A Good Boy

Eric Toupin

Oh, you were just lusty teenagers, your mother said. She said it with a good natured smile and then she spread cream cheese onto pieces of toast, served them to us on paper towels. She was a homebody, plump and smiling. She hugged people tight the same as you, and she said things like We’re a hugging family.

Your failed marriage was a less-than-ideal prom date, according to her. A harmless little life lesson taped in front of a live studio audience, wrapped up tidily in a half hour and rated for family viewing. Something that would fit in nicely between Full House and Family Ties. And hearing the way she talked about it, you could almost believe it was true.

You and Rachel got divorced a year after your term in the US Army. You’d been married five years. It was strange to see you single, because back on Fort Bliss it had been the three of us more often than not for almost twenty-two months. After the workday you and I would spend an hour at the gym, then drive straight back to your house to smoke cigarettes and drink beer. You, me, Rachel and your weiner dog, Thor. We’d sit on your front porch and joke about the workday, complain about our platoon sergeant and watch the sky get dark. I liked Rachel a lot. Between your house, Rachel and Thor, who you both loved so much, you really seemed like a family. And your family felt like my family.

I’d sleep on your couch sometimes in BDU pants and a brown work t-shirt, with my combat boots, cap and uniform jacket in a little pile on the floor. Then we’d wake up around six, hustle to get out the door on time and head to first formation down at the motor yard. You’d kiss Rachel goodbye and I’d give her a hug, then we’d wave from the car as we drove off. You two kept a toothbrush for me at the house.

We both serviced radars and missile launchers, and we both had SECRET clearance. Once we took a picture of the two of us together inside the radar unit with a disposable camera, just to show Rachel what we did all day. Technically that’s a breach of security, something I pointed out with disinterest shortly after. You thought that was hilarious. Even after the little disposable was out of film, you kept whipping it out of your pocket with mock nervousness, then pressing the button so the flash went off. You joked about how we’d retire early selling state secrets with your brilliant business idea: Chris & Jerrod’s TOP SECRET military equipment cleaning service. For months after you’d suddenly assume the caricatured voice of a French maid during the work day, then start nervously dusting radio stacks and radiation tubes while clandestinely ‘snapping pictures’ with that same expired disposable.

At the gym we’d play racquetball Tuesdays and Thursdays, and we’d lift on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I preferred weight days, and not because you always beat me at racquetball. You loved playing the over-the-top, borderline-homoerotic gym partner. I’d be lying at the benchpress and you’d be spotting, looking straight down into my eyes and yelling things like Give it to me! Push it! Almost there! Harder! You could hardly keep a straight face, and you loved it when somebody else at the gym couldn’t hold in a laugh. It’s no wonder you ended up doing bits at that comedy club in Phoenix later on.

When I finished my term you had a little going away party for me at your house. There were ten or twelve people there, but by one-thirty in the morning it was just you, Rachel, Thor and I. And I liked it better that way. I left around four in the morning, seeing as I had to out-process the next day starting at six. You gave me two mix CDs, both labeled Chris, to remember you and Rachel by. They were mostly emo and pop. Then you gave me a long hug.

If you hadn’t cried, I might not have either.

You got out a year later, then moved back to Arizona to go to school and be closer to your family. In another year, you and Rachel split up. You sent me a message on Myspace sometime later to let me know what had happened, and I bought a plane ticket to Arizona. When you picked me up at the airport it was like it had been two days, not two years. I’d quit smoking a year and a half back, but when you lit up, I did, too. We drove from your little apartment near Phoenix out to Mesa where your parents lived so that you could pick up some old things from your family home. That was the first time I met your mom, Becky, and your dad who’s name I didn’t know yet. Your grandma was there, too, sunk into an armchair and hardly moving a muscle.

Your folks had just bought a dog a few months back, a boxer mix that was locked up in a kennel in the living room. It was whining and whimpering something fierce, walking in tight little circles with an anxious dogsmile and a tongue halfway out. It was a puppy still, fresh and super energetic although probably forty pounds already. Becky said she didn’t know how to deal with the thing. It was so rambunctious she couldn’t hardly stand it, and it peed right there in the crate. You told her they needed to learn how to live with it instead of just ignoring it all the time, and she said That’s Dale’s job, dear, with a smile that brushed everything aside.

Your dad took me by surprise. He strode into the house after work like a stranger, looking out of place and bewildered. He was aloof, spindly and somehow cold, with a lank mountain-man build and a patchy beard that made him look wild and unkempt. When he first stepped inside and closed the front door behind him, I could hardly imagine that he was your father, much less Becky’s husband. He was tall, stone quiet and thin as a pole, where you and your mom were both fun-sized, soft around the edges and so easy to be around. He didn’t say Hi to anyone, or cast so much as a glance in my direction. Instead he walked straight to the dog kennel and unlatched it, whereupon the family dog leapt onto him like an overjoyed big cat in those Lion Reunited With Trainer videos on YouTube. He and the dog made their way out the back sliding door, the pup leaping up on him over and over in a frenzy. In a moment they were in the back yard, clearly visible through the double-wide sliding glass door, play wrestling like a couple of wild animals.

That’s Dale, said Becky. She refrained from calling him my husband or Jerrod’s father. He was just Dale; he’d come home from work and he was dealing with the dog.

That’s when she served us toast with cream cheese, with napkins for plates. She asked if you’d spoken to Rachel recently, who apparently you’d been talking to again. And when you started to open up about it she said you were just lusty teenagers, and that when you were an adult you’d get married to someone for real. You’re only twenty-five, she reminded you, you’re still a baby. You rolled your eyes and changed the subject.

Becky asked me about my life, and about what it had been like to work with her Jerrod for a few years. I answered politely, ate a piece of toast, then asked you about Thor. He’s Rachel’s now, you said simply. You looked out the back door and smiled with surprise. I think the dog is hurting dad, you said.

Dale came inside a moment later, leaving the dog out in the back yard. His forearm was covered in thick, deep-red blood. He was wearing a grimace on his face, and his grey-blue eyes were focused tight with pinhole pupils. Becky threw a little homemaker fit, sopping up blood with folded paper towels. I swear! She scolded. You let that dog do whatever it wants. That’s no way to let an animal treat you.

He didn’t mean it, Dale said curtly. He looked keenly at his arm, then the kitchen sink, avoiding everyone’s eyes. He stood a head and a half taller than all of us, stock still, like a stranger in his own home. Becky attended his arm efficiently but without tenderness. I was shocked at the bite; there were visible puncture wounds from the dog’s teeth. He’s a good boy, Dale said evenly and to no one. He turned his head to peer at the dog through the glass door. It was sitting just outside looking at us anxiously, panting several quick breaths then drawing its mouth closed to let out a little whimper. A good boy, Dale repeated. Those were the only words I ever heard him say. He was looking into the dog’s eyes, as if in a trance. I cleared my throat.

Blood was still running down Dale’s hand. Some droplets had splashed onto the floor, but most of it was either soaked up in paper towels or dribbling into the sink. Becky was fussing with the wound and pitching Dale a slew of rhetorical questions, unnoticed by him. I said a couple of sympathetic words, all of which passed without comment. Then we all stood somewhat quietly in the kitchen, until you broke the silence with an off-the-cuff Well it’s been fun, family. Becky gave you a hug. Dale put a bony hand on your shoulder. I was glad to leave.

After we’d been in the car five minutes you dug into your pocket and handed me three yellow pills. Split one of those, will you? you said. I broke one in half and held the lot in my hand. One and a half for you, you told me, switching on your turn signal, and one and a half for me. I laughed, said OK, handed you yours and ate mine. What are they? I asked. Percocet, you said. You chased them down with orange Gatorade. Courtesy of grandma.

We drove out to a little park and spent a few hours walking around, throwing stones into the water. I asked about Rachel and you told me that you were still seeing each other sometimes, but that she was seeing other people, too. I asked if you’d been seeing other people, and you gave me a simple Nope and lit up a cigarette. You told me about working with a bunch of Mexicans at a burrito place in Phoenix, said you were learning some Spanish. You’d been doing some standup, too. You said it like it was nothing and I was so impressed. You didn’t have a show before I left, though.

When it started to get dark, we drove back to Phoenix, got dinner at a sports bar, then went to another drinking hole with a little outdoor fireplace. The next day I flew back to Colorado. We texted every once in awhile, and you said you’d visit me in Colorado when you had the money. Then a couple months later we talked on the phone. You told me you were taking a three-day weekend and it would be great if I could come out again. Another friend was visiting, too, a different guy you knew from the army who I’d never met before named Mike. I booked a flight.

You and Mike picked me up from the Phoenix airport. Mike had rented a car. You’d moved back to Mesa and were sharing a house with your uncle. He worked all the time, so you hardly saw him. And he’d be out of town all weekend, so we wouldn’t meet him anyhow. You weren’t working at the burrito place anymore or going to school. You still did comedy sometimes, but less frequently. The new job was line assembly at a munitions factory. A lot of ex-military worked there. It paid $10 an hour for the first year, and you hated it there.

Mike seemed educated and respectable. He wore glasses with his black hair cropped short, and nice clothes that weren’t flashy. He kept himself in shape, without coming off like a jock or a bodybuilder. He seemed plain, to me, but you liked him. You’d met him just after I got out of the army, and you’d known each other ever since. He didn’t smoke. I bummed cigarettes from you and we rolled the windows down and turned the radio up. The drive to Mesa would be about forty minutes.

Are we still making a stop? Mike asked. Sure are, you said. I asked where we were going and you said to pick up some pills from a friend. Morphine. It would be $75 each, if I was interested in pitching in. That’s three for each of us, a good price. They’d cost a little more if I didn’t want any. I laughed and conceded, taking cash out of my wallet and handing it over. Is this something you do a lot? I asked, mostly to you. For awhile I was, you replied. But I haven’t been for a month or two. This is like a celebration, though, the three of us together for a couple of days. You guys are going to like each other. You gave directions and in fifteen minutes we were pulling into the parking lot of a cheap looking apartment complex.

Mike and I waited in the car. I asked him about the army and he said he’d had the same job as us, radar and launcher maintenance. Jerrod ever tell you about the Chris & Jerrod TOP SECRET military equipment cleaning service? I asked. Mike laughed. Yeah, all the time. He used to talk about you a lot. We chatted for a couple of minutes until you showed back up, then we all made the short drive to Mesa.

The next couple of days were fun. The house you were living in was comfortable and well put together. You explained that was mostly your uncle’s doing, but it was nice nonetheless. The three of us went hiking twice along nearby trails. Otherwise we lazed around during the day, watched some TV shows and chatted. At night we went to a local bar you liked and drank a lot. When the bar closed, we went back to your house and kept it up. Mike smoked cigarettes when he was drunk enough. You talked about hating your job, about wishing you could do something interesting in life. I asked about Rachel once, but it turned out you two weren’t speaking so I let it alone.

Towards the end of the trip we all went out for Mexican. You told one of the waiters it was Mike’s birthday on the sly, and halfway through dinner we got bombarded by servers singing Happy Birthday, delivering a little piece of cake with a sparkler stuck into it. It wasn’t anybody’s birthday, of course, but Mike was gracious about it. We all shared the cake.

I rode with Mike to the airport. Before we left you said it was great having us both out, and it was a shame we didn’t all live closer. You gave me a bear hug that lifted me off my feet, then Mike and I drove off. He decided to drop me off first because my flight was earlier, then take the rental back to the agency. We exchanged phone numbers before he left. It seemed like the polite thing to do, but I didn’t think I’d ever hear from him unless we all got together again. I waved, hefted my bag, and made my way to the terminal. That evening I was back in Colorado, and the next morning, a Monday, I was back at work.

On Wednesday, Mike called.

I was in the office. The first time my phone rang I saw it was his number and was a little surprised. I didn’t pick up, thinking I’d call back after work to see what was up. But as soon as my phone stopped ringing, it started up again. And it was Mike’s number, again.

Hey Mike, I said, how’s it going?

I don’t know how to say this, he replied. His voice was tight and tinny. Jerrod’s dead.

My grip on the phone tightened, and my hand felt like someone else’s hand. My nose was running, somehow. Then I was outside on a balcony, and I’d bummed a cigarette from somebody. I didn’t have a lighter.

No, I said.

Not because No meant anything, but because it’s the word that came out. I kept sitting down and then standing up, trying to say words into the phone. I’d left my jacket inside. My lips quivered when I tried to talk.

I don’t think I can take this, Mike said. His voice was so small. I pressed the phone to my ear. I don’t think I’m going to be OK.

Mike told me it was an overdose. He said they thought it was an accident. He took my email address and said he’d email his flight information. There would be a memorial day after tomorrow; we were going back to Arizona.

I hugged Mike when I saw him, but I didn’t say much. Hugging wasn’t natural between us. We picked up another rental, a Mustang this time. It was gray, an automatic. We drove to Becky and Dale’s house in Mesa, mostly in silence. It was hot in Arizona, the sun came down prickling and bright. We had the A/C on and we both watched the car in front of us blankly. I don’t think we switched lanes on the highway even once. Mike turned on the radio, but then he turned it off again. The GPS talked every couple of minutes. When we got to the house there were at least ten cars parked down the street, but none in the driveway. The front door of the house was open, and you could see there were plenty of people sitting together inside. The memorial wasn’t for another day, this was just friends and family getting together. Mike and I didn’t really know anyone, but Becky had insisted that we come. Mike parked the car on the street and we got out.

Dale was sitting on a folding metal chair in the middle of the driveway, stock-still like a lonely cactus in a sprawling desert. He looked dangerous; a man gone wild. Mike walked towards the front door. I walked over to Dale.

Hi Dale, I said. My voice came out choked. Remember me?

Dale didn’t flinch. He was staring straight ahead. His hair came out from under a tattered baseball cap like wild brush, and his beard was long and crazed. He dwarfed that little folding chair. Even with him sitting down we were almost face to face. His forearms were sunburnt.

Dale? I said, feeling my throat close.

His eyes seemed to focus, then they lifted slowly to meet mine. He lurched into a standing position. Dale was lean and towering. He seemed woozy somehow. He reached both boney arms straight forward, grasping my shoulders with his gnarled, spidery hands. And then he was drawing me in so that I stumbled and my face was pressed into his chest. He wrapped an arm around me slow, mechanical. It tightened steadily like a ratchet strap, too tight, until he was trembling with the strain. He pressed my head beneath his bearded chin, then crooked his face down to whisper into my ear.

He didn’t mean it, Dale whispered hoarsely.

I tried to say I know, but just cried instead. My face was pressed hard into the flat of his sternum.

Dale was shaking. All the way down through his hips, through his feet. His face and beard were wet.

He was a good boy, he rasped. He squeezed me hard and trembled, as if with palsy. He was a good boy.

My throat was tight, I was searching for words.

When Dale pushed me away I wiped my face with both hands, then looked past him to the front door of their home. Rachel was standing there on the stoop, looking at us. She had Thor in her arms. She waved, smiled, put the dog down and then covered her face with her hands.

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