SAINT JANUARIUS
Saint made her way down from Chicago to check out her new tenant. She was a cannonball of a woman. Cleo had warned me that she would talk my ear off. She mourned Rooster with a stream of complaints about what he had done to her mother’s house, not to mention the damage done to the magnolia tree where they had cut him down (and probably strung him up). The house and the yard were filled with death, yet I felt calm there, especially with Argo’s reassuring smile.
Saint was under the impression that Argo had been adopted by Cleo since she was feeding him, and had been since Rooster had been cut down from the magnolia tree. While Saint was there Cleo didn’t want to keep Argo chained up while pretending ownership. So Argo enjoyed saying hello to the many walkers and joggers and bicyclists that made use of the five mile long paved path around the lake across the street though many thought that they were being attacked by an escaped lion. Meanwhile, Saint grieved to high heaven over the holes that Argo had dug in the yard, cursing Rooster every step of the way. I think she really missed him. The dog loomed as an issue of future contention.
Saint worked in the criminal investigation department of the Chicago Police Department. All I really found out about her job was that part of it was food runs for the detectives. She just shook her head over the circumstances of Rooster’s death.
“This isn’t my section,” she said.
She certainly cared for that house and that property, her parent’s legacy. They had lived there for twenty years, but she wasn’t coming back; she was realistic about the way Southerners treated Yankees, especially single female Yankees shaped like cannonballs. She was all heart, and like many people who had been trashed by emotional involvement, had let herself go physically so that would no longer be a problem.
While Saint worked in the yard, pruning and falling into another hole, Argo would bounce over from the hole he had dug in front of Cleo’s house to say hello, smiling and slobbering. She chased him with the pruning shears.
“I don’t want that damn dog in this yard. Look what he’s done to my father’s lawn.” Saint pointed the shears at me while I mowed around holes. “If Cleo wants him, she can have him. Make him feel unwelcome and he’ll stay away.”
“Sure,” I answered, knowing the feeling. Rooster had been in that house because he was unwelcome in most places outside of it. Saint never moved into the house because she felt unwelcome in the South because she was round. I never felt very welcomed anywhere so I went wherever I pleased. I just never stayed very long unless I found a safe place with some semblance of solitude where I could dig in, yet still get a people fix by going on little adventures. And because of the solitude, an adventure in itself, everything became an adventure, a journey of sorts, with meaning, to me anyway.
As soon as Saint went back home to Chicago, Cleo dragged the dog over by his collar. “Your dog, you feed him,” she said.
“Sure,” I answered.
That was only a part of the problem, because he wouldn’t eat. It turned out that Argo had become used to table scraps. Rooster had been a good cook, Cleo assured me. He had cooked for her quite often. She kept his secret living space a secret. I was eating very little meat. I was eating very little of anything. There was no money. But Rooster had started a fine garden. With money from selling plasma I had begun making trips to the market for pork-neck bones. I cooked them up and mixed the broth with dried food and bones. The dog liked this. I cooked meat for the dog and ate vegetables with rice and pasta. When Cleo saw that I was following her orders she became friendlier.