Fender: A Novel

Chapter 1

Brennan sat on the living room floor staring at his polished shoes, his back pressed against the leather sofa, a bottle of Jim Beam in his left hand, a lit cigarette in his right. Traces of afternoon sun peeked through lush drapes, adding a hint of color to an otherwise dark and empty room. He tilted the bottle back and flicked ash in an empty drinking glass between his legs, trickles of silver smoke rising up past his face. He was too stricken with grief to hear the front door open.

You here, Bee? Rocco entered with Franky in tow. He lowered his head, taking in the scene before him. We’re so sorry. He offered Brennan a sympathetic frown, his forehead wrinkled with worry. How’re you holding up?

Brennan flicked more ash in the drinking glass without responding.

Rocco let out a deep breath, added, It was a beautiful service.

Brennan kept his head down, making no effort to suggest he had heard Rocco.

Should we come back later?

It’s all right if you wanna be alone, said Franky.

Brennan raised his eyes with pronounced difficulty. He was immediately turned off by their concern, which looked a lot to him like judgment and shame. Rocco, evidently concerned about his drinking, and Franky, concerned because Rocco was concerned. Go ahead, said Brennan. Say it.

Say what? asked Rocco, exchanging a glance with Franky.

Brennan dropped his cigarette in the glass, raised the Jim Beam to his lips. Say I shouldn’t be drinking again.

What you’re going through right now, Bee, I understand—

"Oh, you always understand, Rocco. Don’t you? Not thisss one, though. You fucking can’t. You didn’t loosh yer family." Brennan could hear himself slurring.

I didn’t mean it like that.

He’s saying he’d be fucked up, too, Franky chimed in. That’s all.

Brennan hadn’t taken a drink since the day his daughter was born—hadn’t smoked a cigarette since that day, either—and he knew drinking himself senseless was no way to honor her memory. Just this one time, he had told himself. I need this today. But so far, it had brought him no peace. It only heightened his sense of hopelessness.

A faint jingle echoed down the hallway, getting closer, a senior beagle with a limp and fresh stitches emerging at last. Franky knelt down, extended his hands. Fender, he said in a singsong voice, scratching behind the dog’s ears. Who’s a good boy, Fender? Who’s a good boy?

Fender parked himself at Franky’s feet—not out of obedience or affection, but sheer exhaustion. He was normally playful and energetic—even at twelve years old—and never allowed anyone to enter the house without barking to alert his humans. But at that moment he whimpered, sullen and subdued, rubbing his snout against Franky’s leg.

When’s the last time he ate? Rocco asked.

Brennan shook his head.

Rocco motioned to Franky. Why don’t you take Fender out for a bathroom break? Maybe fill up his food and water bowls, too.

Franky nodded and Fender followed him out of the room.

Rocco sat on the floor next to Brennan. Listen, Bee, I get that this is tough.

Brennan rubbed his temples and said nothing. He was a sensitive man, emotional, fragile at times, and now near speechless. He could almost feel himself shutting down, giving in to the pain, letting go of the world. It felt like he was drowning in a sea of sorrow, violent waves of grief washing over him, and he was losing the will to keep his head above water.

Rocco touched Brennan’s shoulder. Me and Franky want to take you away for a little bit. It’d do you good.

Now?

Yeah. Rocco motioned to the Jim Beam. I think now’s good. You’ve been outta work for a couple months. I’ve got vacation time saved up at the office, and Franky can walk away from roofing anytime. We were thinking of taking that trip to California we’d always talked about.

"We talked ’bout ’at shit when wurrr kidsss."

Yeah, I get that, but we could still do it. We’d make a road trip out of it, just like you, me, Franky, and Colin— Rocco winced, having unintentionally drudged up the past.

"My family was just kilt in a car crasssh, said Brennan. And you think the best place furr me ish out on the open road?"

Rocco nodded. I do, Bee. You need to get away and clear your head.

Brennan listened without speaking, his line of sight again lowered toward his shoes. Tears spilled down his cheeks.

You can’t stay here by yourself. It’s—it’s too much. It’s too much for anyone to have to handle. Rocco glanced at Brennan through narrowed and swollen eyes. Our hearts are heavy, too, and we all need to grieve. But nothing good can come of you sitting here alone and drinking. You need something to take your mind off it.

Franky returned a minute later. Fender hobbled behind him, his movements labored and graceless, his eyes wet and dark. He positioned himself near Brennan in slow motion. Fender was the last member of the Glover household to see Rosie and Abby alive, and the only survivor of the crash that killed them both.

Did he eat? asked Rocco, gesturing toward Fender.

Not much. Franky changed gears without blinking. What’d he say? He asked the question as if he and Rocco were alone in the room.

Bee says he’s gonna think on it, Rocco said, standing. He looked down at Brennan before walking out. You will give it some thought, right? That’s all I’m asking.

The house was quiet again, but Brennan was certain nothing could silence the storm in his heart. He ran his finger over the tattoo on his left shoulder through his shirt, as he often did during difficult times. He knew its intricacies by heart—the anniversary of Colin’s death inked in a simple script. He once thought losing his best friend had prepared him for anything life might throw his way, but now he knew better.

Brennan drank from his bottle before lighting another cigarette. He rose, unsteady on his feet, staggered to the kitchen, where a family photo album was spread out on the table. He felt drawn to that spot. It was where he served Abby grilled cheese sandwiches on weekends. It was where he and Rosie drank their morning coffee.

Brennan flipped through the album a page at a time, paused on a photo taken the year before at Cocoa Beach. Abby, then five, edged her way into the water, Fender a few paces behind her with a stick in his mouth. Abby beamed in the Florida sunshine, her mouth curled in shock as her toes experienced the Atlantic for the first time. He extended a trembling hand, touched Abby’s face, felt the warmth of her skin through the photograph.

He turned the page and saw Abby and Rosie on the back deck with sparklers—Fourth of July last year. Dusk was falling and Abby held her sparkler high, Rosie guiding it away from her face. Rosie had her head next to Abby’s, the way a parent might when helping a child blow out candles on a birthday cake. The mother-daughter similarities were undeniable. They shared the same olive complexion, shoulder-length hair, frizzy and auburn, and piercing green eyes. And as Brennan peered into their souls, he felt unworthy.

He sucked back another mouthful of bourbon, finishing the bottle. He reached for the tattoo on his shoulder but stopped short, decided to twist the wedding band around his finger instead. It wasn’t a familiar habit—he much preferred his ring to stay in place, snug on his left hand. But his poor appetite over the past week had loosened it and the ring rotated with ease. He studied its polished edges. White gold, he thought. No, no, not white gold. Platinum. Brennan bit his lip. Fuck, no, wait . . . is it platinum or is it white gold? He was irritated, unable to recall what was surely a significant detail. The day he and Rosie had picked out their wedding bands had been monumental—how could he not remember something like that? He pushed the idea from his head that his princesses were already dissolving from his memory.

Don’t forget us, Rosie said from the back deck. Brennan stared into her face, her eyes locked on his, her red lips calling to him from the photo. Please, Brennan. Please don’t forget us.

Fender pawed at Brennan’s leg, whined, his intentions unmistakable. He could easily make the jump, but seemed less daring due to his injuries.

Brennan reached down, uncoordinated, and helped up his friend, his mass of twenty-five pounds feeling a lot like a boulder. Fender winced on the ascent, seated himself on Brennan’s legs, faced the album on the table. His back was black and shiny, his chest and paws a mix of brown and white, his muzzle peppered with gray. Brennan couldn’t be sure how much his dog understood about mortality and grief, but injuries aside, Fender seemed out of sorts. It was as if he were missing something, hollow and hurting, peering all around the house with expectation.

Brennan turned the page and saw himself pushing Abby on a swing. Higher! she was shrieking, her smile wide with delight. She wore SpongeBob rain boots that day, kicked her feet out as far as she could on the upswing. Higher, Daddy! I wanna touch the clouds. Brennan looked away but could still hear her distant cries of excitement echoing in his mind.

He slumped back in the chair, closed his eyes, felt the room start to spin. His mind worked desperately to latch on to a memory he could recall in detail.

Chapter 2

Twenty-two-year-old Brennan trudged through Masten Park with Fender at his side. Young athletes in colorful matching jerseys faced off on the soccer field, the game overpowered every so often by the sound of a whistle or cheering parents. He dragged his feet, tuned it out, kept his eyes cast downward. He had largely adapted to life with his new canine friend, even though Colin’s death still weighed on him.

He paused to light a cigarette. As he raised his hands to shield his face from the wind, the leash slipped between his fingers, and Fender took off across the field, weaving in and out of children. He raced toward a busy intersection, fast for having short legs. Brennan struggled to catch up, kept his eyes trained on the brown and white target twenty feet ahead of him. He hastened his pace but Fender rounded the athletic pavilion, disappearing from sight.

Brennan emerged at Jefferson and Best seconds later. He huffed and puffed, unsure what to do next, where to go, his eyes darting in all directions. He pushed strands of damp hair from his forehead, his face white with panic. Fender was gone.

He felt his eyes being pulled across Jefferson Avenue to the Stanley Makowski Early Childhood Center, a building he had seen a thousand times without ever noticing it. Then, at once, he detected movement at the side of the building and shot across the road without waiting for the light to change. A van narrowly missed him, and Brennan jogged up to a young woman crouched next to Fender. She was scratching his dog behind the ears, stroking his chin, his leash tangled around her wrist.

That’s my dog, Brennan gasped. You found him. Thank God you found him.

Found him? she asked, eyebrows raised. More like he found me. He came tearing across Jefferson like he was on some kind of mission.

Brennan rested his hands on his sides, struggled to catch his breath, said a silent prayer of thanks for Fender’s safe return. The woman made no immediate effort to turn over Fender. She lavished him with affection, puckering her lips and raising her voice two octaves. You’re one lucky pup, aren’t you? You are one lucky boy . . . She looked at Brennan. My parents never let me have a dog, she said, but I think I might have to steal yours. He’s beautiful. What’s his name?

Uh, Fender.

Fender?

Yeah, like the guitar. It’s a long story, actually.

She moved her face inches from Fender’s. Are you Fender? Is that your name? I saw that on your name tag but I didn’t believe it. No, I didn’t. No, I didn’t.

Fender was vibrating with excitement, encouraging her to keep going. I guess Rex and Rover were already taken, weren’t they? Weren’t they, Fender? Fender danced in circles, flicking his tongue on her chin with each completed revolution. Fender’s a silly name for a dog, but you sure are a handsome boy.

Fender purred at her praise, and Brennan watched them brighten each other’s day. He estimated that this woman was about his age, dressed in heels and a skirt that stopped a few inches above her knees. Being modest in a short skirt while crouching to pet a dog was no easy feat, Brennan surmised, but this woman made it look effortless. I’m just so thankful you grabbed him, he said. "You saved my, er—his life. You saved his life."

Funny thing, she started, standing up, he ran right up to me and stopped in his tracks. Well, he sniffed the garbage over there for a sec. She pointed toward a can near the main entrance. But then came right over to me. Almost like he found what he was looking for. She handed the leash back to Brennan.

"That . . . is funny, isn’t it? Brennan—who wore tearaway pants, sneakers, two days of stubble, and bed head—kept his eyes on hers without realizing he was doing it. She was about six inches shorter than he was and her eyes were like two piercing emeralds. A light breeze tousled her shoulder-length auburn hair. Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. Where’re my manners? He stuck out his right hand. I’m Brennan. Brennan Glover."

Rosalie Hutchins, but my friends all call me Rosie.

Rosie, he repeated, giving her soft hand a pump. That’s a pretty name. He flinched, realizing how awkward his remark probably sounded. But he was drawn in, forgetting for a moment the real reason they were talking—because she had just rescued his new best friend. He cleared his throat, leaned over to pet his dog, and a pack of cigarettes tumbled out of his shirt pocket.

You always smoke while you jog? She curled her lip as she said it, more of a flirtatious taunt than a serious question.

Brennan could feel his face turning red. Oh, uh, I—I had no intention to go for a run today. Believe me.

This little guy keeps you on your toes, does he?

No, not usually. He looked back toward the intersection, added, Actually, come to think of it, I have no idea why he’d run off like that. He’s never done it before. Not since I found him anyway.

Found him?

Brennan thought back to the night he had ordered pizza and stumbled outside to find a battered, beaten beagle hiding beneath an old Buick. He was a stray, and it was storming like hell out. I brought him in and took him to the vet to get cleaned up and no one ended up claiming him. He winced as he recalled the details—the abrasions, the patches of missing fur, the way the dog shivered in the cold rain. "Guess adopted is a better word for it."

How old is he?

Vet thinks he’s about two.

"He’s still a young pup. Sounds like he’s a very lucky boy. She grinned, brushed her bangs to the side. Maybe you both are."

Yeah, I guess so. Brennan cleared his throat again. I’m just glad you caught him.