In the morning, the friends decided that it would be wise to get some financial and strategic advice. Kandude advised Cardoshia and the Old Woman that he, Morton, and Tanemahuta had met an honest banker in Kansas, a location whose attractions included not being in Texas. They got on the interstate and headed north to the Corn State. As they made their way out of Texas, Kandude addressed himself to Professor B.
“My dear Professor B,” he said, “I am curious. After you were evicted, mugged, nearly killed by fire, flood and landslide, crushed by a monster truck, and, while a paraplegic, abused by a petty tyrant, did you always continue to believe that everything happens for the best?”
“I am still of my first opinion,” answered Professor B, “for I am a philosopher, and cannot retract, especially as my economic hero Armand Laugher, and his precedent Colossi Friedrich and Milton can never be wrong. Besides, the pre-established harmony is the best thing in the world, and so are their principles of spontaneous order and limitless individual liberty.”
As they were driving along a remote stretch of Kansas highway not far north of the Panhandle, they rounded a bend and there suddenly saw an overturned pickup crushed and smoking on the southbound lanes of the road.
Kandude screeched the Suburban to a halt and all but Professor B jumped out of the car and rushed up to the smoldering wreck. An old man was trapped upside down in the ancient upended pickup truck. He was groaning and feebly flapping an arm out the window. Kandude and Morton reached in to lift the old man out but were thwarted by the jammed seatbelt. The Old Woman reached into her purse and produced a switchblade, deftly snapped it open, and reached through to slice the seatbelt in a trice.
Gently but swiftly, they levered the old man out of the cab and carried him away from the wreck, as gasoline fumes filled the air. They laid him carefully in the grass on the shoulder of the road near the Suburban. Looking behind, they saw a flame licking the trail of gasoline along the trajectory of the crash. The old man, conscious now, saw the same thing. “Hopkins!” he cried. “My dog, my Hopkins is in there.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Kandude bounded across the median and dove into the inverted cab of the truck headfirst, his feet scrabbling for purchase in the glass strewn dirt. They heard a bark, and within seconds, Kandude emerged from the crushed cab holding a stunned basset hound in his arms. He bolted away from the wreck just as it burst into flames, and laid the whimpering dog next to its battered master. The old man patted the canine, gratefully gripped Kandude’s hand, and then faded into unconsciousness.
They put the comatose old man and the quivering dog carefully in the Suburban and called 911, alerting the clinic in the next small town to the situation. On arrival, a doctor and her team, a nurse and an aide, who all three together comprised the entire medical staff, were waiting at the entrance. They quickly checked out the old man, strapped him onto a backboard and wheeled him into the clinic on a gurney. They made an advance call to the nearest veterinarian, and gave the friends directions.
Kandude and Morton raced to the vet’s office, which was in his large frame house, while the others stayed at the clinic with the old man. The friends stood vigil at both clinics for both man and beast. Soon enough, the doctor sent the old man off in an ambulance to a bigger town with a Level III trauma center.
The friends spent the night at a modest bed and breakfast run by the doctor’s husband. The next morning, they checked on Hopkins. Assured that he was stable and certain to recover, they drove 50 miles to the bigger town with the trauma center.
When they arrived, the old man was still unconscious, albeit sewn up from emergency surgery and drugged to the gills. They sought out the attending physician, who inquired as to whether they were family. The Old Woman, who had wisely gone through the old man’s wallet during the prior day’s race to the clinic, said that she was his cousin from Topeka. She had seen in the wallet a well-worn piece of paper with handwritten names and phone numbers, the top entry of which was “Iris” beside which was written “RIP” with a little heart. Seeing no other visitors, the Old Woman thought that this was a humane white lie, and one which might facilitate the friends being there for an old man who was injured and alone.
The doctor, though amusedly skeptical of the Old Woman’s consanguinity, was kind but grave. He said that old fellow had an aortic aneurysm, which had been traumatized in the accident, and could succumb at any moment. The friends returned to the B&B in the smaller village for the night.
The next morning, after excellent bacon scrambles, fresh fruit bowls, and homemade cinnamon rolls, they went to the vet’s to check on Hopkins. The basset hound wagged his happiness to see them, especially Kandude, but was anxiously looking at the door for his master. The only sign of his ordeal was a bandage on one of his front legs. The veterinarian, one Phil Butler, said with a slight grin that they could call him Dr. Phil, but discouraged them from sharing any domestic conflicts or he would be forced to give them severely condescending advice and send them off to bootcamp. He reported that Hopkins appeared to be fine.
“Looks like the little fellow took quite a bump on the head, he has perked up a lot this morning. He’s ready to go, but no wrestling or long walks for a while,” advised Dr. Phil. The friends exchanged glances, then Cardoshia gave Hopkins a hug, took the leash, and headed out, femme and fido, for the Suburban. Kandude paid the bill.
When they got to the hospital, the old man was awake and alert, though hooked up to all sorts of beeping and flashing equipment. There were red tags on his status board, chart, and wristband. Having been told that Hopkins was an emotional support dog, the doctor pretended not to notice the canine at all. Soon man and dog were reunited, Cardoshia laughingly trying to shush Hopkins’ excited barking. Brazenly violating numerous hospital rules, the faithful dog lay on the bed with his head on old man’s shoulder.
Speaking in a soft but clear voice, the old man thanked the friends warmly for coming to his rescue and gave Kandude a remarkably firm handshake as he thanked him for saving his beloved Hopkins.
“I’m 95 years old,” he said. “I was making a trip to Texas to see an old friend from High School, we being the last two survivors of a class of only nine who came up together in an old country schoolhouse in Dubuque County, Iowa. Dodged a deer and crashed my good old Chevy pickup just before you came around the bend, thank the Lord.
“Hopkins, by the way, is named after Harry Hopkins, a favorite son of the Corn State, who with the great President Franklin D Roosevelt helped save our small family farm. I am the third-generation owner, and soon to be the last. Twenty acres but not a single mule,” he grinned, patting his hound.
“I don’t know what’s to become of Hopkins now,” said the old man. The friends all glanced at one another. “Yes, I know I am about to meet my maker. I’ve had 80 years of cultivating the farm and helping my neighbors, 70 years married to a beautiful woman, 60 years driving my old Chevy pickup, and ten years with my faithful Hopkins. Hopkins is basically my family now. My lovely Iris is several years gone. Our son died in Vietnam long ago, just a teenager, full of vinegar and eager to defend his country.
Save to vote for the successors of FDR, I never troubled my head about affairs of the nation’s capital, nor those of Wall Street, nor those of Hollywood. All in all, it has been a good life. I am ready. My only regret is that I am not in a position to invite you to the county fair,” he said to the Old Woman. “I know all the judges and can usually get my hooks on the blue-ribbon strawberry rhubarb pies.”
The Old Woman smiled warmly.
“I have a proposition, or perhaps call it a last request,” continued the old man. “I know nothing of you five friends, except that you are brave, helpful, and kind to dogs. You interrupted your journey to take care of my beloved Hopkins and be here for a dying old man.”
“I want to leave my farm to you, Kandude, to share with your excellent friends. If it proves not to be of use to you good friends, you may sell it to someone who loves the good earth and take some small profit. The house is old, but large and comfortable; the soil is deep and fertile; the machinery is antique but well cared for. Of course, Hopkins is included in this bequest.”
Kandude and the other four protested vigorously, abjuring any shred of worthiness or propriety. The old man stood firm, and Hopkins gave them a look full of meaning and affection. The erudite Professor B, who possessed a law degree and was qualified to practice in many states, drafted an impeccable will, one perfectly enforceable in both Kansas and Iowa. He asked that the kindly doctor and the excellent nurse sign as witnesses, also requesting that the doctor execute a brief addendum confirming that the old man was of sound mind, despite his broken body.
Arrangements were made.
A couple of days later, at the small family bank in Kansas, Mr. Bailey greeted the friends warmly, caught up on recent events, and, taking into account the unexpected bequest, outlined a sensible plan. He was sorry to learn, but not surprised, that the principal corpus of their erstwhile fortune had fallen prey to ransomware but expressed confidence that with prudent husbandry of the modest remaining funds, use of the farm, and their own great natural talents, he expected that they would be successful in their endeavors. He hooked them up with a trustworthy old friend in Cedar Rapids upon whom they could rely for settlement of their new property in and their other financial affairs.
The two-story farmhouse the old man had left them had a classic wrap-around porch and many rooms. It was neat and comfortable, and contained all necessities, but luxuries none at all. The barn contained a great deal of vintage equipment and had an extensive workshop. The neatly managed acreage contained a small apple orchard and was in other parts fallow, in parts in corn, and in parts in cover.
As they drove up Kandude stopped the Suburban in the driveway and looked around. “We must cultivate the farm,” he said.
Kandude went to the farm extension service and the Farmers Exchange and learned to farm the land. Cardoshia, an excellent tennis player but never before one for physical labor, nonetheless planted a beautiful vegetable garden, and became a gardening influencer on Instagram. The Old Woman took command of the kitchen and started a B&B. Professor B instituted a summer lecture series, which evolved into a bit of a Chautauqua within the county and then beyond. Morton, though steadfast in his dim view of mankind, complemented the lecture series, helped Kandude with the farm, and developed quite an expertise in antique mechanics. Hopkins announced visitors and provided canine companionship to one and all.
Professor B sometimes said to Kandude: “There is a concatenation of events in this best of all possible capitalistic worlds. If you hadn’t been booted out of Cha-Ching Manor, brutalized by the Boyzenberries, arrested by Sheriff Emeritus JoBob Crappaggio, chased out of Freemen’s Ranch, shipwrecked in the Straits of Juan de Fuca, harassed in the Holy Land while searching for your beloved Cardoshia, and been blacklisted by the most brilliant and infallible man in the universe, you would not be here now plowing dirt and eating fresh vegetables from Cardoshia’s lovely garden.”
“All that is very well,” answered Kandude. “But let us cultivate the farm.”
THE END