Infinite Repair
by Larry Flynn
“An isolated person is doomed beyond remedy.” – Yasmina Khadra
The sheepdog has not been loved. That much is clear when the boy finds it. The boy is walking through downtown Freeport, Maine when he sees the sheepdog in front of Sherman’s Bookstore. It is sniffing the air for a sense of direction. The boy approaches the dog slowly and sits down on the moldy cobblestone. The sheepdog’s coat is musky and unwashed, but the boy pets him anyway. He is glad to have company. The northern Atlantic fall breeze has carried visitors back to Massachusetts and New York. Ben & Jerry’s has brought their crowd control rope inside and shortened their hours. L.L. Bean is no longer crowded. The boy and his father, like all the locals, don’t shop at these tourist destinations. They are regulars at the family-owned hardware store and stick around all year, even when the seaside town freezes over. They are now a family of two, since the boating accident last month. With the addition of a sheepdog, the boy thinks, they could call themselves a family of three again. The boy sits for an hour, picking his cuticles and petting the dog to pass time.
“I’m PJ,” the boy says to the dog. When he stands up, the sheepdog barks. “What? Come with?”
The sheepdog barks again. And so, they walk.
When PJ turns the corner onto Barco Road, he sees his father raking and bagging leaves. It is that time of the year, and PJ knows he will have to grab a rake. His father is limping, as always. When PJ was younger, he used to watch his father limp into the truck to drive to town for mental and physical therapy but now, a decade later, his father’s broken gait is even more pronounced. PJ is embarrassed by it. It appears like an immovable, tectonic force is pulling on his father’s leg, dragging him deeper and deeper into the ground. PJ is starting to see his father for what he is: an old man. He is losing his hair and what remains has grown grey like the whitecaps at sea, well before most men in their mid-forties. PJ has seen polaroids of his father before his deployment to Afghanistan. Today, limping in the yard, he looks like an entirely different man. His father points his rake toward the sheepdog.
“No collar,” PJ says. “No name.”
“Grab a rake.”
“Dad. Let me bring her inside first.” PJ always replaces his father’s name with the universal: dad. His father has, in a sense, lost his name. PJ has heard the butcher call him “my man,” and the men at the docks don’t address each other by name. PJ’s mother had been the last person to say his father’s name aloud. She had screamed it, falling off the back of their boat, and it had been her last word. PJ relives her scream, standing in the front yard, chatting with his father about what they should name the dog.
“How about Free?” PJ suggests. “Like Freeport or freedom.”
“Here,” his father says, handing him a rake.
“Let’s name her Ocean.”
“Hold the bag steady.”
“Do I have to tell somebody?”
His father shrugs. “Google it.” They have never owned a dog. When they finish in the yard, he hands PJ some singles and tells him to go downtown to get a leash. PJ sits on the couch and says he’ll go tomorrow, since the sun is beginning to set. PJ watches his father open the fridge, which is empty except for a half-full carton of eggs and a jar of molding pickles. He brings his son a soda, even though PJ hasn’t asked for it. PJ is Googling on his phone. Maine law says they should contact a shelter and they will hold the animal for at least a week. But podcasters had said the government was stupid, and so it was. PJ doesn’t tell his father, who walks to the backyard to repair the boat that killed PJ’s mother. The propeller is dented. He will try to finish repairs before winter comes.
PJ’s father picks him up from school now. Ocean joins along for the ride. Most dogs look like they are smiling when they pant, but not sheepdogs. When Ocean sticks her tongue out, it looks to PJ like she is struggling to breathe. He pets her to calm her down. His father asks generic questions about the cafeteria lunch menu and why PJ is wearing mismatching socks and how he’s enjoying classes. PJ’s attention is consumed with Ocean. He plucks errant leaves from her coat. He massages the back of her neck. The dog’s tail thumps against the side of the F-150. It reminds PJ of his father’s hammer coming from the backyard. These are the types of noises that make PJ reach for the remote and turn up the volume on his Call of Duty campaign, until the gunshot noises start to spook Ocean and PJ turns the volume back down.
In the car, PJ’s father casts glances at Ocean’s tail. PJ asks his father about his day, to turn his attention to the road and away from Ocean. Then, one day, PJ asks the question he has needed to ask.
“It’s cool if we keep Ocean, yeah?”
“Can you take good care of her?”
“I can,” PJ says.
His father’s silence asks a question.
“Dad.”
“Fine,” he says. “She’s ours.”
“I’m PJ,” the boy says to the dog. When he stands up, the sheepdog barks. “What? Come with?”
The sheepdog barks again. And so, they walk.
When PJ turns the corner onto Barco Road, he sees his father raking and bagging leaves. It is that time of the year, and PJ knows he will have to grab a rake. His father is limping, as always. When PJ was younger, he used to watch his father limp into the truck to drive to town for mental and physical therapy but now, a decade later, his father’s broken gait is even more pronounced. PJ is embarrassed by it. It appears like an immovable, tectonic force is pulling on his father’s leg, dragging him deeper and deeper into the ground. PJ is starting to see his father for what he is: an old man. He is losing his hair and what remains has grown grey like the whitecaps at sea, well before most men in their mid-forties. PJ has seen polaroids of his father before his deployment to Afghanistan. Today, limping in the yard, he looks like an entirely different man. His father points his rake toward the sheepdog.
“No collar,” PJ says. “No name.”
“Grab a rake.”
“Dad. Let me bring her inside first.” PJ always replaces his father’s name with the universal: dad. His father has, in a sense, lost his name. PJ has heard the butcher call him “my man,” and the men at the docks don’t address each other by name. PJ’s mother had been the last person to say his father’s name aloud. She had screamed it, falling off the back of their boat, and it had been her last word. PJ relives her scream, standing in the front yard, chatting with his father about what they should name the dog.
“How about Free?” PJ suggests. “Like Freeport or freedom.”
“Here,” his father says, handing him a rake.
“Let’s name her Ocean.”
“Hold the bag steady.”
“Do I have to tell somebody?”
His father shrugs. “Google it.” They have never owned a dog. When they finish in the yard, he hands PJ some singles and tells him to go downtown to get a leash. PJ sits on the couch and says he’ll go tomorrow, since the sun is beginning to set. PJ watches his father open the fridge, which is empty except for a half-full carton of eggs and a jar of molding pickles. He brings his son a soda, even though PJ hasn’t asked for it. PJ is Googling on his phone. Maine law says they should contact a shelter and they will hold the animal for at least a week. But podcasters had said the government was stupid, and so it was. PJ doesn’t tell his father, who walks to the backyard to repair the boat that killed PJ’s mother. The propeller is dented. He will try to finish repairs before winter comes.
PJ’s father picks him up from school now. Ocean joins along for the ride. Most dogs look like they are smiling when they pant, but not sheepdogs. When Ocean sticks her tongue out, it looks to PJ like she is struggling to breathe. He pets her to calm her down. His father asks generic questions about the cafeteria lunch menu and why PJ is wearing mismatching socks and how he’s enjoying classes. PJ’s attention is consumed with Ocean. He plucks errant leaves from her coat. He massages the back of her neck. The dog’s tail thumps against the side of the F-150. It reminds PJ of his father’s hammer coming from the backyard. These are the types of noises that make PJ reach for the remote and turn up the volume on his Call of Duty campaign, until the gunshot noises start to spook Ocean and PJ turns the volume back down.
In the car, PJ’s father casts glances at Ocean’s tail. PJ asks his father about his day, to turn his attention to the road and away from Ocean. Then, one day, PJ asks the question he has needed to ask.
“It’s cool if we keep Ocean, yeah?”
“Can you take good care of her?”
“I can,” PJ says.
His father’s silence asks a question.
“Dad.”
“Fine,” he says. “She’s ours.”
*
PJ is giving Ocean a belly rub when he feels a kick and realizes she is pregnant. “Dad,” he calls to his father, who is outside and cannot hear him. His father is almost done with the boat, which means there will be little to do this winter except drive his plow around town and fix things. PJ’s father is a handyman. He painted his name and phone number on the side of his truck. He takes care of things that need taking care of, like Mrs. Lipton’s rotting deck and the Thompsons’ rusted pipes. PJ always wonders why his father doesn’t just stop already and work somewhere else. L.L. Bean is always hiring, even in the winter. “But this gig is good for raising children and I set my own hours,” his father had said, and PJ stopped mentioning it since it was good for Ocean too. Someone needs to take care of her while he is at school. When his father walks inside for a snack, PJ shares the news about Ocean.
“She’s pregnant,” PJ says, not knowing whether he should sound excited or unnerved. His father is drinking a glass of water and wiping his forehead.
“Are you prepared to take care of the puppies too?” his father says.
“Yes,” PJ says, surprised by how quickly he answers.
“Good. I’m already caring for things.”
PJ asks his father if they can make a whelping box for Ocean. He agrees, and they fashion leftover plywood into a 6 x 6 pen. PJ moves a table from the basement into the family room, next to the couch. On it, he places the towels, a thermometer, iodine, and scissors to cut the umbilical cords. PJ imagines that severing the cords will be the most unnerving part of the process. He places layers of The Portland Press Herald as the floor of the box. It reminds him of making preparations for a nor’easter.
Ocean gets heavier and heavier. One day, she begins to vomit heavily. PJ asks his father to come watch over her. They sit on the couch together. They turn on the TV to a college basketball game, though they could care less about the score. The squeak of shoes and dull announcers’ commentary echo in an otherwise quiet house. PJ is finishing a bowl of tomato soup when Ocean whimpers loudly and PJ begins to hear a tearing noise. It sounds like an animal being ripped apart or killed. PJ looks at the whelping box, then wishes he hadn’t. Blood and mucus color the newspaper a slimy brown-red. PJ’s hands are shaking when his father takes the scissors from him. He looks away while he hears his father cut the cords. He hands his father the bottle of iodine, but plugs his nose because of the smell. PJ is realizing he’s still a child. When his father is done aiding the birth, he washes his hands in the sink. He wipes his hands with a kitchen towel and walks outside to his boat. PJ keeps his distance from Ocean and her three puppies for the rest of the day. He hadn’t expected the babies to look so hairless, so fragile, and so hideous.
PJ considers the names he could give the babies and researches the shots they must receive. Larry, Mo, and Curly. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednigo. He decides on Sun, Moon, and Sky. He tells his father that night.
“S-u-n?” his father asks.
“Yeah,” PJ says. “With a U.” He watches the puppies nurse their mother. They are cute now, and PJ can imagine them turning into beautiful dogs with silky coats like Ocean. He wonders how they transformed into cute puppies in only a matter of hours and realizes his father must have cleaned up the birthing fluids from the box, laid fresh newspaper on the ground, and washed the puppies clean. He doesn’t remember his father cleaning. He looks at the sparkling Formica countertop and realizes his father must have cleaned it too.
“PB&J?” his father asks.
“I got this,” PJ says, walking to the fridge and taking out the Skippy’s. He points to the TV. “The Celtics are on. Go sit.”
“She’s pregnant,” PJ says, not knowing whether he should sound excited or unnerved. His father is drinking a glass of water and wiping his forehead.
“Are you prepared to take care of the puppies too?” his father says.
“Yes,” PJ says, surprised by how quickly he answers.
“Good. I’m already caring for things.”
PJ asks his father if they can make a whelping box for Ocean. He agrees, and they fashion leftover plywood into a 6 x 6 pen. PJ moves a table from the basement into the family room, next to the couch. On it, he places the towels, a thermometer, iodine, and scissors to cut the umbilical cords. PJ imagines that severing the cords will be the most unnerving part of the process. He places layers of The Portland Press Herald as the floor of the box. It reminds him of making preparations for a nor’easter.
Ocean gets heavier and heavier. One day, she begins to vomit heavily. PJ asks his father to come watch over her. They sit on the couch together. They turn on the TV to a college basketball game, though they could care less about the score. The squeak of shoes and dull announcers’ commentary echo in an otherwise quiet house. PJ is finishing a bowl of tomato soup when Ocean whimpers loudly and PJ begins to hear a tearing noise. It sounds like an animal being ripped apart or killed. PJ looks at the whelping box, then wishes he hadn’t. Blood and mucus color the newspaper a slimy brown-red. PJ’s hands are shaking when his father takes the scissors from him. He looks away while he hears his father cut the cords. He hands his father the bottle of iodine, but plugs his nose because of the smell. PJ is realizing he’s still a child. When his father is done aiding the birth, he washes his hands in the sink. He wipes his hands with a kitchen towel and walks outside to his boat. PJ keeps his distance from Ocean and her three puppies for the rest of the day. He hadn’t expected the babies to look so hairless, so fragile, and so hideous.
PJ considers the names he could give the babies and researches the shots they must receive. Larry, Mo, and Curly. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednigo. He decides on Sun, Moon, and Sky. He tells his father that night.
“S-u-n?” his father asks.
“Yeah,” PJ says. “With a U.” He watches the puppies nurse their mother. They are cute now, and PJ can imagine them turning into beautiful dogs with silky coats like Ocean. He wonders how they transformed into cute puppies in only a matter of hours and realizes his father must have cleaned up the birthing fluids from the box, laid fresh newspaper on the ground, and washed the puppies clean. He doesn’t remember his father cleaning. He looks at the sparkling Formica countertop and realizes his father must have cleaned it too.
“PB&J?” his father asks.
“I got this,” PJ says, walking to the fridge and taking out the Skippy’s. He points to the TV. “The Celtics are on. Go sit.”
*
On Halloween, PJ and his father forget to buy candy. When the doorbell first rings, they look at each other and realize their mistake. The dogs begin to bark. PJ scoops up Moon in his arms and pets her mottled coat. His father limps toward the pantry. “We have chips,” he says.
“Dad, we can’t just give them a bag of chips,” PJ says. He looks out the front window at two middle schoolers in fairy costumes. “These kids are like five years old.”
“They’re at least ten. We have Lunchables.”
“Dad.”
“You got a better idea?” When PJ doesn’t reply, his father brings Lunchables to the door.
At Thanksgiving, PJ mistimes the yams. His father overcooks the turkey. PJ learns a couple new swears and how to use a baster. His father breaks one of the family’s china plates and they decide to eat on paper plates so they won’t have to do dishes. They say prayers before they eat and, although they do so silently, PJ suspects they are praying for the same thing. They feed the leftover turkey to Ocean, Sun, Moon, and Sky. The family of six falls asleep by nine, laying prostrate on the couch and snoring over one another. PJ wakes up in the middle of the night from a nightmare that he is falling from the sky with no parachute to slow his descent.
When it’s time to bring down the Christmas decorations, the boy and his father are proficient. This is the role they are accustomed to playing. They cart heavy boxes down from the attic and place them in the living room. They hang wreaths from the doors, organize three porcelain wise men and baby Jesus and Joseph and Mother Mary in the crèche, and buy a Christmas tree from the unnamed family hardware store in town. Once they finish hanging the ornaments, PJ realizes he has forgotten the most important part of Christmas: gift-giving. He steals twenty dollars from his dad’s wallet and walks into town with Ocean on a leash. When he arrives at the stores, he sees Ocean shivering and buys her an argyle doggie sweater with the twenty. He brings her back home and takes another twenty. When he walks back into town, he realizes he needs to buy sweaters for the puppies too. He spends another twenty on them and returns home with no gifts for his dad. PJ goes on Amazon and buys a signed picture of Larry Bird from the 80s. He knows his father appreciates nostalgia. PJ notices his parents’ credit card is attached to the Amazon account. The credit card is still under his mother’s name. When he sees her name, he relives her final scream.
On Christmas Eve, PJ is still potty training the sheepdogs. He hates using the spray and wishes his father would help. When he takes the dogs outside in their new sweaters, PJ remembers when he had been potty trained as a boy and his mother had waited patiently outside the door. She talked to him in a soothing tone about whales and coral and the wonders of the sea. He remembers the tenor and texture of his mother’s voice, which bounced and danced like the waves. She was always there. He remembers when she was the only parent waiting to pick him up from school. She would bring blueberries from the farmers’ market, and they would sit together in the Subaru, listening to ABC News updates on the war. In commercial breaks, she would turn the dial down and they’d chat about adult things: why salmon swim upstream; why the moon is still visible past sunrise; how to tell if a berry is poisonous. PJ realizes this is the first time he has permitted himself to have a full memory of his mother. He gasps for breath and buries his snot into the couch pillows. The dogs are barking with him. His father is outside, repairing the boat. Then, the dogs stop barking. PJ has never felt so alone.
The night of Christmas Eve, PJ wakes to his father’s scream and the sound of a deep thud, something like a cannon firing.
He hasn’t heard this noise in years, though he recognizes it immediately.
The sheepdogs begin to yip, and PJ lets them follow him to his father’s bedroom. When PJ opens the door, he finds his father in plaid pajama pants, staring at the hole he punched in the wall. The room feels narrow and hot. PJ is dizzy and thinks he is hallucinating. PJ orders the dogs back into his room and watches his father limp back to the bed. He pulls the covers over his head and tells PJ that it’s okay now, that they can all go back to bed now.
PJ tells his father he loves him. When he closes the door, PJ wonders what he has done to earn a lifetime of secondhand pain.
During Christmas mass the following day, the priest tells his congregation about the miracles of life and the joy of birth. PJ kneels, stands, recites, and bows. The choir puts its best foot forward. The organist is known for his rendition of “O Night Divine!” He sings it every year in a low soprano that reverberates at each crescendo. At the highest note of the song, PJ excuses himself to the bathroom and splashes his face with cold water until he can breathe again.
“Dad, we can’t just give them a bag of chips,” PJ says. He looks out the front window at two middle schoolers in fairy costumes. “These kids are like five years old.”
“They’re at least ten. We have Lunchables.”
“Dad.”
“You got a better idea?” When PJ doesn’t reply, his father brings Lunchables to the door.
At Thanksgiving, PJ mistimes the yams. His father overcooks the turkey. PJ learns a couple new swears and how to use a baster. His father breaks one of the family’s china plates and they decide to eat on paper plates so they won’t have to do dishes. They say prayers before they eat and, although they do so silently, PJ suspects they are praying for the same thing. They feed the leftover turkey to Ocean, Sun, Moon, and Sky. The family of six falls asleep by nine, laying prostrate on the couch and snoring over one another. PJ wakes up in the middle of the night from a nightmare that he is falling from the sky with no parachute to slow his descent.
When it’s time to bring down the Christmas decorations, the boy and his father are proficient. This is the role they are accustomed to playing. They cart heavy boxes down from the attic and place them in the living room. They hang wreaths from the doors, organize three porcelain wise men and baby Jesus and Joseph and Mother Mary in the crèche, and buy a Christmas tree from the unnamed family hardware store in town. Once they finish hanging the ornaments, PJ realizes he has forgotten the most important part of Christmas: gift-giving. He steals twenty dollars from his dad’s wallet and walks into town with Ocean on a leash. When he arrives at the stores, he sees Ocean shivering and buys her an argyle doggie sweater with the twenty. He brings her back home and takes another twenty. When he walks back into town, he realizes he needs to buy sweaters for the puppies too. He spends another twenty on them and returns home with no gifts for his dad. PJ goes on Amazon and buys a signed picture of Larry Bird from the 80s. He knows his father appreciates nostalgia. PJ notices his parents’ credit card is attached to the Amazon account. The credit card is still under his mother’s name. When he sees her name, he relives her final scream.
On Christmas Eve, PJ is still potty training the sheepdogs. He hates using the spray and wishes his father would help. When he takes the dogs outside in their new sweaters, PJ remembers when he had been potty trained as a boy and his mother had waited patiently outside the door. She talked to him in a soothing tone about whales and coral and the wonders of the sea. He remembers the tenor and texture of his mother’s voice, which bounced and danced like the waves. She was always there. He remembers when she was the only parent waiting to pick him up from school. She would bring blueberries from the farmers’ market, and they would sit together in the Subaru, listening to ABC News updates on the war. In commercial breaks, she would turn the dial down and they’d chat about adult things: why salmon swim upstream; why the moon is still visible past sunrise; how to tell if a berry is poisonous. PJ realizes this is the first time he has permitted himself to have a full memory of his mother. He gasps for breath and buries his snot into the couch pillows. The dogs are barking with him. His father is outside, repairing the boat. Then, the dogs stop barking. PJ has never felt so alone.
The night of Christmas Eve, PJ wakes to his father’s scream and the sound of a deep thud, something like a cannon firing.
He hasn’t heard this noise in years, though he recognizes it immediately.
The sheepdogs begin to yip, and PJ lets them follow him to his father’s bedroom. When PJ opens the door, he finds his father in plaid pajama pants, staring at the hole he punched in the wall. The room feels narrow and hot. PJ is dizzy and thinks he is hallucinating. PJ orders the dogs back into his room and watches his father limp back to the bed. He pulls the covers over his head and tells PJ that it’s okay now, that they can all go back to bed now.
PJ tells his father he loves him. When he closes the door, PJ wonders what he has done to earn a lifetime of secondhand pain.
During Christmas mass the following day, the priest tells his congregation about the miracles of life and the joy of birth. PJ kneels, stands, recites, and bows. The choir puts its best foot forward. The organist is known for his rendition of “O Night Divine!” He sings it every year in a low soprano that reverberates at each crescendo. At the highest note of the song, PJ excuses himself to the bathroom and splashes his face with cold water until he can breathe again.
*
On the last days of the year, PJ starts to believe there’s something wrong with Ocean. Ever since she finished nursing her babies, she has been tentative to eat. PJ remembers when he went through a phase of not eating lunches in fourth grade so he could have a longer recess, and his mother would bring him a new, fresh lunch when she picked him up from school. She made the best cheeseburgers, which were big enough to make up for PJ’s missed lunch. She must have known PJ wasn’t eating lunch, but he doesn’t understand how she knew. PJ wonders why Ocean won’t eat lunch and wonders why he is unable to intuit Ocean’s pain.
Days later, PJ can’t find Ocean. “Ocean,” he shouts to no one each morning, afternoon, and evening. “Where are you, Ocean?” He calls animal control. The puppies never leave his sight. Around the house, they follow him like ducklings. He lifts weights in his room alone and listens to Kid Cudi’s “Man on the Moon” on repeat. He takes meandering walks west, away from the ocean and through snow-covered brush. Scabs from blistered feet begin to bleed. Sometimes, he sits on the rocks alone. Sometimes, he rips dying leaves from trees and throws them at the ground. When PJ feels his teeth chattering uncontrollably, he turns around and returns home to find his father feeding Sun, Moon, and Sky. Once, his father comes with him to look for Ocean. No luck. PJ puts a flier with Ocean’s picture on the telephone poles. No one calls home. He thinks about organizing a search party for Ocean but imagines no one will come to his aid.
On the first day of the new year, PJ’s father finishes repairing the boat. He shines it with a fiberglass polish and the sun, high in the winter sky, illuminates a twinkling propeller. PJ is pouring cereal when his father walks inside the house. The two chat about the dogs, who are wagging their tails and drinking from their metallic bowls.
“We’ll get to use the boat this summer,” his father says.
“Why do you care so much about that boat?” PJ says, tapping the couch seat to invite Sky to sit next to him.
“It needed repair, son. And we fix things that need repairing.”
That night, PJ hears the sounds of his father’s fist rupturing the winter’s silence.
PJ tells the puppies to stay. He opens the door to the master bedroom, and finds his father naked, staring at the wall in front of him. There’s another hole in it, wider than the last. His hand is bleeding, and PJ runs to the linen closet for a towel. When PJ returns, his father is directly facing him, naked as can be. He is panting heavily. His eyes are looking beyond his son, unable to tune reality into focus. To PJ, he seems unaware that anyone is in his presence. PJ throws him the towel, and he barely catches it. When he turns to sit on the bed, PJ sees the gash in his father’s leg for the first time. Pounds of flesh are missing from his hamstring and adductor. The skin around his leg has grown purple like rotting fruit. PJ realizes, for the first time, that part of his father never returned home to Maine. His flesh may still be decomposing halfway across the world, under the heat of the Afghan sun. PJ sees a bottle of water by his father’s bedside. He hands it to his father, who is shaking and holding the bloody towel over his eyes.
Ocean is still missing. PJ scratches the scabs on his legs. They reopen. His father buys aloe, and they spend winter evenings watching the Celtics. When the games end they mumble goodnight and retreat to their bedrooms. PJ tucks the puppies into their Sherpa-lined bed by his baseboard. Before he goes to bed, he prays that he, his father, and the puppies will sleep through the night.
Maine winters are long. PJ has heard of something called “seasonal affective disorder.” He cloaks a deeper misery of his father’s condition in the fact that it is February. PJ is tired. The three sheepdogs always hear his father’s destruction first and wake him with their barking. PJ suspects they sleep with one eye open, in hope that their mother will return home.
PJ misses Ocean. If she were still here, she would have thought nothing of the screams from across the hallway and could have corralled her babies back to sleep with the disposition and fur coat of a mother. She wouldn’t have barked. She knew the feeling of resounding, guttural pain. PJ remembers the day he met Ocean, back in October, back when he was still numb to his losses. Ocean had been so lost, so uncertain of where to go. And PJ had done something beautiful. He had loved something he had no obligation to love. When PJ wakes and walks to his father’s room in the hours when the moon is the highest, he is often sweating and praying. Dear God, he says, unable to finish the thought. Dear God, Dear God, Dear.
In the bright morning after a particularly long and dark night, PJ asks his father a question:
“Dad, can I help you?”
His father takes a sip of coffee.
“Can I get you an appointment? Can you tell me about the war? Please, can I do something?”
“No,” his father says. “I won’t burden you.”
PJ doesn’t know how to tell his father that he is already a burden. He says nothing. He learns to make coffee when the world is closed and dark. He takes some semblance of pride in the fact that his father often wakes to the smell of fresh coffee. PJ starts to drink it too, years before most boys, and makes a habit of showering right when he wakes. In doing so, he cleanses himself before the day ahead, only to become dirty all over again. PJ prints contact information for the local VA offices and hangs it on the fridge next to his kindergarten yearbook picture. He knows his father has seen it. This feels like all PJ can do.
Then, at halftime of a Celtics game, PJ’s father begins to talk about the war. He is nursing a glass of whisky. His words start pouring from his mouth and popping with intensity. It frightens Sun, who is curled up on the couch. PJ turns down the volume on the TV. His father starts with the little things: how he had to ask for a special helmet to fit his wide head, how it feels to hold an AK for the first time, how his friends acted as if they’d never see him again on his departure day. As the game’s halftime ends, his father starts talking about the loss of his Lance Corporal and best friend to a child suicide bomber. A young Afghan boy had asked the Lance Corporal if he had any flowers, and the man had said no, he hadn’t ever seen flowers in Kabul. The boy had said that Kabul was full of flowers, then detonated them both.
Throughout his telling of the story, PJ’s father calls his son “Ann.” This was PJ’s mother’s name. Only PJ notices. The boy has come to realize the natural order of things and the roles he must play.
Days later, PJ can’t find Ocean. “Ocean,” he shouts to no one each morning, afternoon, and evening. “Where are you, Ocean?” He calls animal control. The puppies never leave his sight. Around the house, they follow him like ducklings. He lifts weights in his room alone and listens to Kid Cudi’s “Man on the Moon” on repeat. He takes meandering walks west, away from the ocean and through snow-covered brush. Scabs from blistered feet begin to bleed. Sometimes, he sits on the rocks alone. Sometimes, he rips dying leaves from trees and throws them at the ground. When PJ feels his teeth chattering uncontrollably, he turns around and returns home to find his father feeding Sun, Moon, and Sky. Once, his father comes with him to look for Ocean. No luck. PJ puts a flier with Ocean’s picture on the telephone poles. No one calls home. He thinks about organizing a search party for Ocean but imagines no one will come to his aid.
On the first day of the new year, PJ’s father finishes repairing the boat. He shines it with a fiberglass polish and the sun, high in the winter sky, illuminates a twinkling propeller. PJ is pouring cereal when his father walks inside the house. The two chat about the dogs, who are wagging their tails and drinking from their metallic bowls.
“We’ll get to use the boat this summer,” his father says.
“Why do you care so much about that boat?” PJ says, tapping the couch seat to invite Sky to sit next to him.
“It needed repair, son. And we fix things that need repairing.”
That night, PJ hears the sounds of his father’s fist rupturing the winter’s silence.
PJ tells the puppies to stay. He opens the door to the master bedroom, and finds his father naked, staring at the wall in front of him. There’s another hole in it, wider than the last. His hand is bleeding, and PJ runs to the linen closet for a towel. When PJ returns, his father is directly facing him, naked as can be. He is panting heavily. His eyes are looking beyond his son, unable to tune reality into focus. To PJ, he seems unaware that anyone is in his presence. PJ throws him the towel, and he barely catches it. When he turns to sit on the bed, PJ sees the gash in his father’s leg for the first time. Pounds of flesh are missing from his hamstring and adductor. The skin around his leg has grown purple like rotting fruit. PJ realizes, for the first time, that part of his father never returned home to Maine. His flesh may still be decomposing halfway across the world, under the heat of the Afghan sun. PJ sees a bottle of water by his father’s bedside. He hands it to his father, who is shaking and holding the bloody towel over his eyes.
Ocean is still missing. PJ scratches the scabs on his legs. They reopen. His father buys aloe, and they spend winter evenings watching the Celtics. When the games end they mumble goodnight and retreat to their bedrooms. PJ tucks the puppies into their Sherpa-lined bed by his baseboard. Before he goes to bed, he prays that he, his father, and the puppies will sleep through the night.
Maine winters are long. PJ has heard of something called “seasonal affective disorder.” He cloaks a deeper misery of his father’s condition in the fact that it is February. PJ is tired. The three sheepdogs always hear his father’s destruction first and wake him with their barking. PJ suspects they sleep with one eye open, in hope that their mother will return home.
PJ misses Ocean. If she were still here, she would have thought nothing of the screams from across the hallway and could have corralled her babies back to sleep with the disposition and fur coat of a mother. She wouldn’t have barked. She knew the feeling of resounding, guttural pain. PJ remembers the day he met Ocean, back in October, back when he was still numb to his losses. Ocean had been so lost, so uncertain of where to go. And PJ had done something beautiful. He had loved something he had no obligation to love. When PJ wakes and walks to his father’s room in the hours when the moon is the highest, he is often sweating and praying. Dear God, he says, unable to finish the thought. Dear God, Dear God, Dear.
In the bright morning after a particularly long and dark night, PJ asks his father a question:
“Dad, can I help you?”
His father takes a sip of coffee.
“Can I get you an appointment? Can you tell me about the war? Please, can I do something?”
“No,” his father says. “I won’t burden you.”
PJ doesn’t know how to tell his father that he is already a burden. He says nothing. He learns to make coffee when the world is closed and dark. He takes some semblance of pride in the fact that his father often wakes to the smell of fresh coffee. PJ starts to drink it too, years before most boys, and makes a habit of showering right when he wakes. In doing so, he cleanses himself before the day ahead, only to become dirty all over again. PJ prints contact information for the local VA offices and hangs it on the fridge next to his kindergarten yearbook picture. He knows his father has seen it. This feels like all PJ can do.
Then, at halftime of a Celtics game, PJ’s father begins to talk about the war. He is nursing a glass of whisky. His words start pouring from his mouth and popping with intensity. It frightens Sun, who is curled up on the couch. PJ turns down the volume on the TV. His father starts with the little things: how he had to ask for a special helmet to fit his wide head, how it feels to hold an AK for the first time, how his friends acted as if they’d never see him again on his departure day. As the game’s halftime ends, his father starts talking about the loss of his Lance Corporal and best friend to a child suicide bomber. A young Afghan boy had asked the Lance Corporal if he had any flowers, and the man had said no, he hadn’t ever seen flowers in Kabul. The boy had said that Kabul was full of flowers, then detonated them both.
Throughout his telling of the story, PJ’s father calls his son “Ann.” This was PJ’s mother’s name. Only PJ notices. The boy has come to realize the natural order of things and the roles he must play.
*
When the winter begins to open into pseudo-spring, PJ’s scabs start to heal. The sheepdogs play in grass that is preparing to be reborn, but still stuck under a thinning layer of muddy snow. When PJ takes the dogs for walks downtown, the world looks like it is ready to reopen. Storefronts display new flower baskets, and the night comes later and later each day. But the spring is still dark and, when it is darkest, PJ brings towels for his father’s hands, and bandages them. His father’s right wrist has turned purple, but he still drives his tools around town to fix things. When he comes home, PJ has bags of ice ready. His father places them on his black-and-blue hands and aching knees. They watch the Celtics, who win more than they lose. His father doesn’t clap anymore. He eats with his left hand now. The puppies kiss their feet.
PJ has begun to feel solely responsible for what becomes of his family. When he takes the puppies outside, he double-checks to make sure their leash buckles have snapped properly. The back door opens to a flowerbed, which PJ realizes his father must have been preparing in the fall. The puppies approach the bed of dormant pink carnations and sniff them for meaning. They hardly seem to know their mother is gone.
When he brings the puppies inside after a 6 a.m. walk, PJ often falls asleep on the couch. In these morning dreams, he sees his mother with perfect clarity. She is doing simple things: kneeling in a desert and planting a flower, swimming alongside him in the ocean, playing fetch with Ocean in the backyard. In these dreams, his mother never looks him in the eye, as if he is not present. She is always smiling. When he wakes, the sun is often high and bright, and the world smells like cinnamon. His father is almost always in the kitchen. He cooks oatmeal and limps. One Sunday during spring break, PJ smells sizzling meat instead of cinnamon. His father has prepared bacon and eggs.
“What’s the occasion?” PJ asks.
“Sit,” his father says, putting a plate on the table. “I want to take the boat to the docks.”
“Today? It’s March.”
“It’s April,” his father takes a bite of bacon. “It’ll be fifty-something around noon.”
“How is it April?”
“It just is.”
When they finish breakfast, PJ and his father align the hitch and ball, insert the safety pin, and cross the chains. PJ takes Sun, Moon, and Sky outside, then shepherds them into the kitchen. He picks up each of them and kisses them on the forehead. He tells them he’ll be back soon, not to worry. He hears his father start the truck. PJ closes the front door and sits passenger. His seatbelt clicks into place. They drive forward.
It is too sunny today. “A Horse with No Name” is playing on the radio. “Because the desert had turned to sea,” his father mumbles. PJ listens. When he sees the ocean cresting over the evergreen shrubbery for the first time since the accident, he realizes he may never be ready to speak with the sea again, though his father is expressionless and PJ will make himself ready. His father pulls over at the edge of the docks and begins to back the truck into the loading ramp. It is a slow process, one that PJ watches until given directions from his father. “Stabilize the bow,” his father says, and PJ does. The boat gains buoyancy and dances in the surf. “Undo the hitch,” his father says, and PJ does. His father admires the boat’s reincarnation on the waves.
“Ready?” PJ steps onto the boat, then reaches back for his father. His father grunts as he steps with his weaker leg onto the deck. He takes deep breaths and sits in the driver’s seat. PJ unties the boat from the dock, then sits next to him.
“Good to go,” PJ says. “If you still want to go today.”
“Just a minute.”
Minutes pass. A seagull perches on the edge of a buoy. Two men on the docks are hauling a lobster trap from their boat. The sun is even brighter on the water, so PJ closes his eyes. He relives his mother’s scream. PJ opens his eyes again. He looks back to land. His father starts the motor and begins to maneuver the boat away from the docks. PJ feels his father grab onto his thigh. “Hold on,” he says, shifting the boat into a higher gear. PJ wraps his arm around the seat next to him for stability. The bay is too windy, PJ thinks, but here they are. The boat carries them out to sea.
PJ has begun to feel solely responsible for what becomes of his family. When he takes the puppies outside, he double-checks to make sure their leash buckles have snapped properly. The back door opens to a flowerbed, which PJ realizes his father must have been preparing in the fall. The puppies approach the bed of dormant pink carnations and sniff them for meaning. They hardly seem to know their mother is gone.
When he brings the puppies inside after a 6 a.m. walk, PJ often falls asleep on the couch. In these morning dreams, he sees his mother with perfect clarity. She is doing simple things: kneeling in a desert and planting a flower, swimming alongside him in the ocean, playing fetch with Ocean in the backyard. In these dreams, his mother never looks him in the eye, as if he is not present. She is always smiling. When he wakes, the sun is often high and bright, and the world smells like cinnamon. His father is almost always in the kitchen. He cooks oatmeal and limps. One Sunday during spring break, PJ smells sizzling meat instead of cinnamon. His father has prepared bacon and eggs.
“What’s the occasion?” PJ asks.
“Sit,” his father says, putting a plate on the table. “I want to take the boat to the docks.”
“Today? It’s March.”
“It’s April,” his father takes a bite of bacon. “It’ll be fifty-something around noon.”
“How is it April?”
“It just is.”
When they finish breakfast, PJ and his father align the hitch and ball, insert the safety pin, and cross the chains. PJ takes Sun, Moon, and Sky outside, then shepherds them into the kitchen. He picks up each of them and kisses them on the forehead. He tells them he’ll be back soon, not to worry. He hears his father start the truck. PJ closes the front door and sits passenger. His seatbelt clicks into place. They drive forward.
It is too sunny today. “A Horse with No Name” is playing on the radio. “Because the desert had turned to sea,” his father mumbles. PJ listens. When he sees the ocean cresting over the evergreen shrubbery for the first time since the accident, he realizes he may never be ready to speak with the sea again, though his father is expressionless and PJ will make himself ready. His father pulls over at the edge of the docks and begins to back the truck into the loading ramp. It is a slow process, one that PJ watches until given directions from his father. “Stabilize the bow,” his father says, and PJ does. The boat gains buoyancy and dances in the surf. “Undo the hitch,” his father says, and PJ does. His father admires the boat’s reincarnation on the waves.
“Ready?” PJ steps onto the boat, then reaches back for his father. His father grunts as he steps with his weaker leg onto the deck. He takes deep breaths and sits in the driver’s seat. PJ unties the boat from the dock, then sits next to him.
“Good to go,” PJ says. “If you still want to go today.”
“Just a minute.”
Minutes pass. A seagull perches on the edge of a buoy. Two men on the docks are hauling a lobster trap from their boat. The sun is even brighter on the water, so PJ closes his eyes. He relives his mother’s scream. PJ opens his eyes again. He looks back to land. His father starts the motor and begins to maneuver the boat away from the docks. PJ feels his father grab onto his thigh. “Hold on,” he says, shifting the boat into a higher gear. PJ wraps his arm around the seat next to him for stability. The bay is too windy, PJ thinks, but here they are. The boat carries them out to sea.