“Our lives are intertwined. It’s not as easy as you make it sound.”
“Isn’t it?” He pushed away his plate and drank more. He let out a hissing burp. “I think it is easy. Easy for me to see anyway. The dog’s gone. The headstone’s been laid. People are moving on. Remember when Dad died? My dad? Remember how you cried at the funeral?”
“I didn’t cry.”
“You did.”
“Not for him, I didn’t.”
Buster sighed. “He raised you.”
“If you want to call it that.”
Buster leaned back. He brought his hand up and scratched his jaw. I could tell he was angry. Whenever we talked about my stepfather, one or both of us ended up full of anger. But Buster managed to swallow his this time. When he spoke again, his voice was even.
“Here’s my point—it wasn’t long after the old man died that you went off to grad school. You started a new life, a new career. You met Abby. You had a baby. It was like his death liberated you in a way. You know, they say we don’t fully become ourselves until our parents die. Maybe that’s why I’m something of a late bloomer.” He spoke the last sentence without a trace of irony. “Maybe you have the chance for a new life here. Now. If you just . . . accept things . . .”
I stared at him across our dirty, cluttered table. I thought about walking out—hell, I thought about punching him. But instead, I just signaled for the waitress, who brought the check.
“Give it to him,” I said. “We’re finished here.”
Chapter Three
“Do you mind making a stop?”
“Where?” Buster asked.
When Buster saw the animal shelter, he sighed. “You’re kidding, right? He’s dead.”
“Just give me a minute.”
In the lobby, I smelled the accumulated odors of hundreds of caged animals. Their fur, their waste, their food. Their fear and desperation. The door at the back, the one that led to the cages, muffled the sounds, but I could still hear a faint chorus of barks and yelps. I asked the woman working at the counter about Frosty, and she seemed immediately confused by my request.
“He’s your dog?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And he was lost?”
“No, I brought him here. He’s a yellow Lab. Frosty’s his name. I wanted to get rid of him, but now I want him back.”
She pursed her lips like the nuns from my grade school.
“Well, I’ll see,” she said. “But this doesn’t happen often.” She stopped at the door to the cages and looked back at me. “You’ll have to pay the adoption donation even if he is your dog.”
I nodded my assent. While she was gone, I looked around the lobby. The faces of dogs and cats in need of homes stared back at me from one bulletin board, and next to that another one held flyers advertising missing pets. We didn’t make a new flyer for Caitlin this year. The police created an age progression image, one showing Caitlin at age fifteen, and it was so warped and distorted—the eyes too large, the hair artificial—I couldn’t bear to look at it. I thought it belonged in a mortician’s textbook, an example of what not to do to preserve the image of a loved one. But the police distributed it anyway, and from time to time I came across a faded, wrinkling copy in the corner of a coffee shop or stuck to a community bulletin board downtown.
The woman reappeared so quickly I knew she bore bad news.
“He’s gone,” she said matter-of-factly, as though talking about a housefly.
“I thought you kept them for a week—”
“He’s been adopted,” she said. “Someone got him yesterday.”
“Okay, can you just tell me who it is? I need him back.”
She shook her head, the lips pursed again. “We can’t do that, sir.”
“But he’s my dog.”
“You brought him in here. You gave him away.”
“It was a mistake. A misunderstanding.” I leaned against the counter, letting it support most of my weight. I felt drained by the day. And guilty. I’d hoped having Frosty back would lift me.
“We can’t give out that information. It’s private.”
“I know, but—”
“We can’t just have people coming in here and getting personal information about our clients.”
“Okay, okay. I get it.”
“We have plenty of other dogs here,” she said. “Good dogs.” She seemed suddenly cheery and upbeat. “Is this for a family? Are you looking for a dog for your children?”
“No, just for me, I guess. And I only wanted that dog.” There was nothing more to say, so I turned and left.
When I climbed back into the car, Buster didn’t say anything. He dropped it into gear and drove me home, the voice of the talk radio host our only companion. Buster stopped at the curb in front of the house, but neither one of us got out.
“Thanks for coming today,” I said. “I’m glad you made it.” I extended my hand, which he shook.
“That’s what brothers do for each other,” he said.
“I didn’t even ask what you’re doing these days.”
He shrugged. “A cell phone company. Sales. It pays the bills. Look, I know why you’re asking about that—”