Where You Are. J.H. Trumble

yelps.

      “Why did you do that?” I ask angrily.

      “He’s getting dog snot all over my jeans.”

      I crouch down on the driveway and try to coax the dog to me, but his tail is between his legs now and he holds back, wary. His ribs show through his dull, short coat. “Come here, boy. I won’t hurt you.”

      “He’s probably got rabies,” Nic says.

      “He doesn’t have rabies. He just looks like he’s lost.” I stand up and take a step toward the dog, but he turns tail and dashes off.

      “That’s one ugly dog,” Nic says, then flexes his ankles and studies his Rockports.

      “I gotta go in,” I say, closing my car door. “I need to help Dad with a shower.”

      It’s a lie, but Nic runs off like his hair is on fire.

      Andrew

      By the end of the day I’ve accumulated so many texts that my in-box reaches its limit and I have to delete some. I start with the oldest texts and delete a lot of them, but I don’t delete Robert’s. I pretend that I don’t know why.

      The next morning, another long string of texts. More lyrics. I recognize them for what they are this time, but these are darker.

      Hello, teacher, tell me what’s my lesson. We should never be afraid to die. Boys don’t cry.

      Wow. What’s the title on this playlist?

      Pity Party. Hey, you drive through Huntsville on the way home, right?

      You are correct.

      Can I meet you there? At SHSU? I want to tour the campus. It’s not top tier, but I can commute if Mom needs me here after, you know.

      Wow. I didn’t expect this. I’m planning to head out in about an hour. But that would put me in Huntsville at about ten this evening. A little late for a tour of the campus even if it weren’t a colossally bad idea.

      I don’t know, Robert. Not a good idea.

      Why? I’d go with Mom, but this, um, doesn’t seem like a good time.

      I don’t respond right away.

      Mr. Mac, I’ve got to get out of here for a while. Seriously. You take classes there, right? You could show me around. If you don’t, I’ll go by myself. It’s no big deal.

      What about Nic?

      He wouldn’t be caught dead on the SHSU campus.

      Why am I not surprised? Your parents okay with this?

      Mom’s totally cool. Don’t think Dad cares much about anything anymore.

      Against my better judgment, I plan to meet Robert at two o’clock the next afternoon. I don’t tell him, but I drive home that day as planned and sleep in my own bed.

      Robert

      Dad looked bad Christmas Day. Turns out, that was the beginning of a rapid downhill spiral as the cancer spread exponentially throughout his brain. He can still speak, but it’s only with a great deal of effort, and Aunt Whitney says soon he won’t be able to do that either. He’s weaker, and he’s confused, but he does have a few hours of unexpected lucidity this evening.

      “I’ve called Father Vincent,” Aunt Whitney says gravely.

      Mom pulls the fish sticks from the oven. Her back is to Aunt Whitney, but her silence speaks volumes.

      “You know, Kathryn, I know you are not a spiritual person, and that makes me very sad for you. But my brother is. He needs to make his last confession and receive absolution.”

      That’s an understatement.

      Aunt Whitney shoots me a look, and I fear I might have spoken out loud. But then she rattles off a couple of things she wants me to find.

      When I’ve collected the stuff she’s asked for—a crucifix, a vial of holy water that she purchased for Dad years ago—I take it to her in the bedroom. She’s dusting and straightening everything in the room. On the highboy are three lit candles. A white tablecloth covers the puzzle on the card table at the foot of the bed. And the windows are open. I can’t help wondering if she’s airing out the room for God or so the priest doesn’t have to breathe in death.

      When Father Vincent arrives, he ushers us out of the room. The confession, not surprisingly, doesn’t take long, and I wonder what the eternal penalty is for omitting sins to God on your deathbed. We are welcomed back to witness communion, the anointing with oil, and the last blessing. Father Vincent finishes with, “and may the blessing of Almighty God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, descend on you and remain with you always.”

      My aunts are weeping (it’s the only word for what they’re doing) as they mutter an amen.

      Mom and I stand off to the side, interlopers in this little ritual. All of this stuff is supposed to prepare Dad for his passage through the portal of death into eternal life. I shouldn’t feel this way, but I’d like to dispense with all this hocus pocus and just shove him through and slam the door.

      After Father Vincent leaves, Aunt Whitney gets Dad out of bed and props him in an armchair she’s muscled in from the living room. Aunt Olivia brings a bowl of homemade chicken soup on a tray and places it on Dad’s lap. He struggles with the spoon, and I wonder if it’s the last time he will ever feed himself. I’d prefer to make myself scarce, but Aunt Whitney charges me with changing the sheets on the bed while Dad is out of it.

      And that’s when Mom makes her move. I can’t blame her. Dad’s going to die, but we have to go on living. And Mom’s practical because she’s had to be. Her questions are gentle enough, and not extraordinarily difficult—“Wesley, I need to know where your will is, what life insurance policies you have, passwords.”

      “Not now,” Aunt Whitney warns when Dad becomes agitated.

      Mom ignores her and presses him for answers. I snap out a clean sheet and settle it over the mattress. There’s a sudden movement from Dad, and I look up as the tray and the bowl clatter to the floor, leaving noodles and bits of chicken scattered all over the carpet. Before anyone can react, Dad throws his good arm out, his fist clenched, and knocks the lamp off the table next to him. Aunt Whitney tries to calm him down, but he’s grunting and growling as if all speech has left him. He struggles to get out of the chair.

      Mom looks at him coldly and leaves the room. Aunt Whitney catches up with her in the kitchen a few minutes later.

      “What is wrong with you? My brother is dying. You are the most insensitive, selfish bitch I have ever known.”

      Mom glares at her, then grabs her keys off the counter and slams the door behind her.

      Aunt Whitney turns on me. “Are you running away too?”

      Chapter 7

      Andrew

      I drive back up to Huntsville the next afternoon and park in the main lot right across from the steps that rise between the English and the Fine Arts buildings. It’s nice out—cool, but sunny—and I lean against my car, tip my head back, and soak up some of the sun.

      I have to squint when Robert pulls up next to me fifteen minutes later. He’s driving a late-model Camry, and my guess is it has more air bags than a kid’s birthday balloon bouquet.

      “Nice car,” I say as he gets out.

      “Thanks. It was a birthday present from my grandmother. Sweet sixteen.”

      I smile and nod. “So . . . where are you really?”

      He smiles back, guiltily. “At Nic’s.”

      “Aren’t you afraid he’ll call your house?”

      “Nic doesn’t call my house. You didn’t just drive