But by the Grace of Dog, page 1
But by the Grace of Dog
By A.F. Henley
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2019 A.F. Henley
ISBN 9781646561629
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
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If you have a dog that is your lifeline, your best friend, and your closest confidante, this book is for you.
It's also for Volker, as always, even though he has yet to get a dog.
* * * *
But by the Grace of Dog
By A.F. Henley
Chapter 1: The Neighbour
Chapter 2: The Market
Chapter 3: The Dog
Chapter 4: The Neighbour, Part 2
Chapter 5: The Market, Part 2
Chapter 6: The Dog, Part 2
Chapter 7: The Neighbour, Part 3
Chapter 8: The Market, Part 3
Chapter 9: The Dog, Part 3
Chapter 10: The Neighbour, Part 4
Chapter 11: The Market, the Dog, and the Neighbour, Finale
Chapter 1: The Neighbour
Thom Baron, a grown man of thirty-one years, a home owner with a perfect credit score, who’d graduated in the top one percentile of his year and followed it with a grade of ninety-two on his CFE, slammed himself against the siding of his own house and held his breath as if he were a cowering school child all over again. From somewhere amongst the leafy oaks that ran behind the suburban sprawl of his neighbourhood, a cicada shrieked, and as if the sound had coaxed it out, a drop of perspiration slipped down Thom’s spine. Mid-afternoon sun beat down, not only on his head, but being deflected off the pavement below and the siding behind. He was stuck. If he moved ten centimetres to the left, he’d be seen. If he moved twenty to his right, he’d be seen. There wasn’t even a fence at the side of the house that he could crouch behind. He closed his eyes and breathed. Damn it.
“Thom?”
His stomach sank into his bowels. His heart did a flutter-roll, paused, then began to beat furiously to make up time. The sounds of the yard were drowned out by his blood surging through his veins.
The question came again, but this time it seemed to come from a million miles away. “Thom?”
He forced himself to open his eyes and used every bit of strength he could muster in order to crack a smile. “Oh, hey. Uh, Justin. Nice…nice day, hmm?”
The smile his new neighbour gave him was one of the nicest things Thom had ever seen. And that just made every reaction he was already feeling twice as bad. If his heart didn’t give out altogether, he was going to throw up. As much as he should have been used to it, as much as these moments had yet to kill him, he knew, without a doubt, that this time was the time and his heart had just thumped its last beat.
Thom Baron had been one of those children referred to as “painfully shy” by his teachers and counsellors, and that was one of the nicest terms they’d used. “Poorly developed social skills” was common. “An inability to interact” and “anxious” were high on the list. “Arrogant” had been the one that bothered him the most, and “socially disturbed” he considered one of the cleverest.
Some parents might have intervened when they started getting those reports, but Thom’s hadn’t been too bothered by any of it. They’d been no better themselves. There were no parties held at the Baron residence, including birthday parties, and none of them ever wandered outside to engage in the various block parties that inevitably spilled out to the streets around them.
This had worked out fairly well for his parents throughout their lives as his mother had been, and still was, a housewife. His father, up until two years prior, had owned a car dealership handed down from his father, and not once in the entire time that he’d been in proprietorship of that business had Mr. Thom Baron, Senior, ever sold a car himself or held a conversation with a customer. That’s what he had salesmen for and that was just the way things were.
Thom, however, in the age of advancing electronic development where every year more and more people expected to see faces and hear voices on social media, where group projects and community service and dating apps had become the norm, didn’t fare nearly as well.
“Thom?” Justin asked, stepping closer. “Are you okay? You’re sweaty. A little pale, even.”
For a second, it looked as if Justin was going to reach for him, and while Thom’s heart once again played swoop, crash, and restart, Thom’s mind began to race with possible scenarios: push him and run, shriek like a wounded cat in an attempt to scare him away. Just drop dead at Justin’s feet.
Once again it took every bit of power Thom could gather to tap his stomach. “Left work early. Maybe a touch of the flu.”
Two comments in and Thom was exhausted. He’d used up everything he had and more. He was in a deficit when it came to energy and his knees, lungs, and tongue knew it.
“Ah, I’m sorry.” Justin shook his head, frowning sympathetically. “Well, I won’t keep you. But I was hoping I could ask you for some help. Maybe if you’re feeling better later? Or tomorrow, or whenever.” Justin bit his lip and tilted his head, seeming to consider. “It’s just, you’ve got those hostas in the front yard, right? And they’re doing so well. But the ones that I have back here in my yard are just…well…” He pointed. “You can see for yourself.”
It took several seconds for Thom to realise Justin wanted him to look, and when that realisation clicked in, Thom snapped his head to the left and stared into Justin’s yard. He had no doubt that he’d looked ridiculous doing it but breaking the eye contact was such a relief that Thom began to tremble. He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t stop it if he tried; and he knew that without question because he’d spent the last three decades desperately trying, and failing, to not become a shaking, gasping, and occasionally blubbering mess when trying to deal with other humans.
“You see how shitty they’re getting? I don’t know if it’s bugs or water or, Christ, who even knows. I’m literally just grasping at straws. I’m not much of a gardener. Not like you obviously…” The tone of Justin’s voice changed. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t still be going on. You look like hell. We can talk later. Whenever.” Then Justin did drop his hand and squeeze Thom’s arm. “You get yourself some rest and feel better soon, okay?”
Thom widened his eyes and stared at Justin’s hand with what he knew was the same expression most people would use if they saw a four-inch spider getting ready to take a bite.
As Thom watched Justin walk away, despair rushed in to take over the tension. He closed his eyes and shook his head. That had gone absolutely horrible, not that he had ever expected the first forced conversation with his neighbour to go any other way. Still, it was easier on his pride to pretend that it could have gone well than it was to know that, yet again, he’d made a joke out of himself.
Throughout his entire life, Thom had been told and told again that his problems—the awkward shyness and the anxious fear—were all things that made him the worst kind of man. He was weak. Undesirable. At the bottom of the food chain. And after all this time, obviously unfixable. He always felt trite and stereotypical for thinking it, but he was sure that the fact he was gay made that judgement even worse. Men hated weak men unless they were the right type of weak. Thom, however, was too old, too masc, and too cynical to be in that class. He was all the bad, for all the kinds.
Justin, though…Justin was everything that was right.
At five feet, nine inches, Justin was not too tall, but not at all little. He had dark brown hair that he kept short and tamed with product, but Thom admired it most when Justin left it as nature intended: thick, full, with just enough body that sweat could coax out a curl. He had a brilliant, quirky smile with slightly crooked front teeth, a long, strong upper torso with short, muscular legs, and kept a scrub of hair on his face that made it look like he was a little too lazy to shave regularly. He was perfect in his non-perfectness, like a man ought to be. He was, in fact, the exact kind of man that Thom would consider his “type.”
“Type” was a relative term, though. If by type one considered the meaning to be “attracted to,” then yes, definitely. If someone had to pursue those kinds of people to make it official, Thom would be out of luck. He didn’t do people, and that included relationship people. His last relationship had been two decades prior. A “six month, hardly ever kiss, never touch, barely speak to each other” kind of relationship, with a very safe, very quiet, very shy girl with whom he’d gone to college. While he’d known for a long time that he was attracted to men, he’d figured a hetero relationship would make him seem more normal. He didn’t need people, other people needed him to need people, and this kind of relationship would satisfy that. Besides, there were books and news articles about how men could interact with women. He could ask his mom or his dad or a therapist. Being gay would be hard and confusing and how would he ever learn how to do things with another man unless he sought out assistance from like-minded others? All the gods in all the places knew that was never going to happen.
Heteronormality would be easier. Instead, it had been an “impossibly long, impossible to keep up” charade that had resulted in one seriously broken-hearted young lady and a man who couldn’t forgive himself because he’d known better. After that, he’d given up completely.
That didn’t mean he didn’t have regrets when it came to good-looking men, though. Especially good-looking men who were close enough to pine over every damn day. It had taken only one look at Justin climbing out of the moving truck for Thom to know he was in for some heartsickness. That feeling had multiplied exponentially the first time Justin had smiled at him, and it had been growing every single day since. Why did good-looking men have to exist in a world where the gods saw fit to allow people to be born without the ability to even say “hello” to them?
Justin started to turn as he reached the door to his shed, and Thom spun to face the other way. One goodbye was enough for the day. More than enough. One too many, in fact. Still, even as his heart reseated itself in his chest, the fingers of despair wrapped around it. For whatever reason, to whatever result, Justin was being nice. While they’d not spoken before, Justin had gone out of his way a few times to try and talk to Thom, even after Thom had made it obvious he was not only ignoring Justin, but doing everything possible to avoid getting near him. There was no way to misinterpret Justin’s intentions of trying to get to know him. And Thom couldn’t have it. He was not going to hurt someone like that again, even in the name of casual friendship. Which meant that if he expected to have any kind of a life, he was going to have to figure out a way to shut this shit down all the way.
He sighed and brushed his sleeve over his greasy forehead. It was going to be a long, painful summer.
Chapter 2: The Market
It took a lukewarm shower with the bathroom lights off to get Thom’s breathing back to normal, then another half an hour staring into the bathroom mirror, trying to visualize the part of him that made him so different, before he could convince himself he’d be able to continue with the day.
His original intention had been to make it home early, change, and get to the open-air market before the post-school, kids-in-tow, cranky-parent, crankier-kid crowd descended. In Thom’s experience, early to mid-afternoon was just about the best time to avoid people, short of not going at all. But the market was one of those places that Thom couldn’t stay away from, regardless of his fears.
The open-air market on the corner of Esposito and Pine had been operating in his town on Fridays for as long as he could remember. The hours were six a.m. to six p.m. officially, but weather and market conditions meant that vendors could be found as early as four a.m. in the summer or gone as early as noon in late autumn. A sudden heavy rain could empty the place in fifteen minutes, and a persistent chill could mean that things never really got started in the first place.
From the first day after his eighth birthday when his mom finally deemed him old enough to be allowed to walk to school on his own, Thom had made it a point to twist his route through the market every Friday, both on his way in, then on his way home, regardless of weather or pending responsibilities.
It had been easy to remain faceless, ignored, and unapproached. Nobody expected a kid to talk. Nobody really wanted them around for long in the first place.
That first year, he’d been big on the Cortland apple—all the sweet flavor of the Mac without the softness. Back then, his mom bought apples by the bushel, leaving them in the garage until they weren’t good for anything but sauce, and no kid in their right mind wanted their apple to smoosh instead of crunch. So, once a week, with his allowance tucked in his pocket, Thom hurried through the market and made mental notes on who had what, where it was, and how best to get back there after school. No more than four minutes after the school bell rang was when the real search began though, meticulously going along each of the tables he’d targeted earlier, then sorting through the best of the best to find the absolute best. Too many Friday night dinners went to waste due to a belly full of the perfect apple.
After that there was the season of kielbasa, a round with fresh fudge, black cherries, navel oranges, sesame chips, pomegranates, honey cakes, jujubes, and even freshly ground coffee. Of course, by the time he was sipping on coffee instead of crunching into apples he was tall and gangly, with thick black-rimmed glasses to match his unruly black hair and a frowning, studious expression to go with his antisocialism. Throughout the years, he outgrew his Yo-yo, his G.I. Joe, and his Super Nintendo, but he never got tired of the market.
Thom still bought everything he could from the market, and it was more than just a farm-to-table, support-the-local-economy kind of thing. He felt safe, anonymous, and unjudged there. The market was good to him, so he was good back. Even now, with too much time spent feeling sorry for himself and questioning the gods over good-looking neighbours trying to make friends, he was still going to pull himself up, shake himself off, and try and get there.
Unfortunately, by the time he’d redressed and walked the two blocks to get there, it was well after four and he’d missed his window of opportunity. School had let out and the entire place seemed to be crawling with people.
Thom let out a long breath and gazed at the stalls and the crowd. The sun was still bright, high in the sky, and it hurt his eyes to peer all but directly into it, but an assessment was in order. He could just hurry through, head down, and see if that would serve him all right. He could skirt the entire perimeter of the market, keeping close to the fence and see if something caught his eye from there, then scoot in and right back out, or…
Just then, while debating the right, left, or centre approach, something ran up the back of his heel. “God damn—”
He turned, glaring, and swallowed the rest of what he was about to say while a young mother attempted to reroute a stroller around him.
“Sorry,” she said, sounding anything but.
He made no move to help her but stepped to the left to get out the way and was immediately body-checked by a man half his size, but twice as loud.
“Watch out, for fuck’s sake!”
This time it was Thom’s turn to mumble a half-hearted, “Sorry.”
“Better places to stand,” an older gentleman advised. The man reached out, perhaps to move Thom aside, perhaps for nothing more than to offer a friendly pat, and that was it for Thom. He hustled away from the entrance, ducked left down the outside boundary, then turned a quick right, into the first aisle.
He breathed through a couple of quick pants while steadying himself against a table, then closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his heartbeat drumming through his ears. He took several long breaths in through his nose and out his mouth. He’d never known the market to not smell of fish, smoked meat, and that slightly rotted odour of vegetables and fruits stored in quantity. Those smells, as odd and unseemly as they were, were familiar and friendly. He swallowed the scent, making himself taste it, and giving himself an internal ten-count before opening his eyes and looking around.
The aisle teemed with vendors, customers, kids, carts, strollers, carriages, bicycles, skateboards, leashed dogs, unleashed cats, birds, and bees. His heart slipped into his stomach, and he silenced a “nope” as it tried to get out of his mouth. He agreed with the sentiment, though. This wasn’t going to work at all. He should have known when he’d run into Justin that the day was jinxed. He’d do himself a world of favours if he simply turned around and went home.
He had almost made up his mind to do just that when he saw the sign at the stall across from where he was standing: FRESH STRAWBERRIES LOCAL SWEET $2/PINT. The stall had a tarp over it and along both sides, but it remained open at the front and back, funnelling what little breeze existed through the space. The tarps ruffled so fluidly that they appeared to be made of water.
