Atticus

by S. Bennett

  “Atticus, down,” I say, and he completely ignores me. I reach out, grab the back of his collar, and pull him back from Dr. Peele. “Atticus. Sit.”

  The butt hits the floor, holding for all of two seconds before he makes a lunge for Dr. Peele again. Somehow, I’ve made this a game to him. Obviously, I’ve done something wrong in my training.

  “Atticus. Sit.” Again, he ignores me, still wanting Dr. Peele’s attention.

  Shaking his head, the vet sidesteps us and ambles into the exam room on the left.

  I follow behind after giving Atticus a harsh glare. “You made me look stupid,” I chastise.

  He barks at me, and it’s so freaking adorable I can’t help but laugh. “You’re such a bad dog.”

  “What’s this?” Dr. Peele calls out to me and I find him standing at the receptionist desk, reading the appointment calendar I’d left open.

  “Granger has a hot spot,” I say casually. “His owner called while I was cleaning yesterday, so I scheduled her. She couldn’t come in until eleven.” The tiny white lie is because I don’t want to admit to him I doubted whether he’d even show up so I was padding the schedule.

  “Call her back and cancel,” he orders, then starts to walk away.

  “I will not,” I clip out, and he turns back in shock over my defiance. “That woman thinks you are the greatest vet in the world, and she wants only you to treat her dog.”

  Dr. Peele’s expression is like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. His face makes it clear he has no good reason to refuse this appointment, or at least not that he feels comfortable enough to share with me.

  But I’ve gone ahead and drawn my line in the sand. I figure I’m going to get fired here in about three minutes after we duke this out, so I go all in.

  “What are you so afraid of?” I ask with a bit of challenge in my voice. Because for all the confusion I’ve had over the mystery of why this man even bothers opening his doors each day, I know he’s driven by fear.

  I know it because I recognize what fear does to a person. It takes away their confidence and self-esteem. It makes people the opposite of ambitious.

  Completely ordinary.

  Dr. Peele goes deadly still, and just blinks at me. I brace, waiting for him to let loose on me but to my horror, his bottom lip starts to tremble. “I’ve lost control.”

  I gentle my voice as I pull out the chair from the reception desk. A swell of sympathy for this man I barely know—but who ultimately brought Atticus and me together—overwhelms me. This almost stuns me to inaction because I’m not the most empathetic person in the world. I tend to focus on my problems, believing I have no room for anybody else’s. It’s a selfish way to live, but I’ve got fourteen years of self-preservation under my belt, and it’s so exhausting trying to feel good about my life that there’s nothing left over.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask when he sits down with a sigh.

  His gaze drops to the floor, both hands on top of his cane. They’re shaking slightly, and I wonder if they’ve always done that. I hadn’t really noticed before.

  I perch on the edge of the desk, silently waiting for him to screw up enough courage to tell me what’s going on. When he finally raises his head to look at me, it’s a punch to the gut over the severe hopelessness I see within his blue eyes.

  “I’m getting old,” he says in a tone that sounds so fatigued it matches the heavy age lines creasing his face. “I’m seventy-two and my body is failing.”

  “You get around okay,” I say kindly. Because to an extent… he does. He still drives, and he’s mobile but not overly fast.

  “I can’t handle Granger today,” he says wearily. “He’s a hundred-pound Golden Retriever that likes to jump up on me. He’s not obedient like Daisy. I foresee a broken hip in my future.”

  And I have that aha moment when it becomes completely clear to me the source of his fear. The few dogs I’ve seen him treat have been small or very well behaved. He was confident around them. But I’m betting most of his clientele are rambunctious and more than a handful. He must have been steadily declining to reschedule those recurring patients over time, until his practice just withered away.

  “You only take those pets that you can safely handle yourself,” I say.

  He nods. “And as I cut back on patients, the income dwindled until I couldn’t afford to keep on staff. The practice just kept drying up, and I should close the damn thing down. I’m pretty worthless as a vet right now.”

  “That’s not true.” He blinks in surprise, as if he can’t even imagine what I’m saying could have merit. “What you did yesterday for Bernie? That held tremendous worth to those people. It was priceless, and I know your kindness to them won’t be forgotten. You made a terrible loss just a little more bearable to them.”

  Dr. Peele waves his hand in dismissal. “That was nothing.”

  “You’re wrong,” I assert firmly. “You’re so very wrong.”

  “I’m not,” he says back with staunch conviction as he stands. He has his ornery mask back in place. “Now, call Granger’s owner and cancel the appointment.”

  “I won’t.” We’re back to where I’m probably now just seconds away from being fired from a job I don’t really make money at. “But I’ll help you with Granger. I’ll hold him still, and I won’t let him jump. It will be fine.”

  “It won’t be,” he argues.

  “What do we need to get out to treat his hot spots?” I ask, completely refusing to argue over this.

  Dr. Peele blows out a breath of annoyance before snapping, “I’ll need the clippers to shave around the area and some Neo-Predef out of the cabinet above the exam sink. A few towels and some gauze.”

  “You watch Atticus while I go get everything ready,” I order and point back to the chair. “And take a load off.”

  ♦

  I walk Mrs. Bush to the door, Granger prancing along, happily wearing a clear plastic cone of shame around his head. The hot spot was on his jaw and too easy to reach for a scratch with his back paw, so he has to wear it.

  “Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Bush says as I open the door. “You and Dr. Peele were just wonderful.”

  “It was all him,” I say magnanimously, because really… I was just the muscle.

  She gives me a quick hug that startles me, and then she’s out the door.

  I find Dr. Peele in the back room, taking Atticus out of the kennel he’d put him in while we handled Granger. He howled and barked the entire time we were in the exam room, and it about broke my heart.

  When he sees me walk in, he about leaps out of Dr. Peele’s arms, who is just spry enough to bend over so the puppy drops to the floor. His paws grasp for traction on the slick tile before he manages to bolt straight at me. I scoop him up, gladly accepting his kisses on my face.

  “Not much longer and you won’t be picking him up,” Dr. Peele says, and then points back to the exam room. “Might as well get him weighed and let’s give him his shots.”

  “How big will he get?” I ask as I take him to the large scale on the floor and place him on it. He’s too squirmy to use the small one on the counter.

  “Probably somewhere between seventy-five and ninety-five pounds,” he says, and my eyebrows disappear into my hairline.

  “That big?”

  “Yup,” is all he says, and then peers with squinty eyes at the numbers. “What does that say?”

  Leaning to the side, I look at the screen. “Thirteen pounds.”

  “Excellent,” he says with a smile. “He’s gaining weight nicely.”

  “Do you need glasses?” I ask.

  For the first time since I’ve known this man, his skin flushes beet red. He stammers and stutters, and finally admits he hasn’t had an eye appointment lately. He also admits he hasn’t been able to put stitches in an animal for months because of it, so he’s had to turn away emergency treatment.

  “But you put that IV into Bernie,” I point out.

  “A lot of that wa
s by feel and was a onetime-only stick.”

  “Who is your eye doctor? I’ll call and make an appointment for you,” I offer.

  “You’ll do no such thing.” The indignation in his voice is palpable, and his chin is lifted proudly. “Now put Atticus on the table so we can get his shots done.”

  I let the eye thing go before sincerely offering a service I hope he accepts. “Your floors don’t need mopped every day, and the place is pretty sparkly now. Why don’t you accept some more patients over the next few weeks, and I’ll help you out to work off my debt?”

  Atticus is still sitting on the scale, head tilted and watching both of us carefully. It’s like he knows this is a serious conversation, and he needs to be a good dog for a few minutes.

  Dr. Peele doesn’t say anything, giving his back to me while he hunts around in the cabinet over the sink. Finally, he mutters, “Come over here and find the vaccines. One will say ‘diluent’ on it and the other ‘distemper adenovirus parainfluenza and parvovirus’. He’ll get his rabies vaccine in about four weeks.”

  He moves aside, so I can look at the various bottles. I find them easy enough and close the cabinet. Dr. Peele hands me a plastic-wrapped syringe, and I take it cautiously. “I’ll teach you how to prepare the syringe.”

  “But I’m not giving him the shot,” I say with a tinge of panic in my voice. No way I can stick a needle in my pup.

  “Of course not,” he snaps. “But if you’re going to help me out around here, you’re going to have to learn some things.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say softly, lowering my face so he can’t see my satisfied smirk.

  Dr. Peele is officially back in business as far as I’m concerned.

  CHAPTER 14

  Hazel

  I take a long drag off my cigarette, sucking it down to the filter until my fingertips burn, and then flick the butt off into the darkness. Exhaling a long stream of smoke, I think about lighting another. I’ve got a nice buzz going, and I always smoke way more than I should when I’m drunk.

  It’s Tuesday night.

  My night off.

  And I’m doing what I normally do on most of my nights off. I’m bar hopping, searching for… something. If I were braver, I’d flat out admit I’m looking for a man. I’m lonely for the type of comfort only a man can give.

  I’m not talking about sex, although that can be nice.

  I’m talking about validation of one’s self, and what better way for that to happen for an insecure woman like me than to have a man lavish compliments and praise upon her? It’s a sick need, but it’s the dysfunctional fuel I need to keep going.

  No one ever looked at Hazel Roundtree and said, “She’s going to change the world one day.”

  No, Hazel Roundtree left that all behind when she dropped out of high school and ran off with the first man who ever paid attention to her. When I didn’t get forever from him, I kept looking.

  And looking.

  And looking.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” I hear someone say, and I turn toward the door that leads into Tipsy McBoozers. I’d been leaning up against the brick exterior enjoying my cigarette, contemplating another, but this seems like a good option. The man is tall and lanky, younger than me by I’d guess five years or so with short dark hair and even darker eyes. He’s a marine. The haircut and bearing give it away.

  “Sure,” I say as I pull my pack of cigarettes out. “I’ll be in after I smoke another one.”

  He nods with a charming smile and a hopeful light in his eyes that he’ll get lucky tonight.

  I’ve had four beers, and that’s more than enough to get me on my way to being drunk. I’d only bought the first one, the others coming from potential suitors who want nothing more than to get in my pants.

  I get it.

  Guys like sex.

  I know sex is a good way to keep a man around. That’s just a fact, and I’m so hungry for an existence with true companionship I’ll give it up again if I find someone I like.

  After Chris but before I married Darren, I was on a merry-go-round of revolving men. I wasn’t trying to be a slut, nor did I enjoy the thrill of getting a man’s attention. I truly wanted something like what my parents had. A solid existence. A good job. A nice home. A partnership.

  I wanted the romance, too. Someone who would look at me and say, “Hazel… you rock my entire world and without you, life would just suck.”

  Sometimes guys would say that to me, but I knew they didn’t truly mean it. Not in the way I wanted them to.

  Not in the most important way.

  So what would usually happen is I’d fall for someone and let him get in my pants, knowing it was the best trick in my book. I’d try overly hard to keep him interested in me, to the point I’d give up pieces of my dignity doing so. Then he’d get tired of me, or perhaps I was too overbearing, and I’d get dumped.

  Darren Roundtree ended that vicious cycle I found myself repeating. He never told me I’d rocked his world, nor that without me in it his life would suck. But he did tell me he loved me and wanted to build a life with me, and it was the first time someone had said that to me since Chris—my biggest mistake.

  I loved my husband. Maybe I’m not perfect, and I might be annoying at times, but I was a good wife. I kept our house clean, cooked yummy meals, and worked to help pay the bills. I let him have sex with me any time he wanted, and I did all the things he asked me to do.

  Everything a good and devoted wife should do, I did. I watched my mom keep my dad happy that way, so I knew the formula worked.

  I don’t understand why he cheated on me with another woman, since I gave him what he asked for, whenever he asked for it.

  The only thing I can conclude is I wasn’t as good a wife as I thought myself to be. Maybe the sex was terrible, or maybe my cooking sucked. Maybe I whined too much, or I wasn’t pretty enough. I begged him to tell me why, but he wouldn’t. I demanded he stop the affair, but he wouldn’t do that either.

  When he told me that he loved her, and he wanted me to leave so she could move in, I knew that all the hard work I’d invested into the relationship had been nothing but wasted time on my part.

  I came to the singular but very clear conclusion that love was a sham. It didn’t exist, and because the myth had proved to be just that… a myth, that I was never going to be anything more than just Hazel Roundtree. A high school-dropout bartender.

  Which makes me wonder why I’m at a bar, getting drunk, and looking for something I know doesn’t exist. I’m not going to find the love of my life in there. That cute marine isn’t going to buy me a few beers, take me back to his place for sex, and then miraculously fall in love with me. Nothing will happen other than I’ll wake up tomorrow, disgusted with myself for believing in something that has no merit.

  I tap out a cigarette from the soft pack and light it. The smoke burns my lungs because I’d cut down a lot. Dr. Peele told me the day I took Atticus home that Bernese Mountain Dogs had weak lungs, and were highly susceptible to infections that could lead to pneumonia and then death. He told me cigarette smoke could be detrimental to Atticus.

  I have no clue if he was shitting me or not, but I haven’t smoked a cigarette around my dog since then. That fear of killing him after I’d saved him from certain death left me barely any opportunity to smoke at all since Atticus was with me most of the time. I’d only be able to sneak one in if Charmin would watch Atticus for a few moments while I stepped outside.

  Tonight, Atticus is at the apartment with Charmin and Chuck while I’m on the prowl.

  It’s a decision I’m still fretting about.

  When I’d gotten home from the vet clinic—where I’m proud to say I helped Dr. Peele treat three patients—I had every intention of a low-key evening chilling with my dog on the couch. Atticus was feisty since he had to stay in the kennel when Dr. Peele had patients, and he got what I call the zoomies—where he’d just run around the couch in a tight circle cutting corners so sharply his body was at
a forty-five-degree angle to the floor. It was adorable watching as his floppy ears bounced around and his tongue lolled from his mouth. Eyes all wide and bugging out, the bluer one appearing bigger than the brown one, although it really wasn’t. I called it his “crazy Samuel L. Jackson” look.

  By the time Charmin and Chuck came back to the apartment after dinner, Atticus had calmed down and was snoozing on my lap.

  I was feeling restless and Charmin urged me to go out, taking full responsibility for my pup. I trusted Charmin, but not Chuck. Ultimately, I decided to go for it.

  It’s been a week today since I convinced Dr. Peele to take on additional patients with the promise I’d help him. This coming up Thursday will be two weeks since I brought Atticus home with me. My life has changed a great deal, and I’m essentially working two jobs. I have no clue what will come of the second job once my debt is paid off, but for right now, I have purpose.

  Which again leads me to wonder why I left Atticus in Charmin and Chuck’s care—while I’m getting drunk with strangers. Clearly something in me is still broken and stupidly wishing for a happily ever after, and I have no freaking idea where to find it.

  I take a drag on my cigarette, eyeing the door of the bar. Is it in there?

  Or am I just walking right into another bad pattern, destined to repeat my mistakes?

  “Hazel…” Bernard calls my name.

  Swinging my head toward the highway that borders the parking lot, I watch as he cuts through it, heading my way. I raise a hand in greeting. “Coming inside?”

  I’m disappointed when he shakes his head. That disappointment tells me the young marine waiting inside really isn’t what I want tonight. I want something genuine.

  “Just heading home,” he says, his words slightly slurred. He has a can of beer in his hand, but it’s too dark to tell the brand. I just know it’s cheap.

  I glance back one more time to the door, knowing more beer and meaningless sex waits on the other side. When I focus back on Bernard, I say, “I’ll walk with you. My apartment’s just over that way.”