by Jones, Brent
“What is it?”
“It’s about Fender.”
“What about him?”
She stalled, humming softly and brushing her bangs from her face. “Mom was doing some reading online.”
“About Fender?”
“About beagles in general.”
Fender looked up from the recliner, held still, appeared to listen to her every word.
Brennan felt his stomach ball in knots. He craved a drink all of a sudden, and tried to dismiss the dull ache burning deep inside him. “I mean, you’ve known Fender, what? Like three, almost four years now. Am I missing something?”
“Brennan . . . beagles are high energy dogs. They like to explore, especially new smells.”
“I know. That’s how he we first met, remember?”
She nodded, frowned, and curled her lip. “They can be kind and gentle and playful. You know that better than anyone. But they can be nippy, too. And Fender’s, what? About six now?”
“About that.”
“He might have trouble adapting to a new playmate.”
“I doubt—”
“Beagles shed, too. I mean, look at this place. We’ve barely lived here five months now, and there’s dog hair in every crack and crevice. Babies are often sensitive to pet dander.”
“What’re you saying?”
Rosie shut her eyes, pushing herself to proceed. “I think we should look for a new home for Fender.”
“Rosie, no.” He spoke through panicked breaths and sweeping hand gestures, repeating, “Rosie, no.”
“I love Fender as much as you do, Brennan—”
“Nobody loves Fender as much as I do.”
“We have to put our baby first.”
“Rosie, we at least have to try. I couldn’t part with Fender.” He stood up, paced over to the brick fireplace, fidgeted with a decorative candle on the mantle. “I mean, fuck, look at this place.”
She tilted her head to the side. “What—what do you mean?”
He cupped his head in his hands, rubbed his temples. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t even belong here.” He looked back at his wife. “I mean, you bought it. You saved for it and your parents pitched in the rest at our wedding. I just moved in. I’m just a fucking guest here. I—”
“Brennan, stop.”
“I contributed nothing.” He waved his arms around the room. “My pay check barely keeps the lights on. And Fender, he’s the only thing that still ties me to home.”
“Home?”
“Home. You know, before.”
She stood and strode over to Brennan, holding her face inches from his. “What about me? Are we not building this life together? Do you think I give a shit how much money you make?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Jesus, Brennan. This house is as much your home as it is mine.”
He pointed at the recliner. “And his, too. He stays.”
She put a hand on her hip, talked faster, louder, her emerald eyes intense, hot. “So we just wait and see if they get along? See if our baby’s allergic? Wait until Fender gets his tail pulled and he bites back? He was an abused dog, Brennan. You know that. He’s not going to put up with a small child.” She took a step back, took a deep breath, lowered her voice, added, “When Abby’s a bit older, we could get another dog. Maybe one from a breeder.”
The knots in his stomach twisted and turned painful, and he thought he might be sick. “Fender isn’t an old piece of furniture. We can’t just . . .” He shuddered, recalling the night he found his dog, “. . . leave him beside the road and see if someone picks him up.”
“Of course not, babe. I know that.” She returned to the couch, sat on its edge, and rested a hand on her bump. She stared at the wall for a second before adding, “That wouldn’t be fair to Fender. But we can find a good home for him, and—”
“Your mother put you up to this, didn’t she?”
“Mom agrees with me, if that’s what you mean.”
“Sometimes it feels like your parents run our lives for us.”
“Oh, Brennan, knock it off.” Water pooled beneath her eyes.
“Did you see the bassinet upstairs? Did you?”
She glanced up at him, her mouth curled tight. “What about it?”
“Did you see the price tag? I mean, fuck, why would they leave it attached like that?”
“Probably in case we wanna return it.” She pulled a Kleenex from her pocket and wiped her tears. “Why do you always think my parents are out to get you? It’s not fair and I’m tired of it. My parents have been good to you.”
“Did I ever tell you about the wedding? What your father said to me?”
Her lip quivered. “No.”
“They—” He watched how her mouth trembled, how her face reddened, how strands of frizzy hair were matted to her damp cheeks. “You know what? Nevermind.”
“No, tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter. Look, you said it yourself when I first met you. You said your parents never let you have a dog.”
“And now I understand why.”
“Rosie, no, look. I swear to God I’ll never touch a drop of booze again. You have my word. I swear on our unborn child—”
“Brennan, no! Don’t say that.”
“Sorry, fine. But I swear, for the rest of your life, and his, or hers, I’ll never touch the stuff again. I promise. But not in a million years will I give up Fender. Not after all we’ve been through.”
She leaned back on the couch and said nothing. She just dried her eyes again and stared up at the ceiling.
“Fenders stays.”
She nodded at last, reluctant, accepting defeat, conceding with a rub of her round belly. “All right, Brennan. Fender stays, but we need to keep an eye on him. And that means you, because you know my hours are crazy at work.”
“I know.” His pulse slowed, his breathing returned to normal, and he concentrated on all the things he loved about his wife, spirited and demanding as she could be. She was supportive, ambitious, beautiful, kind—the perfect partner. He smiled, lowered his voice and said, “I’m proud of you.” And he really was, even if he did feel undeserving of her. He leaned down and guided her forehead to his lips. “I’m so proud of you. I can’t believe we’re gonna be parents.”
“It won’t be long now.” She nodded and gave him a toothy albeit reassuring smile. “I’m sorry. Look, I shoulda asked you how you felt instead of deciding what to do with Fender. It’s just . . .”
“You want what’s best for our baby.”
She struggled to wrap her arms around him, her belly sandwiched between them. “You’re going to be an amazing daddy, babe. I just know it. She’s gonna be a daddy’s girl for sure.”
Her hands slid off his back, and he caught her biting her tongue. “You asked the doctor, didn’t you?”
She said nothing at first, then stood and faced him. She parted her soft lips and whispered, “I’m sorry, but I just had to know. I just had to, babe. I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“Ah . . .” Brennan shook his head, feigning annoyance. He placed his hand on her warm belly. “It’s a . . . girl?”
She pulled his head to hers, allowing their foreheads to touch. “You’re gonna have a baby girl. Congratulations.”
Chapter 17
“It’s a glorified farmer’s market,” said Brennan, noting a vendor selling a selection of fresh fish.
The three men had arrived on the outskirts of Seattle by early afternoon. After finding an affordable Travelodge to spend the night, they headed to Pike Place Market to begin their exploration.
“Basically,” said Rocco. “I wonder why this place is so famous.”
Small shops and deli counters hocked specialty foods—artisan cheeses, honey, spices, cured meats, and dried fruit—while other vendors were set up with booths and tables like a trade show, some outdoors beneath large vinyl canopies. Franky took a picture and asked, “What do these guys do when it rains? Isn’t it supposed
to rain here all the time?”
Brennan examined a showcase of leather crafts and ceramics. “Buy soggy belts and wallets, I guess,” he said. “Umbrellas, too.”
Franky took a few more steps, stopped in his tracks, and pointed across the cobblestone road. He shouted, “There it is!” He hurried to join a line in front of a building that proclaimed itself to be the original Starbucks.
His friends caught up. “This is absurd,” said Rocco, scrunching his forehead.
Franky ignored him and stared through the shop window, spotting a chalkboard sign. “Welcome to the first Starbucks,” he read aloud, sounding out each word. “This is where it all began, the site of our first store here in Seattle’s Pike Place Market.”
Rocco glanced at his watch. “You’ve never been to Starbucks. Why start now?”
“Because coffee was invented here.” Franky folded his arms. “Surprised you didn’t know that.”
When it was their turn at the front of the line, Brennan and Rocco each ordered a house blend, but Franky couldn’t resist the urge to ask for a tall blonde. He cackled as he said it, as though Starbucks were some kind of underground brothel. They exited the store, beverages in hand, and looked left and right.
It was warm, the skies were clear, and a gentle breeze rolled through. Brennan had strengthened his resolve to enjoy the day ahead. If not for himself, to honor his wife and daughter. He sipped his coffee, smiled, and took a moment to appreciate the inane banter between his friends.
Franky pulled a card from his pocket. “That cute coffee girl at Starbucks—”
“She’s called a barista, Franky.”
“—gave me one of these rewards cards. Neat, right?”
“What kinda rewards is she gonna give you?”
Franky blinked, slid the card back in his pocket. “I didn’t ask.” He whistled for a second, looked around. “Sure are a lot of people not working today.” He took a gulp of his blonde roast and savored the taste before swallowing, watching pedestrians flow back and forth. “Are there no jobs out here or somethin’? Just Starbucks and fishermen?”
“Well, for a city that prides itself on being progressive, there sure are a lot of homeless folks.” Rocco took a sip of his own coffee. “But to answer your question, there’s plenty of jobs out here. There’s more than just Starbucks, that’s for sure. Nordstrom’s headquarters are in Seattle, for starters—”
“What’s Nordstrom?”
“—and T-Mobile. Microsoft. Costco, I think. Amazon. Seattle’s Best Coffee—”
“You mean Starbucks?”
“Something like that.”
With a bruised and battered hand, Franky snatched a glossy map for tourists off a nearby rack, and the trio walked toward a paved waterfront trail. It was filled with joggers wearing coordinated athletic outfits, sporting chiseled bodies and serious faces. Every skull was plugged with a matching pair of white Apple earbuds.
An attractive female ran by Franky, a Lululemon logo imprinted above her tight backside. “Seattle’s gotta be home to the world’s nicest asses, huh?”
“Yeah,” said Rocco. “That’s what happens when you build a city on so goddamn many hills.”
Franky unfolded the map. It was hand drawn to look like a cartoon. “Has this path got a name?”
Rocco felt the strangest sense of déjà vu. “It’s called the Elliott Bay Trail.” He pointed toward the body of water at their side. “Named after Elliott Bay.”
“I thought this was . . .” His eyes darted across the map. “Pugg-it Sound.”
“Puget Sound. And it is.”
“It’s two things? Like they gave it two names?”
“It’s, uh . . .” Rocco wasn’t certain of the answer and he felt stupid. “Puget Sound’s . . . a bit farther north, I think.”
“Like in Canada?”
“Not that far north.”
“So when does it stop being a bay and start being a sound?”
“It’s always a sound, but, uh, this middle part here, they call that part Elliott Bay, I think.”
“How come?”
“That’s a good question. Check your map.”
Franky studied its glossy surface. “Did you guys know—” He pointed across Elliot Bay toward the silhouette of a distant rock formation, “—that that’s the tallest mountain in the Pacific Northwest?”
Brennan peered at the map over Franky’s shoulder. “Mount . . . Rainier?”
“Yup.”
Rocco snatched the map and stuck his thumb out southeast. “Rainier’s that way, man.”
Franky looked back across Elliot Bay. “Then what the hell’s that?”
Rocco traced his finger across the map. “Olympus, it says here.” He handed the map back to Franky. “In Olympic National Park.”
“Is that where the Olympics are held?”
“Sure.”
“How come all the mountains are out here? On the West Coast, I mean? We got no mountains back in Buffalo.”
“Ask Bill Nye,” said Rocco. “Pretty sure he lives in Seattle.”
As the men walked back toward the market, Brennan slowed his pace, fell behind his friends, and looked out on the water. He reasoned that Washington wasn’t so different from Idaho, Montana, or South Dakota before it, but much like discovering shapes in rolling clouds, perspective counted for a lot.
They rounded a corner into an alleyway and found a wall slathered in every color of the rainbow, hardened globs of chewing gum plastered eight feet tall, dozens of feet wide.
Rocco gasped. “What the actual fuck?”
Brennan laughed and adjusted his sunglasses. “Surprised you didn’t know about this one.”
Rocco’s mouth was wide open but he shut it for fear of airborne pathogens. “Didn’t know about this one what?”
“They call this the Market Theater Gum Wall. The city tried to clean it up a couple years back, apparently. Thousands of pounds of gum in all, but the good people of Seattle weren’t having it.”
Franky cackled and yanked out his phone to take another photo.
“You mean people actually make a point of sticking their nasty chewed up bubblegum to a public building?” He stuck out his finger in disbelief. “Like, this happened on purpose? And right down here where tourists come?”
Brennan nodded, smiled.
“This ought to be declared a public health hazard—”
“I didn’t take you for a germophobe.”
“—or torn down, or something. It’s disgusting. I mean, fuck . . .” Rocco suppressed a gag. “What a goddamn disgrace.”
The men found a place to sit to finish their coffees, and Brennan held the image of the chewing gum in his mind. He stared off into space for a while before asking, “Did I ever tell you guys about the time Abby got gum stuck in her hair?”
His friends shook their heads. Rocco gestured with his hand, encouraging him to tell the story.
“Abby’s playing with one of her little friends from a few houses down out back,” he began. “Karissa, I think her name was, and Karissa brings over some bubblegum and, well, you guys know Rosie.” Brennan paused for a beat on her name. “She was always thinking Abby was gonna rot her teeth out. Well, Rosie gives in this day and tells Abby she can try some gum. This was, I dunno, two years ago maybe? Well, she decides she doesn’t like chewing gum all that much and spits it out in her hand, but it’s stuck there now and she doesn’t know what to do with it. So she kinda forgets about it and goes on playing with her friend, and next thing you know, she’s got it all mashed up in her hair.”
Brennan stared straight through his friends, pupils dilated, reliving the moment in his mind. “So, she plays with her friend all afternoon, and by the time dinner rolls around, the gum’s all dried up and hard.” He pointed in the direction of the gum wall. “Rosie ends up having to cut it out and takes a big chunk of Abby’s hair with it.”
“Oh,” said Rocco, nodding, eyes narrowed. “I remember that now. She had a big clump of hair missing.�
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“Yeah, Rosie ended up cutting out more than she’d meant to, and Abby just cried and cried and told us how the other girls on our street would think she’s ugly.” He rubbed his temples. “So what does Rosie do? She takes the scissors and cuts out some of her own hair . . .” He swallowed hard and a tear splashed down his cheek. “She, uh—she cut—” He choked between words, “—h-her own hair, so, they would, ah, they’d l-look the same.”
His audience remained silent, and he twisted his wedding band before continuing. “And, ah—sorry, guys—you probably never noticed. Rosie wore hats and that kinda thing to hide it. But Abby felt so much better. Like, uh, l-like she was beautiful again, just like her mommy.” He lowered his eyes, zeroing in on the floor.
A full minute passed before Rocco asked, “You ever pray anymore, Bee?”
Brennan shook his head.
“Me neither. Just figured since you spent all that time in church growing up . . .”
“Yeah, Mom was some spiritual mentor, huh?” Brennan’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Fair point. Just, ah . . .”
“What?”
“Wondered if you might like us to say a prayer for Rosie and Abby, that’s all.”
“Her father called me last night.”
“Hutchins?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d he want?”
“Not sure exactly.” Brennan shrugged. “Someone to blame, I guess.”
“For what?”
“For their deaths, Rocco.”
“It’s not—”
“It’s not my fault. I know.”
Rocco nodded and reached behind his head.
Chapter 18
Rocco navigated the Lexus to the plaza opposite the Travelodge. There in the parking lot was a drive-thru with a single word—Coffee—imprinted above its window in block letters.
“Oh, come on, Rocco,” Franky pleaded. “Can’t we just go back to Starbucks? We’re heading south anyway.”
“Look, if we pass a Starbucks on the way, we’ll stop. But we’re not heading all the way back to Pike Place again.”
“Fine.” Franky folded his arms, grunted. “Think my rewards card is any good at other locations?”
