Parker Cool.
Will Larkin.
Each claimed victory, but it was hard to objectively declare Will a winner given Parker’s wedding-invitations-like penmanship. The girl must practice at home. They agreed to a second round but this time they wrote each other’s names.
Will Larkin.
Parker Cool.
Both samples were a train wreck, but what surprisingly intimate business this writing each other’s names with the wrong hand.
“We should do this again to check our progress,” Will said.
“How could your handwriting show its face again?”
“We should have a rematch.”
Parker got up to leave. Shaking hands would feel ridiculous, so they nodded to each other, which was exponentially more ridiculous. He wanted to kiss her. Taste her air.
“I’ll call you,” Will said.
“Better let me call you.”
“Really?”
“It’s complicated.”
The last thing Will wanted was anything else complicated. Maybe this Parker person was too quirky.
“So, you’ll call me,” Will said. “Before you go, what’s your favorite line from Walt Whitman?”
“You really want to know?”
“I do.”
“This isn’t the full quote, but it’s what people remember. We were together. I forget the rest.”
They nodded goodbye, and he watched her walk for a few stirring steps until he turned toward Dock Street to visit his favorite ice cream shop. But Storm Brothers was out of Butter Pecan, and Will had never developed a second-favorite flavor. Quite normal not to like any other ice cream flavor, not quirky at all. Denied his ice cream, Will wondered if people actually sang the body electric or whether that was just one of those poetry things. He wondered about the girl with the dog blog.
• • •
Parker Elaine Cool was raised in a dust bowl.
The white dust from nearby quarried marble embedded itself in the floorboards of the front porches in her childhood neighborhood. Dust on the cars, on the bushes, dust in their hair when anyone played outside, dust on the dog. Children wrote their names in the dust on the back windshields of neighborhood cars. For decades, the Lone Star Quarry in Baltimore County blasted into benches of limestone and marble to make and truck asphalt, riprap, concrete, and bunker sand. The blasts rattled the windows and tipped pictures across the CSX railroad tracks from Parker’s childhood home. For the dozen or so families who lived there, nothing else curious or interesting ever happened on Church Lane.
Some neighborhoods had state parks, baseball stadiums or prisons in their backyard; others had 500-foot rock pits. Cockeysville Marble was famous, though. It was used to build the Washington Monument – an evergreen fact school groups and Cub Scout troops learned on field trips to the quarry off tree-lined Interstate 83. “The Rumble,” as the short noontime detonations were nicknamed, was a geological and sonic novelty for visitors to Baltimore County. Throughout the workday, processions of apple red Caterpillar dump trucks hauled away the crushed asphalt and aggregate as the dust flew. The quarry was never a playground. One day, though, it could make a great swimming hole.
“They should fill it in NOW,” 8-year-old Parker told her parents. Her 10-year-old brother Steve concurred. Fill it in and plant grass and trees and have a playground with tall swings and not those lousy skimpy swings at elementary school. And don’t skimp on the water fountains or have ones that shoot a mile over your head or dribble out so you have to put your lips on it to get some water.
“There should be a dog park. All dogs allowed,” Parker said. “A fence, too, so they don’t need leashes. Not a skimpy fence, either!”
“All right, Miss Skimpy. I’ll call the quarry people and tell them your plan,” her father said.
“Will you really?”
“I said I would.”
“Will they listen to you?”
“Of course. I’m Parker Cool’s father!”
On the afternoon of June 6, Parker’s last day of third grade, a Caterpillar truck loaded with riprap approached its usual right turn out of the Lone Star Quarry. The Mack taxied as slow as any boy’s hand-driven Tonka truck changed into necessary gears, and turned onto Beaver Dam Road across the tracks from Church Lane. At the top of the street, Parker was off the school bus and running the three blocks home. I’m a fourth-grader! A FOURTH-GRADER! She’d have to tell Brownie, her 5-year-old Beagle Lab mix. Brownie had elevated disobedience to an art form; he honored no commands and respected no leash. He was often seen traipsing down the CSX tracks or crossing Beaver Dam Road to inspect the rock pit – the Taj Mahal of fire hydrants. You better keep him on his leash, Parker’s mother would harp. Or keep the dog inside. Must have said it a hundred times.
Parker, out of breath, stood on her dusty front porch and opened the door. Brownie bolted out but didn’t stop to hear her exciting news. Didn’t stop to bathe her cheeks in doggie kisses, didn’t even stop to nudge her hand for ear rubbing.
The dog hadn’t peed for five hours.
“You go take care of your business,” Parker said. “I’ll wait here.”
She expected Brownie to do his number on the tracks and race back. Even if she wanted to, there was no time to put on his leash. Parker imagined not being able to pee for five hours. Not fun, no, no. Her second-grade teacher, Mrs. Howell, once made her wait a whole hour to pee. She was a meanie and wore stupid dresses.
Parker saw Brownie, her first pet, dash across the CSX tracks toward the quarry. The loaded truck pulled out from the gravel parking lot. There was no noise except for the sound of howling brakes. Moments later, the driver told the Cools he had a daughter himself about Parker’s age and she had a dog, too, so he understood, and he was sorry he couldn’t stop in time and, well, he was very sorry. Parker’s parents said it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, they told their fourth-grader.
Parker’s father brought an old Disney beach blanket to Beaver Dam Road. With cars stopped on either direction, he took his time scooping up the broken animal. He wasn’t sure exactly how to pick the dog up, where to touch him, just do it quick. Mr. Cool was grateful for the lack of blood.
“Maybe he needs an operation, Daddy. Let’s take Brownie to the vet.”
All of them were off the road, walking up Church Lane to their home. A few neighbors and local business folks (two brothers who ran a car shop; a dog grooming lady tearing up) asked if there was anything they could do. More trucks rolled out of the Lone Star Quarry, more dusty business.
“Sweetie, our vet can’t help Brownie.”
There were options: the veterinarian’s office could dispose of the cremated remains; several companies offered special Beagle Dog Urns and laser engraved urns created by photographs of the deceased pet.
Parker wanted Brownie’s ashes thrown into the quarry. Her parents said no. So, she kept the boxed ashes in the third drawer of her night table and looked at it only a few times.
On September 4, the first day of fourth grade, she walked home from the bus stop and announced that her new teacher’s breath smelled like pepperoni and her shoes were dumb. At dinner that night, Parker reminded her father to call the quarry people. You said you would. Time to fill in the rock pit and build a dog park with a fence.
“Not a skimpy one, either,” his daughter said. “Also, I’ve decided what I want to be for