by Ilsa J. Bick
“His jacket.”
“You keep interrupting, we’re never getting through this. He did bite, and that counts. He didn’t break the skin is all. Soldier did exactly as he’d been trained. He went for the kid’s arm just the same as if that boy had been wearing a bite sleeve. The only things that saved that boy were his very thick jacket and you. If you hadn’t stepped in, Soldier would’ve had him but good on the second try. Which means that, as of right now, you’re liable for damages.”
“Fine. I’ll buy the kid a new coat.”
“Yes, you will,” he said, without a flicker of a smile. “You are probably looking at an ER bill as well as the check-up that kid will certainly have as soon as he sees his pediatrician back home. The way his dad was talking, I am positive they are going to try and hit you with some kind of therapy bill, too.”
“Thera...” She reined that in. Swallowed. Said, through lips so tight they ought to have split down to her chin, “You are shitting me.”
“I shit you not. He wants the kid evaluated for any lingering aftereffects beyond what might be considered normal.”
“Which he will also guarantee by dragging the boy around until he finds a doctor to agree.”
“That could happen, yes. I’m probably a touch to blame for that, too. You know, coming down on him so hard about the gun.”
“No problem. I sort of appreciate not getting shot.” She thought hard about this. “You realize people only do this sort of crap when they’re thinking potential lawsuit.”
“That had crossed my mind, too. But I think we might have dodged that bullet. He’s out for blood because I embarrassed him in front of his kids, the wife.” Giving her hand a last squeeze, he picked up his wine glass. “After the dust settled, I took them both aside and filled them in on Pete and Soldier.”
“You...” She was so busy thinking about the legal ramifications his words didn’t really register at first. When they did, she had to shut her eyes a moment, muscle back a shout. “You told them about Pete?” About me? How dare he? She wasn’t an invalid. She wasn’t sick or demented or crazy. If Hank had taken it upon himself to explain in somber hushed tones that, well, yes, she does tend to wander off, she could not have been more mortified. Pete was private, her lover. Soldier was hers. How dare Hank do that? “You told them about me and Pete and Soldier?”
The whip of her anger, so naked and raw, made him pause with his glass half-raised. “Yes.” He replaced the glass, his wine untouched. “Yes, I did.”
“You...” Her palms sparkled with sudden pain, and she had to force herself to relax her fists. “Hank, you had no right.”
“I’m sorry? Say that again?” The words were simple. His tone was not. Beneath his words, there was a simmer of rage, this close to the surface, and with it, the lick of something deadly. She’d never before heard the like from him. “Are we talking ownership now? Pete was my kid brother, Sarah. I have every right. I know you’re in pain. I understand lashing out at someone gives you the illusion you’re in control. But you’re not the only person grieving here. You are not the only one with feelings to hurt.”
The impulse to react—fling back something hateful—was swift and as quickly gone. Her shoulders slumped. He’s right. Pete didn’t belong to her. They’d been lovers, and then he’d gone to war and died. No one had asked her to take Soldier. Pete never mentioned that in his emails or when they’d Skyped. All this was on her, a burden she’d assumed without fully understanding why, even now.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I...” God, why was this such a struggle? “I shouldn’t have attacked you. I guess that only proves what they say about messengers.” A silence, filled only by the hiss of the Coleman. “Thank you for trying to help.”
“I’m not sure I did. The mom was sympathetic, but that father has an axe to grind.”
“Is this where things get bad?” When he nodded, she said, “Just say it, Hank.”
“They’re going to make a complaint to the state board and see about getting your vet license revoked.”
“They...” Whatever else she was going to say dried up on her tongue. Playing with her glass, she said, only half-believing her own words, “They can’t do that.”
“Well, I checked, and they just might be able to.” He paused. “Especially since there have been those other incidents.”
Hell. This was the other shoe, waiting to drop. Well, what had she expected? These things became a matter of public record. There had been complaints. She’d simply never told Hank or anyone about them. “Only two,” she said and hated how weak that sounded.
“Not so little. Like the time Soldier went after a UPS guy.”
“The guy didn’t get hurt.”
“Because he managed to slam his door before Soldier got there. Even then, you had to drag the dog off.”
“The truck’s slider set him off. That big...you know...” She fumbled. “The bang.”
“Uh-huh. And that explains the other incident, how? Those kids just rang your doorbell.”
“They were Mormons?”
He gave her an incredulous look. “This is not funny.”
“I know.” Why had she said that? “I think Soldier saw the guy’s messenger bag and just assumed...” What? It held a lethal load of Bibles? “Pete once said they trained the dogs to view certain items, like backpacks and satchels, as potentially dangerous, too.”
“That makes me feel so much better. Remind me never to become a mailman.”
I dunno. They don’t say going postal for nothing. “You’re talking about things that happened seven months ago, almost eight.”
“Nevertheless, they complained, and both are on file. These parents can make a case for negligence because you do know Soldier’s a potential problem. Given that, they could even escalate this to malpractice or something, but I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer.”
“You think I need one?”
“I’m not sure it would hurt, but you’re missing the point. How do you think it will look to the state licensing people that a veterinarian can’t control her own dog? You honestly believe they won’t at least suspend your license?”
She’d never considered that. “God, you’re making it sound as if I’ve let him get this way. I have tried everything.” When Soldier’s symptoms worsened, she’d even given the dog medications that worked for many animals...just not Soldier. “He couldn’t tolerate the standard meds. Yeah, I could sedate him, dope him up, but you can’t just drug the poor dog all the time. Why do you think we moved here?”
“And do you not see how self-destructive that is? How bad, actually, for the dog? This is like a family constantly pulling a kid out of school because he’s failing or always getting into fights, and tricking themselves into believing it’s the school’s fault. The summer is over, Sarah. It’s been over for a good month. The park service is gonna kick you out, hon, and then what? Where are you going to go? What are you going to do? If you lose your license...”
“It doesn’t matter.” A small but bright burn suddenly flickered to life in her chest. “I don’t have to work.”
“Yes, you do. If not for the money, then your sanity.”
“I am not crazy.”
“Did I say that? But how healthy is it for you to be devoting your life to and structuring all your time and energy around a dog? Soldier is not your job.”
Stop. A huge pressure around her heart now, a build-up of heat. She gritted her teeth. Stop talking, Hank. Leave me alone.
“You want to know the thing here that’s even worse? When was the last time you looked at that dog as anything other than a project? Don’t you see you’re only using him?”
“Using.” The word came out choked, as tight as her throat. Sudden sweat pearled on her upper lip, and she had to close her eyes against a sour surge of bile. “What are you, my psychiatrist? I’m not using him.”
“Oh bullshit. Of course, you are. You and I both know this is a way of keeping Pete alive. But Pete is gone, Sarah.�
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“News flash, stop the presses.” Her laugh was harsh as a crow’s. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“Okay. What you are doing to that dog is cruel.”
“What?” She squeezed her eyes shut and thought, a little crazily, See no evil. Now if she could only make him be quiet. Somehow her hands had wrapped themselves around her wineglass, and she clutched it hard, fingers tight as clamps, tendons taut as wires. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? How about that you’ve essentially become a hermit? You leave your job...”
“I took a leave.” How much pressure would it take to smash this glass with her bare hands? A lot? Not so much? “It’s not the same thing.”
“It is, if it’s permanent.”
“I don’t need to work.”
“Everyone needs to work. Otherwise you’re just taking up space. So, you’re starting back... dot-dot-dot? That was your cue. Feel free to jump in any time.”
You smug... Her eyes snapped open. She was gripping the wineglass so hard the skin tented over her knuckles was white. “What’s your point?”
“I thought I’d already made it. Look, I know this psychologist—”
“I don’t need therapy.”
“For God’s sake, would you shut up? I wasn’t suggesting that, not that it’s a bad idea.”
“Wow.” She gave a fake laugh. “You just couldn’t resist, could you?”
He brushed past that. “This woman, the psychologist? She was in on this court case where I had to testify and afterwards, we got friendly, went out a few times.”
A tiny claw of jealousy snagged her chest. It was irrational, stupid. What did she care who he dated? “She cure you yet?”
There was a moment’s pause. Then, “Do dumb things simply jump out of your mouth all on their own, or do you practice a lot while you’re alone?”
That made her actually gasp. “Who the hell are you to tell me anything? Who do you think you are?”
“Someone who actually cares about you and is trying to have a conversation.” When she only returned a glare, he sighed. “We got talking about the case. The details aren’t that important, but it was all about this kind of marginal guy. Mental illness, high school dropout, a lot of fights, that kind of thing. Anyway, it came up at trial that even though there were plenty of warning signs, the mom never got the kid help. Instead, she pulled him from school, did the whole home-schooling bit, and then, when he kept crapping out on job after job, she let him come back to live with her. They moved a lot because he was convinced the neighbors were bugging their apartment. Soon it was just the two of them in their own little bubble.”
“And?” There had to be a punch line. “What’s the punch line? No, wait, let me guess... he cracked up and beat up a neighbor.”
“Yes, actually, I imagine he did before he killed him.” Hank raised a shoulder, let it fall. “Of course, he had to blow his mom away with a shotgun first.”
“So I should worry if Soldier takes up target practice.”
He goggled. “There is no talking to you. Okay, fine. You want to self-destruct? Your prerogative. Just don’t expect me to stand around and watch you do it.”
“What is my alternative?” She wanted to break something, crack this glass the way she’d crush an egg. If she cut herself picking up pieces...and, oh, how appropriate because what else was she doing but constantly picking up piece after piece of a dream shattered beyond repair...if she bled hard and long, that would be all right, too. “Give up? Have the military take Soldier back? Hank, they’ll put him down.”
“You don’t know that. There really might be a place for him on a ranch somewhere.”
“Ranchers have guns. Tractors make a lot of noise. Trucks misfire. You might as well put a needle in his vein right now.” Or a bullet—it would be faster. She’d heard of a soldier who’d come back from war to find his dog old and decrepit, and so put the animal down himself. Possibly, a mercy. Better for the dog to know he was loved up to the last second, but she just couldn’t imagine a dog wouldn’t pick up the intent at the very last moment. Feel that quick prick of betrayal and fear and then...hello, darkness. Well, it happened in Vietnam; the Army hadn’t bothered bringing their working dogs back at all. Some they killed. A lot they simply left to roam, forage. Probably end up in a stewpot. The natives ate dogs other there.
“Have you ever considered just leaving him alone to be a dog? No work, no training. Just...be.”
Then he wouldn’t be Soldier anymore. “That wouldn’t exactly solve any problems. He’d still startle, go apeshit. Besides, he’s not made that way. Soldier can’t just do nothing.”
“You mean, if he did, he could be anyone’s dog then. He wouldn’t be special.” He waited a beat. “He wouldn’t be the dog Pete knew.”
Stop it. Every word was a twist of a knife. This is what it’s like to die from a thousand cuts. This wasn’t right; it wasn’t fair. God, close her eyes, run her fingers over Hank’s face, that jaw, those lips—and she knew she would read Pete there just as surely as a blind woman tells herself a story. There were differences. Hank was taller, and Pete’s eyes had been brown, and his nose a little off-kilter from an argument with a softball when he was twelve. Their hair was different, too. Long enough when they first met to feather her cheeks whenever he kissed her, Pete’s hair had been a soft, corn-tassel blond.
And yet, in the flat, hard white light of the Coleman that bleached Hank’s skin to the color of bone, she thought that if she let her gaze defocus just a bit, all that Hank was would melt away to the skull beneath, to Pete, there, right there, ghosting just beneath his brother’s skin.
Which explains why you moved here, sweetheart, doesn’t it? That mean little voice was having a fine time. Pete’s family lives in Kalispell. His grave is there...but his brother is here. You knew that when you went looking for a place to bring that dog.
God, she wished that asshole-voice would shut up. Grinding her teeth until her jaw complained, she dug in her thumbs. That glass didn’t give, not one goddamned inch, which only proved she wasn’t strong enough now, and never would be.
“Sarah.” Hank slipped a hand around a wrist. “There is nothing you can do that will bring Pete back. He’s gone, honey. He’s dust.”
Stop it. The funeral was closed-casket because whatever had happened to Pete was that catastrophic. His parents regarded her as family, though, so the military escort offered her a chance to view the remains before the casket was sealed. She remembered the walk down the aisle of the receiving room. Like church, this was, with lilies and too-sweet roses perfuming the air and chairs set up right and left and, along one wall, these easels holding big placards with pictures of Pete at different ages: Pete as a baby, at softball practice, at picnics. Reading a book, casting a fishing line. At the beach as a teenager, grinning like a goof, standing against blue-green ocean, a bottle of pop in one hand and the other arm draped around Hank’s neck.
She didn’t only walk down that aisle to that casket. She floated as a soap bubble wavers and wobbles and drifts. When she was there, the escort murmured something. He might have been asking if she was ready or going to faint. She couldn’t hear past the thump of her pulse.
She looked.
There was a uniform, crisp, perfectly pressed—and empty. Someone had perched a cap where a head might have gone and tucked in new shoes buffed to a mirror-shine. But there was no face other than the ghastly ghost of her reflection. There was no head or arms. No legs. All that remained of Pete was a curious, odd lump beneath the place where Pete’s chest should have been. Look close, and she saw thick gray plastic on either side.
It took her a second, and then she got it: Body bag. About a foot square. And that was it.
Hank must’ve still been talking because now his voice faded back: “And nothing you can do to bring him back. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you’ll stop torturing yourself and this poor dog—”
“Stop it!”
Something hot and horrible broke in her chest. Wrenching her hand away, she flung her wineglass. Her aim was poor. In retrospect, she wasn’t sure what she wanted to hit. But the room was small, and Hank only just ducked as the glass sailed past to burst against a wall. Shards rained to the floor in a watery cascade. What wine hadn’t slopped out on the way snaked down the wall in rivulets as red as fresh blood.
“Don’t you think I know that?” she shrieked into air that seemed to tremble. Or maybe that was her, her brain, her body. She was shuddering, one second from finally exploding into unrecognizable bits; into something no larger than a very small body bag you could measure with both hands held apart the way you told a butcher, Yeah, cut me off a hunk about yay-big. “Don’t you think I know he’s gone? Who the hell are you, who are you?”
And then, before she knew what she was doing—no, that was a lie. She would punish this ghost, make Pete pay for everything he’d done, all the faith she’d put into promises not his to make—she brought her fist around, fast and hard.
The sound of her hand against Hank’s cheek was sharp. Brittle. The snap of an icicle—or her heart, broken beyond repair.
“Don’t you think I know?” she screamed. “You don’t think I understand?”
Then, from behind, she heard a low, menacing growl.
Soldier was on his feet, teeth half-bared. No mistaking the meaning of that. Daisy, she saw, had scurried back to wedge herself in a far corner. When she saw Sarah looking, though, the little dog whined. It was impossible to tell if that meant the dog was hopeful or only wanted Sarah to tell her everything would be all right.
My God. “It’s okay, Daisy. Soldier”—she fought past the bone in her throat—“I’m fine. We’re okay.” What was the right command? She couldn’t use out. The dog hadn’t attacked anyone. Yet, and the thought held a certain weird hilarity. Get a grip. She swayed. Reaching an unsteady hand to the table, she winced as a shard bit. “Easy, boy. Sit” And when, to her relief, he did, she said, “Good boy. Down.”
“Perfect.” She turned back to see Hank gathering up his coat. A huge purple blotch stained his shirt to the left of his deputy’s star. A real bullet would have drilled him through the heart. “Now he thinks I want to hurt you, too,” he said.
