by Jones, Brent
Someone else passed on the sidewalk, but Brennan didn’t notice. This dog, trembling beneath the car’s fender, was the only living being he had had an actual conversation with in weeks. He had been hiding in his apartment since Colin’s death. He hadn’t showered in days, hadn’t been to class despite being weeks from his final exams. Yet here was this creature, so full of hope, so undeserving of the hand he had been dealt, and in so much need of care.
“You wanna come issside wiff me an’ hafsa pizza?”
The dog whimpered. What’s pizza?
“It’s, uh—” Brennan peered over at the cardboard box, now a cold pile of mush. “Issa lot like dog food. You’ll lufff it.”
Are you a good human? How do I know if I can trust you?
“Well, lesss see. I usedta haffa a dog when I’s a kid. Me an’ him wuzz best friends. He usedta protect me when Mom haaad strange people over.”
The dog looked down and away, as if he were thinking, debating his few options. The thought of food and a friend sounded all right, and so did a warm home, but still he hesitated. Maybe my humans will come looking for me. What if I go with you and they can’t find me? I might never see them again.
Brennan extended his hand a second time, almost tipping over, and coaxed the small dog to the edge of the car. “I’ll telloo what. Let’s take ya issside an’ dry you off. Clean y’up a bit and getcha somethin’ to eat. Tomorrow I’ll take ya to the vettt to, uh, get those cutsss checked out, and I’ll print up summa those, ah, missing dog postersss or whatever. Maybe yer humans’ll see ’em.”
The dog raised his head and looked Brennan in the eye. You’d do that for me?
Brennan’s hands and knees were growing stiff, and he had to shift positions. He got to his feet, swayed, dizzy, then squatted to make blurry eye contact with the dog again. “Yeah, I’d do ’at for ya. And if yer humans—” He chose his words carefully, which took a moment, “—don’t end up findin’ ya, you can ssstay wiff me s’long as you want.” A car ripped by, launching a tidal wave on Brennan and his new canine friend. The dog shook it off instinctively, while Brennan wiped water from his face, brushing clumps of hair from his forehead. “What should I call ya?”
You mean like a name?
“Yeah, yer not wurrin a collar.”
The dog slowly emerged from beneath the car and approached Brennan. Never had a collar. Not sure if I have a name, to tell you the truth. My humans usually just call me “shithead” or “little bastard.”
Brennan frowned. “Those aren’t good names furra dog.”
Maybe you could give me a name? If it’s not too much trouble. The dog put his wet paws on Brennan’s leg and stood upright, flicking his tongue on the tip of Brennan’s dripping nose.
“What about . . .” He was going to say Colin but decided against it—too soon, but maybe something Colin loved. Basketball? Salted cod dinners? His baby sister, Emily? Singing and playing the guitar? Guitar . . . Brennan’s mind slowly made its way to Colin’s beloved Stratocaster in candy apple red, made by . . . “Fender . . . I’ll call ya Fender!”
The dog got down from Brennan’s leg and sat before him, the torrential downpour matting his patchy fur to his body. Because you found me under a car’s fender?
“Hadn’t thought of ’at, assshually.”
Well, I think I like that name. Fender. Yes, you should call me Fender.
“Fender it is.” Brennan smiled, scooped up the dog, and carried him to shelter.
Don’t you want your pizza?
“Think we’ll haffa order anudder.”
Chapter 11
Prevailing westerly winds jostled the Lexus all over again, worsening the pain in Brennan’s head and stomach. Storm clouds accumulated in the distance, although not nearly as menacing as they had been on the drive to Milwaukee. Fender had his nose pressed to the window once more—searching for something he couldn’t find—and Franky dozed, his head slumped against the passenger window.
“How you doin’ back there?” Rocco asked, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Surviving.” Talking activated sharp splinters in his skull. “I gotta ask,” he said, rolling his head toward the window, “why’d we leave so early? Sun’s barely up.”
“It’s almost nine, Bee, and we left just a few minutes ago.”
“Jesus,” said Brennan, “I don’t even remember leaving the hotel . . .” He caught a glimpse of his fingers, sore, swollen, bruised. “What—what happened to my hand?”
Rocco released a deep breath and narrowed his eyes. “No idea.”
“I actually don’t remember anything from last night. Just passing out after we got back to the hotel. Did we have fun?”
“Yeah.” Rocco sighed, scratched the back of his head. “We had a blast.”
Brennan considered asking for details. He wondered what Rocco wasn’t telling him, but slouched in his seat, lacking both the strength and the desire to persist. He couldn’t recall specifics, and that was all the answer he needed. “I got fucked up last night, didn’t I?”
Rocco licked his lips, bit his tongue, hesitated. “You’re grieving, Bee. It’s gonna take time to move on, but we’ll help you through it.”
Brennan swallowed hard at the words move on. He wasn’t ready to move on. It sounded a lot like forgetting, and Rosie and Abby deserved better than that. “You guys are good friends.”
His dream the night before flowed back to him a piece at a time—the night he had found Fender. He had no clear memory of that night, intoxicated as he had been at the time. But over the years it came back to him in fragments when he slept. And in his dreams, he and Fender had been able to communicate. It was a version of events he cherished, even if he couldn’t be certain that was how it had actually unfolded.
Fender got down from the window. Brennan kissed the top of his head and wondered—for the briefest of moments—how much of the crash Fender remembered. He pushed the thought from his head and peered out the window, longing for something intangible. “Where we headed?”
“Ever heard of Sioux Falls? We’ll hole up there tonight. Do the rest of the drive to Mount Rushmore tomorrow.”
Brennan had no desire to press onward. He felt numb, a shade of gray inside, much like the dreary atmosphere outside the car. He looked out the windshield toward the dark horizon, the bleakness awaiting them, and realized this journey—a fool’s errand, he suddenly thought of it—was futile. Home wasn’t anywhere on the road ahead. It was behind him, buried six feet below ground, and every passing mile felt like a delay in reaching his final destination.
Hours later the three men walked across the grass in Falls Park, Fender trotting at Brennan’s side. The sun was peeking out between storm clouds as families enjoyed picnics at nearby tables. The occasional jogger and dog walker made use of a paved trail that followed the river.
Rocco led the way, Franky behind him, their phones out to capture images of the park. Brennan slowed his pace, stopping to examine a map. The paved trail that followed the river formed a sixteen-mile loop, and just a few miles counterclockwise he noted a pig slaughterhouse. “Guess they have to make the schweineflügel somewhere,” he said, but no one was close enough to hear it.
He caught up to his friends at the edge of The Big Sioux River. It toppled over a formation of sharp rocks, dropping about twenty-five feet, following the bike trail to a distant tree line before disappearing from sight. Brennan eyed the river and felt disappointed. He had expected something . . . steeper, stronger, faster.
Franky grunted, tilting his head side to side, examining the waterfall from different angles. “I thought you said this was just like Niagara.”
“I said it was nothing like Niagara Falls,” Rocco replied. “Pay attention.”
The sound of the rushing river didn’t impress Brennan. “It’s, ah, not too powerful, is it?” He said it to no one in particular, mostly muttering to himself. “More like a babbling brook, really.”
A woman in a track suit slowed her pace on the tra
il, allowing her pug to approach Fender, who seemed preoccupied, but sat at attention and let the pug give him a thorough sniff. “She’s friendly,” the woman said, beaming, proud of her portly canine companion.
“Huh?” Brennan had lost track of the world around him.
The woman’s smile faded. “Daisy,” she said, pointing to her pug, “she’s harmless.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I assumed.”
“You should see Fender, though,” said Franky. “If he gets pissed, he’ll rip your little dog in two.”
The woman scowled, barked an obscenity under her breath, and tugged on the leash. “C’mon, Daisy, let’s go.”
Franky cackled, grinned. “Some people just can’t take a joke.”
“All right,” said Rocco, “should we find a place to stay for the night? Get something to eat?”
“Sounds good,” said Franky. “I’m starving.”
Brennan stared forward, unresponsive.
“Bee?”
“Uh, you guys head on back to the car. I’m gonna give Fender another minute in case he has something more to do. It was a long ride, and he’s been pissing like crazy the last few days. Must be the pain meds or something.”
Once they were alone, he and Fender moved closer to the river. Brennan scanned the crest of the waterfall, the drop, the way the foaming ripples roared past jagged rocks. He shut his eyes, his head still throbbing, and listened to the whoosh of the current, trying to steady his nerves. The damp breeze caressed his pale skin, and he felt nothing but despair. The road had to end here.
Yap-yap-yap . . . Fender barked, his tone shrill and harsh, urgent.
Brennan opened his eyes, looked down, said, “You can’t talk.” He watched Fender cock his head, bark, bounce on his four paws. “You only talk in my dreams.”
Yap-yap-yap-yap . . . Fender’s eyes were wide, wet, and worried. He arched his back to amplify each bark, and his whole body shook with distress.
“Dogs can’t talk,” Brennan insisted. He twisted his wedding band and looked around. A family having a picnic stared in his direction, a jogger slowed his pace to rubberneck. Even the woman walking Daisy was coming back in his direction along the paved trail, and she looked over with great interest.
Yap-yap-yap . . . Fender stood on his hind legs, pawing at Brennan, flailing, jumping, as if trying desperately to convey a message.
Brennan ignored the onlookers, kept his focus on the river before him. He couldn’t go on—its shallow drop would have to do. “It’s the end for me,” he murmured. “There’s nothing left for me in this world.”
Yap-yap-yap-yap . . . Fender pulled at the leash, fought to drag Brennan back to the car.
Brennan paused for long enough to take a deep breath. He looked to the crest of the waterfall, looked for the easiest route to the top, took a step and froze. “But . . .”
Yap-yap-yap-yap-yap . . .
“. . . what will I do with you?”
Yap-yap-yap-yap . . . Fender grew more frantic, yanking, straining, urging his human to step away from the river.
“What—what am I thinking? What’s my plan here? I’m just gonna toss myself over the edge and, what? Take you with me? Leave you here? Tie you to a . . .” He saw an aspen tree a dozen yards away. He shut his eyes, tears pooling beneath them. “Oh, God, Fender, I could never, never do that to you. Never, ah—I’m sorry. You’re all that’s keeping me going.”
Yap-yap-yap-yap-yap . . .
Brennan listened to Fender bark, and his insides bubbled with a mixture of guilt and shame—he really had been thinking of ending it all, and he’d never once considered what would happen to Fender. “Fender, no . . .” He dropped to the grass and pulled Fender close. “. . . no, Fender, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re all I’ve got left.” He thought for a second, added, “And I guess I’m all you’ve got, too.”
Yap . . . yap . . . Fender slowed his panicked barks, satisfied that the threat had been eliminated for the time being. He switched to a high-pitched whimper, still agitated, apprehensive, but a hint less desperate.
“I guess new beginnings are never easy.” Brennan, wiping tears from his eyes, reminded himself that they had thousands of miles to go. Maybe there was still hope out there for him, and maybe Fender could help him find it.
Chapter 12
The alarm had ceased its horrendous ringing an hour beforehand, but Brennan hadn’t moved. He stared at the stucco ceiling above his bed, eyes bloodshot, skin a sickly gray, mouth dry and curled in a heavy frown. It was the second week of his new job in public relations and he was about to be late to work for the second time. He pulled the sheets taut to his nose and held still, paralyzed, hoping for the solution to come to him. He had forgotten what color looked like since Colin had passed, what joy felt like, what food tasted like.
Fender stirred on the bed—no one had claimed the young and handsome beagle on the missing dog posters. His patchy fur was beginning to grow back. Fender still looked rough, but his ribs no longer poked through his skin. The scab on his nose seemed to be healing over, even though he could never resist licking it.
The timing should have been perfect. Finding a dog should have been just what he needed—a chance to open up his wounded heart. But he was too far gone and he knew it. He’d sunk past the point of return, shipwrecked on some barren island, never to be found. He listened to his own shallow breathing, the only sound he could hear. He felt his pulse throbbing in his temples. And he studied the texture of the ceiling above him, searching it for meaning, counting the bubbles as time passed.
Not hanging, he thought. Not how Colin did it. What if I change my mind at the last second? I’d just hang there wishing I hadn’t done it. And if the rope breaks or someone finds me and cuts me down, my neck’ll be all mangled. It has to be . . . instant. No chance for second thoughts. And painless.
He counted more stucco bubbles. A bullet. That’s fast. Could drive down South. Get a cash deal on a gun. I’d end up with a fucked up face, though. All blown to bits. Not fair to Mom or Rocco or Franky to see me like that.
He thought the silence in his apartment might perforate his eardrums. The quiet tortured him, reminded him how isolated he really was. Death by exhaust. Carbon monoxide. They say it’s painless, fast. Could drive out to some old dirt road at night, run a tube to the window. It’d be peaceful I bet, like drifting off to sleep. I probably wouldn’t feel—
Brennan’s phone rang and he was certain it was his boss calling. He pushed it off the bed without checking. It didn’t matter. None of it would matter soon enough.
The phone thumped on the floor, startling Fender. Are you okay, Man Human?
Brennan responded without taking his eyes off the ceiling. “Why do you call me that? Man Human.”
I don’t know. Fender took a second to consider the reason. My last family, there was a Man Human, a Lady Human, and two Little Humans.
“Do you miss ’em?”
I do, but I don’t miss the Little Humans hitting me.
“Why’d they do that?”
Lady Human would laugh and encourage them. I think it was her idea to get me as a toy for the Little Humans. Something to keep them busy. I didn’t mind so much, really. They were my family and I loved them. It made me happy to make them happy.
“Jesus . . .”
It was Man Human who was the worst. He’d come home at the end of the day in a bad mood and, well, I got good at hiding.
“He’d beat you?”
He—he’d get upset and blame me for things I didn’t do. Fender whined a little. Like one time the Little Humans spilled juice in the kitchen. Man Human thought I’d done it somehow.
“I’m sorry.”
How come?
“You didn’t deserve that.”
Fender lowered his head, looked away. I just hope my next Man Human is as nice as you are.
Brennan snapped out of complacency and sat up. “What do you mean, your next Man Human?”
Fender licked the scab on h
is nose. I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t like it. You’re figuring out how to leave me.
“Not exactly, I—”
You are. And for good. Except you’re thinking about tying yourself to a tree instead of me.
Brennan opened his mouth but nothing came out.
I hoped to keep you for longer, Man Human. We could’ve been good friends. And I sure did like it here.
“Fender . . .” Brennan hadn’t thought of what might happen to Fender if he went through with it.
Do you think my new Man Human will still call me that? Fender? I like my name. Fender gave his head a shake, jingling the new collar around his neck. You’re a good Man Human, Fender said. And I don’t like how hopeless you feel. I feel it, too, and it’s new to me. I’ve never felt hopeless before.
“Even when you were tied to that tree?”
Even then. I had hope. I broke free, remember?
Brennan nodded. “I remember.”
The hopeless don’t break free. I never stopped thinking that my humans would look for me.
“Even now?”
I’m a dog, but I’m not stupid. I knew my humans were never coming back, but the thought of it helped. And I know they didn’t deserve all the love I gave them. But I can’t help it. I was born to love.
“Colin’s never coming back, either. That I know.”
Colin was your friend?
“My best friend.”
Fender seemed to consider these words for an instant, sniffing, attentive, still whining. I could be your best friend, if you want. And you could be my Man Human.
“You are my best friend, Fender.”
If you have a best friend, Man Human, you have hope. The hopeless have no need for friends. The hopeless hide beneath a car, waiting out a storm that’ll never pass.
Brennan’s phone rang again.
Fender pawed at Brennan, his silent language morphing to high-pitched barks. Yap-yap-yap-yap . . .
Brennan nodded. “I know. Time to get up.”
Chapter 13
The drive to Rapid City passed in a blur. Brennan was lost in thought of his dream the night before. It came back to him in pieces, the first time Fender had dissuaded him from taking his own life.
