Stay with Me

by Paul Griffin

  “I did.”

  “All right, then.”

  We walk the kid to where his escort will take him to the bus. The first razor-wire gate rolls open, and he steps into the slot, and the gate closes. We wait for the second gate to open before we say good-bye, because then he can leave fast. You don’t want to take a long time saying good-bye when you’re locked up.

  “What name you want for your fake name?” dude says.

  “Fake name?”

  “They won’t let me use a real one.”

  “I don’t care about it if you use my real name.” I was kind of hoping Céce would see it somehow.

  “I know, but it’s the rules. Something about being a juvenile and stuff, you can’t let out the dude’s ID.”

  “Like it matters when you’re locked up.”

  “I know. How ’bout Ed?” dude says.

  “Ed? You serious?”

  “Fredo then. Fredo’s a cool name.”

  “Fredo’s all right. How ’bout Zeke? Yeah, let’s do ’er Zeke.”

  “All right then, Zeke buddy.” He writes it in there. “I’ll call the dog Cosmos, if that’s all right, on account he is one of the biggest pits I’ve ever seen.”

  “Cosmos. I like that.”

  “Yeah. I like using imagery and that kinda shit when I write, you know? Gives you more of the feel for the dog’s soul, see?”

  “Mm.”

  “Mm.”

  “No pictures then, huh? For this here article?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not even of Boo?”

  “No names, pictures, or videos. No identifying geographical markers.”

  “Anybody gonna look at this thing?”

  “I know. Prob’ly not. It’s like for this lame-ass animal shelter website or whatever. They’re doing an online newsletter type of thing to raise money for your program, I think. But hey, I do a good job on this one, and maybe I get something better next time around. You gotta have hope, right buddy?”

  “You do. You got to have hope.”

  The second gate rolls open.

  “Mack, buddy, thanks, all right? Y’all helped me a bunch.”

  “Good luck to you, man.”

  “Yeah, man. Luck back. Hey?”

  “Yup?”

  “Peace. Y’all stay cool now.”

  “Yeah. Y’all stay free.”

  Me and Boo watch him disappear. I crouch and headlock Boo and scratch him up real good behind his ears. “Been three weeks since she last visited, Boo. I think she’s on her way, bud. On her way to peace of mind.”

  THE NINETIETH DAY . . .

  (Wednesday, September 9, after dinner shift)

  CÉCE:

  “Howya doin’?” Vic says.

  “School started this week,” I say. In addition to weekends, I’m working Wednesday nights during the school year to save money for the college I won’t get into.

  “I know. So howya doin’?”

  “I just said, school started. Must I translate?”

  “Good news is, I’ve been looking into the dog thing,” Vic says.

  “Oh god.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “I hit the salad bar with a few of my buddies from the VFW a couple of nights back. They’re co-sponsoring an application for a dog for Anthony.”

  “VFW,” I say. “Foreign wars. Anthony never made it overseas.”

  “Kid, they all know your brother. They know what he gave up for that old man in the truck. They love him. Everybody does. We’ll probably have a dog within the month.”

  “Vic—”

  “Hey. Stop. I’m sorry you had a bit of a rough summer. I am. And it’s okay to be in a bad mood. But it’s not okay to be in a bad mood around other people.”

  “What are you talking about? A bit of a rough summer? You have no idea what I’ve endured these past weeks.”

  “Céce, look, I’m sixty-eight years old. I know what you’ve endured. The time for enduring is over. Now it’s time to be happy. This dog thing: You need to do it. For your mother, kid. For your brother. And you have nothing to worry about here. They come one hundred percent trained, the dogs.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Specifically for injured soldiers too,” Vic says. “They train them in the jails.”

  “The jails.”

  “The prisoners are the trainers.”

  “Prisoners.”

  “Good for the prisoner, the dog, the vet. Everybody wins.”

  “Backtrack. Prisoners like Mack?”

  “They want the older guys doing it. Here.” He taps the website onto his iPad.

  Old Dogs, New Tricks: We look to rehabilitate dogs while giving veterans companionship and prisoners hope. Trainers generally are at least thirty years of age with significant offenses on their records, with the average age being fifty-one. By taking part in the program, older participants often are able to reduce their sentences, achieve early parole, and, upon release, segue to community-service-oriented positions that will sustain them both financially and spiritually in their senior years. Many trainers find post-prison employment at Old Dogs, New Tricks. Dogs are trained individually and to accommodate each veteran’s needs. Trainers visit the prospective adopters’ homes with the dogs to incorporate special needs into training.

  “So the prisoner is coming to my house?”

  “Absolutely,” Vic says. “Probably sometime in the next few days, the vet who filed the application tells me.”

  “Okay wait. Again, I know it’s a ridiculous long shot, but Mack is ridiculously gifted—”

  “Check the list of training sites there,” Vic says, shaking his head no. “You’ll see that, unfortunately, the island hasn’t been approved as an official site yet.”

  “It says ‘application pending.’ ”

  “Exactly,” Vic says, “which is why I’m having all my buddies from the VFW write letters of support to get it there. A few years from now, Mack comes of age, they’ll hire him. Won’t be long after that when he’ll be running the show, just you watch.”

  “Why do you keep investing in him?”

  “Investing?”

  “Your hope. You taught him to cook. You were willing to send him to school. You trusted him, and then he goes and—”

  “Nah, now look, none of that. Horrible things happen. They do. But you move on stronger. This Old Dogs thing is a great program. In the future, Mack can be a big part of it. He needs to be a part of it. Look at the testimonials link there.”

  I’m studying the site. All these older inmates say Old Dogs, New Tricks saved their lives. I’m starting to soften. And I’m too drained to fight Vic anymore. “You’re unrelenting.”

  “Indefatigable even,” he says.

  “How’d you find out about this thing anyway?”

  “Remember that kid Cameron who used to work over at the original Vic’s a few years back, used to do delivery at the Too once in a while? Maybe you were too young, but your mother will remember him. Good kid. Anyway, he’s in this alternative to prison program, and for his parole, he asked me to be one of his sponsors. He’s trying to be a journalist. I turned him onto this site looking for animal rescue stories. He tapped a few of his contacts from the old days, went out and dug up the Old Dogs story, and they published it. Here, click that link, the one that says A Spin With Cosmos. It’s a potent little piece.” He heads off with his crossword.

  The link redirects me to this animal rescue website that Vic was pushing on Ma a few weeks back. A side banner asks readers to send in interesting animal rescue stories. A Spin With Cosmos is featured on the front page of the group’s newsletter:

  Zeke made a mistake. Cosmos was a throwaway. They live in a small but clean room, and they are each other’s everything. Bars and razor wire surround them, but when they are together, they are free. “This dog has taken me places I didn’t dare dream,” Zeke says, throwing a knotted stick into a mound of chopped branches. We are in the prison’s grounds m
aintenance yard. Recent storms felled many trees. We watch as Cosmos digs through the branches for the one his trainer threw. “I used to lock into the past,” Zeke says. “I used to fear the future. But Cosmos has taken me into living in this minute. I never thought I’d get here. He just wants to be happy, and you can’t stop him from doing that. That’s his job, having a gas with himself. He doesn’t care where he is or who he’s with—he even loves the guards. You can’t be sad around him. He won’t let you. I know what peace looks like now.”

  Cosmos retrieves the very stick Zeke threw and sits on his trainer’s feet. “Pit bulls like to do that,” Zeke says. I wonder if the dog is guarding Zeke. “No,” Zeke says. “He just has to be touching something alive all the time. I’ve trained him not to jump up, so anything above the knees is off limits, unless I squat and call him to me. Then he’s allowed to curl into me. It can be a hundred degrees out, and he will still try to climb inside my shirt.” Zeke and Cosmos demonstrate. “If you take the time to train a dog, he’ll teach you what you are and where you can go. How you can be calm and strong at the same time. This Cosmos is special, though. He catches houseflies with his mouth and brings them outside and spits them to set them free.” Zeke buries his head in the dog’s neck. He turns away and runs with the dog.

  Then there’s this bit about Cosmos being in love with a mouse, and my ESP is making a comeback. It’s tickling hard: I think we’re going to get a really good dog. Yeah, I feel it.

  THE NINETY-FIRST DAY . . .

  (Thursday, September 10, morning)

  MACK:

  “Mister Morse, you will recall I told you publicity is most important to our program.”

  “I do recall that, Mister Thompkins.”

  “That was a statement, not a question. Eye contact please. Good. A member of a prominent VFW organization read your interview. On behalf of the membership, he has applied for a dog, specifically the Cosmos mentioned in the article. This is an exceptionally strong submission. Sixty-one letters from veterans accompanied the application. The recommendations are unanimous in their praise for the wounded soldier. We are grateful for the opportunity to work with enthusiastic sponsors, and I personally would very much—very much, Mister Morse—like to work with this group again. It’s extremely important that this site visit go smoothly.”

  “What visit?”

  “You will assess the living situation, the physical plant, its layout, for special needs and considerations. You will tailor the remaining training time you have with the animal accordingly. I’m saying you’ll have to go to the house, Mister Morse.”

  That’s what I thought he was saying. A field trip? A day in the free air, no bars or barbed wire? “Well, I guess if I have to.”

  “Indeed,” Thompkins says. “You will be cuffed and shackled from the moment you step from this cell to the moment you return. You will be blind on the way over and back. You will have no contact with these folks after the visit. You are not to give them your name, nor are you to ask for theirs. Understood?”

  “Yessir.”

  I look to Boo. Dopey tongue sticking out, tail whirling on my look. “Mister T., does this mean Boo passed training?”

  “Not yet, but he would not be placed, tentatively, if we did not suspect that he might pass.”

  “That mean I’m a suspect for passing too?”

  “I can be nothing less than honest with you. Some of your training methods are entirely unorthodox and certainly not in the manual my team and I worked so very hard to develop. You are under review. We’ll see how you do with the site visit.”

  “Whatever the vet needs, I’m sure I can make it happen.”

  He crosses his arms and nods toward the chair. “Sit.”

  Me and Boo sit.

  Thompkins takes off his glasses, rubs his tired eyes, and hides his left hand under his right arm. “Boo’s prospective adopter was wounded in an explosion. He—”

  “Car bomb, right?”

  “Something like that, and Mister Morse at this stage of our association, do I really need to remind you not to interrupt me?”

  “Sorry.”

  “May I continue, then? Thank you. The soldier lost his legs. Boo can’t be knocking him out of the wheelchair.”

  “He doesn’t pounce anymore. I trained it out of him.”

  “Did you train him to respond to whisper commands? The young man’s voice box is partially compromised secondary to shrapnel. There’s a chapter in the manual—”

  “Boo, down,” I whisper.

  Boo flops over to offer up his big fat belly for a scratch.

  Thompkins frowns.

  “I interrupted you again, Mister T. I’m toast, right?”

  Thompkins looks at me for a long time. I have to say one thing about him: He never rolls his eyes at me. He glares straight on. “Look, these site visits are almost always emotional for the family. You have to be strong. You must remain calm. Your job is to keep your focus on what you can control, and that is the dog. After that, your job is finished.” He leaves.

  “Boo, we found you a home, boy. You’re gettin’ there, bud. You’re almost free.”

  (Two days later, Saturday, September 12, late morning of the ninety-third day. . .)

  Me and Boo huddle in the backseat of the beat-up Department of Corrections van. I’m in a bright orange jumper, cuffs at my ankles and wrists. The shackle chain threads a ring on the floor. Handcuff chains tie into a chain belt around my waist.

  Wash signed up this other guard to be the driver. I seen him around. He never says much, but he’s all right. Him and Wash go back pretty far, Wash told me. They’re both wearing guns today. Wash readies the hood. “Sorry, son.”

  “I understand, Wash.”

  Boo’s asleep and snoring in my lap before we’re two turns into the ride. I give up trying to figure north, south, east, west after the fifth turn. Sun flickers through the gauzy mesh hood. The windows are open, the breeze soft. I smell cheap perfume, crackling chewing gum, cinnamon, vanilla incense, pizza, chicken gyro smoking on a cart vendor’s grill. I hear birds. A street preacher rages. Trucks bang over potholes, bass beat booms, talk radio, planes, sirens, a car door shuts, a dribbling basketball, a sneaker squeak, the ball rattles the rim, a skateboard scrapes a rail, a jackhammer far off, shopping bags rustle, pigeons fuss, flapping wings. The elevated train rumbles, then a long squeal of brakes. A trash picker’s cart clicks over sidewalk cracks. Bottle glass tinkles. The clinks ripple out and melt into the bricks of buildings. Somebody drops his keys.

  “Pizza smells pretty good, huh, Wash?”

  “It does.”

  “I hope they have lots of hydrants.”

  “Hydrants you say?”

  “On Boo’s new block. Dogs need their hydrants.”

  “Yes they do.” Wash chuckles and I chuckle too, because I copy people like that sometimes, I don’t know why.

  “Wash, you ever had pineapple on a pizza?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me either, but I heard it’s pretty good, though.”

  “Doesn’t sound too good.”

  “Boston told me he had it all the time. He was like, ‘You got to try it, you got to try it. Don’t judge it before you eat it.’”

  “Hmph,” Wash says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Boo licks my hood and whimpers.

  “Easy, boy. We’re gonna be there real soon.”

  “I had macaroni and meat sauce on a pizza once,” Wash says. “Was pretty good.”

  “Yeah, I had it once too. Was pretty good, like you just said a few seconds ago.”

  “Mack?”

  “Yessir?”

  “Don’t be nervous about this. I’m sure everything is going to work out just fine.”

  “Yessir.”

  “That’s right,” Wash says. “Now, when we get there, I’ll walk you to the front door. Then we’ll get that hood off you, let you see some free world.”

  “Amen.”

  (Saturday, September
12, noon)

  CÉCE:

  “Ma, you seriously don’t need to give the guy cornbread.”

  “Will you relax?” Carmella says.

  “All we need: The dude strokes out on your Jalapeño Halleluiah.”

  “Where the flip is Vic? Try his cell again.”

  “Just did. Straight to voicemail.”

  A green van idles in our driveway. The engine cuts out. Two guys in the front. One of them gets out, looks up and down the block. Grills cover the back windows.

  “Don’t smile, Ma. You have lipstick on your teeth.”

  “Well, can you wipe it off?”

  “You had to pick the sluttiest red in your arsenal? This guy’s a criminal.”

  The van driver smiles at us as he climbs the porch steps. He tries not to do a double take on Carmella’s hair, Day-Glo Sun. “Ladies, would you mind if I do a quick walk-through?” He checks the rooms, for what he doesn’t say. He asks Ma to unplug the phones as we go through the rooms “—to minimize the possibility of distraction.”

  “You think he might try to do something bad while we turn to answer the phone or whatever?” I’m seeing a montage of all my there’s-a-convict-in-your-house movies.

  “Not at all. Please don’t worry about that. It’s just that we have less than two hours, and we want to keep everybody focused on the site assessment.”

  “Oh.”

  “If you could turn off your cellular devices too, I would appreciate it.”

  “But we’re expecting somebody else,” Ma says.

  “This is the application sponsor, Victor Apruzese?” the driver says. “And you’ve tried calling him? Then I suggest you leave word on his voicemail that your phones need to be off.” He explains the rules to us: Don’t touch the prisoner—like who would want to? Keep arm’s length from him at all times. Don’t ask his name, don’t give him yours. If he asks personal questions, don’t answer. Keep your conversation about the dog. “Now, when he comes out of that van, he’ll be wearing a hood.”