Atticus

by S. Bennett

  Starbucks.

  In the three months I squatted on Charmin’s couch, a luxury was being able to buy a pack of cigarettes and get enough food to keep me going.

  These days are different. Thanks to Oley and his generosity, I’ve got money to pay bills and even occasionally get myself a treat. I’ve quit smoking completely because of that sneaky man telling me Berner’s have weak lungs. With the help of Google, I eventually found out it was a lie, but when I confronted him about it, he just smirked and told me I should be thanking him for helping me quit a deadly habit.

  I’m actually kind of grateful, but I’ll never admit it to him.

  I cruise up Highway 17, going straight through the city rather than the bypass and turn onto Western Boulevard. It’s the main thoroughfare that connects Highway 17 with Highway 24, where the big military base, Camp Lejeune, sits. On this road you can find dozens of restaurants, retail stores, the Jacksonville mall, and the hospital. It’s the original hub of action in this town, but this place has grown so much it’s not the biggest or best anymore.

  It’s a North Carolina summer morning. The sun is bright, and I’ve got the windows rolled down. The air is already humid. My hair is frizzy as hell from it, so I’ve got it pulled back into a tight ponytail. I pull the shade down and the minute the sun is blocked, I see him walking along Western Boulevard.

  Bernard.

  Without thought, I flip on the right turn signal, then pull into the parking lot of a Wendy’s, right in front of him. I toot the horn, calling through the open passenger window, “Bernard.”

  He bends down, peers in, and then his mouth breaks into a wide, toothy grin. “Well, hello stranger.”

  “Want a ride?” I ask, having no clue where he’s going. I didn’t even know he hung out on this side of town.

  “Sure enough,” he says as he opens the door and slides in. He’s wearing a pair of worn but clean jeans, work boots, and a navy t-shirt. His forehead is glistening with sweat, and he doesn’t have his backpack that he always carries.

  “Wow, it’s good to see you,” I say with a smile, then hit the gas, circling around the restaurant and pulling back onto Western Boulevard.

  “It’s been… what… two months?” he asks.

  “Closer to three,” I reply. I hadn’t seen Bernard since that night we shared PBRs while walking home. There’s no need for me to go over on that side of Highway 17 anymore. I sure have no desire to hit the bars over there.

  My world is limited to the clinic, Oley, the farm, Atticus, and whatever errands need to be done.

  “So where you headed?” I ask.

  “Nowhere in particular,” he says vaguely. “Just walking.”

  “Then come join me for a cup of coffee. My treat.”

  “It’s too damn hot for coffee,” he grumbles.

  “It’s never too hot for coffee,” I disagree with a laugh. “But they have cool drinks, too.”

  “Like beer?”

  “No beer,” I reply with regret.

  We make our way over to the Jacksonville Mall where they’d built a Starbucks in front of it, bordering Western Boulevard. I park in an angled slot, which are my favorite kind with this mammothlike car, and we make our way in.

  I get a coffee Americano and Bernard settles on a bottle of water after saying the menu overwhelmed him. I’m guessing he’s never been in a Starbucks because he could probably buy a six pack of cheap beer for what one cup of coffee costs.

  We sit at a corner table by the window. As he uncaps his water, he nods his chin at me. “Tell me everything. I had no clue where you’d up and went to. Went into Tipsy’s one night and you were gone. Charmin told me what happened.”

  It takes me about fifteen minutes to fill Bernard in on everything that’s happened in my life. He raises his eyebrows a lot. A few times, he says, “No kidding,” but otherwise he listens attentively.

  “When one door closes, another opens,” Bernard says solemnly.

  I blink at him in surprise. “That’s exactly what Oley said when he showed me the apartment. He told me I’d opened a door for him.”

  “What good goes around comes around,” he says knowingly.

  “What about you?” I ask with a smile. “You still over in those storage sheds on 17?”

  “Sure am,” he says, scratching at his chin. “Got a nice setup there. Owner knows I’m living in there, and I sort of keep an eye on the place at night.”

  I have no clue why Bernard is homeless, or why he doesn’t try to do something to pick himself up out of the gutter. I don’t think it’s the alcohol because he doesn’t spend all his money on it. And he doesn’t drink all the time. Right now, he’s sober. He’s taking care of himself, and I feel like if he just applied himself a bit more, he could do something… better for himself.

  “Got any big plans tomorrow?” I ask.

  “What’s special about tomorrow?”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s the Fourth of July, but more importantly, it’s Atticus’ six-month birthday. I’m doing a thing. Barbeque chicken on the grill, corn on the cob, and strawberry shortcake. You in?”

  Bernard just blinks as if what I said came out in a garbled mess.

  “I’ll pick you up at your storage unit at five. Okay?”

  More blinking.

  “Bernard.” I snap my fingers in front of his face to get him to focus.

  He blinks again, but then shakes his head, a wry smile on his face. “You sure you want me coming to your house?”

  “Well, it’s Oley’s house. We’re going to use his kitchen and grill, but yes… I’d love to have you come. You’re a friend of mine, right?”

  “I suppose,” he replies hesitantly.

  “No supposing about it. You’re my friend, Bernard, and you’re coming to celebrate the Fourth and Atticus’ birthday with us. And that’s that.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Atticus

  I remember Bernard from what seems like long ago. He smells different than Hazel and Oley, but not in a bad way. He actually smells… wise. Like he knows what mystic forces make the world work.

  He’s a nice guy. Fed me bits of barbeque chicken under the table when no one was looking. Thankfully, Hazel didn’t see as she would have told him to stop.

  I’m not allowed to have table food. Hazel says it’s to help teach me proper manners, since I seemingly wasn’t born with “well-behaved genes”.

  Whatever that means.

  There are lots of rules to remember, and I’m pretty good at many of them. But sometimes, the temptation to break the law is just too much for me to ignore. This is usually when there is food involved, or I’m feeling anxious for some reason.

  Rule number one is an important one, but it’s so hard for me to resist.

  No counter surfing.

  I am forbidden from putting my front paws on any counter, and it’s a grave sin to take food from there. If I even walk near a counter and lift my nose to smell, I get a stern look from Hazel and a, “Don’t you even think about it, Mister.” There was an incident with a pork loin a few weeks ago that landed me in the crate for a few hours.

  But seriously… they can’t leave a yummy, savory, pork-smelly piece of food out and think I’ve got the willpower to resist. Hazel had it in a pan while the oven was pre-heating.

  She went to the bathroom… and the opportunity presented itself.

  Now normally when Hazel uses the bathroom, I’m right in there with her. She always tries to push me out, but I like to be close to her. Besides, her on the toilet puts her almost face to face with me. I can push my head right up into her business, forcing some type of scratches around that area.

  Her first clue I was up to mischief should have been in the fact I didn’t follow her in to watch her potty. She didn’t even leave the door cracked to keep an eye on me.

  I swear, I don’t know where that woman’s head was at, but there was nothing I could do.

  It didn’t take long for Hazel to take a pee. She squats just like I do, w
hich is cool. But it was just enough time for me to snatch that pork loin out of the pan, and then run it into the living room. It was a three biter. I wolfed it down as fast as I could because I knew if she caught me, she was diving in after whatever remained.

  I was licking my lips when she came out of the bathroom. She gave me a sweet smile because she loves me so much, and then she went into the kitchen.

  Let’s just say she unloaded every imaginable curse word on me when she saw the empty pan. Awful, mean jabs that were meant to shame and humiliate me for eating her dinner. I just cocked my head to the side, watching her with a curious expression on my face.

  Listen… I know if I would just “act” like I’ve been duly chastised, she’d get over it a lot faster. But it’s not within my nature to do so.

  I live by the motto “I regret nothing”. I learned that little philosophy when I pooped in Chuck’s shoe, and I knew Hazel respected it.

  Now she expects me to change my ways, and that’s just not going to happen.

  Like tonight for example. It’s my birthday, and I’m feeling especially impish. Anything could happen.

  CHAPTER 23

  Hazel

  I wasn’t sure how Oley and Bernard would get along, but my worries were for naught. The two men kept up a running banter throughout dinner, argued over who has the best baseball team, and discussed politics in a sane, rational manner, which really shocked me since they lean in opposite directions.

  I think Oley was expecting something different in Bernard, in that he’d stereotyped him, which is just human nature. Until I’d gotten to know Bernard over countless beers at Tipsy’s, I’ll admit my view of the homeless—especially those who beg for money—was jaundiced.

  Bernard showed up wearing a nice button-down shirt with dress pants, although his scruffy work boots sort of made it a weird combo.

  He’d even shaved the scruff off his face, and I couldn’t help but ask on the drive out to the farm after I’d picked him up, “Bernard… can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Shoot,” he replied.

  “Where do you… you know, get cleaned up and stuff? It’s not like you have running water in your storage shed.”

  Bernard chuckled. “There are lots of ways. Just have to be smart about it. I’ve washed up in public restrooms before, but currently, I got a membership to that cheap gym, Muscles. Fifteen bucks a month. They have showers.”

  My mouth dropped open in astonishment, and I took my eyes off the road to look at him. He smirked and went on to tell me that he washes his clothes while in the shower. He explained that he has a line stretched in his unit where he lets them dry. Bernard pointed out he’d just gotten his current outfit at the Goodwill. He said he’d tried to find some nice shoes to go with the outfit, but they didn’t have any his size.

  Currently, we’re all sitting on the back patio in rocking chairs. July and August are the hottest months in North Carolina, but as the sun sets and the fireflies come out, Oley’s outdoor thermometer has us sitting at a comfortable—but still humid—seventy-five degrees. The outdoor ceiling fans generate a gentle, cooling waft of air around us so it’s more than bearable.

  The only one not out here with us is Atticus. He’s in the kitchen, sleeping on the cool tile floor. I’d made him a doggie friendly cake, and had taken a lot of pictures of him wearing a birthday party hat.

  But given he’s a mountain dog and would rather be neck deep in snow I’m sure, he prefers the air conditioning. If I had the same amount of fur he has, I’d be right there beside him. I periodically check on him through the double french doors, but he’s out like a light. Turning six months old is hard work apparently.

  “Dinner was excellent,” Oley says to me—although he’s staring out across the pastures when he says it. Still a rare compliment from the man, but he doesn’t look as pained when he gives them.

  I noticed a funny thing about Oley over the past few months. When he’s not being grumpy and is fully relaxed, he’s actually got a courtly southern accent when he talks. It’s like his words come out a little slower… and a lot gentler. Definitely thicker, but more refined. He seems like he’d be more at home in a seersucker suit or something.

  “Sure was,” Bernard echoes Oley’s praise. “I don’t get many home-cooked meals these days unless it’s in a shelter or something.”

  While I’d often tiptoed around the subject of Bernard’s homelessness because it is what it is, Oley has no such qualms asking blunt questions.

  “Bernard,” Oley drawls, as he holds his sweetened ice tea I’d made in his hand. Bernard and I are drinking beer, although I’m limiting myself to two since I have to drive him home. “If you don’t mind me asking, you seem like a smart fellow and you’re clearly able to take care of yourself, so why exactly are you homeless?”

  “Oley,” I blurt out in surprise. That just seems to cross a politeness line, although Oley didn’t have an ounce of condescension in his voice when he asked it. He’s genuinely curious—the way I am—about Bernard, but I’ve been too afraid to ask.

  I couldn’t be more stunned over Bernard’s answer, though. “It’s an easy way to live.”

  “Pardon me?” Oley says. Straightening up in his rocker, he turns to face Bernard. “How can your situation be easy?”

  Bernard gives a quick smile to Oley before turning his head to scan the pasture. He’s totally relaxed with his third beer in hand. The rocker gently sways as he rests his head against the back.

  He doesn’t say anything for what seems like an eternity. I can feel my face flushing with embarrassment over the situation, but then he says in a very simple and matter-of-fact way, “It’s easier than real life.”

  That simple answer seems to paralyze Oley and me, as we just stare at Bernard in confusion. When we don’t say anything, he tilts his head to regard first Oley, then me. A low rumble of laughter comes out, and he shakes his head in amusement.

  Sitting forward in his chair, he puts his elbows on his knees, loosely holding his beer. He stares back out at the dancing fireflies. “What’s real life? Job, wife, kids. Mortgage payment and unforeseen dental bills. Arguing with the neighbor because his dog keeps crapping on my lawn. I don’t deal with any of that. I beg for a little money to put a tin roof over my head and a few beers in my gut.”

  I don’t even know the appropriate response to that. Yeah… life is hard, but there’s positive to it too, right? Something strikes me about what he just said, “Do you have a family?”

  Bernard’s eyes go a little glassy as a short bark of laughter comes out, as if mocking the term “family”. So I’m surprised when he says in a voice filled with yearning, “Yeah… wife and son. He just turned thirty-seven not long ago.”

  A gust of surprised air blows out of my lungs.

  “Why aren’t you with them?” Oley asks.

  Bernard settles defeated eyes on Oley. “Because I cause more trouble than good for them.”

  “No way,” I blurt out. I don’t know Bernard all that well, but he’s a genuinely nice guy.

  I get Bernard’s gaze now, and his smile is sympathetic to my disbelief. “This has been a pattern with me for a long time, Hazel. I don’t deal well with pressures, so I take off.”

  “And just live in a storage unit, until… what… you decide to go back home to your family?” I ask.

  “I haven’t been home for a couple of years now,” he says softly, but there’s no undercurrent of self-pity in that fact.

  “I don’t understand why,” I say, pressing him for a better answer. As someone who was kicked out of her home just over seven months ago, and has had two brushes with being homeless, I can’t fathom it.

  “You know about the Beirut Bombing?” he asks.

  “Of course I do.” I can’t remember what year it was—somewhere around the early eighties—but when the marine barracks there were bombed a lot of people died. We even have a memorial here in Jacksonville although I’ve never been to it.

  “That was
in 1983,” Bernard says with a nod of his head. “I was in that building and I was one of the few who survived. We lost a lot of marines. I didn’t handle it all that well when I got home.”

  “So you have… PTSD?” I ask gingerly. Now things are getting personal. I hadn’t expected to learn something like this about Bernard.

  He shrugs. “PTSD wasn’t a diagnosis back then. It was called anti-social personality disorder. Before that, it was called shellshock or battle fatigue. I came back from Beirut, and I couldn’t stand to be in crowds. I was hypervigilant all the time. Couldn’t sit with my back to a door. Loud noises terrified me. I drank to self-medicate. Had a short temper with my wife and kid. At work, I’d mouth off to superiors and I’m sure you know that doesn’t work in the Marine Corps.”

  “Did you get medically discharged?” Oley asks.

  Bernard shoots him a glance. “Yeah.”

  Oley nods as if it all makes sense to him, but it doesn’t to me. I don’t get how someone leaves their family. As someone who had her husband discard her like used trash, I can’t fathom it.

  “Don’t you miss them?” I ask. I cringe internally over the slight condescension in my voice.

  Bernard’s tone is chastising. “Of course I do. Don’t think my refusal to be there has anything to do with a lack of love for them. But I’ve screwed things up with them. Put them through the ringer with my drinking and by leaving for long stretches of time. Coming home when I’m lonely, only to do it all over again. They’ve moved on from me, and I need to let them have that peace. I stay away because of how much I love them.”

  That shuts me up as I realize the old adage “there are two sides to every story” is true. I can’t presume to know what’s right for Bernard or his family. Maybe they are better off without him. Maybe he is giving them peace.

  Or maybe what he said is a big ol’ crock of shit.

  “You’d be getting disability money from the government,” Oley observes. “Why do you beg?”