Authors: John Vigna
“I'm not here to entertain you,” Brian said.
“You've been hanging your head about all morning. Yup, I'm entertained. Having the time of my life.” Sean grabbed his side and let out a mock chuckle.
“Tamed, tamed,” the boy said.
“Your silly-ass garb entertains me every single day.” Brian coughed. “When's the last time you played soccer or hockey? Never known you to play.”
Sean let out another mock laugh. “That's a good one. Stop, you're killing me.” He straightened himself and thrust out his chest, held his head erect. In an unconvincing English accent he added, “You don't need to play to be a student of the game.”
“That's the corniest, stupidest thing that's come out of your mouth today.”
“I am who I am.” Sean stretched his arms out. “Like it or lump it.” He crossed his arms over the maple leaf on his chest. “You see Jasmine yet?”
Brian shook his head. “This whole thing would be a non-issue
if I made an anonymous call to his parole officer.”
“Like hell.” Sean stroked the top of the boy's head. “You'd end up getting us all busted and come away with nothing. You don't think Jasmine will talk? Christ. He'd sing like a canary.”
“Not like I've got anything now.” He watched Tracy below, holding a puppy, snuggling it close to her face.
“Look.” Sean pointed at the dog pen behind the trailer. The stud swung from the jute, his jaw locked, his body tight and gabled like woven rope. “He's ready. You have a chance to get back to making some serious cake.”
“That'd be nice.” Brian picked at the window frame, flicked slivers in the air. Tracy bent over the porch and re-emerged with another puppy.
“Christ.” Sean glanced at the boy, but he was preoccupied with picking up the shards of sandpaper he'd discarded. “Why can't you just ask?” Sean dug into his shorts and handed Brian a rumpled wad of bills without counting them. “Money goes through you like a sieve.”
“I don't need your charity.”
“It ain't charity. Consider it another advance.”
“Clarity, clarity.” Brian Jr had stopped picking up the sandpaper and was now smashing pinecones against the doorjamb.
Brian put his finger to his lips to hush the boy. “She's getting on with them.” He nodded down toward the porch.
“Don't I know it.” Sean picked up Brian Jr and put him on his shoulders. The boy leaned back to look at the sky.
“Has he seen them?” Brian said softly, nodding toward his son.
“Was I born with a hole in my head?”
Brian woke with less of a hangover than he had expected. They had finished painting the studio the previous night. He squinted into the light, the tops of the aspens and firs swaying in the breeze. The green trees, the blue sky, the vivid world above. Tracy spoke in low, hushed tones to the puppies. He sat up and looked at himself in the rearview mirror, cleaned the sleep from the corners of his eyes, and combed his hair down. He slapped his face a couple of times and got out of the car.
Tracy sat watching the puppies play amongst themselves. Brian placed his boot on the porch and leaned on his knee. “I thought there were six,” he said, his voice low in her ear.
“There were.” She sniffled with her head down. “You know how it goes.” She pointed to a mound of dirt in the flowerbed marked by a cross fashioned from two popsicle sticks tied together with a few strands of long grass.
“I can't afford to lose any more.”
He heard her sigh. She wiped her nose with her sleeve. The puppies crawled and tumbled over one another. He turned away. The aspens and poplars were flushed in bright green leaves, their smooth white trunks a contrast from the coarse black trunks of the firs. Inside the house, Sean's voice, Junior laughing.
“I appreciate you volunteering to help with my studio. You didn't have to do that.” Tracy held up a sock. One of the puppies tugged at it.
“No problem.” He leaned close to smell her hair again.
“Our son is growing up fast.” Another puppy joined in on the sock.
Brian felt encouraged by hearing her say “our son.” Something
they shared, something they created together, something to always bind them together in the future. “You've done a good job with him.”
“I've had a lot of help,” she said.
Sean and Junior chanted something that Brian couldn't make out.
“They're like two brothers together, you know?” Tracy smiled.
“It's nice being around here. Seeing him, you, the dogs.”
She lifted her head. Her eyes were a deeper, softer brown than he had remembered, and he felt an understanding so strong, he was sure she was thinking the same. It seemed impossible that they had not made their marriage work. He could not see his future, and he imagined her life as nothing but emptiness even though she had Sean and Junior. He touched her shoulder and turned her toward him. Her face was tense, drained of colour; the lines around her mouth tight; he wanted to apologize, to set things straight. He leaned to kiss her. She turned away. Junior chanted at the screen door, a chewed-up giraffe dangling from his hand. He pushed it open. Sean stood behind him.
“Honey, that's Penny's.” She grabbed the giraffe and tossed it into the brush. The boy started to cry.
“Come on, little man, let's go back inside.” Sean turned Brian Jr by the shoulders, but the boy wriggled against him.
Brian made a face, hid his eyes behind his hand. His son cried harder. Brian turned his hands into small circles. He viewed his son through them, smiling. But he saw Sean instead, glowering; the boy screamed and punched Sean's leg.
“Come here, honey.” Tracy opened her arms and hugged Brian Jr. She ran her hand through his dark hair, straightened out his
bangs, wiped his nose with her sleeve. Junior squirmed against her, turning away from Brian. She held his son close, kissed his neck, rocked him.
“He's hungry,” Sean said.
“Do you want some macaroni and cheese?” she murmured into the boy's neck.
Brian Jr nodded.
“Can you get the water started? I'll be there in a minute,” she said.
Sean paused at the door, turned around and glared at Brian, and then disappeared in the trailer.
“I need you to never do that again.” Tracy's eyes narrowed. “Do you understand?”
Junior pulled away from her and squatted in front of the litter. “Puppies, puppies.” He slapped the soft head of one.
“Careful,” Brian said, his voice barely audible. “You don't want to upset the mommy.”
Tracy picked up their son. “We'll talk about it inside with your father.” She turned to Brian. “You can't hang around here anymore. It's confusing for the boy, it's confusing for you.” She hurried inside, the porch door slammed shut behind her.
Brian stared at the puppies and listened to Junior scream, “Puppy, I want puppy.” Sean and Tracy spoke, but he couldn't make sense of what they were saying. His son continued to scream, “Puppy. Please. Puppy. Please.” Brian pressed his hands hard over his ears. The puppies squirmed helplessly at his feet.
He drove to the Northerner, ordered two high-tests, and sat
down. He drank resolutely, ordered two more, drank those as fast as he could, and belched to himself.
The old man sang “I Walk the Line.” Tonight he wore a bright orange bandana and black felted cowboy hat with a feather poking out of the side. When the old man finished singing, Brian banged his beer bottle on the table. A couple sitting nearby glanced at him and turned away, shrugged their shoulders at one another.
The old man stopped at Brian's table. “'Preciate it, son.” He handed Brian the song list. “You're here most every night. No question you got a song or two in you.”
Brian picked at his beer label until the bottle was bald. “I've got to have a few more of these first.”
The old man put his hand on the bottle. “Go on, no harm in trying. Next round is covered.”
Brian flipped open the binder, ran his finger through the song list. The songs blurred one after another until he came to a song he used to sing to Tracy when they first married.
“Go, on. Give it your all. I'll keep an eye on things.”
“Lord knows I've got nothing left to lose.” He finished his beer and carried another, shoved the binder under his arm, and muttered to the DJ, “24-B-11.”
He stood on the empty dance floor where he and Tracy had sung their song after exchanging vows in the church. Sean had clapped wildly, grinning ear to ear, in his tuxedo and soccer cleats, and bellowed, “Belt it out, buddy. Shout it to the mountains.” And he did, singing himself hoarse as he lifted Tracy, twirled her around, watched her laugh, hair falling across her eyes, caught in the corner of her lips, spinning around, her veil, her mouth, a tumbleweed of laughter, the future careening toward them
faster than he imagined, one he was not ready for: the mill closing down, Tracy pregnant, Junior's hooded eyes. Brian left town to work in the Interior, and on his days off he stayed behind in his motel room rather than going home to the screaming, nonsensical boy and his wife, crazy with it, telling Tracy that he was earning overtime on the weekends, a story she believed for the better part of a year until she showed up at work one day with his son in her arms, clutching a stack of unpaid bills, and the crew boss informed her he'd fired him months ago. By the time Brian returned home, Sean was there and handed him the papers to sign; she didn't want to see him again.
He waited as the refrain began. The Dobro rose, the fiddles rose, Willie's sad song rose, opening up and beckoning him before falling in a steady rain of sound over the beating of his heart. He took deep gulps from the bottle and looked around. The old man tipped his cowboy hat and Brian felt a surge of gratitude for him, nodded back. On the other side of the room, Jasmine leaned against the bar and toasted him with a shooter glass.
“It must be my lucky day,” Jasmine shouted. “Wouldn't miss this for the world, partner.”
Brian cleared his throat and picked up the microphone. The words streamed across the bottom of the monitor faster than he expected, colouring from yellow to pink before he could form the sounds. The first stanza passed, and he heard the couple sitting nearby snicker. He waited for the next line, and when that scrolled by, he lost track of the words, confused by the music he knew so well. His faced burned. Fear moved through him slowly, as though he'd swallowed it, and by the time he braced himself for the next line, it came and he missed that, too. The old man
leaned forward, coaxed him, mouthed the words. Brian dropped the mic to his side. Jasmine's laughter rose over the music.
The old man took the mic from Brian. “It happens to all of us. You'll get over it, and you'll try again and you'll do a great job.”
Like hell he would. Brian hurried through the bar, his eyes down.
“Nice work, partner,” Jasmine said.
The waitress offered him a shooter, but Brian kicked the door open and was greeted by a slap of cold air.
As the door closed, Jasmine said, “I'll drop by in the morning, pick up my pups.”
Brian drove fast, hit the gravel corners hard, slid out of them with soft swerves, fishtailed to right the car, mesmerized by the ease with which the car floated over the rutted straightaways of the road. The sky greyed to the colour of ash, faded fast to charcoal. He pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition, and sat listening. A few dog barks from behind the trailer. Whiskey Jacks and magpies chattered in the aspens. On the Hump, the studio's light glowed soft from the windows, music floated down, carrying Sean and Tracy's laughter. Junior sat on Sean's shoulders, and they chased Tracy around inside the studio. Brian reached in the glove box for a builder's pencil. He tore the lid off his cigarette package and scribbled, “I'm costing you too much. Sorry.” He leaned over the back seat for a jute sack, clicked the door handle open, cold metal against his palm, and stepped out into the cool evening.
The air became silent, and the grass seemed to cower at his gaze. He slipped the note against the screen of the porch door. When he reached Penny, she stared warily. The puppies slept
against one another, squirmed against her side. Brian stroked her head, whispered her name. She licked his hand, her ears relaxed. One of the Whiskey Jacks blurted out, bursting the silence with a long sorrowful cry that rose above the trailer.
Penny stood and snapped her jaws when he reached into the pen and scooped up two puppies, dropped them in the sack. When she snapped at him again, he slapped her face hard, knocked her back, stunned. He snatched another puppy by its velvety neck and dumped it in the sack. He couldn't stop himself; the puppies were finished no matter what, forced into a life where they'd fight and lose, and never measure up. Penny lunged at him, bit his arm, tore the flannel cuff. He slugged her, fished out the last two pups, warm and soft, their legs peddling the air, urine dribbling down one of them. Penny clawed at him and clamped on his arm again, opened a gash. Blood seeped through his shirt.