I’d never been in Dad’s closet, of course. I pulled on the string attached to the ceiling bulb but nothing happened. The light probably hadn’t worked for years. Out in his room was a large flashlight. I switched it on and headed back into the closet. The wide beam threw light on several pairs of faded jeans, a lot of camo wear, and a few collared shirts.
These had belonged to the only other person I’d ever really known, and suddenly I was terrified. The flashlight slid from my grip as a scream built in my chest. I covered my mouth with both hands to prevent it from escaping and stumbled forward into his clothes, which caught me with empty arms. I sank to the floor crying silent tears. Bottomless grief threatened to smother me. On my knees, I pressed the fabric to my face and inhaled, the faint scent bringing back Dad almost in full form and life. But he was gone, and I was alone.
Then I heard careful footsteps climbing stairs. From the hollowness of the sound, I knew someone was coming up from the basement. The steps were hesitant, and I realized the person was trying not to make any noise. I froze, listening. The feet were now on the main floor, walking toward the front door. I catwalked to the top of the stairs and saw Randy King holding a large cardboard box with the letters M R written on it in black Magic Marker. On top of that was Dad’s laptop with its L--shaped dent.
But what was in the box? And where was Randy taking it and the laptop?
I tiptoed back into Dad’s room and watched out the window as Randy carried the box and computer to his truck. He put them in the front seat and headed back toward the house.
Once back inside, he called, “Petty? You all right up there?”
I heard booted feet—-decisive and confident this time—-mount the stairs. I ran into the closet and pulled out Dad’s three--piece suit. No way would I be trapped in a bedroom with this guy, who’d come into my house and removed things without my permission, who seemed to believe that he belonged here. He didn’t. I didn’t know him at all, but his presence, which felt like a sickness, seemed to take up a lot more space than it should have. I got out of the room as Randy was about to enter it and thrust the clothes at him. He took them wordlessly, turned and started down the stairs.
“You don’t need to worry about funeral arrangements,” he said. “Your dad left instructions with me.”
Worrying about funeral arrangements hadn’t occurred to me, but I nodded at the back of his descending head. At the bottom of the stairs, Randy turned and slid his hat back on. “You gonna be all right? You want me to stay with you tonight?”
I was so shocked by the question I couldn’t respond. I just stared dumbly.
He shook his head and smiled a little. “Suit yourself,” he said, and walked out the front door. Through the screen I heard him say, “Sorry for your loss.”
Once I heard the truck start up, I went down to the living room and watched out the front window as he drove away.
And then it hit me.
I had no one to lock me in my room. Why hadn’t I thought to ask one of them to lock me in? They probably wouldn’t have. But how would I sleep?
Dad had left instructions for Randy King. Why hadn’t he left any for me? I was the one who needed them.
One of the dogs gave a sharp yip from the garage. I’d forgotten all about them, and they probably needed to go outside and do their business. I was grateful for something to do.
Out in the garage, I raised the door and they ran for it, making a fast trotting check of the perimeter of the property. Dad had taught them to do that before they did anything else. After their tour, they relieved themselves and sat panting in front of me, waiting for orders or to be released to patrol.
I gave the hand signal to heel and walked into the garage with them following, lowered the door and locked it. Then I opened the door from the garage into the house, and they alternately studied each other and me, trying to understand what I wanted. I signaled for them to follow me into the house. Dad wouldn’t like it, but he wasn’t here. If I couldn’t be locked in my room, this was the next best thing.
They danced uncertainly at the threshold, remembering well what Dad had taught them about going in the house, which was not to do it unless a stranger was attacking me or him. I dropped to a squat and scratched their ears.
“You’re going to come in the house,” I told them. “It’s okay. I’m the alpha now.” I walked through the door, turned and faced them, and signaled “come.” They danced and whined.
“Come,” I said.
It took five tries, but they finally tiptoed into the house, glancing at each other guiltily. I hoped this wouldn’t ruin their training. I signaled for them to follow me into the TV room. They did, and sat. I released them, hoping they’d explore the house and get used to the idea of being inside. After a while they ventured out of the room, Sarx going left, Tesla right, like they’d been trained to do.
I sat on the couch and picked up the remote. Every sound was amplified—-the dogs’ panting, the prairie wind outside, my gurgling stomach—-which made me want to crawl out of my own skin. I turned on the TV and surfed until I found an Offender NYC marathon. The dogs returned, then stood and stared at me, waiting for a command.