Andy found Beth asleep on a bench under a large Central Park oak with Hips standing guard beside her. Hips trotted over to Andy and rested his head in the boy’s hand.
“Don’t bother my dog,” Beth said with her eyes still closed. “I don’t know if he bites.”
“He doesn’t,” Andy said. “This is one of the sweetest creatures God has ever made.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not taking any chances. And God’s not here to vouch for him at the moment, so go away, please.”
Andy didn’t move. He was close to piking again, recalling the moment when he first found Hips, broken and bleeding in the park. He could see the bone jutting out of torn flesh, the unnatural twist of the dog’s body, the huge brown eyes pleading for an explanation. Andy chased the bastards who did it deep into the park and made sure they understood what an aluminum bat felt like. They whimpered just like—
“Look,” Beth said as she finally opened her eyes. “You’re sort of creeping me out here, kid, so if you’ve got something to say…”
“Sorry.” Andy rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Brain fart. Didn’t mean to be rude.” He removed his backpack and sat down on the bench next to Beth. “I’m Andy. Dr. Sam sent me over to make sure you didn’t get lost or fall asleep.”
“Well, I guess I didn’t get lost.”
An ancient black man with short silver hair, dark eyes almost lost in a deeply etched face, and a long black coat walked past the bench. The man paused for a moment and nodded at Andy. Andy shivered and the old man quickly moved on.
“So you’re the shrink?” Andy asked.
“Was,” Beth said. “Not my job anymore.”
“Good.”
“You don’t care for mental health professionals?”
“Not really.”
“Me neither. What do you do at the shelter?”
“I volunteer when I can. Sort of paying off a debt.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling.” Beth nodded to the violin case showing out of the top of the backpack. “Gun?”
“Some days. But today it’s a violin.”
“How do you know which one it’s going to be?”
“Depends on which Andy I feed the most.”
“Ah. So you just carry it around or do you use it?”
“The gun or the violin?”
“Both.”
“Sometimes I use the violin.”
“I was a musician too.”
“Really?”
“No. But I used to play the bells in marching band in high school.”
“That counts. Notes is notes.”
“Not really. I never learned to read music, so I just kept hitting the same note over and over.”
“Did anyone notice?”
“Yeah. They finally took my mallets away, so I just marched with the bells and pretended to hit them. Then they took my bells away. That’s when I took up the bass drum. Bad conduct followed. The usual ‘girl loses glockenspiel’ hard luck story.”
Andy laughed. He usually wasn’t good around new people—particularly shrinks—but he recognized another inhabitant of the island of misfit toys when he saw one. He always experienced a “mashed potatoes and mac and cheese” sense of comfort on those rare occasions when he found someone at least as screwed up as himself. And laughter was like kryptonite to piking—the two could not exist in the same space because laughter, like hope, was forward-looking. Andy had also found, however, that laughter was far too fleeting; his memories always returned and hope did not linger.
“Where do you—” Beth started to ask, but a human steroid advertisement texting on his iPhone rounded the path. Hips couldn’t maneuver fast enough and the man stumbled over the dog. Hips yelped.
“Hey, watch it!” Andy shouted. The man continued without apology or even acknowledgment. “Dickhead!” Andy called after him.
That got the man’s attention and he turned. “What’d you say, kid?”
Andy rose and stepped forward to meet him. Even though the man was several inches taller and about forty pounds heavier, Andy didn’t seem to care. “I said, ‘Get your head out of your ass, moron.’ If you can’t even pay enough attention in the world to avoid stepping on a crippled dog, what are you really doing here?”
“You gonna do something about it, faggot?” the man challenged.
Beth joined Andy. “Maybe we should just get back,” she told him.
“Yeah, maybe you’d better,” the man sneered, jabbing his finger into Andy’s chest with each word. Hips growled at his tone.
Fingers… hands… dirty nails… a brutal touch. Andy felt the pull. Heat spread from his chest up through his neck to the top of his skull. His head throbbed and his eyes narrowed as he became completely quiet. All his muscles knotted. Someone looking at Andy objectively would have seen something older, larger, menacing—an animal balanced on an unpredictable precipice of violence.
The man must have seen something dangerous too because he faltered, took a step backward and then another. Andy advanced.
“We’re cool,” the man offered hopefully.
Andy shook his head slowly. “No.” His voice was calm, a whisper. “We’re not.”
“I’m sorry, OK?” The man backed off another two steps.
“Let it go,” Beth told Andy. “He said he’s sorry.”
After one last frightened glance at Andy, the man turned and walked away from them at a pace just short of a jog.
Once the big man cleared the corner and disappeared, Andy’s shoulders dropped and his eyes widened and cleared. He had returned.
“Sorry. I don’t like bullies,” Andy confessed.
“Yeah, I got that,” Beth responded. “Just curious. What would’ve happened if the guy hadn’t backed down?”
Andy shrugged. “I’m sure we would’ve worked something out.”
Beth appeared to ponder that answer. “So, just between us, are you dangerous?”
Andy laughed. “Were you a good mental health professional?”
“No. Not really.”
“OK then. Just between us? Only on days when it’s a gun.”
Beth nodded. “Actually, I’m oddly comforted by that,” she said.
As they walked back to the shelter with Hips between them, Andy worked hard to forget the memory of hands reaching out for him in the darkness.