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The sun blasted through Lincoln's window the next morning, each ray pounding into his skull. His face scrunched and he slithered in the sheets. Filthy. Stinking.
There went his plans of heading out to the lot, spending the day cutting and hauling and clearing. Not gonna happen.
How many bottles of beer had he drunk last night? Six? Seven? The last bit of evidence sat sprawled on his bedside table. A trickle of Propeller Pale Ale beading right next to his clock radio.
It'd been months since he'd woken up like this. Six. Seven, maybe? In those first few weeks, it'd been a regular occurrence. Drink. Get High. Hide from life. Repeat. But then he'd bought the lot, concocted a plan, decided enough was enough. Apparently, enough was only enough until his past burst back into his life. Lincoln pushed himself onto his forearms with a groan. Romper, who lay across the room, not at Lincoln's feet per their usual agreement, perked his ears. He pranced over and did a little back and forth dance.
“Hold it,” Lincoln grumbled.
A bark.
“Just—” Lincoln grasped the side of his head. He couldn't have had more than six. He'd only had a six pack in his closet, hidden away. Six and he felt like this? In the old days he could put away seven or eight with the boys or, in later years, after a successful acquisition, and wake up feeling spiffy. He chuckled, then held his head again. Spiffy. One of Joseph's favourite terms, typically used before getting ready for a night on the town. Let's get spiffy, man.
The pounding increased. He missed his brother.
Another bark.
Missed Rachel and his Mom and even Linda a bit. Lucy. Stupidly. Unbelievably. Pathetically. He missed Lucy.
Bark. Bark. Bark.
“All right, all right.”
Lincoln swung his legs over the side of his bed. The distasteful smell he'd woken up with became unconscionable. Why would—? The truck. Muddy clothes, muddy body. Still, it was ridiculous that he stank like this. Showering hadn't been a top priority of late, but it had to be today. Romper followed Lincoln to the bathroom door, his eyes accusatory.
“I'll be quick. Two minutes. Three tops.”
The dog settled on his front paws. Lincoln could let him out alone, but he wouldn't risk it. He bent and scratched between the dog's ears. The last thing he needed was this mutt disappointing him too.
Fresh out of the shower, and despite his pounding, fog-filled head, Lincoln held to the burst of energy the water granted. He swept the sheets off his bed, emptied his pillow cases, scooped up the sodden clothes from last night and threw them all, along with the pile from his clothes bin, into a laundry bag.
He gestured to Romper, who followed without making eye contact. It was at least two hours past when Lincoln generally took the dog out, but the instant they stepped outside, the sun—with its blasting rays—prompted complete forgiveness. Romper bounded up and down the street then settled on his favourite patch of lawn three houses up. Lincoln followed behind, impressed as always that Romper's preferred patches always had a garbage can nearby.
A look from a disapproving neighbour and Lincoln patted his thigh. Romper bounded toward him. Lincoln linked the leash he'd gotten a few weeks ago to the dog's collar. He'd take it off when out of the neighbour's line of vision, though Romper didn't seem to mind. It was Lincoln who minded. Something about putting a living creature on a leash ... it made him queasy.
After dropping his laundry at the Suds 'N Bubble, Lincoln headed to the Commons, a large green space in the middle of the city. A variety of young people and one old man—in his mid-eighties at least—roller-bladed on the large cement oval. A group of school kids played an awkward looking game of softball in one of the baseball fields, and a man played Frisbee with two young boys. Everywhere—people with people. Lincoln strayed far from the Frisbee players, scooped a ball out of his pocket, and sent it flying. Romper soared through the air with a leap of joy.
Spent from forty-five minutes of throwing a ball, but not even near tired of the sun, Lincoln picked up his laundry then decided to take the long route home. Romper pranced beside him.
Lincoln never did this in his old life—spent an afternoon in the sun, walked without needing to be anywhere and for no real purpose. He walked when Lucy wanted to walk. He had run for exercise. And even then, his mind never wandered. It calculated. It planned. It went over numbers and strategies and new initiatives.
Today it meandered. Today it felt free. People, as he'd told Andrew the night before, were awful—as individuals, as groups—people, as anything more than shopkeepers, and librarians, and garbage collectors, he could do without. But people just existing, going about in their own worlds, expecting nothing of him—that he'd miss.
The laughing teens with Popsicles. Popsicles! That old man who'd looked so able on his rollerblades, only to take them off, carefully put them in a bag, then hobble off with a limp, looking every day his age and more ... but he'd worn a smile, a sly one, like he'd pulled the wool over someone's eyes. Over life's?
That's what he'd miss. Life. People who gave the appearance, at least, that the world was beautiful.
If his plan worked, if he figured out a way to make it work, he'd miss watching life.
“Hi, there!”
Lincoln jumped. When was the last time a stranger on the street had talked to him, acknowledged his existence, even? A small round face, defined by a large gap to the side of her two front teeth, grinned up at him.
Lincoln stared.
The girl scrunched her nose then crouched beside the dog, digging her hands into his fur. “What's his name?”
“Romper.”
“Romper.” She laughed then waved over a little boy—about half her age and half her size, with three or four-inch dreads sticking up all over his head. The boy gazed at Lincoln, big brown eyes uncertain—Lincoln had seen him before, but where?
The boy shuffled over and touched the dog's head. Romper licked him, and the boy's face lit up like a firecracker. He put a hand on his cheek, as if marvelling, then threw his arms around the dog's neck.
A woman stood on the porch, eyeing them. “He safe?” She called in a booming voice.
Lincoln nodded.
“Don't be fretting him,” she said to the kids. “No pulling his ears or tail. He'll bite ya.” She seemed to hold back a chuckle as the girl waved a hand at her without looking back. The boy patted Romper with slow, cautious movements and stepped back a bit.
“He won't bite,” the girl whispered. She looked again at Lincoln. “Will he?”
Lincoln shook his head and hefted the laundry bag higher on his shoulder. The boy was three, maybe four. Probably four.
He never used to think about these things, not until the last few months, when he'd had time to think, when he'd finally gotten over the numb shock that his life, as he'd known it, had disintegrated. Lincoln smiled at the boy. The little face looked up, then smiled back, before focusing on Romper again.
Lincoln's first son ... or daughter, if allowed to live, would have been about this age. He’d had no choice in aborting that child—the first woman to break his heart made that decision all on her own. His second child—potential child—with Lucy, the second woman to tear his heart to shreds, would be just a few weeks old now. Two children, never to see the light of day.
“Is he a puppy, or a grown up dog?” the girl asked.
His thoughts broken off, Lincoln focused on the girl. “I'm not sure.”
“You don't know?” Her eyes widened.
“Well, he's not a new puppy.”
“Hmm.” The girl turned back to Romper, her brightly beaded braids clicking against each other. Romper sank to his bottom, his front paws still up. “Do you know how old you are?” Romper turned his head up to Lincoln, his patience wearing thin. For all his qualities, he wasn't one for indulging the whims of children ... unless they had a ball for him to catch.
“He can't talk, you know.”
The girl glared at Lincoln then spun her head back to Romper. Click-click-click-click-click, went the beads. “I know.”
Lincoln cleared his throat. “Maybe we should ... I mean I have to ...” Romper stood, ears at attention.
A car was coming up the road, two people in it, a man and a woman, arguing, the man's hand flailing as he spoke. A cat peered around the side of a garbage can—ah, that's what Romper was upset about. Lincoln reached for the dog's leash and was about to clip it when the cat bolted into the street. Romper leapt. The boy, his arms entangled with the dog somehow, catapulted over the curb as the car came onward. Lincoln's throat closed. He couldn't scream, couldn't move, as the car, the cat, the dog, the boy, all moved toward each other, faster than a blink but slower than a breath.