Walking Away

by William White

Looking into the mirror the man ties his tie. His yellow tie. Yellow works well with the grey flannel suit. He ties a nice healthy knot. Full Windsor. The man watches himself and he tries to imagine how many times he has done this very same thing. Thousands? Millions? At eighty five years it must be up there. He is careful to get the knot just right. Just so.

He drops his arms to his sides and looks himself over. Haircut, his usual style. Skin good, if a little pale. Eyes red, but understandable. Pressed white shirt. Grey suit pants with a burgundy belt to match his wingtip shoes. Suit jacket on a hanger in the closet, walking stick by the front door. A dapper man. He is ready.

Time to walk the dog.

Walter snoozes at his feet. A curly coated small white dog of indeterminate breeding. The man has never cared about Walter’s heritage. Walter is a good dog and that’s what counts. The dog sleeps a lot lately but so what? For a fourteen year old dog that isn’t surprising.

The man steps to the closet and slips on his jacket. He shakes his shoulders and lifts the collar to get the fit just right. A tailored suit after all. Only for special occasions. Too expensive for a college professor’s salary but Carol insisted he have one good suit.

Taking his wallet and keys from the dresser he walks to the bedroom door. He switches off the light. Walter follows him into the hallway and down to the living room. The man looks around. Windows locked. Stove off. Everything in order. Everything in it’s place. The envelope is on the coffee table. The man lifts the envelope and slides it into his jacket pocket.

Walter sits by the front door, waiting. Walking over, the man takes up his walking stick. The stick Carol bought for him so many birthdays ago. The walking stick with a dog’s head handle. A dog’s head that looks just like Walter. Carol knew the man would like that. A man and his dog, after all.

Outside, the man and his dog walk down a tree lined street. Walter skips along beside the man. The man has never used a leash. Never needed one. Not even when Walter was a puppy. The dog does wear a fine leather collar with a silver identification tag. The tag too is unnecessary. Walter never leaves the man’s side.

​The park is less than a mile from the man’s home. At this time of night the streets are quiet. The man and his dog stroll along, passing under yellow streetlights that hide deep up inside the full trees of spring. The man’s walking stick clicks on the sidewalk. The pair, man and his dog, turn a corner.

Soon they reach the bridge. The entrance to the park. The man stops and looks out across the bridge. Walter sits and waits. There’s the sound of rushing water. The bridge crosses a wide river that cuts through the neighborhood. In the dark the man cannot see the water. It is far below. But he knows the water is there.

The man starts across the bridge, Walter beside him. At the halfway point the man slowly stops. The dog continues a few steps and then stops and looks back up at the man. The man walks over to the bridge railing and looks into the darkness. Then he looks down. There’s a small platform on the other side of the railing, several feet below. The man hesitates and then leaning his walking stick against the railing he lifts a leg and climbs over the railing and makes his way down to the platform. The platform is old and it creaks and sags beneath the man’s weight. At first the man fears the platform will break off, but it doesn’t. The man steadies himself.

Walter, his head squeezed between the bridge’s railing, watches the man.

The man looks down. He can hear the water. Far below. The man listens to the water for a long, long time.

And then Walter whines. It takes a moment, but the man turns and looks at the dog. Standing down on the platform the man’s face is even with Walter’s. He looks into Walter’s dark eyes. He can see Carol in those eyes. Carol, who always loved Walter. Just as she had always loved the man. The man sighs. A deep, thick, old man sigh. He shakes his head. He looks at the dog. Reaching up he begins to climb.

“Ok, ok.” the man says.

He is slow. It takes almost all of his strength to get back over the railing. Finally he stands on the bridge. Shaking. Both he and the dog are panting. The man takes up his walking stick. The one with the dog’s head handle. The night feels cool and it’s getting late. The two cross the bridge, and they walk away into the park.

A man and his dog, after all.

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Illustration by William White