by Brad Shurmantine
Among the old books on the table at the estate sale, I noticed a book of photographs, Dogs in Cars, a sort of joke book you might leave out on the coffee table in the family room. It was the only book of its kind amid the sad remnants she left behind, singular amidst all the cookbooks and craft books lined up on the folding table, spine-to-spine between two bricks.
Reading the book titles I concluded the deceased was a busy, pragmatic woman, a talented woman, who liked to sew, scrapbook, make quilts, and fix nourishing and tasty meals with natural ingredients. No novels or poetry, no art books spiced up the assortment she left behind–just this snapshot collection of dogs perched behind steering wheels or stretching their heads out the windows of moving cars, lapping up the wind with long pink tongues. A joke book but a joyful one. What creature is happier, more bathed in sensual pleasure, more wallowing in the world, than a dog with her head stuck out the window of a moving car, her ears flapping like flags in a hurricane?
Her husband must have stumbled across that book one Christmas while perusing a bookstore remnant table. He was wracking his brain for gift ideas. She always giggled when she saw dogs in cars, especially when she mistook one for a person, seen from behind, its silhouette suggesting a woman’s head and hair, a woman in the driver’s seat hesitating for some reason before putting the car in gear and pulling away. But it was a dog! She’d burst out laughing and he’d smile at her pleasure; it was kind of amusing. Anytime they were driving and she’d see a dog in a passing car with its head out the window she would giggle and point. This happened not infrequently. There were so many dogs in cars, so many comic little actors. He bought the book.
And she must have unwrapped it with anticipation and genuine pleasure when she saw what it was, thanked him and set it aside while the rest of the happy Christmas morning chaos unfolded. Later that day, after brunch and a long walk, she curled up on her couch (the one with faded floral upholstery, tagged at $75; I doubt they’ll get that much) and giggled her way through it. He would not be in the room to savor her joy. He’d be watching the Cowboys pummel the Lions, rooting for Dallas to lose.
She’d close the book and place it on the coffee table, and months later cram it into the bookcase among her craft books. It didn’t really belong with those, but where else would she put it? Perhaps she never paged through it again.
Did she die first, or did he leave her behind? The estate sale offered no clue. In the basement his tools were tagged and spread out on a bench, and I found a pair of workshop ear muffs for $2 that might slow my tinnitus from becoming full bore deafness. Odds are he died first; the women usually outlast us.
I made my purchase and took one last swing through the emptying house. Everywhere were signs of their lives, making no more sense than a dog’s snout sticking out a car window.
Maybe he was the one who loved dogs in cars.
Reading the book titles I concluded the deceased was a busy, pragmatic woman, a talented woman, who liked to sew, scrapbook, make quilts, and fix nourishing and tasty meals with natural ingredients. No novels or poetry, no art books spiced up the assortment she left behind–just this snapshot collection of dogs perched behind steering wheels or stretching their heads out the windows of moving cars, lapping up the wind with long pink tongues. A joke book but a joyful one. What creature is happier, more bathed in sensual pleasure, more wallowing in the world, than a dog with her head stuck out the window of a moving car, her ears flapping like flags in a hurricane?
Her husband must have stumbled across that book one Christmas while perusing a bookstore remnant table. He was wracking his brain for gift ideas. She always giggled when she saw dogs in cars, especially when she mistook one for a person, seen from behind, its silhouette suggesting a woman’s head and hair, a woman in the driver’s seat hesitating for some reason before putting the car in gear and pulling away. But it was a dog! She’d burst out laughing and he’d smile at her pleasure; it was kind of amusing. Anytime they were driving and she’d see a dog in a passing car with its head out the window she would giggle and point. This happened not infrequently. There were so many dogs in cars, so many comic little actors. He bought the book.
And she must have unwrapped it with anticipation and genuine pleasure when she saw what it was, thanked him and set it aside while the rest of the happy Christmas morning chaos unfolded. Later that day, after brunch and a long walk, she curled up on her couch (the one with faded floral upholstery, tagged at $75; I doubt they’ll get that much) and giggled her way through it. He would not be in the room to savor her joy. He’d be watching the Cowboys pummel the Lions, rooting for Dallas to lose.
She’d close the book and place it on the coffee table, and months later cram it into the bookcase among her craft books. It didn’t really belong with those, but where else would she put it? Perhaps she never paged through it again.
Did she die first, or did he leave her behind? The estate sale offered no clue. In the basement his tools were tagged and spread out on a bench, and I found a pair of workshop ear muffs for $2 that might slow my tinnitus from becoming full bore deafness. Odds are he died first; the women usually outlast us.
I made my purchase and took one last swing through the emptying house. Everywhere were signs of their lives, making no more sense than a dog’s snout sticking out a car window.
Maybe he was the one who loved dogs in cars.
Brad Shurmantine lives in Napa, Ca., where he writes, reads, and tends three gardens (sand, water, vegetable), five chickens, two cats, and two bee hives. His fiction and personal essays have appeared in Monday Night, Flint Hills Review, and Catamaran; his poetry in Third Wednesday, Cacti Fur, and Blue Lake Review. He backpacks in the Sierras, travels when he can, and prefers George Eliot to Charles Dickens, or almost anyone. Website: bradshurmantine.com
Emerge Literary Journal 