That hardly mattered, though, in the scheme of things — right?
It wasn’t easy work by any description. It wasn’t meant to be; and by the time they were done, Taggart had worked up a sweat which had darkened his shirt and shone on his forehead and arms. It was a clean sweat, so probably the first of the day, and filled the area immediately around Taggart with the smell of soap and musk.
Martin tried to ignore it.
“So, this is for you,” he said afterward, when Taggart sat on the edge of the table to rest, and handed his patient the papers detailing his exercises and how often he should do them at home. “I can go over them with you, the schedule isn’t all that complicated, but —”
“I can manage it,” Taggart said. “I can read, you know.”
“Right,” Martin sighed. “Just be sure not to skip them. To keep making progress here I need you to make progress at home as well.”
“God,” Taggart chuckled. “Between you and Kate, I’ll be lucky if I have time to fucking take a piss.”
Martin’s eyebrow knit. “I — what?”
Taggart waved it off and folded the papers up so they would fit in the pocket of his shorts. “Doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.”
“Alright,” Martin said. “Just stick to the schedule and —”
“You ever heard of these . . . emotional support animals?” Taggart asked. “Dogs and stuff that are supposed to make you feel better? Sounds like bullshit to me.”
Again, Martin ruffled his brow, taken aback by what seemed like a random question. Still, he tried to come up with the last few things he’d heard. It wasn’t really his field. “I hear there’s a lot of good research for it? A few of the patients I see here have them and bring them in. The VA has a policy for them, or at least this hospital does. I think there’s a shelter in town that provides them. I’m sorry, why do you ask? Are you thinking about getting a pet?”
“An emotional support animal,” Taggart corrected pointedly. He frowned though, and shrugged. “Hell, that sounds just as bad. My doc — my shrink, that is — she thinks I should get one. Or, at least go to this place. The shelter. Like I’m in any condition to watch a dog, you know? Hell, I get twitchy when a bird taps on my fucking window and I’m a goddamn cripple — how am I gonna walk a dog and shit? Thing’ll end up in a corner, just as messed up as I am.”
The sudden outpouring gave Martin pause, and he almost told Taggart that he didn’t have an opinion so that he could exit this conversation as quickly as possible. Something, though, kept him standing there. Pity, probably. Or maybe just sympathy? What kind of pain did Taggart have to be in to think he couldn’t even be properly befriended by a dog?
It gave Martin a disturbing thought. One which made him feel even worse for having hoped that Taggart had ditched their appointment. How long had Taggart been in that kind of state? Was it just what combat had done to him, or had it been going on before that?
Even if that was the case, it didn’t excuse anything. It just made Martin wish he could shut off the sympathy and go back thinking Martin was just a jerk. Thanks for that, Arnold.
“If your therapist thinks it’s a good idea,” Martin said finally, “then maybe you should. I know the shelter she’s talking about. They’re really good, they even do some training. You might not have to housebreak a dog or anything.”
Taggart snorted. “I raised dogs before. It’s not like I can’t house train a mutt.” He rolled his shoulder, and frowned as he rubbed the muscle there. “I don’t know. If I don’t at least go by she’ll keep bothering me with it. Course how’s she gonna know if I do or don’t, right?”
“I could take you,” Martin said, before he quite figured out what he was saying.
Taggart’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that, now? Why?”
Excellent question, Martin. Why? Martin shrugged uncomfortably. “I mean, it’s not that big a deal. I know a couple of people who work there, is all.”
“Yeah?” Taggart asked. “And if my doc wanted proof I went, you’d tell her?”
“Sure,” Martin said. In for a penny, in for a mountain of ethical issues, right? There wasn’t technically anything improper about taking Taggart to a shelter or anything, he supposed. It was the odd compulsion to do it that had him worried. You had to draw lines with patients, and Taggart was potentially difficult to do that with, given their history.
Taggart nodded slowly, frowning as he seemed to make some decision. He started to smile a little. “Yeah. Okay. I don’t even have to pick up a mutt, you know. Just go there, and then when she asks I can say I went and you’ll back me up. Hey! It’s kinda like old times, right?”
Martin shook his head. “Not really, Tag.”
Taggart’s smile faded. “I didn’t mean like — just exactly like, or anything. Just, you know . . .”
“I’ve got your number from your file,” Martin said. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow after work. Don’t forget to do your exercises. If you skip them, I’ll deny everything to your therapist.”
“Now that’s a lack of faith,” Taggart said as he slipped off the edge of the table and carefully took his balance with the cane. “You know I didn’t get these guns by laying around. I know how to work, Marty.”
Martin shot him a look as he gathered Taggart’s file.
“I meant Martin,” Taggart said innocently. “It’s a habit. Sorry.”
Martin led him out of the PT room and to the nurse’s station, where they scheduled Taggart’s next appointment for the end of that week.
After that was done, Taggart thrust his hand out at Martin, and after only a half-second of wariness, Martin took it and shook. Taggart’s hand was thick, and rough, and he nearly crushed Martin’s. “Means a lot to me,” Taggart said. “Just so you know. I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”
Now it was officially a strange day. Martin just muttered something in a bit of a daze, and watched Taggart leave.
Right. So either he’s on some kind of manic swing, Martin decided, or he’s been replaced by the bodysnatchers. That, or I’m actually way better at this job than I thought.
Of course, the other option was just as likely. That Taggart was just using him, like he’d done dozens of times before in high school.
But they had to start somewhere, Martin decided. And this wasn’t high school. It was the real world, where there were real consequences if Taggart turned out to be the waste of a human being that Martin worried he might show himself to be. He supposed that time would tell. He’d just have to keep his guard up.
12
Why was Taggart nervous?
For one thing, he felt compelled to clean his house. It was a chore, and a task, and a pain in the ass. Bending at the waist to pick anything up off the ground was an act of, frankly, athletic maneuvering. He’d gotten pretty good at doing one legged squats, and used the tactic to pick up almost everything below waist level.
Vacuuming the place was a little easier, at least. Angie had given him a heavy duty old vacuum from the seventies which still worked fine. It was built like a very small tank and weighed about fifty pounds — but it was sturdy enough to support his weight and heavy enough that he could lean on it a little without it going out of control and slipping out from under him.
The dishes were the easy part. Since Angie had come over and forcefully washed the last collection, he simply hadn’t had time to accumulate very many. He found himself checking corners after the house seemed more or less clean enough for anything that might hint at his usual disregard.
It wasn’t until after the place was up to spec and almost everything worth chewing was out of reach or out of sight that he reminded himself of two important facts. He didn’t actually intend to bring home a dog, and he didn’t give a shit what Martin thought about his housekeeping proclivities, or lack thereof.
Cleaning house also hadn’t soothed his nervousness.
He blamed Angie.
Taggart managed to accomplish all of this by about twelve hundred
hours, which left another seven hours before he expected to hear anything from Martin. Exhausted, he eased himself into his chair in the living room and massaged his left thigh. It ached from the activity. But he had to admit, the new leg was better balanced than the last. It was still a lot of work to walk around on, even with a cane — or a vacuum cleaner — but it was heavier than the last one and almost, at times, moved the way he expected a leg to move, even if he couldn’t feel it when it did.
Between a short, unexpected nap in his chair that left his neck feeling stiff, another sweep of the house, a short but intense anxiety attack triggered by a horn honking on the road outside, and a few hours of television that he didn’t pay any attention to, those seven hours passed by about as quickly as any other day. By the time Martin called, Taggart half expected that he wouldn’t. That all that talk the day before had been a means of getting Tag to quit yakking and get out of the PT room and Martin’s hair.
But the phone did ring. Taggart didn’t recognize the number but it wasn’t Angie’s and it wasn’t the recruiters or the VA — those numbers he had saved. He answered with some curiosity anyway.
“Hey, Tag,” Martin said on the other end. “I got off a little later than I expected, sorry. Are you still up for going to the shelter? If not, I — ”
“Sure,” Taggart said quickly. “If you still want to go, that is. It’s no big deal if not. I, ah . . . got plenty of work to do here. So . . .”
“Okay. So, do you want to go another day, or?” Martin asked.
He knew it. Martin didn’t really want to go. So, Taggart gave him the out. “Hey, if you’re busy or something, man — no sweat off my back, you know? If you got other plans, you go do what you need to.”
Martin didn’t answer right away, and Taggart could practically see the look of relief on his face. Hell, Taggart wouldn’t want to take himself across the street, much less to see a bunch of wailing dogs in shit-filled kennels.
But when Martin did answer, it was with more force than Taggart expected, and it wasn’t to cancel on him. “Tag, do you want me to come with you or not? I got my friend Nadia to stay late and let us in, but if we’re not going I need to call her and tell her not to wait up. If you’re worried about going out in public —”
“I’m not worried about shit,” Taggart snapped.
“Then am I meeting you there,” Martin said, maybe through clenched teeth, “or should I come pick you up?”
“I don’t need you to drive me around,” Taggart grunted. “Come over here and I’ll drive us. It’s my right leg that works for driving.”
Again, Martin hesitated. That was fair. Angie was always trying to drive Taggart here or there, and she flat out refused to get in the car with him driving, as if she didn’t understand how driving worked. Of course, she said that Taggart had always been a bad driver.
“Okay,” Martin sighed. “Sure. Let me know where you live.”
Taggart told him, and Martin promised to be there in about fifteen minutes, which seemed a little long — Taggart made it to the VA hospital in about ten minutes.
Then again, he had to admit he did have a lead foot.
The knock came, just as Martin said, about fifteen minutes later. He was still in his scrub pants but had taken the top off to reveal a plain white tee shirt that he wore a snugly fitted hoodie over. He was still a skinny little dude, but not quite as shapeless as he’d been in high school. There was definition there that Taggart could appreciate.
“You ready?” Martin asked when they’d mumbled hello’s.
“Sure,” Taggart said. He froze, though. It wasn’t like Martin hadn’t seen him with his cane but mostly Taggart just went back and forth to the VA hospital.
“Need help to the car?” Martin asked.
Taggart cleared his throat and grabbed his cane. “I’m not a fucking invalid.”
Martin’s face held steady, but his cheeks gained some extra color. “Okay. Lead the way.”
Taggart ignored an odd twinge in his gut, and waved toward his old Camaro. “It’s the gas guzzling bucket of bolts over there.”
When Martin looked around and spotted the car, he gaped. “Is that . . .”
“My sister kept it when I deployed,” Taggart said, grinning as he locked the door and made his way down the short stoop in front. “I’m surprised you remember it.”
Martin gave Taggart a long look, and then shook his head in disbelief. “Yeah, well . . .”
It took Taggart just a second to remember what had happened — when was it? — junior year or so. He chuckled. “Oh, man. You’re not still all pissed off about me dropping you off out on Chester, are you? That was years ago, man.” He laughed, and clapped Martin on the shoulder.
Martin, though, didn’t look amused.
Taggart rubbed his neck, and waved at the car. “Well, anyway, she drives like she’s new.”
“I’m sure,” Martin sighed.
Taggart got in, and leaned over to pop the bolt on the passenger door. Once Martin was in, Taggart started to put his cane in the space left between two of them on the bench seat, but when it wouldn’t quite go he twisted to put it in the back seat.
“I got it,” Martin muttered and took Taggart’s cane. He put it against the door. “The shelter is off Fifty Four and State Road. You know it?”
Taggart was pretty sure he did, but twenty minutes later Martin started giving him gently suggested directions that Taggart took without comment.
“I’ll message Nadia,” Martin murmured as they drove along State Road toward the place. “She’s probably wondering where we are.”
“She didn’t have to stay late,” Taggart said. “We could have gone some other day, you know.”
“It’s fine,” Martin said. “I thought you might prefer it if . . .”
Taggart glanced at him. “What?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Martin said. He tapped on his phone with both thumbs, and put it away.
“You thought what?” Taggart asked. “I’m not a sensitive little princess. You know that, right? I’m a fucking marine, man. You think you’re gonna make me upset or hurt my precious feelings?”
“I noticed that you get in and out of the VA,” Martin said, “and that you — keep your cane close to your body, like you’re hiding it. I figure you don’t particularly like being seen in public. It’s not uncommon with amputees to have body image —”
“Let me stop you right there,” Taggart chuckled around the quiver in his gut. “I don’t give two and a half shits what some civvies think about me and my cane or my fucking cyborg leg, alright? All anyone needs to know is that I lost it fighting for their fucking freedom. You hear me? I. Don’t. Give. A. Shit.”
“I hear you,” Martin said quietly. He seemed smaller when Taggart looked at him.
Shit. Taggart realized then just how loud he’d gotten. Jesus. Martin looked like he was about to piss himself.
Whatever. Martin was a grown man. He’d get over it.
Neither of them spoke until they parked.
“So, Nadia can show you around, introduce you to some of the dogs,” Martin said. “I can wait outside if you want. It’s your deal, you know. Nadia’s good with this kind of thing, so.”
Taggart frowned, and peered at the door. It seemed kind of pointless to bring Martin all this way and have him wait outside. Not that Taggart cared, of course — but Martin had come all this way and this Nadia chick was his friend, after all. “Nah. You come inside. Make introductions and all that.”
“Sure,” Martin said.
They went in and met Martin’s friend at the door. She wasn’t what Taggart expected — not that he had a clear expectation or anything. She was about his height, with curly red hair and plenty of meat on her bones.
“Hi, Martin,” she said, cheerfully, and gave the little guy a hug. He practically disappeared in her big arms.
“Nadia, this is Tag.” Martin waved at Taggart.
“Nice to meet you,” Nadia said, almost cautiously. N
o — something else. Did she seem a little hostile? “Martin’s told me all about you.”
Ah.
“Yeah, we — we got some history,” Taggart said.
Nadia didn’t offer to shake his hand. “There are only a few recent grads from our training program,” she said, more to Martin than to Taggart, “but they’re all in the front kennels. We won’t have to walk all over the place.”
Taggart kept his mouth shut.
“Great,” Martin said. “Lead the way, I guess.”
Nadia led them through a door into a long hall, where the distant sound of barking and whining dogs became an instant and constant ambience. Another door, and it became an encroaching din of irritating noise. There was something comforting about it, though. Taggart couldn’t put his finger on what it was, exactly; just something about the sound of dogs. Maybe Kate had been right about all that childhood bullshit.
“This is Adele,” Nadia said when they stopped at the first kennel. Inside it was a knee high little mutt, some kind of pinscher mix by her shape. “She’s about three, we think. Part of what we do with our ESA program is work with them before they’re adopted, so all the ESA-ready dogs are socialized and housebroken, and she’s super friendly.”
Nadia seemed to wait for some response from Taggart.
“Oh,” Taggart said. “She looks real . . . good. What else you got?”
Martin rubbed his forehead, and Nadia narrowed her eyes a little, but turned slowly and led him and Taggart down the row.
Of course, Taggart didn’t pick out a dog. But he let Nadia do her thing, and talk them all up. They were cute, or whatever, but he was just here to meet his deal with Doctor Kate.
“Welp,” he sighed when Nadia finished the tour. “I don’t really, you know, feel the connection or anything. Maybe I’ll come back another time.”
“Tag,” Martin said quietly, a hint of urging in his voice. He looked at Nadia. “Do you mind just giving us, like, five minutes?”
Grudge (Virtue & Vice Book 5) Page 6