Father D had coached both boys in church basketball league, a much-needed voice of authority. He had been a great succor for their mother when their father had died and once more stood ably by her, smiling warmly with a kind word for the grief-stricken, warding off local politicians, warily permitting Congresswoman Gordon an extended embrace when she gestured her handlers to shoo away the preying press in her entourage.
McConnell avoided the priest. Father D’s heart was in the right place; his words were likely sound. But while the commiseration of strangers washed off him like water off a duck’s back it was the sincerity of those who had known him and his brother as children he found strangely unendurable.
At the wake at his grandpa’s he drank amid a platoon of relatives known and new, the latter whose names he would never remember. His mom and Phil made an appearance but left early and he wasn’t long behind as his cousin Bobby started a fight with his ex-wife’s new husband (no one had any idea why they were there) and he knew it was time to go. He was drunk and bellicose himself. Instead of destroying something or someone, he drove reckless along the river, stumbled into his mom’s guestroom and finished the bottle he had brought along for the drive.
The next day was rough. He drank a quart of water and made it rougher by driving back out to the ranch.
“You should go out and help your grandpa,” his mom had said as he downed a quart of water at the sink.
“Blaine’s out there.”
Her look said she was less than impressed with his state. “Blaine goes out there because forty years on the railroad and ten-thousand acres is a lot to leave in a will.”
“I don’t want nothing from Grandpa’s will.”
“Which is why you should go back out there.”
His grandpa was fixing the chicken coop again. John gave him a hand and then they bandied the merits of shooting coyotes and the degrees of ugly pug bitches over bacon, biscuits and last year’s blueberry jam.
When Blaine arrived John grunted and got off his fat ass and helped him with chores. It was not a labor of love. When he’d had enough he knocked off without a word, sat with the old man on the porch and enjoyed a proffered Budweiser. His cousin seethed quietly. He found that almost as satisfying as the cold beer.
And that’s how it went for the next few days. No job to get back to, he did things.
He hammered up loose boards, fixed a roof, split wood, stacked wood, tended the horses, mucked out shit, bucked hay and dug postholes. One morning he got his dad’s old green Dodge pickup, which had slept off the last decade under a tarp in the back of the barn, running again. Some needy soul had generously put it up on blocks after making off with its wheels but a trip into town for cheap tires and some tinkering with the carburetor and he and his grandpa were bouncing around the hills, beers in hand, rifle at the ready for late-to-bed coyotes.
There was consolation in the slivers, blisters, aches and sunburn earned in doing things. He was buffeted between industry and an increasingly pronounced awareness of loss, waking every morning both stiff and sore but with his spirit refreshed. There was no idleness, no blank-faced meetings, no VLANs, no empty house, no angry daughter or irritated ex-wife or bastard cats. Just the crick and woods and breeze and all the work one could ask for, and in that deliberateness the living tried to make peace with the dead, who were fine with being gone. It was letting them go that was taking so long.
A week later, the weather unseasonably warm, a SunWest deliveryman wheeled the last box into his mom’s living room. He took off his hat and wiped his brow. His hat had a patch: “SunWest Transport” written in yellow beneath majestic mountains. The same mountains were on the truck above the words “Don’t go wrong, go with the Best!”
“The dog is yours, too, I take it,” the Best said, reading from his clipboard.
“I don’t think Sean had a dog,” McConnell said.
“Says so here.” The Best thumped his clipboard like it was gospel.
“Mom, did Sean have a dog?” he yelled over his shoulder.
Only silence from where she was busying in the kitchen.
The Best spoke Spanish to two more of the Best who dollied a beige, hard-plastic dog crate to the front yard. Inside growled a very displeased German shepherd whose coat was covered with the stink of its own piss and shit.
McConnell wrinkled his nose. “Jesus, don’t you let them out?”
The dog snapped at the wire window near the delivery guy’s hand, which was quickly jerked back. “Would you?” The Best checked off his clipboard. “That’ll do her.”
After the Best pulled away McConnell squatted by the crate. The dog was good sized; he didn’t have a lot of room to maneuver in there. It eyed him, gave a low, miserable growl.
“I didn’t know he had a dog.”
“He has for years,” his mom confirmed from the doorway, drying her hands. “That retired marine’s family he lived with in Lejeune, their daughter took care of him when Sean was away. Good people.”
“Huh.”
“You should get him out of there and clean him up.”
“Huh.”
She glared at him. He looked to her second husband who was peeping over her shoulder.
“Hear that Phil? My mom wants you to get him out of there and clean him up.”
“Stop wasting time, Johnny.” She never did like him or Sean razzing Phil.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Don’t sass me, either.”
“You think he’s safe to let out?” Phil asked safely behind his mom.
“No,” McConnell grunted as he unlatched the crate door.
The dog bolted for freedom. McConnell tackled him, just barely. They wrestled for dominance, churning up the turf, he was wary of its jaws but it didn’t try and bite him. Much. “Jesus he’s strong!” It finally accepted the human had the upper hand for now and stopped resisting, but not before their thrashing covered McConnell in shit, leaving neither happy about the situation.
There was a collar with a golden arrowhead tag. McConnell wiped it clean.
“Geronimo, huh?”
The dog cocked his head.
“You going to bite me, Geronimo?” He reached out his hand. Geronimo sniffed at it then sneered.
“Look, we’re both covered in it.”
Phil found an old leash and joyfully manned the hose while McConnell lathered himself and the dog with soap. As he hosed out the crate his mom handed him a glass of lemonade which he drank down thirstily.
“Well done, son,” she said. “What a day. You got yourself a dog.”
“What? No. I can’t. I just got two bastard cats.”
She gave him a stern look.
“Well they are.”
“We can’t take a dog like that. He’d eat up all the kids in the neighborhood.”
“Phil can handle him.”
“With his hip?”
“Goddamn it.”
“I hear that again and you’re getting this for twenty minutes,” she said, grabbing up the bar of soap.
“What about the pound?”
“Johnathon Liam McConnell, if you think your brother’s dog is going to the pound—”
“He doesn’t even like me.”
“He’s been caged up is all. You wouldn’t like you much neither.”
“Mom—”
“He’s your brother’s dog, Johnny. It’s what Sean would’ve wanted, it’s what I want, and that’s the end of it.”
He wondered if there wasn’t some dark conspiracy afoot between his mother and Mrs. Flynn.
“You planned this,” he accused. “Why didn’t you say something before?”
“You would’ve badgered me with excuses on why you couldn’t take him. And I haven’t the strength to fight with you.”
“I wouldn’t have—” he began but stopped himself.
She patted his arm with a long sigh. “You are your father’s son. Who knows? Maybe the dog will give you some joy in your life.”
“I don�
�t want any joy.”
“Like I said. Now go down to Ferguson’s and get some dog food before they close.”
Another tenant under his roof. If people kept dying he’d have to open up a damn petting zoo.
Geronimo was certainly his brother’s dog. Clever, devious even, he feigned obedience to the leash most convincingly, knowing when to jerk and bolt. Surprisingly, the dog came back when called. Eventually. He was disciplined and after having the humiliation washed off he was even friendly. McConnell fed him hotdogs by hand then went down to Ferguson’s, bought a bag of dog food, dishes and a couple boxes of treats. Wizened Mr. Ferguson deftly added toys, dog shampoo and a brush to the pile, grinning at the pot of gold he had found at the end of his day.
Back at his mom’s the dog sniffed with disdain at the dry dog chow, looking expectantly at the fridge.
“Don’t get used to it,” McConnell said tossing a couple more hotdogs into his shiny new bowl.
That evening he and his mother unpacked Sean’s boxed up life. He thought about Mrs. Flynn doing the same with her remaining daughter. That didn’t make it any less somber.
Sean’s life was rather simple if judged by what he owned in the world. There was a laptop and an Xbox with a dozen games, a digital camera, a watch, some books and magazines about hunting and warfare, Tom Clancy novels, several Playboys and Penthouses, and inexplicably, a dog-eared copy of The Notebook, as well as clothes, civilian and military, his medals and awards and a hodgepodge of memorabilia.
“All for the articles, Mom,” he assured her about the skin mags. She shook her head, managing a small boys-will-be-boys smile.
Last was a 5x8 framed picture of a pretty, young blue-eyed girl looking happy in Sean’s arms by a beach campfire and a McConnell family picture, the same he had hanging on his wall. The four of them had made a good family. The three of them had gotten by as one. He wasn’t sure what they would do now that they were down to two.
“Who’s the girl?” he asked.
His mom frowned. “She looks young. Pretty though.”
He looked through the pics on the digital camera. The life of a marine both abroad at war and at peace stateside, the latter drinking or fishing or barbequing with friends. He looked happy in some, fierce in a few, resolute and courageous in the rest.
“You sure were handsome young men.” His mom was still stuck on the family photo.
“Were?”
“You still might be underneath all that.” She gestured at his face. “Your dad always said beards were for the lazy.”
She asked him if there was anything he wanted, excluding the skin mags—those were finding their way straight into the trash. He took the watch, an olive green Casio Pathfinder with electronic compass, barometer and altimeter. It might come in handy. It was something Sean had probably used often.
Geronimo grew on him. He left off the chores at his grandpa’s, ignoring (and enjoying) Blaine’s glower, and he and the dog took to roaming the ranchland. The dog chased the rabbits who were too quick by far, scared up fowl along the banks and they both took dips in the icy-cold creek as the afternoon sun hinted of a scorcher of a summer. One evening, magenta and gray tendrils stretching across the sky, the shepherd cornered the shifty coyote against the paddock fence.
“You wanna shoot him, Grandpa?”
The old man snorted and let the varmint go. “What the hell for?”
They returned to the porch and his grandpa tossed him a beer. They listened to the crickets compete with the frogs a while.
“I’m heading back to Spokane tomorrow.”
“Got a daughter up there I hear.”
He didn’t disagree.
“Might be you pick up a razor on your way out of town since they’re in such short supply. You line up work yet?”
McConnell men always worked. Food on table. Also idle hands and the devil’s playground. He scratched at his beard. Damn itchy in the heat. “Working on it.”
“Well, just don’t be a shirker. Lord knows we have enough of those.”
“Be taking your dog home, then?” his mom said the next morning.
He begrudged her a nod.
She patted his cheek, put a plate in front of him, sat across the table, folding her hands around a cup of coffee to watch him eat.
“You know, I prepared for this,” she said. “Every time he went I prayed and prepared. And every time he came home I prayed and thanked God. If I told Sean I was worried he laughed it off. You know how he was.” He did. “But there’s nothing that can prepare you for your own child’s death. There shouldn’t be.”
He chewed on a piece of bacon. He was shit for a father but he couldn’t imagine losing Katie.
“I want to know what happened to him,” she continued. “I need to know, Johnny. ‘He died a brave and true patriot.’ What does that even mean?” She eyed him speculatively. “Think you could, you know, dig around in their computers a little?”
“That’s a lot more complicated than movies make it look, Mom,” he said around a mouthful. “Even if I could, if I was caught I’d go to jail. Probably for a very long time.”
“Well, we don’t want that.” She got up and poured him a glass of orange juice.
“I’ll see what I can do though,” he said, not wanting to disappoint her.
She seized the opportunity. “Next time down you can bring me my granddaughter.”
Probably more difficult than hacking the Pentagon.
“She is the only granddaughter I have,” she reminded him in an awfully obvious hint. “Speaking of which— “
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“We don’t always get what we want, do we?”
There was no getting out of this conversation now.
“I’ve been busy. I go to work, pay the mortgage, pay child support. Not a lot of free time on my hands.”
“Huh. So let me get this straight. There are no girls interested in a good-looking man who works, pays his mortgage and his child support. Well isn’t that a shame.”
“I told you I quit my job.”
“So you do have free time on your hands.” She smiled. It warmed the kitchen. Then she sobered. “Did you want to talk about Angela?”
He stared at his plate. Not talking about Angela was a favorite pastime of his. Ask her sister.
“You always seem to have it all under control, and I guess a mom wants to believe when her kids grow up that they really do.” His plate was growing more interesting by the second. She sighed. “Alright. I’m here if you want to talk.” She came around the table and squeezed him. “Last thing?”
He couldn’t help but sigh. “Yes, Mother?”
“Lose the god-awful beard.”
CHAPTER 10
MAY
Spokane, Washington
An unexpected, early heat wave had blanketed the city but cool air blasted through the house. Marissa was savoring every moment—the apartment she shared with Karla was as hot as a Holly Hobbie oven. And about as small.
“Au revoir, mes amis à fourrure feline.” She scratched Tubbs beneath the chin, wondered for the umpteenth time if the departed didn’t leave some part of themselves in the pets they left behind. Peering into cat eyes that were just this side of sedated she stopped scratching and he gave her an expectant glance then dismissively turned away.
Was there something of her sister in that glance?
Get a grip, she chided herself, straightening out the pillows on the sofa. She had cat hair all over her skirt again.
John had texted her that he was returning today and Marissa intended not to be there when he did. She wanted to be. Wanted to corner him, demand he answer her nagging questions, placate ruminations that drove her to distraction during the day and fed her mind as she stared sleepless at the cracked ceiling of her closet-sized bedroom at night. But interrogating the man over her sister’s demise right after his own brother’s death was despicable. Although, it might be argued, long overdue.
She missed
her sister terribly. Just knowing she was there, that Marissa could pick up the phone and hear her voice, however disappointed or angry they were with each other—that feeling was gone. Vanished. Like it had been amputated. No, drastically severed. Without anesthesia.
When Anj had first left for college they had talked just about every other day. Marissa had idolized her older sister. It was just the past couple years that their need to share their lives with one another had mellowed and the last few months it had altogether abated. She had grown weary of defending their childhood. She got it. They had been subjected to a rigorous regimen of self-reliance and unrelenting ruthless encouragement by their mother. There were excessive expectations. Was that so horrible?
Their last Thanksgiving together Anj had called their mother “an overbearing, tyrannical man-hater” but the truth was she had never appreciated the sacrifices the woman had made. Marissa had been in the middle, tugged and pulled as the dialogue grew heated, caught fire and finally burned up, leaving nothing but the taste of bitter ash. She had been forced to take a side. No, that wasn’t true. She had willingly chosen to take her mother’s.
And why? What did she know? She’d been four years old when their dad hadn’t come home from work one evening. She didn’t even remember what he looked like.
She wasn’t four now. Maybe she should have put down the books, closed her laptop and listened to her sister more. Listened better. Gone on that cruise on the Mediterranean. Anj had offered to pay for the whole thing last year. And what had been her reason not to go? She couldn’t remember. Something asinine. She had worked at the mall and attended a half-baked summer course. How lame was that? Ditching your sister and the Med for minimum wage and lazy lectures on tort reform.
Why didn’t you call me?
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