polly was so insistent rang in my thoughts. Granted, her life was nearly as routine as mine. At least I thought it was. We’d both lived in this town long enough to know everyone’s histories as well as each other’s; okay – admittedly assumed histories. As with people the world over, we knew what we were told.

Stuart Demone was easily a block ahead of me. I was slightly curious about him, but nowhere nearly as curious as Polly was. What would following him get either of us? He arrived at an average house on an average block midway through town. Well that was just perfect. Nothing here promised to jolt me out of my boring librarian existence, but I kept walking as he opened his front door. If I continued on to the block behind it, I would be able to see if he had room for a compost bin. I craned my neck to see in between houses. It appeared his backyard was every bit as average as his house. Yes, there was room for a bin, but that was no surprise. What was a surprise is that there was already one there. It was by the side of his garage.

I gathered my nerve, approached the back of his garage, and peeked through the windows that lined the top of the wide door. A lawn mower, shovels and rakes, a hose, some buckets, and boards enough that they rose probably four feet when stacked along one side of the building. But what was missing from the garage was a car.

Now I suppose it’s not out of the question for someone to be without a vehicle, but in this part of the country most people have one. Otherwise, where would you find a battery to jump on cold days or take to the repair shop on others? However, a grown man living alone without a vehicle was curious, at least to me. It lent itself to all sorts of questions.

There wasn’t much else to see. I’d followed Stuart Demone and discovered he had boards in his garage and no car. I would report back to Polly and wash my hands of her jitters. If she wanted more information, she could scout it out herself.

As I started back to the library, the air grew chill, then it began to rain, then sleet. My boots! I began to run. It was more of a jog, but it is what it is.

Rather distressed about the weather and its effect on my new boot(ie)s, I dodged into the first building I reached. It was a coffee shop called Ground Zero, and it was there that (as you recall) I pulled off a boot to shake the sleet from it.

It was also there that, just as I was doing so, someone nudged open the door nearly knocking me over. I guess I’d not moved over enough to be avoided; plus hopping on one foot tends to diminish one’s balance, so there’s that. I looked up from the sleet on the floor and into the eyes of Stuart Demone.

One thing sprang to mind and slipped out of my mouth.

“Autolysis,” I whispered, dropping my boot in the process.

to be continued . . .

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I hopped around on one foot, trying to dislodge the sleet from my boot. How had it gotten there in the first place? Let me go back a few hours.

It was actually a beautiful spring day when I stepped out my front door. I was wearing a new pair of fashion boots that went beautifully with a skirt I had picked up for a song at the same store. I use the term fashion boots loosely here. I guess they were more like booties than boots. Not that I didn’t like the knee high things that made you look a step away from a magazine spread, and not that I didn’t have a pair. I did. They were in the back of my closet. After wearing them once, and then again to prove to myself my ankles could take the punishment, I silently admitted I would never be a step away from a magazine spread. I would be a block away at least, and that was if I was a distant relative of someone who worked there – which I wasn’t. My relatives worked at unglamorous places like recycling centers and school buildings and discount stores. I, myself, was on my way to my job at the local library. And I was pretty thrilled due to my new skirt and the boot(ie)s that matched. Camel brown. I never said I was a flashy dresser.

I’d arrived to the accolades of my fellow librarian – she knew how to flatter, believe me, having access to Roget’s College Thesaurus on a regular basis – and settled into another uneventful day behind the desk by the door. Polly (the aforementioned co-worker) had the jitters today. Since it was a quiet day (librarian humor), I sauntered over to the stacks where she was replacing returned books to their proper alphabetical home in between tapping her fingers on the cart, and asked her how it was going. There was no doubt she’d tell me what made her jumpy the minute I took a step into the aisle. She did not disappoint.

“See that guy over there?”

She nodded in the direction of a table near the back.

I raised my eyebrows. No one ever sat in the back. The folks who came to our library were starved for anything that looked remotely like friendship, which included people who walked past their table nodding hello.

“Why do you think he’s back there?”

“Who is he?” I answered helpfully.

Polly shrugged and returned to tapping her fingers on the library cart.

The man began gathering his things at the table, so I scooted back to the front desk in case he planned to check something out.

“Hi,” I smiled as friendly as I could when he approached the desk.

He nodded, and put a couple of books in front of me.

“Would you like to get a library card?”

To my surprise he shoved one in front of me. He’d clearly been here before, though neither Polly nor I had any idea who he was.

I tried to look disinterested as I checked out his books. He grabbed them and hurried out.

Polly rushed over.

“Well?”

“Stuart Demone.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Me neither. He checked out How to Build a Compost and Autolysis.”

Polly’s sharp intake of breath told me she knew what it meant and it wasn’t good.

“Body decomposition! Body decomposition!” she whisper-shouted. “Go! Go!”

“What?”

“Follow him to see where he goes!”

“And what if he sees me?”

“Tell him . . . tell him you want to know if he needs a book about worms,” she said pushing me out the door.

I should’ve known that wouldn’t be a good excuse.

to be continued . . .

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He squinted into the blackness; white, directionless flakes blinding any hope of seeing shadowy forms. There was nothing to be done. He’d been warned. Forecasters had talked about it for weeks and the past week it was all he heard about. Well, not all. Actually, he’d been distracted by a flurry of phone calls: his. He had been calling around seeking information about Tumbleweed. Not a plant. His dog. He felt bad for the name. He’d have chosen something like Bear or Duke  or Hank. But it was his wife’s choice. She’d gotten the little yellow lab just a month before they married. She said having a dog in the country was good sense. She moved into his bachelor house on their wedding night and put her cozy chic stamp on it within the first month. Seven months later, on a clear summer night, she’d run to town for some ingredient her peach pie needed, and on her return had been killed in a head-on collision.

He’d been sitting outside, Tumbleweed rummaging around the yard, when the police pulled up. The dog seemed to know immediately and let out a long, mournful howl. When an officer handed him a plastic bag with newly purchased cinnamon and a small bag of flour, the world went black for a few moments. The days following were filled with too much of the business of death, but after – After. It had taken his breath away.

He was glad he lived in the country where he didn’t need to make conversation with sympathetic people. Tumbleweed provided as much conversation as he needed and, he thought, he gave to the dog as well as he got. They were a good pair. He’d started calling him Weed, and the dog seemed amenable to the change.

It was close to Valentine’s Day, and he took Weed into town with him to get a box of chocolates. It seemed fitting maybe. Boy, he missed her. And he’d stopped to chat with a few folks several different times before he made the purchase. But when he got back to the car, Weed was nowhere in sight. He’d looked and called. The townsfolk had spread the word. But night had fallen and the dog was still gone. He’d driven home alone with a lump in his throat.

It had been two days and, despite his sorrow, or perhaps because of it, he unwrapped the box he’d purchased. He might not be adept at pink heart types of things, but chocolate? Chocolate would be his defiance of loss. He realized as he sat at the window that they’d not even celebrated their first wedding anniversary. Not only was his dog gone, but this Valentine’s Day – his wedding day one year ago – he was all alone.

He took a small bite of chocolate and forced it down, then opened his front door and whistled and called. The wind blew and snow began edging it’s way over the threshold. Though he closed the door, he strained to see in the black winter storm because he’d learned that there is no such thing as lost hope. People may say there is no way out of a hopeless situation; that hope, once lost, cannot be recovered. But no. Hope is never lost, even in the most desperate times or trying day. He knew that from the experience of a lifetime and from a difficult year. Hope is always present: Perhaps misplaced or difficult to see, but it is never gone. It just takes on an appearance different than known or expected. But it is there just the same. He would not yield that point.

He brushed a slight bit of moisture from his eye, then blinked. Something seemed to tumble with the wind. And it grew larger as it came closer. He slammed open the door.

“Weed! Weed! Tumbleweed!!”

And the dog bounded panting out of the night, nearly knocking him down. They hugged and played and wrestled until he was as soaked with snow as Weed was and the floor was a soggy mess: A glorious, grateful, wonderful mess!

The blizzard wind howled louder, and the two took a last look outside before he firmly shut the door. Then they both settled down enough to have a bit of supper and settle into the comfort of the cozy chic she’d left behind, secure in the light and warmth of home.

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