Road Refugees (A Motorcycle Club Romance) Page 3

  A swoon was coming on. In the desert, with the bus stop half a mile back now, there was nothing I could aim for, no target to hit. My head was in the ozone somewhere as I wobbled crookedly over the solid white line.

  I know, I know. I should’ve just sat down until the fit passed. But maybe what happened was for the best.

  I found out later I collapsed like a sandcastle. Byron had to swerve his motorcycle into the sand at the shoulder, then leaped into the road to save me from being flattened by a car.

  He was returning from delivering a puppy to a buyer. His bike had a sidecar for this purpose, and he picked me up all heroic-like and placed me onto the seat so gently I didn’t wake up from my coma.

  Anyway, this is what Byron told me later. Who knows if it was true? Who knows if he didn’t just toss me in there like a salad? And why didn’t he take me to the nearest hospital? It was obvious I was from Cornucopia from my attire.

  Either way, town spelled life for me, and I was getting closer to my brother Arkie.

  Chapter Four

  Townshend

  When I got out of the service, I drove around Fort Carson and Colorado Springs, astonished at the buildings. Compared to the crumbling colonial or beehive mud buildings of Syria, they were fancy and opulent. For the first few weeks I wouldn’t stop taking hot showers. The wonder of it soon faded, and before long it took me an hour to screw up the spirit to walk to the liquor store.

  Straddling my Road Glide, the closer I got to Denver, the bolder and more self-assured I felt. It seemed I was reversing the miserable trajectory I’d plunged into when I’d finally discharged from the army. By the time I turned the corner toward the Puppies Behind Bars outpost training facility, I was giddy as a dancing puppet. I forgot about my fractured vertebrae, which in two years with no medical help had developed wedge deformities. When I whipped one leg over my bike’s saddle to dismount—I’d spied a fellow vet several parking spaces away and wanted to greet him—my bootheel hooked on the fuel tank and twisted. Man, did I need my cane then. I was now physically as well as mentally disabled. But it didn’t dampen my excitement as we all convened in the gym-like room where the dogs had been training.

  I sat flanked by Eloise, who had lost the majority of one leg thanks to an IED, and Gunther, another victim of PTSD. They had already been paired up with their dogs, having met them in a prison atmosphere with the inmates who had trained them. Then the animals had arrived in Denver for more training until today, when they met their people.

  Gunther told me, “I didn’t feel any different from those prisoners. I felt like I was finally back with my brothers in arms. I was probably the biggest murderer there.”

  I doubted it. I would have been the biggest murderer there, by definition. These men were imprisoned for doing what we were urged and paid to do. After awhile, the conflicting directives made you feel like you’d beamed down and back one too many times. It’s easy to think of myself as an inmate. One little mistake marks the difference between inmate and soldier.

  My situation was a little different from my two brothers in arms. I wanted that Goldendoodle, Linus, who had chaperoned me through so much misery in my condo. His heart-melting photo greeted me when I’d twisted the cap off a rum bottle, and I didn’t remember him saying goodnight when I passed out. He’d been there fresh as a new death metal song the past two weeks, which I’d endured without a drop of liquor. Slappy and some other men came over during that time, and I was honest about what I was doing. They pretended to be envious of me, but really, I could tell. Their faces said “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,” and they didn’t believe themselves capable of anything similar.

  I did have trouble racking out for a few weeks. I’d toss and turn with little half-dreams flitting through my skull. I’d always lose my phone, my wallet, didn’t know where to report for duty, couldn’t find my car, and especially the bathroom. But I made it through and spent my drinking time lifting weights. I felt pretty damned fit for the first time in ages when I got on my Road Glide.

  There was another twist with Linus. He was already hanging out in the Fishkill Correctional Facility in New York. I’d been waiting to meet him for months. And now with his trainer paroled back into an unchained outside world, they were willing to give Linus another chance to sucker in someone like me. So they drove him to Denver to be with me.

  “You’re finally going to meet Linus,” said Eloise, beaming. She had a smile that would not quit. The three of us had been texting nonstop, sharing dreams and fears.

  I said, “I just hope he isn’t traumatized by having another person abandon him.” I referred to the inmate who, when paroled, would choose what they called freedom over a measly dog who needed training. We paid homage to these prisoners every day.

  Gunther said, “You can see it in their eyes. They’re smart, heartbroken.” He was getting his second therapy dog, the first having died of lymphoma. “Three months training with someone doesn’t seem long, but it is to a dog. It’s like they wonder what they’ve done wrong to lose a person like that.”

  “Fucknuts,” I muttered under my breath.

  “It’ll be fine,” Gunther reassured me. Was he telling the truth? Would it be fine? “They also forget quickly, if put into a new atmosphere, and Doll’s been training him with her people here.”

  I simply could not overlook that Linus needed a “special match.” The trainer, Doll Strikeleather, had told me on the phone that Linus was a good boy. He had trouble paying attention to commands, sometimes going off the rails on basic stuff, like heeling. Over here, they taught dogs not to depend on one certain trainer. That way, they lost the consistency of bonding with one human. The guy at Fishkill had been Linus’s second inmate trainer. Doll knew it was possible Linus could be despondent. But he was perceptive and sensitive, and Doll saw his capacity for learning. He was sweet, kind, and smart. You couldn’t help loving him.

  “I hope you’re right,” I said quietly. “I don’t think I could take another kick in the face.”

  Eloise looked at me sideways. She was waifish, large sunken eyes in a skull dusted with thin hair. Today she wore a prosthetic leg and stood with a cane, like me. She had started out in the Raqqa Offensive in Syria, just as I had, later moving to Operation Inherent Resolve. I believed I’d literally bumped into her on a couple of occasions. “Linus will love you. You’re an amazing statue of bravery.”

  Was I? What made her think that? Was she impressed with my medals, my ten years of service, my six tours of duty? I felt as though I should be pleased with myself, yet I wasn’t. I was only depressed, like the two soldiers standing next to me.

  Eloise’s yellow lab was brought out first. Doll put him through his paces, demonstrating how adept and alert he was as he paid attention to every tiny hand motion. A couple other trainers came into the arena, and the dog impressed us even farther by going to each one as he was called. He picked up various items from a lineup of items on the floor. By his grand finale, actually pulling a person in a wheelchair, we were overflowing with joy. We cheered like morons, me blowing loud, forceful whistles between my fingers. They had to calm the dog down before Doll led him to Eloise. A tear of joy squeezed from the corner of her eye as she buried her face in the dog’s neck.

  A sliver of unease fluttered in my stomach as they brought out Gunther’s dog, another yellow lab who performed with similar accuracy.

  I was worrying about Linus. He’d been a washout, a worthless oxygen thief. No one thought he’d be a success except his first trainer, Ian. He didn’t train him the usual way. He would lay with him in his bunk, gently touching Linus’ paws and ears. When he got up, Linus would follow. He’d drape himself over Ian and intertwine their necks in an embrace. In the courtyard, he’d squash himself against Ian on the bench. Everyone pointed and laughed at Linus’ sad eyes, the perfect image of yearning, of purity before it discovers evil. People gave Ian hell for having such a softie, a wuss for a dog while they walked their hulking Labradors.

  Ian did
n’t care. His previous dog had graduated as an explosives detection dog. He was a lifer, just as I’d been before the army failed me. He had time. He’d seen prisoners overwork dogs because they had nothing better to do all day. Linus would look on sadly as if thinking, “Who gives a shit? I’ve got nothing to prove.” To accept the training of someone else, you need to want to. You need to aspire to the teaching. Linus knew all the commands. He just wasn’t motivated.

  One day, someone from Puppies Behind Bars tossed a large plastic swimming pool into the yard. The pool was chock-full of dogs, but Ian gave it a try. Ignoring the splashing, teeming mass, Ian calmly said, “In.”

  Linus jumped in.

  “Out.”

  Linus jumped out.

  “In. Come. Go get it.”

  Linus performed flawlessly, disregarding the flailing of his companions.

  “Out. Down. Side. Stay.”

  From that day on, Linus followed Ian with zest, annoying the inmates who had harassed him. He had just made headway on training Linus without the use of the pool when he received shocking news. He’d been approved for parole. Ian collapsed sobbing, and Linus was back on the same well-trodden path, aimless and lonely. Other inmates tried to take over, but it was pointless. Linus was despondent without Ian.

  Doll told me he’d perked up since being here. Still, I clenched my hands until my nails were embedded in my palms as Gunther went through his steps with his new dog.

  This has to work. It has to.

  I clung to a thought that gave me a shred of relief from the pain, both physical and psychic. I can help Linus instead of the other way around. If I could see it as a joint effort, instead of placing the burden of service on Linus, maybe his failures wouldn’t be such a disappointment. I thought I’d read that training a dog could be just as rewarding for the trainer as for the dog. Or . . . should I choose a different dog?

  “Amazing! Isn’t she, Town?”

  What? Oh, Gunther was talking to me. I looked down, and his yellow lab was sitting obediently at his side. “Yeah. Yeah! Amazing!” I bent to scratch the dog’s ears, but my entire being was focused on the door my dog would come through. Where is Linus?

  I was about to rupture like one of those steam-driven heads in cartoons by the time Linus appeared. The first thing that hit me was his deep grief. His shiny black button eyes were on alert, scanning the arena. His soft, curly paws looked like the legs of a couch, his clipped torso a seat. Above all, his ears seemed so soft I could feel them feathering my face.

  Come with me, Linus. I will help you.

  And it struck me. Helping others would heal me faster than accepting help.

  I’d never been happier to see a living soul in my life. Not even when Stony, our mascot in Syria, had come running after a deadly ambush.

  I couldn’t stop it then. I squatted, involving much wrangling of my spine. I held out my arms and shouted, “Linus!”

  His ears puffed, and he paused for only a split second. It seemed as though everyone around me froze—my brothers in arms, their dogs, Doll and her trainers. Linus only had eyes for me. It was like seeing your beloved in the middle of a crowded airport. Everyone else faded away, and Linus beelined right for me. My arms were open and I braced my feet to accept his crash.

  “Linus!”

  He was on me, slathering my face with his tongue, huffing and puffing against me. I heard someone laugh, and realized it was me. His paws didn’t hurt me—they shoved me gently as he squirmed his body around mine. I fell down on my butt and didn’t care. The oxytocin flooding my brain prevented me from feeling any pain. Together we were one bundle of utter joy. I made stupid, growling animal sounds against his face. I knew he was mine.

  Now I could get on with my life.

  “That’s incredible!” said Doll, somewhere above me. “It’s almost as though he thinks you’re Ian.”

  “Way to go!” shouted Eloise with glee. Her dog came over to join in the fun, swatting Linus on the shoulder as if to say “me, too.”

  Gunther said, “I’ve never seen anything like that, man. I think you found your dog.”

  I knew Doll would want to encourage training, and this was just play. But play was important because she didn’t tell us to knock it off. Being a determined, type A personality had nearly killed me, doing so many tours when I was injured. In Syria there was never time for play, no matter how many people around me were jumping off a cliff. I had to change myself. It was time for me to learn how to play.

  “Linus,” I said, over and over, imprinting him with my voice. And sometimes I said, “Good boy.”

  Eventually Doll had to separate us. A definite sadness came over Linus then as the trainer led him to the other side of the room. His entire being hollowed out as happiness ebbed. I wasn’t just imagining that he already missed me.

  Eloise said, “That’s so amazing, Captain. Our dogs weren’t nearly as happy as yours.”

  Because they knew they were service dogs, born and bred. Linus was a companion animal. Sure, he could pick stuff up for me when it hurt to bend down. He wasn’t perfect in any way, shape, or form. But he was perfect for me.

  We spent the afternoon training. I knew this was of the utmost importance. But I allowed Linus time to be ridiculous. He loved to romp with the other two dogs, who welcomed it. When Doll proudly showed me how Linus would retrieve something and bring it to me, Linus would taunt me by waving the toy around, leaping like a kangaroo. This ninety-pound dog seemed to think he was still a puppy. I needed to re-learn how to be young again, too. I was only twenty-fucking-eight and I acted like a hundred.

  We had dinner outdoors at a picnic table with the dogs nearby on a stay down.

  Doll said, “We’ve been sending them out every few days with foster parents. Linus’ last one took him to church.”

  We all guffawed. “No!” I declared. “Did he tear ass down the aisle?” Unlike my parents from Sicily, I was not a churchgoer.

  “Actually, no. He sat nicely at her feet, and when it came time to receive communion, he just went down to the front. He sat next to her with his paws on the altar rail!”

  “No.” I really couldn’t imagine that. Linus? My Linus? A devout sort of guy?

  “He watched the priest go by with the wafers. She said he only looked sad because he didn’t get one too. The priest returned and blessed him.”

  We were all speechless, mouths hanging open. I could barely whisper, “Then what did he do?”

  Doll said, “He calmly turned around and went back to his seat.”

  I looked at the curly, mustard-colored dog. He had his chin on his rectangular paws. His perfectly round obsidian eyes glimmered with intelligence.

  Gunther finally whispered, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.”

  I could not agree more.

  Later, the three of us racked out in a special bunkhouse for veterans. For now, our dogs stayed in their kennels. We all took turns in the little shower—Eloise removed her prosthetic leg—and I turned down a chance at Gunther’s whiskey flask. I liked being sober but was still so unsure about my ability to maintain it. Would one sip send me back onto that depressive, downward road? It wasn’t worth the risk finding out.

  “Have you seen Samantha since she broke it off?” Eloise asked Gunther. She sat on her twin bed propped against the wall, her empty pajama leg trailing like a flag.

  What was this now? I thought we’d been sharing goals and fears, hopes and tears. And now Gunther had a fiancée I didn’t know about? I felt offended and sat up straighter on my own bed.

  Gunther gulped his flask, smacking his lips. “Nope. Don’t want to either. She dumped me at the lowest point in my life. It took me forever to recover from that. I mean, how fucking heartless and ruthless can a human being be? Didn’t Jean-Paul Sartre say something about that?”

  Eloise smiled reassuringly. “Probably.”

  An awkward silence ensued during which it seemed Gunther polished off his flask. I opened my mouth to offer lame words of support, bu
t Eloise beat me to it. Only, her words cut me more than the Samantha remark.

  “Captain, I’ve never known you to hook up with anyone. You’re not secretly married, are you?”

  Gunther swallowed, as if to say, “Uh oh, now you’ve done it.” Silence blared, as though we’d all tried to call God at once.

  “Uh,” I said with a dry throat, and reached for my water bottle.

  But my audience was patient. They’d wait for an answer.

  “Uh,” I said again, looking at the floor. When I ratcheted up the nerve, I spoke to the floor. “No, not at all. Not even close. You know the drill. I’ve been super obsessed with my career. Homeland, honor, sincerity.”

  “But you’re not gay.” This was a statement from Eloise, not a question.

  “No. Not at all.”

  She laughed with relief. “Good. My gaydar record remains unchallenged.”

  The feeble remark eased the stress in the room. More relaxed now with my new friends, I added, “I did have a fiancée once. But I was way younger, maybe twenty, back in Philadelphia.”

  Gunther nodded with understanding. “She dump you because you were always gone?”

  I shook my head. “No. She died.” To soften the blow of their gasps, I continued, “Of thyroid cancer. I, ah, wasn’t able to be there at the end. I was over there in Iraq, you know, Operation New Dawn.” It was a lame attempt at distracting them from Jessica’s death. I hoped they might start talking about Iraq. I was mistaken.

  Eloise slung her limbless pajama leg over the edge of her bed. “You’re shitting me. I’m so, so sorry, Captain. That must’ve been painful.”