The Brandywine Prophet

8.1 The Rise of a Listening God

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE RISE OF A LISTENING GOD

Billy Carmel was a know-it-all teenager when he made the bet with his mother.

“It’s indescribable,” she said.

“Nothing is indescribable, Ma. Words exist for every aspect of life. You just need to know how to use them.”

“You’re a good writer, Billy-darling, but when you experience the birth of your first child--and believe your mama, you will someday--you won’t have the words to tell about it.”

“Betcha five dollars.”

“You have five dollars to lose?”

“I will by the time I have kids.”

“You know how I feel about betting... but why don’t we make it ten?”

A handshake and nod sealed the deal.

Sixteen years after the death of his mother, William Carmel squeezed his wife’s hand in the maternity ward of Butterworth Hospital and witnessed the birth of their daughter. Janie came into his world clear and bright and perfect, and that night--as Sarah hummed lullabies in the pink nursery with open windows sucking out the paint fumes--Will wrote his mother’s name on a ten dollar bill and burned it.

When Janie turned five, Challo turned fifteen. It was a phenomenal age for a mixed breed, but she maintained her daily routine as if she was three.

“Daddy, what’s wrong with Challo?” Janie’s bottom lip stuck out with sincere concern and she held out a glop of slime on her fingertip.

It was Glaucoma. The technical term for the slime was “Aqueous Humor,” and until recently, the liquid was an essential part of Challo’s eyesight.

A visit to the veterinarian confirmed Will’s diagnosis. She explained that the liquid was causing pressure buildup in the dog’s eye. Meds and surgery would quell the inflammation, but nothing could prevent eventual loss of vision.

“Fifteen is an extraordinary age for a dog,” said the vet.

“I guess I have an extraordinary family,” he replied.

William paid for surgery. He bought the medicine and eye drops. He stuck to a strict daily routine to delay the inevitable blindness. By holding Challo’s jowls and lifting her head, Will could look into her eye and still feel her gaze. He held her there for several minutes at a time, cooing and scratching her ear; never breaking precious contact with those foggy orbs.

The cloud thickened daily until Will held Challo’s face to his and her gaze fell to his shoulder. “Hey, Chall! Look at me! Up here!” The dog lunged forward and lapped his stubble. Will scrunched his face and rubbed her neck. “That’s a good girl, Chall! What a good girl.” He pulled back, looked in her eye, and watched it drift away. “Aw, Chall...” He thumped her ribs. He brushed her belly. He exhaled a stream of warm air, nodded to himself, and said, “Okay, pup, let’s get to work.”

Will and Janie made it their mission to smooth Challo’s transition to her new way of life. They established what Will called “home base” beneath the kitchen counter with food and water bowls on a rubber mat to help Chall orient herself around meals. When Sarah accidentally placed the water on the left, Will lectured her about the importance of consistency when living with a blind dog.

William didn’t mind letting Challo roam free while the family was home, but he didn’t trust her outside when they were away. He hated the thought of resurrecting the twelve-by-twelve chain-link pen from the stables, but new houses were approaching rapidly and he worried about heavier, closer, and unfamiliar traffic.

For Will, problems spurred invention. He took Janie to the stable workshop, hoisted her to the workbench, and answered every question as quickly as the little inquisitor could asked them.

“What’s the tennis ball for?”

“It’s for Challo.”

“Why?”

“Because she likes tennis balls.”

“Why?”

“Because she can chase them and they feel good on her teeth.”

“Whad are you usin’ the knife for?”

“To cut a hole in the ball.”

“Why?”

“To put a bell inside.”

“Why?”

“So Challo can hear it when it bounces.”

“Because she’s blind?”

“Because she’s blind.”

“Do you love Challo, Daddy?”

“Very much.”

“Me too.” Janie plucked the bell and jangled it, then set it back in its place beside the tools. “That’s a pretty good idea you had.”

Will smirked and made the incision.

Janie dangled her legs and watched her father’s handiwork. When Will squeezed the new hole and dropped the bell inside, Janie piped up. “I bet Challo can bite that ball right open and eat that bell!”

Will looked at his daughter. “Damn little-lady, you’re a good thinker.” Twice around with duct-tape and the problem was solved; the jingling choking hazard was locked safely inside.

During the years of baby-Janie, Challo, and nights at the piano bar, Will came to terms with his dwindling means of expression. There were spurts of creativity; he would dig through old notes, write a new melody, or start a screenplay, but with a daughter, wife and dog, “this-or-that” always arose and hampered his motivation.

At forty-seven years old, Will knew his aspirations belonged in the pipe. But with the support of three beautiful ladies, he was starting to accept his gentler life.