by Jones, Brent
They entered their room and found it outfitted with worn carpet and an air conditioner that hummed offensively. But no one complained. All three men dropped their bags near the bathroom, its door fastened by a single hinge.
Brennan sank on the bed next to a tear in its covers, easing Fender down beside him. “What’re you guys thinking of doing tonight?”
Rocco hadn’t missed Brennan’s choice of phrasing. “Us guys? You mean you’re not coming out?”
Brennan nodded, somber, serious, wearing a heavy frown. “I can’t exactly take Fender to a casino, and—” He stroked Fender behind the ears as he spoke, “—he seems like he’s regaining some strength, but I don’t wanna push it.”
Faded drapes kept out the late afternoon sun, but it would be dark in the next couple hours.
“You guys go on tonight,” said Brennan. “Have some fun, and I’m gonna stay back and see if I can get Fender to eat some more.”
Rocco didn’t care for the idea of leaving Brennan alone, but he knew better than to push. He and Franky got dressed for dinner without speaking.
Brennan pulled back the curtains, revealing a window caked in brown filth, and looked outside their room. He spotted a gang of youths—five of them in all—smoking a joint, laughing, all aged between twelve and fifteen. They were gathered at the far end of the parking lot and were dressed all in black. He thought they might be homeless, and swore he could smell their collective body odor through the glass. He peeked down at Fender, who clung to his side, and said, “This city’s a fucking hellhole, little buddy.”
Just before leaving, Rocco made a final attempt to persuade Brennan. He held up his phone. “The Who’s playing tonight, Bee. Downtown. We’re not too late if you wanna catch ’em.”
“The who?” It was a joke, of course, and Brennan had uttered it by instinct, having used that same line before and with no intention to be humorous.
“Very funny.”
“Not in the mood, Rocco. I’m gonna hang back here like I said. You guys give Pete Townshend my best.”
They left and Brennan settled on the bed with Fender, holding a handful of kibble. He encouraged Fender to take a bite, and he did so, with trepidation and visible displeasure, tolerating a single kibble at a time.
“Good boy,” Brennan whispered. “Good boy. You’re doing great.”
Another kibble. And then another. Brennan knew he would soon have to give Fender a dose of the anti-nauseant and he hoped it wouldn’t be as grueling an event as it had been that morning. His nerves were shot. He hadn’t slept the night before and felt the urge to have a drink. He fought it, focusing on the task at hand.
“Just a few more bites, little buddy. Come on. Good boy. Good—”
His phone rang. He leaned over and saw Mrs. Posada on call display, and soon discovered she wasn’t calling with good news.
Chapter 23
The click of the hotel room door startled Brennan awake. He was propped up on the bed with Fender at his side, and his back ached on account of his slouched posture. He forced his eyes open against the bluish glow of the muted television. He had only dozed off for a second, even if the alarm clock said it was now after midnight.
His friends entered, laughing, talking loudly, and paused at the sight of him, an opened bottle of bourbon on the nightstand, an ashtray next to it filled with butts. Rocco stiffened and scrunched his forehead. “Is everything—” He decided everything was not okay and allowed his sentence to remain unfinished. He left the door ajar and moved closer to the bed.
Franky, sensing the onset of a difficult conversation, pardoned himself. “Gotta drop a deuce, boys. I’ll be back.”
Rocco pointed to the bottle. “Bee?”
Brennan snapped on the bedside lamp and sat up straight. He followed Rocco’s line of sight, picked up the bottle—still nearly full—and said, “Just a couple drinks, Dad. I swear.”
“Why, Bee? Why?”
Brennan raised an eyebrow and stared at Rocco. “Got a call from my neighbor tonight, Mrs. Posada. That’s why. I’m not drunk, Rocco, because you and me need to have a little chat.”
“We do?”
He glared at Rocco, scowled, and cleared his throat. “How long’ve you known?” His friend appeared to flinch, but through his tired eyes, Brennan couldn’t be sure if he had imagined it.
“Known what?”
“Cut the shit, dickhead. How long’ve you known?”
This time Rocco really did flinch. “Bee, what—”
“The head scratches, the way you always do when you’re fucking lying. I ask you about it, and it’s ‘I’m just missing Harlem’ or ‘the car’s getting repossessed’ or whatever other bullshit pops in your head.”
“What the fuck, Bee?” Rocco’s face hardened, deepening the creases of his forehead. “What’s this about? What’d she want?”
Brennan leaned forward on the offensive and Fender scampered off the bed, distressed by the raised voices. “You knew she was gonna leave, didn’t you? You knew she was fucking someone else. You fucking knew it and didn’t say a goddamn thing.”
Rocco took a deep breath and shut his eyes. “Yes,” he whispered.
Brennan suppressed the urge to fly across the mattress and wrap both hands around Rocco’s throat. “Even after I told you what her father called and told me. Even after all that, you didn’t tell me. Even after that.”
“No.”
“Why? Why would you keep it from me?”
Rocco pointed an accusing index finger. “You wanna know why?”
Brennan hoped it was a rhetorical question, because he had no intention of gracing Rocco with a response.
“Because I didn’t know. At least not for sure . . .” His voice softened. “Not at first.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious, Bee. Back at Abby’s birthday party—”
“Leave Abby out of this.”
“—I overheard Rosie on the phone with, uh, I don’t know who. At least I didn’t know who at the time.”
Brennan scrambled off the bed, got inches from Rocco’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He felt like a tennis ball machine, firing out the same question as fast as Rocco could swat it away.
“I told you,” Rocco shouted, matching Brennan’s intensity, “I didn’t know for sure at the time, and I didn’t even know who the fuck she was talking to!” He raised his hands defensively, exhaled, and tried to calm himself. “Take a step back.”
Brennan retreated a couple inches, reluctant, seething, temples throbbing.
“I couldn’t tell who she was talking to at the time,” he repeated. “But it sounded, you know, a little too friendly. I—” He glanced toward the bathroom door, which was shut tight. “I started following her after work. She never caught me, but—” A bead of sweat trickled down Rocco’s forehead, “—I saw her meeting the same guy every night, one of her clients, a big-time investor type.”
“Derek.” Brennan gritted his teeth as he said it. “Derek Uqurhart.”
“Yeah.”
“How bad was it?”
Rocco sighed and clicked his tongue, debating how to respond.
“The truth, Rocco. Spit it out. How bad was it?”
“They’d spend hours in his condo, Bee. They’d, ah—” He gulped, “—they’d go out to fancy dinners and that kinda thing. I’d watch ’em from my car, and—” He reached for his phone, “—he’d be giving her gifts, grabbing her ass, and she’d flirt back, of course. I snapped a couple photos, if you wanna—”
He slapped the phone from Rocco’s hand. “Are you fucking dumb? I don’t wanna see some rich prick fondling my wife.”
Rocco nodded, his head heavy, realizing how insensitive his suggestion had been. “I was real careful about it. She didn’t know I was following her and I didn’t tell no one. Not a soul.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “Franky knows now, but I was careful not to say nothin’ until after a couple weeks, when I knew for sure. I wanted to tell you, but . . .” He t
railed off, giving Brennan enough time to fill in the blanks.
“The crash happened, and you didn’t see the point.”
A tear rolled down Rocco’s cheek, and then another, mixing with fresh sweat. “I—I didn’t wanna h-hurt you, Bee.” His voice cracked. “You remembered Rosie being p-perfect and beautiful and—”
“Stop.” He raised his palm. “Just stop. I can’t hear it right now.” He sank back on the bed and cupped his head in his hands.
“How’d your neighbor find out?”
“Mrs. Posada’s been collecting our mail since we left. Seems Derek—” He said the name with such distaste, it came out a hiss, “—had mailed her two first-class tickets to Miami for a week in July.” He took a deep breath and added, “A week she told me she’d be at some conference in Syracuse. The envelope wasn’t sealed so Mrs. Posada took a peek inside. Thought it was strange for Rosie to get mail.”
Rocco moved closer to Brennan. “I’m sorry, Bee. I—I should have told you, but you were already a wreck, I—I just couldn’t. I figured it was better to let you remember her as you did than—”
“Wasn’t your call to make, Rocco. You should’ve told me.”
Franky opened the bathroom door, saw the scene unfurled before him, and decided to keep quiet. He sat on the second bed and listened, shielding his face behind a magazine.
“You think Abby knew?”
“I don’t know, Bee. I doubt it. I mean, I don’t think Rosie would risk her spilling the beans.”
“But her parents knew.”
Rocco reached for the back of his head.
“Rocco, fuck, what? Were they in on it, too?”
He hesitated before speaking, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m pretty sure it was her father that introduced them.”
“Of course. Why didn’t I see that one coming?” Brennan pounded the mattress in frustration. “Did he tell her he loved her?”
“Oh, Bee, I can’t be sure, I—”
“Did he?”
Rocco gave his head a shallow nod. “I think so, I—”
“He wasn’t at the funeral though?”
“I didn’t see him there.”
“Fucker doesn’t even know she’s dead. Why else would he send her those tickets? They arrived after we left, so he had to’ve mailed them sometime after the funeral.”
Rocco didn’t say a word. He just lowered his eyes.
“See, that’s just it. No one loved Rosie like I did. No one. She was a spoiled brat, always absorbed in herself and her work, always bowing to her fucking parents like they were gods . . .”
His friends weren’t accustomed to hearing him disparage his wife. Franky, jaw dropped, kept his face hidden behind the magazine. Rocco thought of resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but decided against it, allowing him to finish.
“She was always actin’ like a fucking princess. And, of course, she’s fucking some other guy, not giving a thought to me and Abby, us waiting up ’til all hours for her to come home.” He was shouting and his face had turned red. “And now, here we are in Nevada, on our way back home to nothing!”
Rocco spoke in a soft whisper, but the edge in his tone was unmistakable. “Fuck you.”
Franky folded the magazine on his lap and blinked at Rocco in disbelief.
“Excuse me?” Brennan cocked his head to the side.
“You heard me.”
“Say it again.”
“Fuck you.”
Brennan grabbed Rocco by the collar and lifted him from the bed, shoving him against the muted television, sending it crashing backward into the wall. Rocco resisted, struggled to keep his balance, and shoved Brennan off of him. Brennan lunged forward again, grunted, and dodged a punch. He socked Rocco in the stomach. Rocco keeled over but recovered fast, stood upright, and strained to reach for Brennan. The men wrestled—like two drunkards in a hug-fight—until Franky wedged himself between them and bellowed, “Enough!” He pushed them apart with two hulking arms. “That’s enough. Both of you.”
Brennan shouted, “What’s your fucking problem, Rocco?”
“Oh, all this ‘I’ve got nothing to go home to’ bullshit, Bee. It’s bullshit. All of it.” Spittle flew from Rocco’s lip. “Think about what you’re saying. Where do you think you’d be right now if the crash had never happened? Huh?”
The question caught Brennan off guard. He had no idea.
“We’d be right fucking here, Bee, in Reno. Because if I’da told you about the affair that Saturday instead, me and Franky woulda taken you away until the dust settled. Because that’s what you’ve got, Bee. Not nothing. You’ve got two friends who care about you, even if you don’t give a shit. Why else would I waste my time following your wife around at night?”
“What do you mean I don’t give a shit?”
“D’ya know what’s gonna happen when we get back?”
Brennan glanced down at his shirt, now stained with sweat, and tried to invent a response.
“I’m gonna get back and hand over my car and start taking the bus to work. That oughtta make my son proud, right? I’ll keep fighting with his mom to see him, and I’m gonna sit up at night thinking about how things coulda gone different.” Rocco nodded toward Franky. “Franky’s gonna get back to roofing. He’s gonna bust his ass in the scorchin’ hot sun all day and spend his nights alone, wishing the band still got together every now and again. And—” He thrust a finger in Brennan’s chest, “—you’re gonna go home to your mansion in the suburbs, drink yourself to sleep, feel sorry for yourself, twisting that goddamn wedding band around your finger like it’s gonna bring ’em back. But, whether or not you realize it now, you’ll pull yourself together at some point and start over. Sooner or later.”
“Start over?”
“Yeah, Bee, this whole damn trip’s been about new beginnings for you. Accepting fate and all the rest of it. But the truth is, you’ve already started your new beginning—this is it!—and you have me and Franky to thank for that. You can still do or be anything you want.” He paused to let the words sink in. “I know it hurts, and I know you’re grieving, and I know you’re about to lose Fender, too, but think about it. What’re me and Franky gonna do? Go back and start over? Find a new beginning for ourselves?”
Brennan listened, chest heaving, hands clenched in fists. He wanted to fight back, but couldn’t find the strength.
“There’s no restart button for us, Bee. We’re Masten Park trash and always have been. And we actually live in Buffalo, by the way, unlike you. We’ve made the best of the hands we were dealt. It’s a world you don’t understand no more. You got out. You got yourself educated, even though you did nothin’ with it. You got yourself a home on a quiet little street in Williamsville and you made some memories there—more good memories than some of us will make in our whole damn lives. And you’ve got two friends who just spent their last dime to show you how much they care. Two friends who’d take a goddamn bullet for you.” He lowered his voice, adding, “You’ve got opportunities we don’t and never will. You already got your new beginning, Bee, and now you’ve got to decide what you’re gonna do with it. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can move on . . .”
“Hey,” said Franky.
“. . . and what you found out tonight doesn’t change a damn thing, Bee. It’s up to you how you choose to remember your wife. You had nine, er—damn near ten good years with her. Don’t lose sight of that just because—”
“Hey, guys, sorry, but . . .” Franky spoke louder on his second try, and it caught their attention. He pointed at the door, still ajar, and peeked around the room. “You guys seen Fender?”
Brennan turned to the bed. “He was right . . .” He called out his name, but Fender didn’t come.
* * *
The trio rounded up a makeshift search party outside their room. The parking lot was crowded for being close to one in the morning, and traffic filled East Seventh Street. A woman, who wore heavy makeup under a black eye—Brennan was cert
ain she was the woman he had heard fighting with a man on the second floor earlier—joined them, as did one of the scruffy teens he had spotted smoking weed earlier that night.
“Fender-Fender?” the teen asked. He wore a leather jacket, and had long, greasy hair, a scar on his chin.
“No, just Fender. His name is Fender.”
The teen shrugged. “I like Fender-Fender better. Twice as nice.”
Brennan didn’t have time to argue. “Sure.”
Rocco announced that he would search nearby trash cans and dumpsters while Franky would head for the busy road and scour the perimeter of the Days Inn.
The filthy teen wandered aimlessly between cars, hollering, “Fender-Fender! Fender-Fender!” His voice had a distinct adolescent rasp to it.
“What’s he look like?” the woman from upstairs asked.
“He’s a beagle,” said Brennan. “About twenty-five pounds, brown and white, some black spots, wearing a reddish collar. A bit . . . on the older side.”
Her lip quivered and she looked like she might cry, as though she took his disappearance personally. She walked across the parking lot without saying another word, headed toward a roller rink next door.
Brennan moved between cars a row at a time, crouching to look beneath each one. He was stricken with panic, riddled with guilt, but tried to be methodical. “Fender!” His voice echoed the teenager shouting Fender-Fender a few cars over. “Fender! Please come back.” Peeking beneath cars took Brennan back to the night he had first found Fender, and he wished he could go back and bring him home all over again. “Wherever you’re hiding, little buddy, please come out. Fender!”
“Fender-Fender! Fen—” The teen stopped next to Rocco’s car. “Is this your dog?” he shouted.
Brennan raced over, glanced between the Lexus and the car parked next to it. Sitting on the painted line, tongue out, tail wagging, was the senior beagle. Brennan let out a gasp of relief and snatched up his dog. “Fender, little buddy!” Brennan felt his pulse slow, his breathing return to normal. He closed his eyes and held Fender tight to his chest. Fender flapped his tongue, slathering Brennan’s cheek with sopping affection. “Why, little buddy? Why did you take off like that again?” But he already knew why. Fender was ready to go. He was trying to tell them they had to keep moving.
