GATHER

A 2023 National Book Award Long List Selection

“Cadow’s debut novel portrays a challenging coming-of-age in rural Vermont with warmth, humor, and insight. A heartfelt novel about the challenges of youth and the value of community.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Ian’s genuine first-person narration—enriched by his penchant for pithy metaphors and similes—unveils a protagonist whose innate sense of justice and tentatively hopeful perspective buoy Cadow’s sober debut.” —Publishers Weekly

What You Notice
What You Say

You see people doing things they shouldn’t. Sometimes you mind your own business. Other times you might say something, but it’s hard to do that if you’ve just been caught redhanded yourself.

Of course, Aunt Terry pulls her car right up on the lawn to get my mom close to the house. Gather lets out his little woof, and even as I’m shoving the propane heater, which I’ve had the sense to turn off, into the junk closet, I’m trying to figure out how to hide the dog. So I push the junk door shut with my foot and let Gather out the back kitchen door. But he runs around and greets Aunt Terry with a big woof. At least it’s friendly.

She scruffles Gather’s head. “When’d you get the dog?”

“He’s a stray,” I tell her. “He’s living out back in the shed.”

“Airedale?” she asks.

I’m like, “What?”

“Think he’s got some Airedale in him? Dog breed?”

I have no idea. I want to know about my mom a whole lot more than Aunt Terry wants to know about Gather, but it’s the dog we talk about. She goes around to open the passenger-side door. Gather follows her.

“He is one big dog,” Aunt Terry says. “Definitely not a Saint Bernard, though. Still, looks like he might drool a bit. What’s he eating?”

“I’ve been bringing him scraps,” I say.

I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have fresh needle marks, my mom, but there’s gauze and tape on the back of her hand where an IV must have been. She’s tired, but she’s not high. I can tell from her eyes.

Then my mom says, “Hi, baby.”

“Give us a hand, Ian,” Aunt Terry says. “Go easy. She’s unsteady on her feet. She’s finally had some work done on that bad back of hers.”

You can see Aunt Terry looking at my mom like this is the story she, meaning Aunt Terry, wants to feed me. I know it’s bullshit, but I can’t think of a good way to ask anything.

My mom carried her own weight just fine. We were on either side of her, her elbows in our palms. I held the screen door.

First thing I see in the kitchen when we step inside is Gather’s bowl on the floor. A little soup comes right up into the back of my mouth. If we fight about the dog being in the house, I know I’m going to make things much worse. He’s been here. She hasn’t. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to be. She was.

“Do you want to sit on the sofa, Mom?” I ask, pointing to the living room, like it’s someplace she’s never seen before. Me, I’m just hoping she doesn’t see the dog’s bowl. Terry says it’s a good idea, the sofa, and if either of them sees the bowl, neither says so.

They didn’t say anything, either, when they saw that needle right where they left it. Neither did I.

I asked my mom if I could get her a glass of water. She said yes, and when I was in the kitchen, I took care of Gather’s bowl, made sure the heater hadn’t caught the closet on fire, and poured the rest of my soup right down my own gullet. When I came back into the living room with the water, the needle was gone.

And the dog’s bowl was gone. I guess we had an agreement about saying nothing, but my whole mind was like mud season, trying to figure out how to get any traction on finding out about the last few days.

Because here’s how you have to think about it. Things might suck, but if you get people all riled up, you’re going to make it a whole lot worse.

So much had happened, with both the dog and my mom. I guess if there was one thing I learned from Aunt Terry that’s worth remembering: it’s just easier to talk about the dog. A dog that big is bound to get you into trouble worth telling about, so I’m going to back up a few days.