A Walk With Jake

Tom stepped, barefoot, from the darkened house onto the front porch and let the sunlight wash over him. He recalled the days of his youth when he would stand on this porch and enjoy the sun’s warmth as it caressed him. And now? He sighed. Well, he had the memories.

Tom rolled the legs of his faded overalls to his calves and stood. Inhaling, he thought he should detect nearby blooming flowers, but the air carried no detectable scent.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s still a nice day.”

Hand hovering above the handrail, he negotiated the two steps down to the flagstone walkway, turned right at the gate, and started for the barn, calling for the dog as he went.

“Jake, let’s go, boy. Time for our walk.”

He set his eyes on the tree line and the worn path to the creek—their destination.

The breeze stirred the remaining autumn leaves. He lifted his face into the wind. “God, but I’ve missed this.”

He turned and called again, “Jake, c’mon, boy. Squirrel.”

From the open barn door burst a black-and-tan hound, all legs and ears, tongue lolling, eyes bright with an expression that looked like pure joy to Tom.

“Good, boy.” He bent, snatched a pinecone, and tossed it. Jake retrieved, as usual, dropping it at his feet, waiting for another toss.

Four more times, and they came to the path.

“Look for ‘em, Jake,” he said, knowing the old dog loved to hunt.

Jake loped along the trail, head down, graying muzzle inches from the ground, tail wagging.

Tom followed and felt a smile lift the corners of his mouth.

Sunlight filtered through the leaves; their thinning numbers allowed dappled light to play on the fresh carpet of gold, red, and yellow.

He remembered, as a child, the feel of cool crisp leaves under his feet. Maple, alder, birch, and pine grew in abundance on his twenty-acre farm, and he always loved partaking in the seasonal change. Walking barefoot among the fallen leaves was a tradition—his anyway. His and Jake’s, he amended.

The smile slipped for a moment as he thought of his son, David. “Never enjoyed this like we do, ain’t that right, boy?” Jake bounded back, expectant.

He found a stick and threw it far along the path. Jake did what he loved to do, and Tom laughed softly. “We find joy where we can. If we’re lucky enough.”

Jake barked, and Tom answered, “Comin’, don’t rush me.” He picked up the pace and caught up with the dog at their destination. Jake barked again, his tail slapping his flanks.

The soft gurgle of water over stones beckoned, and he pushed through the thicket and into the small clearing bordering their creek. Jake ambled down the slope, stopping at the edge of the spring-fed rivulet. Tom eased himself to the ground and sighed with contentment.

This place was theirs, their retreat from the daily monotony of farm life. He pulled his knees close, wrapping his arms tight around them, and listened as the forest shared its eternal message: life, death, rebirth, ad infinitum.

Jake returned, laid beside him, and chuffed his example of contentedness.

“Nice day, hey, Jake?”

No answer was necessary or given.

“Yeah, I agree.”

The sound of an approaching car disturbed the peace, and he turned to see a familiar sedan pull into the drive at the farmhouse.

“Well, would you look who it is?” He stroked Jake’s head. “My boy’s comin’ to visit.”

A young man stepped from the driver’s side and held the rear door open. A smaller version of the man hopped to the ground and looked around, eyes wide and curious. A young, pregnant woman emerged from the passenger door and moved to the farmhouse steps, where she sat. She flapped a hand at the two who, after some verbal exchange Tom couldn’t hear, set out in his and Jake’s direction.

“Are they comin’ here?” he asked of Jake.

Jake woofed and returned his muzzle to his paws.

Tom watched as his grandson sprinted toward the barn.

“The hell?” Tom cupped his hands and yelled, “Stay outta the barn, son, the loft is rotting.”

The barn door squealed on rusty hinges, and the boy disappeared inside. The father turned and followed at a leisurely pace.

Tom turned to Jake. “Think we ought to go warn ‘em? Wouldn’t want the little one to get hurt.”

Jake growled.

“Yeah,” Tom grunted and got to his feet. “C’mon.”

***

David turned and called to the small boy. “Come along, Jake, there’s something I want to show you.”

“What is it, daddy?”

“You’ll see.” He stopped and bent at the waist. “Gotta take your shoes off first.”

“Why?”

“It’s tradition.”

“What’s… addition?”

David tousled his son’s hair. “It’s a special thing we always do.”

Father and son went, barefoot, across the field.

“Ooh, cool barn,” said Jake. He took off at a run. “I wanna see.”

David sighed and shrugged. There was time. He called out a fatherly caution. “Watch for nails, son, and don’t climb into the loft.”

He followed after his son, stripping petals from a picked wildflower.

A shriek from the boy sent him running. “Jake? Are you all right?”

David jerked the barn door open, receiving several splinters in his hand from the dry wood, and rushed inside. Sunlight slanted in through gaps in the barnwood illuminating dust motes and abandoned spider webs.

Jake stood below the hayloft, looking dazed but unhurt. Fragments of hay showered down from a hole in the loft floor.

David knelt and took his son by the arms. “What happened?”

A single tear cut a trail through the dust and dirt on Jake’s cheek. “Daddy, I’m sorry. I wanted to see.”

David looked up and the breath caught in his throat. The floor of the loft gaped from a fresh break in the aged planks. “You were in the loft? Did you fall through?”

Jake nodded. Tears streamed. “The boards broke.”

David ran his hands over his son, checking for any injury. No blood. Thank God.

“You’re okay?”

Jake nodded. “The man caught me.” He smiled. “He had a dog.”

David stood. “What man?”

Jake turned and pointed out the door toward the creek. “He went that way.” He laughed. “The dog’s name was Jake, too. He licked my face.”

David went to the door and peered out – no one there. He turned back to his son. “Are you sure? I didn’t see anyone leave the barn.”

Jake nodded. “I promise, daddy. Look.” He pointed at something on the dirt floor.

David went back where Jake pointed and felt the blood drain from his face.

Pressed into the inch-deep dirt were the twin, bare footprints of a grown person and pawprints of a large dog. Jake’s smaller impressions marred the soil a short distance away, allowing David to track his son’s progress through the barn like a Family Circus child’s neighborhood trek.

But he could only find the one set of grown prints.

David picked Jake up and backed out of the barn.

Across the field, near the creek where his father’s cairn, and that of the dog, rested, David thought he caught a glimpse.