gleason

He read the story, again, then put down the magazine. It wasn’t even six, yet, and he was up and into his third cup of coffee. The garbage trucks three blocks over, on Wilmette, woke him. They made a hell’s bells of a ruckus. He wasn’t sleeping very soundly, anyway. Hadn’t for a week or so, ever since he got the news.

His dog, Gleason, lay flat in the corner. On his right side. Always that way. It was humid, still, and would be another scorcher, was the report, and Gleason didn’t move much, anymore, anyway and maybe wouldn’t move from that spot if it got up into the 90s, like it was supposed to. Fat, too. That made it even tougher.

He turned on the TV with his fingers. He didn’t like the remote. Too many choices, with it, he figured. Too easy to change. Sometimes you had to just stick with what you got. He’d done that a lot. Wife. House. Job. Life. It was what he was taught, how he lived, because that was the way you did it, anyway: you lived the way you saw. His old man was the same, and his old man’s old man, too.

The boy was different. He smiled, a bit, sadly, at the thought. If he’d been the same, maybe he’d still be alive. But he wasn’t, and he wasn’t. Last time he’d seen him alive was a week ago Friday. Ten days, now. Funeral’d been a neat affair. Not overcrowded. But enough people. He’d taken Gleason along. Gleason’d been the boy’s dog, mostly. Got him from the pound for the boy when the boy was just eight, or so. He still wasn’t sure why the boy had named him that – Gleason. Or he’d forgotten. Maybe that was it. He must’ve asked him, at some point.

The dog was good company, now, especially since the boy wasn’t coming back. Rough thing, outliving your offspring. Makes you want to lay down and die. First it was Helen, back in ’66. Now, it was her brother. Fay’d died in the late ‘50s. Breast cancer. Ate her up, inside out. She’d been a good mother. Now, it was just him.

Loneliness was a test, he’d always thought. See how tough you are. Back when Fay passed, he didn’t think it could get much tougher. When Helen went, it upped the ante. But, the boy?

He turned off the TV and headed for the front door. He kept it triple-locked, at night. The neighborhood wasn’t so easy, anymore. Most everyone was either dead or moved out. He didn’t speak much with whoever moved in. He wasn’t against anyone, that’s just the way he was.

He thought maybe he’d start drinking, again. Used to hit it pretty hard. Stopped when the boy asked him to. It was a good thing. He thought maybe he’d start smoking, again, too. Stopped that, when Fay passed. Scared him. Made him feel better, it was true. And he wasn’t so sure he missed it. Now, what was the use? Who would care?

He sat in a thread-bare green plaid rocker in the living room and stared at the wall. The doorbell rang. The postman. Earle. Good man. Liked to talk, but not too much. Made friends with Fay. She’d invite him in for coffee on cold, blustery winter days. Some folks thought Fay had a thing for Earle, but it wasn’t nothing, he knew.

He answered the door.
“You ok, old man?”
The old man nodded. “Yeah.”
“I said this before and I’ll say it, again, your boy was a fine soldier.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“He was a patriot.”
“Thank you,” he said, again.
“You need to think that, to remember that.”
“I do,” he said.
Earle handed him a pile of mail. “Gonna git up into the low 90s, they say. You gonna be ok?”
“I’ll stay inside.”
“You do that. Drink cold water. Put some ice in it. An’ I’ll be by, tomorrow.”

The old man nodded, then watched as Earle climbed down the stairs and headed up the driveway, toward the street. He closed the door and fingered through the mail. He would never admit it, but he always looked for a letter from the boy, hoping that he wasn’t gone forever. But, again, there was none.

He walked back into the kitchen, tossed the mail onto the table and got a glass of water from the sink. He drank it down, slow, but in one drink. He looked out the kitchen window and watched the willow tree sway in the hot breeze. He didn’t look down at Gleason, never even gazed at the dog when he left the kitchen for the bedroom and his bed for a nap. He wouldn’t find out until mid-afternoon that Gleason was gone, too. Just like that. Like pretty much everyone went, mostly.