Chapter 2

Landon

If I don’t get some peace and quiet, my head might explode. A gang of rogue Chihuahuas bark outside of the bathroom door. They’re not exactly members of an organized gang, but they are terrors that could incite fear in the heart of the most hardened biker.

Who needs to go to the bathroom alone? Surely, not I.

I talk to myself in my best Shakespeare voice as they yip like they’re auditioning for a performance of the barkellulah chorus. The little bastards were the pride and joy of my late wife Carla’s grandmother, Nancy Barrett. Carla’s been gone for two years, eight months, and sixteen days.

Twelve hours.

Thirty-seven seconds.

When you lose the love of your life, nothing helps except marking the calendar and trying like hell not to break down into an emotional puddle of guilt and loss at the slightest memory of her. And the yapping doesn’t help. It reverberates through my ears like someone is clanging those giant high school band cymbals on either side of my head. I just want it to stop.

Please, God. I’ll do anything. Anything. Just make it stop.

Prayers to the heavens notwithstanding, I sink down on the toilet and let my mind wander. It’s a place I know I shouldn’t go. Most days, I don’t indulge. But the damn dogs make me want to utilize every single coping mechanism at my disposal. It took a year of talk therapy to get to the point where I could wake up in the morning without falling down to my knees the moment my feet hit the floor. Now, I’m regressing because hints of Carla haunt me everywhere I look. It’s like breadcrumbs laced with grief. But I can’t think of any other way to come back to myself.

I never wanted to live in this huge house on Prior Lake. Sunsets on the water remind me of the day I finally built up the courage to sink to one knee and beg Carla to make me the happiest man on earth. My hands trembled as I clung to that velvet ring box, but she’d put me out of my misery sooner than I deserved by agreeing and throwing her perfect arms around my neck and molding her curvy body to mine. The smell of lavender takes me back to when she used to spray intoxicating organic perfume on her wrists and collarbone. And rainy days envelop me in a cloak of emotional smoke and ash because I can’t help but relive the day I lost her.

It didn’t have to happen, and it’s all my fault that it did. There are some mornings when I clamp my eyes shut against the pain, praying to God to take me so I can be with her. My will to live died the day I laid her in the ground. Nothing has been the same since.

And I’m afraid nothing will ever be.

A very stormy day ruined my life of abject perfection. The rain had been coming down in sheets from the moment daylight hit our bedroom windows. The pounding drops hitting the house sounded like machine gun fire. I hadn’t wanted to go out, but Carla loved to tempt the weather and talked me into lunch with Nancy at Charlie’s.

As we were heading home, Carla drove, singing at the top of her lungs to Eighties on Eight. When “Come On Eileen” came on, I laughed and joined in, my off-key rendition completely ruining the moment. She’d laughed at my inept singing and swatted me on the upper arm as she gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel tightly in the other. Carla claimed she was a safer driver than yours truly, and she was right. She’d never gotten so much as a speeding ticket. On the other hand, I was on a first name basis with the Minneapolis police.

Carla affectionately called me “Landon Lead Foot” and I couldn’t deny the nickname wasn’t well-earned. I’ve never been concerned with speed limits, going full steam ahead in every aspect of my life. In college, I studied abroad in Europe for a semester. I witnessed people driving ninety mph on the windy roads of the Swiss Alps, and nothing short of a need for speed seemed to satisfy me after that experience.

“It’s coming down like cats and dogs,” Carla had said, turning the windshield wipers on high. I clung to my seat belt, rejoicing that we were only a few miles from home. Ever since I’d been a kid, I’d hated storms. Since I like to think of myself as a tough guy, I don’t like to admit that I’m afraid of thunder. It echoes through your physical body like it’s alive.

That day, fate intervened, infiltrating its icy cold hand into my idyllic life. In the distance, we spotted a stranded car, the hazard lights blinking red beacons of distress. As Carla drove closer, I noticed a woman with a baby standing on the side of the road. Their car had a flat tire.

“Dear God, we need to help them,” Carla had exclaimed. That tone. I knew that tone. No matter what I said or did, there’d be no stopping her. No putting herself first. It was one of the things I loved most about her. When they say opposites attract, a picture of me and Carla needed to be right next to that description.

“Honey, I’m sure they have AAA.” I wondered why the mother and baby weren’t safely inside the dry car. Something was wrong with this picture.

I recalled how people used babies to ambush other drivers, and I wondered if this might be the case. Looking around, I didn’t see anyone lurking about, ready to attack us, but the poor visibility prevented it.

What I did know was that a pit of dread had formed in my stomach, and I had no idea why. Maybe it was an omen, but a sense of foreboding had grabbed me by the throat, and I struggled to release it.

She’d thrown a dose of guilt on top of the shame by saying, “Come on, Landon, we can’t just leave them here. We’re not those people.”

She had slowly pulled over next to them. The kindness train had left the station, and the only thing left to do was get on board. Conductor Carla already held my ticket along with my heart in the palm of her hand.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this, honey. I’ll just tell them to sit in their car until help arrives,” I say, giving my sense of reason one last try to win the day. I knew it would be useless. Carla had always been both strong-willed and kind-hearted. The truth was that I didn’t even deserve her.

I still didn’t.

I remember pulling out my cell phone. “I’ll call 911 just to make sure they’re on the way.”

She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Thanks.” But she was still frowning. “I can’t imagine why the baby’s out in this weather.” Then, before I even realized her intentions, she was opening the door and yelling, “Be right back.”

A white-hot lance of panic and fear had speared me in the center of my chest as I grabbed for her. “No! Wait! I’ll—” But the door had already closed. “Shit.”

Peering through the window, my wife disappeared into the downpour as I quickly called the emergency number as I’d promised. Damn.

After getting through to dispatch and asking them to send an officer and a tow truck, I burst out into the elements, running toward where they still stood. I wanted to grab my wife and force her back into our car, but I knew asking her to walk away now was useless. A baby was involved. She would insist on waiting there until the tow truck arrived, no matter how long it took.

A high-pitched wail pierced through the sound of the driving rain. The baby screamed, and Carla told the mother that help was on the way so she should get back inside. I heard my wife’s kind and gentle voice.

“You just get in the car. I have toys I can bring to you. My nephew and I ride to Chuck E. Cheese monthly, and I always have something to distract him.” She jogged toward our SUV and opened the rear driver’s side door while I ushered mom and baby to their car.

I saw the blinding lights before I saw the semi. Reality slowed down into slow motion, each frame of horror imprinted upon my mind. The slick roads sent the truck into a skid, and the driver lost control. He overcorrected, jackknifing the large truck. I screamed my wife’s name as I ran toward her, my voice dissipating into the electric night air. She never heard it. She never heard me.

The truck slammed into her.

And in that one instant, I lost everything.

I remember running toward her, nausea bubbling up my throat. I couldn’t even feel the pouring rain on my skin. Miraculously, the mother and baby, and the bastard who killed my wife were spared.

Since that day, guilt has suffocated me, stealing the air from my lungs and even the tiniest shred of happiness from my life. A darkness has settled in to stay. I don’t like myself or the man that I’ve become. Most of all, I don’t like the fact that God took her and left me behind. It should have been the other way around, and if I could go back in time, I would have changed it. I would have tied her to the front seat if that’s what it took to keep her safe.

I’m a sad, broken man who has nothing to give. Even to these little ankle biters. I’m dead inside.

Though I’d love nothing more than to find good homes for them and adopt them out, I can’t. My guilt won’t release me from its iron grip even long enough to consider it. They stay. Like little fur encased self-inflicted forms of self-punishment. The more pain I feel, the more I deserve. And I’ll bear it all because I’m forced to be alive to feel it.

Now, I have to live with my regrets, my remorse, and the wicked Chihuahuas as a form of canine penance. Since Carla was raised by Grandma Nancy, I feel I owe her. And as a result, I owe them. The old woman died nearly two weeks ago, and for some odd reason, she decided to leave her estate and the annoying little dogs to me.

And I have no idea why.

So here I am, trying to figure everything out in the house that brought back such tremendous memories. It makes me sad. Filled with guilt. And so incredibly angry that I want to tear down this house brick by brick.

Before Grandma Nancy died, I’d started to really heal from Carla’s loss. I even felt a sliver of hope that I might be able to move on. I hadn’t been on dates yet, but I’d been open to the idea of dating if I found the right woman.

Then…bam. Nancy died, and the lawyer called. And here I am, immersed back into the sadness.

With a quartet of Chihuahuas scratching at the door with their little claws.

Which creates more guilt because I know I’m not the human they need or deserve.

These dogs are so spoiled with human affection that they can’t even stay calm for a few minutes. Nancy’s entire world revolved around them. In her later years, I don’t even think she left the house much, preferring to spend her time on her back porch watching the lake. I step into the tub and turn on the shower.

The cascade of hot water pelts my skin. I sometimes think about how Carla and I used to shower together after making love. I’d put body wash on every single inch of her silky skin. It’s so lonely without her.

After I shampoo my hair, I feel a little better. My grief comes in waves, overtaking me at the worst times. Sometimes it lasts for seconds, sometimes it lasts for days. Then there are moments when depression becomes my best friend, and I can’t even concentrate on my work.

I step out of the shower and dry off with a towel before wrapping it around my waist. As soon as I open the door, the feistiest Chihuahua of the gang, Taco, stands just over the threshold, wagging his tail. His silky black and white fur cascades over his tiny body. He’d be cute if he weren’t such a clingy little bastard.

“Taco, get the hell out of my way!” I grumble as I try to get out of the bathroom, but every time I take a step, he’s underfoot, like he’s purposefully trying to trip me. “Oh, come on! Seriously?”

I frown as the little beast backs up a few feet and growls. He leans over his front paws, takes a running start, and attempts to scramble up my six-two length as if I were the oak tree in the front yard. He makes it up to my thighs before his lack of thumbs prove too much, and he begins a scary descent.

Acting on instinct, I scoop him up, saving him from a hard reconnection with the gleaming wood floor. In response, he wiggles his way up until he snuggles into my neck and licks my freshly washed hair. I can hear his tongue pistoning in and out of his mouth as he covers me in toy dog slime. I grab him around his stomach and try to lift him off me, but thumbless or not, he clings to me, digging in with his sharp little toenails. I can feel them piercing my wet skin like tiny blades.

After I finally pry him loose, I hustle back into the bathroom and shut the door behind me before turning on the water for yet another shower. I can’t keep this up forever. At this rate, I’ll be going through a bar of soap every other day.

After a quick shampoo and dog saliva removal, I crack the door open to scope out Taco’s location. Thankfully, he’s not there. I sprint out of the bathroom and shut the door behind me then change into some drawstring pants and a worn t-shirt from the first time I saw Metallica.

Carla always teased me about my pajama pants with the mustache pattern. She thought they were goofy. As a published author, I’ve spent my entire adult life living in nerdville. Even though you can barely make out the mustaches after so many washings, I kept them because I loved to see the smile on her face when she saw me wearing them. Wearing them now makes me feel closer to her in some warped way.

Once I make my way to the living room, three of the little dogs sit on the couch all snuggled up like a huge ball of multi-colored fur. Taco occupies my favorite spot on the loveseat. I have no idea why Grandma Nancy thought I was the right person to care for her precious K9s. I’m not even a dog person. I’m more of a cat guy. Aloof. Cold. Able to use the litter box so no rays of sunshine ever have to touch my pasty skin.

I’m at my wit's end as I shout, “Move!” I clap my hands and point to the floor. I hate pets on the furniture, and every single one of these guys has long, silky hair. I always seem to get hair in my mouth, up my nose, and all over whatever outfit I’ve decided to wear that day. “Come on! Move!” I get louder and put a deep rumble of bass in my voice.

The dogs look up at me like I’ve lost my entire mind. Apparently, they’re not used to loud humans. Grandma Nancy never raised her voice with them. She always coddled them with her sing-song tone and tender smile.

Well, unfortunately, Grandma Nancy is no longer with us, and I’ve got to lay down the law with these mangy little mutts. “Move or else!” I glare at them. They don’t budge a centimeter. Instead, they all bark at the top of their lungs in unison. They don’t even cower or shake, which is what I thought all little dogs did in spades.

“Great!”

Giving up, I squeeze into a small spot on the couch that’s not even close to being big enough for my massive frame. I turn on the TV and start flipping through the channels, landing on the Twin Cities Live show. Normally, I’d fly right by this annoying drivel, but something catches my eye. Even the little monsters quiet down as they see a very well-behaved English Bulldog snowboarding on the screen. I’m amazed. Even though dogs are not my thing, I can’t deny that I’m impressed. The pooch can slide, glide, and catch big air like a wrinkly-faced Shaun White.

The camera cuts to the host interviewing a gorgeous woman with seafoam blue eyes and long raven hair cascading in glorious curls down her back. The host waves at the camera and says, “Welcome back, I’m joined by Brooke Kirkland, owner of Bark Buddies Training in Prior Lake. And that was a clip of her dog, Merle. Incredible! How did you teach your dog to snowboard, Brooke?”

Brooke smiles, and those blue eyes light up. Something deep inside me awakens, but I tamp it back down before I can even consider it exists. A rapturous smile spreads across her face as she says, “Thanks for having me on the show today. And to answer your question, Merle is super smart. He learns just about anything in one or two training sessions. He’s also a certified therapy dog. We love to visit the local nursing homes and hospitals.”

“Wow! Can you teach my dog how to do that?” The host stares at her in awe, his eyes widening into pools of envy.

“Sure, we offer a range of services at Bark Buddies. Everything from obedience classes to private training for specialty things like agility, tracking, and…snowboarding.”

“How can viewers get in touch with you, Brooke?”

Something very strange happens when the dog trainer gazes into the camera and smiles. My cock twitches. Interesting. Damn thing has laid lifeless for so long, I thought it had given up the ghost.

I lean forward and watch her pretty mouth say, “Please, visit us online, and you can feel free to email or call us. We’ll be happy to help you with your furry best friend.”

“That sounds great,” the host says as the website for Bark Buddies Training pops on the screen. I dash across the room for a pen and paper and scribble it down.

I glance over at the Chihuahuas, my mind slipping into high gear as I imagine the pack of dogs actually behaving themselves and peace returning to my inherited home so I can complete my latest novel. “I think it’s time for you spoiled little brats to pay a little visit to Ms. Brooke Kirkland. Maybe she can whip you into shape.”

The dogs ignore me, oblivious to their impending fate. I pop open my laptop and blast off a quick email to Bark Buddies Training. I use my pen name signature because I think it’s for the best if I remain anonymous for now. After the way the citizens of Prior Lake have shown me nothing but open hostility, I don’t want to incite a riot.

I close the screen and feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe this beautiful dog trainer can tame Grandma Nancy’s little terrors.