Water Dogs

by Lewis Robinson

  Since then, he’d spent time pretending he belonged in Maine. He’d been born there; that helped. After a while, the pretending had melted away. He knew they were real, his financial struggles, his misplaced plans. Being in the hospital—especially when it was nearly time for more Dilaudid, when his room looked dull and shabby—made him think about these realities.

  While Bennie was in New York, Littlefield joined the Elks, bought a truck, spent his paychecks on beer and weed. He’d stopped calling their mother, though she would call him from time to time. The day Bennie got back from New York, the harbor looked pristine, the spruce forest and the ground beneath smelled like heaven—it had been raining—and the sky over the ocean went on forever. Littlefield, though, felt like a stranger. He knew his brother was glad to have him back, but Bennie could also sense his brother’s wariness. What had happened during their time apart—the things each of them had learned, the failures they’d had—seemed unsettling to Littlefield. Bennie didn’t know how to talk about this.

  The ceiling in his room at the hospital was white. It seemed wet, like the underbelly of a flounder.

  Before he switched the light off for the night, Lynne Pettigrew, a cop from the Musquacook Police Department, knocked on the door and entered his room.

  “Bennie?”

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Lynne Pettigrew was an old family friend of the Littlefields’; her mother had gone to high school with Coach. Bennie had never gotten to know her well, but their families had spent Easter together once when they were younger. She was of medium height but her shoulders were wide. Her brown hair was cut in a neat bob and she wore wire-rimmed glasses. Bennie knew she’d been a hockey standout at UNH. She coached the Brunswick girls’ team when she wasn’t policing.

  “Sure.” He tried to sit up in bed, to look more presentable, but his ankles were still in the pressurized sleeves. It was difficult to move.

  “You feeling okay?” she asked.

  “Pretty good,” he said.

  “You probably know by now that Mr. Ray LaBrecque has gone missing. Officers from various towns are helping out with the search.”

  “My brother told me.”

  “We’re looking in the quarry and all of the woods nearby. We even got the Brunswick guys to bring their dogs down, but nothing came of it. According to your brother and Julian Fischer, it was a pretty wide territory that was covered that evening. Hard to say where he went, exactly, with the storm and all that snow. There’s also a chance Mr. LaBrecque left town on his own accord. We don’t know yet. He’s a friend of yours?”

  “No. I knew he was working with Boak and Shaw—Scotty Boak and Craig Shaw—out on Riverneck Island, right?”

  “Would you know why he might skip work and leave town after that evening in the woods?” She stood near the bed, holding her black watch cap in both hands.

  “No idea, Lynne.”

  “And you hadn’t met him before?”

  “Not until that afternoon.”

  “Okay. Give us a call if you remember anything about Mr. LaBrecque, anything that you might think is helpful. You know where to reach me, Bennie, at the Musquacook station.” She placed a card on his bedside table. “Talk to me or Sergeant Thibideaux.”

  “Thanks, Lynne.”

  After she left, he called Littlefield, but there was no answer and he didn’t leave a message. He was stunned that LaBrecque hadn’t been found, especially now that other towns were involved with the search. Dogs, too. It seemed most likely that LaBrecque had left town without telling anyone, which would have been an odd choice in the midst of the storm.

  The day before he was discharged was another sleepy one in the hospital. Helen came in the late afternoon, with a small vase of purple lilies. Bennie told her about Lynne Pettigrew’s visit, and Helen said she’d heard about LaBrecque’s disappearance, but not from her boss, Julian—one of the waitresses had told her. Bennie scooted over on the bed, both of them barely fitting side by side, her shoulder warm against his. They watched Animal Planet for a half hour, a show about cat rescues. When he switched the TV off, Helen said, “It’s just … I mean, running around with guns? Doesn’t that seem crazy to you? In a storm?”

  “Can we not talk about this right now?”

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “You know, they’re fake guns. They shoot paint.”

  Helen paused before saying, “But you were scared enough to run off the edge of the quarry. And that other guy had probably been scared, too.”

  “I wasn’t scared,” he said. “I was just trying to avoid getting shot.”

  “Doesn’t it sound crazy to you? When you say something like that?” she asked. She and Bennie were still looking at the TV. “It’s a game.”

  “Pretending to hunt people?”

  “Exactly.”

  She squinted.

  “It’s not like we’re hunting each other. It’s like—we’re soldiers.” As soon as he said this, he knew it was the wrong approach.

  “Will you promise not to play that game anymore?” she asked, holding the squint.

  He nodded, though he didn’t want to promise out loud. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t play again—no, he was absolutely sure—but to promise felt dumb. She kissed him softly on the lips, put on her wool hat, and went home.

  The next day, Bennie told the nurses his brother was picking him up, but he hired a taxi to get home. He wanted to make a quiet return. After he gave the cabbie directions to the house on Meadow Island, they didn’t speak. The guy appeared to be extremely tired, but he stayed within the lines and kept an even speed. His gray beard came down to the middle of his chest. Despite Bennie’s concern about the driver’s sleepiness, it was the driver who kept glancing back at Bennie in the rearview mirror. After a while Bennie wondered if the guy was curious about his head bandage—a wrap of wide stretchable tape that covered the tops of his ears and went all the way up to the crown of his head. Bennie also wondered how much of an impact the drugs he was taking were having, and if they were making him think the guy was glancing back too often and that the guy looked tired. As the taxi crossed the one-lane causeway to the island, Bennie saw the boats in the harbor—there were only a few, but their colors were overly bright, their hulls too shiny and wet—and for a startling moment, he thought it was a mirage.

  But when the cab pulled into the Manse’s driveway, he calmed down. He saw the piles of snow that had been plowed against the house, and his brown Skylark and Littlefield’s Chevette parked tight against the snowbank. Faint lights glowed in the windows. He realized everything would be okay.

  “Fourteen dollars,” said the man.

  Bennie took a twenty from his pocket, reached out, and let the bill hang over the seat. When the man turned around, his beard grazed Bennie’s hand. “Nice place you got there,” he said, taking the money, unzipping a large plastic wallet, looking for change. “Nice view.”

  “It’s kind of a shithole, actually,” said Bennie.

  “You don’t say. Seems like a pretty piece of property,” said the driver, shifting around to look at Bennie again. He raised his eyebrows with Bennie’s change.

  A six-dollar tip was too big, so he took the two bills—a five and a one—hesitated too long, then gave back the five. He put the single in his pocket.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the man.

  Bennie felt flooded with feeling: grateful to be home, grateful to be alive, guilty about the disrepair of the old house, ashamed to be called “sir” by someone who had a better job than he did, wishing he’d just given the driver the entire twenty.

  “You know, I heard about you guys,” said the cabbie. “I know your buddy’s still missing.”

  This irritated Bennie and he was eager to exit the cab quickly, but with his sore hip, the crutches, and the leg cast, it took him a few seconds longer than he hoped. He said nothing. He stepped out into the snowy driveway. The wind brought tears to his eyes. He knew he was thin
king foolish thoughts; he needed to get back into bed.

  Bennie crutched through the deep snow on the unshoveled walk to the front door, came inside, and went to the kitchen. Even though she hadn’t heard back from her brothers, Gwen had flown from LaGuardia to Portland, and when she finally got hold of Littlefield, she convinced him to pick her up. That’s when he told her that Bennie was in the hospital. She was incensed, but Littlefield said he hadn’t checked the machine right away, and that when he did he’d kept the news from her for her own good—he said Bennie was fine. In fact, Littlefield told her, he was coming home just a few hours after her flight arrived.

  Gwen was at the sink washing dishes. She glanced over her shoulder at him, then dropped the bowl she was rinsing in the soapy water. Her hair had grown down to the middle of her back and she wore new glasses with dark brown frames.

  “Bennie!” she shouted.

  “I got out a little early,” he said, gripping the crutches. He put his small duffel on the kitchen table, then relaxed his elbows, letting the crutches sink into his armpits. Ronald, Littlefield’s Brittany spaniel, ran across the kitchen floor and flung himself against Bennie’s cast, reaching up and scratching with his paws, trying to climb high enough to lick Bennie’s face. The dog had always been hyper. He was good for hunting but not much else. He usually slept out in the barn.

  “Down, Ronald,” said Bennie. He wanted to bend down and pet him, but it would have required too much effort. Gwen shook her hands dry, kissed Bennie on the head bandage, and gave him a hug. “Happy birthday,” she said.

  “Likewise,” he said.

  “Look at you, Bennie. You’re a wreck.” Gwen looked hearty—healthy skin, thick hair, new clothes, the sparkling eyes of an actress. She was polished in a way he’d never seen her. Gwen had always been one who derived a big part of her identity from the strength of her body, her athleticism, her ability to compete, and Bennie knew she’d been trying to translate this into stage presence. She was no longer a competitive athlete, but living in Brooklyn, she went to the gym all the time, and her arms and shoulders were strong. In heels, she was just an inch shorter than Bennie. Hugging Gwen reminded him that he needed to start eating again, in a serious way. In the hospital it had been mostly pudding or oatmeal.

  “I mean, you look really bad,” she said, smiling.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s mostly the head bandage, though, isn’t it?”

  She squinted, looking him up and down. “Yeah, mostly the head bandage.” He knew she was trying to make him feel better, but still, it worked.

  “Where’s Littlefield?” Bennie asked.

  “He’s in the basement.” She shrugged. “That’s where he went when I arrived.” She took her glasses off and cleaned the lenses on her shirt. Since they were teenagers, Gwen and Littlefield had had a hard time sharing space. When Gwen was a junior in high school, she dated a kid from Bowdoin named Max Gates, and when Max came to the house early to pick her up for their second date, Littlefield answered the door (their mother was meeting with her investment club, and Coach had been dead for a few years). Max asked if he could wait for her inside. Littlefield let him in and pointed silently at the purple couch. He pretended to leave the room but stood in the doorway behind the couch and stared angrily at the back of Max’s head while Max picked up the newspaper on the coffee table and flipped through it. After a few minutes, Littlefield yelled at him, asking him to stand up and empty his pockets, and then he searched Max’s wallet for a rubber.

  Littlefield rarely found good ways to express his affection for Gwen—he continued to be rude to her boyfriends until she moved to New York.

  Bennie crutched to the cellar door. It was locked. He beat his fist against it and yelled, “Open up.” Ronald stood beside Bennie and barked.

  There was no response, but he heard faint scraping sounds, like the sliding of cardboard boxes across concrete.

  “Bennie, you should get into bed,” Gwen said.

  He banged again. “It’s me,” he yelled. “Let me in.” He leaned against the door and waited. Ronald barked a few more times, then quieted.

  The kitchen smelled like bacon grease and spoiled milk. As he looked around, he heard the scraping sounds in the basement again. “What’s he doing?” he asked Gwen.

  She shrugged. “He was actually pretty nice at first. He even asked me a few questions about my life when he drove me back from the airport. But as soon as we got back, he went down there.” She pointed at the door.

  Gwen helped Bennie back into the living room, without his crutches, but just as they started moving, Littlefield’s footsteps sounded on the basement stairs. This excited Ronald, who sprinted toward the cellar door, trying to squeeze between Bennie’s good leg and his bad one. Gwen tried to hold Bennie up, but it all happened too quickly. He landed on his back.

  Gwen crouched at his side, keeping Ronald from licking his face, and Littlefield stood over all of them, in dark blue coveralls spotted with dried paint. He had cobwebs in his hair, and on his right cheek there was a long, thin cut that had scabbed over. Bennie laughed. “You look like a monster.”

  Littlefield rubbed his hands over his face. “You mean the coveralls? They keep me warm, fuckface.”

  “What about that cut?”

  Littlefield put his hand up to his cheek as though discovering it for the first time. Like Gwen, he had a young-looking face, which was offset by the gray hair at his temples. “I should be the one asking the questions, hombre. You’re on the floor.”

  “Your dog knocked me down,” Bennie said. From the floor he could see the windows; sun poked through the clouds.

  Littlefield put a rough hand on Bennie’s head, below the bandage. “Idiot doctors,” he said. “They let you out too soon.”

  “Ronald knocked me down, Littlefield,” he said. He propped himself up on one arm. As Gwen started helping him up, Ronald got a few good licks of his cheek. Gwen pushed the dog away again, then took one of Bennie’s arms. Littlefield took the other.

  “It must be the painkillers,” said Littlefield. “They’re too strong for you. What’d they give you?”

  Gwen and Littlefield sat him at the table. Sometimes it was better to simply let Littlefield think he was right. He leaned Bennie’s crutches against the table before unzipping the bag Bennie had brought with him from the hospital. When he found the bottle, he opened it and shook a few pills into his palm.

  “Don’t take his drugs,” said Gwen.

  Littlefield poured the pills back into the bottle. He was still looking at his brother. “Bennie, you should stay home for a while. Don’t go into town,” he said. Then he started walking to the bathroom. They heard him pour the pills into the toilet. He flushed.

  When he came back into the kitchen he said, “Hey, Bennie, get into bed. You’re sick.”

  “Did you just throw out all of my pills?” he asked.

  “They’re making you dizzy,” said Littlefield.

  “Yeah, they’re also killing the pain,” he said. “Painkillers.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “No, he isn’t,” said Gwen. “Because he’s been taking those pills.”

  “It’s better this way,” said Littlefield.

  Bennie was too tired to argue. Gwen didn’t seem to want to continue the conversation either, so she and Littlefield helped him to his bedroom. Gwen had washed the sheets and neatened his room—the bedside lamp was on, casting a pool of warm yellow light on the glass of water she’d brought him. As soon as Bennie pulled the sheets up to his chin, Ronald came from the other room, leapt up onto the bed, and lay down by Bennie’s feet, panting.

  “Get off there, you stupid freak,” said Littlefield.

  “It’s okay. I like him there,” said Bennie.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Littlefield stayed in the room, and before Bennie fell asleep he asked Littlefield about the night at the quarry. Littlefield laughed at first, saying he couldn’t believe he’d run right off the edge. Bennie
laughed a little, too, remembering the weightlessness of his body. Then he asked about LaBrecque.

  “Yeah,” said Littlefield. “They still can’t find him. They’ve had dogs out there and everything.”

  “I saw Boak and Shaw before I got hurt,” said Bennie.

  “No shit, Bennie. They were the ones who helped get you to the hospital.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Julian and I were following LaBrecque, up on the north side. He was moving fast. Julian couldn’t keep up—he fell back—so it was just me chasing him. Eventually I lost track of LaBrecque, too. I got all the way to Roderick’s farm. A hell of a walk.” After a few seconds of silence, Littlefield shook his head. Bennie didn’t understand: Littlefield had chased LaBrecque all the way to Roderick’s farm? It was almost a mile from the quarry. Before Bennie’s mouth could open again Littlefield shut off his light and told him to sleep, and then it was as though he was back at the hospital, working slowly through a flip book of dreams.

  5

  Not long before Coach died, just after Gwen and Bennie turned fourteen, they’d gone out to Cape Frederick. For years and years afterward, this was how Bennie thought of his father, how he dreamed about him: Coach standing on the rocks in his long brown spectator parka.

  On that trip to Cape Fred, Bennie had been lying in the way back of the Vista Cruiser with Gwen, who was staring up at the drooping material hanging from the car’s ceiling. Littlefield and the family dog, Nixon, were reclined in the backseat. Coach drove and Eleanor, their mother, sat beside him.

  Back then, Gwen had short hair, spiked up with mousse. In middle school everyone thought she was a wiseass. At sixteen, Littlefield hadn’t yet made the switch to hard-nosed local; he was still unpredictable, of course, and if he punched you he didn’t care if you cried, but otherwise he was good at school and excellent at any sport he tried. He had muscles before most of his peers. He kept a bigger padlock on his gym locker than he’d been issued. The teachers saw him for what he was: smart, determined, stubborn. Everyone called him Littlefield, their last name.