by Jones, Brent
The three walked down the sidewalk back toward Masten Park. Brennan felt underdressed, not for the location but for his company. “A couple months ago, uh—” He couldn’t find the words at first, so he rolled up his sleeve. His tattoo was still fresh and had mostly scabbed over.
“That’s a date?”
“Yeah. The day my friend Colin died.”
The smile fell from Rosie’s face. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry.”
Brennan shook his head. “It’s, ah, been a rough couple of months.” He rolled his sleeve back down as they approached a street vendor selling ice cream. “Want one?”
“It’s like nine in the morning.” She put her hand on her hip, as if to scold him.
“Yeah, but it’s hotter than hell.” Brennan ordered two cones, said, “I mean, I’d order a couple shots of tequila if I could.”
“You like to drink, huh?”
Brennan had imbibed almost daily since the funeral, but hadn’t found himself blackout drunk in at least two weeks, which he considered a relative win.
He shrugged, replied, “Like I said. It’s been a rough couple of months.” He handed Rosie a cone and they continued walking. “So, me and Colin and two other guys we grew up with used to play in a band. Colin was the singer. Played some guitar, too.”
“A band? What kind of music do you guys play?”
“Oh, uh . . .” Brennan blushed a little, looked away. “We mostly ruin perfectly good classic rock songs, if I’m being honest. You ever go to The Labyrinth?”
Rosie wrinkled her nose. “That hole downtown above the arcade?”
“Yeah.”
Scuzzy, dilapidated, dark, filthy, unwelcoming—these were all words locals used to describe the venue. It was a place to hang out, shoot some pool, and take advantage of a flexible underage drinking policy.
“We played our last show there with Colin,” he said. “Band hasn’t got back together since. We’re taking a bit of a break.” He missed his mouth, smeared ice cream on his chin as he zoned out, recalling the details. “So, anyway, I found Fender a couple weeks after losing Colin. And Colin’s favorite guitar was a Fender Stratocaster. So, I guess I named him in Colin’s memory.”
“Oh, wow.” Rosie took a bite of her ice cream, unsure how to respond. She gently touched Brennan’s arm, hoping to offer some comfort.
“You don’t have to say anything.” Brennan wondered if he had revealed too much, even if it did feel good to talk about it. “I’m, uh, learning to deal, one day at a time.” He motioned toward Fender at his feet. “This little guy has been helping a lot.”
“That’s cute. Dogs are great companions, aren’t they? It’s like they always know when something’s wrong.”
Brennan took another bite of his ice cream. It was starting to melt. “All right. That’s enough about me. Let’s hear all about you. You said you’re in your last year of college?”
“Yeah, thank God.”
“What’re you studying?”
“Finance.”
“Oh.” Brennan wasn’t sure what that entailed. He had grown up in this neighborhood, and people here didn’t often talk about finances, except to complain that they were broke. He remained silent, hoped she would elaborate.
“I’m so over school, though. My dad’s already got a job lined up for me.”
“Oh yeah? What kinda job?”
“Personal finance. Dad works in the financial sector, and that’s what I plan to do, too. Follow in his footsteps as a financial adviser.” She raised her head at once. “Not that I’m just like my parents or anything.”
Brennan finished his ice cream and wiped his mouth on his hand. “Don’t get along with your folks?”
“Oh, no, I do. It’s not that. They’re successful and all, it’s just that, you know, I’m my own person, too.”
“Right.” The apartment Brennan shared with Fender wasn’t far from the house he had grown up in. He knew all too well the desire not to repeat the past, even though he never had the advantage of a successful parent to emulate. “I take it you’re not from around here?”
His remark made Rosie feel self-conscious. She looked down at her attire, smoothed out her skirt with a manicured hand. “Why? Do I stick out or something?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said with a laugh. “You look great. I just mean there aren’t a lot of financial experts hanging around Masten Park.”
She let her shoulders drop a couple inches. “I grew up in Williamsville, actually.”
“Williamsville? Wow.”
“Oh, it’s nothing special.” She blushed a little. “How about you? Where’d you go to school? UB?”
“Yeah, good ol’ University at Buffalo. Studied journalism. I just started my first job in public relations.”
“Public relations? Wow. That must be really interesting work.” She tossed what was left of her cone in the trash.
“It’s okay so far, I guess.” He shrugged. “I mean, it’s not exactly what I hoped for.”
“Oh no?”
“The end goal for me is the big stuff. The kinda stories that make international headlines.”
“Investigative journalism?”
“Exactly.”
Rosie smiled, bit her lip, fidgeted with her bangs. “Ambitious.” She pretended to hold a microphone in her hand, did her best impression of a reporter. “Brennan Glover, a handsome young bachelor from Buffalo . . .” She hesitated. “Wait, you are single, right?”
He nodded.
“. . . a handsome young bachelor from Buffalo, investigating the big stories by day, saving stray dogs by night.” She laughed at her own whimsy, snorted.
“Thanks.” He looked down, dragged his feet. “But really, right now I’m just a glorified intern. I take messages, make copies, run around taking coffee orders all day. They actually don’t let me anywhere near clients.”
She gave Brennan another friendly touch on the arm. “Maybe that’ll change.”
“Maybe.” The farther they walked, the more Brennan wanted to keep the focus off himself. He had managed to avoid mentioning how close he lived and hoped to keep it that way. “Your parents still in Williamsville?”
She shook her head. “Allentown now. They just moved there after I moved out. They’re real big into art and culture so it’s a good area for them.”
“They sound, ah, real sophisticated.”
“Nah, they’re all right. They’re big into local music, too. I bet they’ve seen your band play sometime.”
“I doubt that. We’re—”A child scored a goal on the soccer field, and the sparse crowd watching the game erupted in cheers.
“How come?” asked Rosie.
“We’re called The Turds of Yesterday.”
She laughed, snorted again. “Why would anybody call themselves turds?”
Brennan felt his face get hot. “I, uh, don’t know. That’s a good question.”
“The Turds of Yesterday,” she repeated between bursts of laughter. “No, I don’t imagine my mom and dad getting front row tickets for that show.” They had completed a loop of the park and arrived at the intersection of Jefferson and Best once more. “I should probably head inside,” she said.
Brennan nodded, disappointed their conversation was drawing to a close. There was something about her spirit he admired. Her directness perhaps, or the poise with which she carried herself.
She paused in front of the building, shifted her weight to one foot, placed a hand on her hip in mock indignation. “Oh, come on, Brennan. Aren’t you going to ask to see me again?”
Aside from seeing Rocco and Franky once or twice a week, Brennan didn’t have an active social life. His Saturday nights had recently consisted of binge-watching movies with Fender. He looked down and wondered—crazy as the idea was—if Fender had somehow orchestrated this encounter on purpose.
“How’s tonight?” he asked.
Chapter 3
Brennan woke the next morning in bed, unsure how he got there. His breath
ing was ragged, his skin cold and damp. His head throbbed. He held still for several minutes. Old habits coaxed him to rise, the gravity of the current situation pinned him under the covers. The digital display next to his bed read seven o’clock—time to get Abby ready for school, a task he would have traded anything at that moment to do just one more time.
Fender stirred at his side and gave a shrill whine, breaking the deafening silence. Brennan strained to get up, nearly toppling beneath his own weight. He put on sweatpants, a tee shirt, slippers, and made his way to the bathroom. He examined himself in the mirror through blurry, bloodshot eyes. His skin was uneven, blemished, a bit like leather, and his golden-brown hair was beginning to show the odd strand of white. He had always had a slim build, but his cheeks were now sunken. He stared at his reflection, berating himself for allowing his wife and daughter to die alone, angry that he couldn’t change it, frightened and confused at what would come next.
He flicked on overhead pot lights and entered a large kitchen, passing a center island and opening a stainless steel fridge. It was time for breakfast but he had no appetite, and slammed the fridge door hard enough for colorful magnets to fall to the floor. There at his feet was a drawing in crayon of stick figures holding hands, labeled Mommy, Daddy, and Me. Brennan picked it up and held it for a second before placing it with care on the granite counter top.
He glanced at the stove next to him, where he expected to see leftover dinner from the night before. Rosie often worked late, and he always kept dinner warm for her. But the griddles were bare, spotless, pristine. He cupped his head in his hands, wished he could again wash the dinner dishes, pack a lunch for his wife, or perhaps even go back to a time when their conversations were inspiring, rich with aspirations for the future. The space between he and Rosie had only widened each passing year. And even though he wasn’t ready to admit it, their exchanges in recent history had been brief, cold, often via text message or the odd note pinned to the fridge beneath an alphabet magnet.
He trudged into the garage, its door already wide open, and scanned the neighborhood from the shadows. Their street was one of many in a new Williamsville housing development. Row after row of nearly identical neighboring homes, most occupied by young families, spanning numerous residential blocks. It was unseasonably warm for a May morning in upstate New York, and clear blue skies smiled upon manicured lawns and driveways showcasing two or more cars.
The whole neighborhood knew what had happened. If Brennan had the misfortune of making eye contact with his neighbors, they were sure to offer saddened glances, awkward waves, unwanted hugs, or worst of all, the disingenuous and highly ambiguous, “If you need anything, just let us know.” It all felt contrived. People reacted to tragic news the way they thought they ought to, the way the world expected them to, but seldom motivated by any real feeling.
He watched parents usher their children into minivans, or walk them to the end of the court where the school bus would stop. The academic year was nearing completion and kids would soon fill the street, spending long summer days playing ball, selling lemonade, riding bikes, and illustrating masterpieces in sidewalk chalk. But not Abby. She would never again enjoy the smell of freshly cut grass, or hot dogs—her favorite—cooking on the grill.
“You’re so funny, Daddy.” He heard his daughter speak as though she were standing next to him. “Everyone in my class thinks so.” Yes, he loved to make his daughter and her friends laugh. But at that moment, the idea of laughter seemed distant, unattainable.
Brennan gave his head a painful shake, recalling that Fender needed to be fed—Fender’s appetite had come and gone ever since the crash. He turned to head indoors when an aged woman spoke at the garage door. “Oh, Brennan, love, I thought I heard you moving around in here.” Mrs. Posada stood a foot outside the garage, hesitant, her eyes puffy, her face pale. She had on a faded floral dress and an apron. “Can I get you anything, dear? How’re you managing?” Her voice lacked its usual fire.
“I’m getting by, Mrs. Posada, really.” A flash of hot pain rippled through his skull with each spoken word. “And thanks, but I don’t need anything right now.”
She nodded her head and shuffled forward, curls of thick gray hair matted to her face. She deliberated before saying, “I wish I had called sooner.”
“Mrs. Posada—”
“It’s all I can think about. It keeps me up at night. When I saw Rosie’s car like that outside the bank, Abby screaming in the back . . .”
Brennan wasn’t in the mood to rehash details—let alone console others—but he knew she was being sincere. “You called me as fast as you could. You can’t blame yourself.” He folded his arms across his chest. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“. . . I just froze. Abby was calling out for help, and I tried to wake Rosie . . .”
Brennan closed his eyes.
“. . . but she was gone, dear. There was nothing I could do. I called you and I prayed Abby would make it.”
“There’s nothing any of us could have done.” He said it to reassure her, though he had trouble believing it himself.
“They’re in Heaven now.” Her lower lip quivered. “Up there with my dear Hector, too, may they all rest in peace.”
Your husband was damn near eighty when he died, he thought. Where the fuck was God when my six-year-old little girl was crushed by a truck? Busy having a beer with dear Hector, I imagine.
Mrs. Posada wiped her eyes and put her hands on Brennan’s shoulders. “Be strong, Brennan. I’m just next door if you need me.” She was about to leave when she added, “I remember losing Hector like it was yesterday. At my age, I’ve lost so many who were close to me. Trust me when I say it gets easier, dear. You’ve got to believe that. I found out a long time ago that sometimes we have to get away from all we know just to find our way home again.”
Brennan watched his neighbor shuffle back home then went inside to look for his phone.
* * *
Morning slipped into afternoon and Brennan paced the house, phone in hand. He had resolved to call Rocco after speaking with Mrs. Posada—to agree to the road trip—but doubt set in with every fleeing minute, forcing him to second-guess his decision.
He darted from one room to the next—feet pattering on rich laminate flooring, Fender struggling to keep pace behind him—half-expecting to find Rosie and Abby doing homework together or playing a game on the iPad. With each step, the house felt more foreign, as if the memories made between its walls were beginning to fade, as though he were a stranger in some deserted land. The house—its tall ceilings, ample open space, and contemporary design—felt cold and uninhabitable.
He bumped a family portrait on the wall in his haste, knocking it askew without noticing. I can’t go, he thought to himself. I need to be here right now. His face was tense with the stress of deep contemplation. If I just take off with Rocco and Franky, what does that say about me? That I don’t care? That I’m ready to move on only a day after burying my family? What will Rosie’s parents think?
He stomped downstairs to the basement. It was a tacky man cave of sorts—a dry bar, retro video game consoles, a foosball table, sports memorabilia erected on wood paneled walls—Go Bills!—and a drum kit in the corner. Franky’s drum kit, to be specific, a couple of amplifiers and some stage equipment stacked next to it. Brennan sat behind the drums, touched Colin’s tattoo on his shoulder. “I’ll never forget you,” he said out loud. “Watch after Rosie and Abby for me . . .”
I should do it for Colin, he thought. Colin would want me to do this. Rosie and Abby would want me to be happy—
“Fuuuck!” He screamed, stood, kicked and thrashed, sent the drum set tumbling in all directions, the high-hat clattering to the floor. Fender raised his head, alarmed. Brennan threw the drum sticks across the room, chipping the television screen mounted to the far wall. “Fuck this shit—fuck it all! Fuuuck!” He stomped on the snare drum, punctured it, and collapsed to the floor, rocking in place and sobbing.
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Fender approached, cautious, climbing in Brennan’s lap one tender paw at a time. He tilted his head and offered a flick of his tongue on Brennan’s moist cheek. Brennan opened his eyes after a minute, remorseful for his outburst and grateful for Fender’s presence in equal measure. He embraced Fender’s narrow head in his hands and stroked beneath his chin. He exhaled deeply, tormented, his face crimson, his mind still insisting, Colin would want me to do this.
Fender peered up at Brennan and offered him encouragement through sorrowful eyes, his ears twitching, a high-pitched whine rising from his throat.
Brennan lifted the phone to his ear.
“Bee, is that you?”
“Rocco, hi.”
“It’s good to hear from you. You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Have you given it any thought? The road trip?”
“Yes.” Brennan sighed as he said it, still certain he was doing the wrong thing.
“And?”
Brennan noticed Fender fixated on him. “I have one condition.”
“Shoot.”
“Fender comes, too.”
There was a noticeable pause before Rocco responded. “Bee, I, uh, I’m not sure about the pet policy at the hotels we’ll be staying at. Not a lot of options driving through the Midwest and all that.”
“It’ll be fine. Lots of people travel around the country with dogs.”
“Yeah, but, uh, what about when we go out? I mean, he might bark and bother other people in the hotel, or piss on the bed—”
“He won’t bark or piss. We took him with us to Orlando last year and he was fine. He’s good like that and you know it.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Fender comes or I don’t.”
Rocco clicked his tongue, signaling thought. He knew he was defeated. “Right, sure, Bee. Okay. Bring Fender. It’ll be good for the little guy. I’ll pick you up in the morning, all right?”
“Don’t you need to ask for time off before we leave?”
