Once I had a dream where she was pregnant, and I was unsettled all day.
I thought we’d fight.We sure as hell fought the last time I talked to her, and the time before that, and the time before that.I can still remember her, the video connection between Missoula and Afghanistan crackling apart, shoutingI don’t fucking care if you come home.
Not that I was a saint either.I said some shit I sure regretted later.
But it wasn’t like that.It wasn’t awkward, and it was only weird that itwasn’tweird.It felt like we’d talked last week, like we’d stayed in touch all these years.Like all that time didn’t matter.
It feels like it used to, and I have no fucking idea what to think about that.
I turn a corner in the truck and suddenly there’s a river on one side of the road, beautiful and blue, rushing through a stone canyon.That’s why I love Montana, why I’m not sure I could ever really leave: this is justhere.For me to find when I come around a bend in the road.The whole place is so beautiful that this is nothing special.
At last, I find Goodman’s Hardware.It’s across from a Wendy’s, not a McDonald’s, and I have no idea what it used to be.The guys who work there are pleasant enough, and I’m out of there with what I need in no time at all.
I spend the drive back thinking about Clementine again, no matter how much I try not to.
Phil looksover my handiwork like he’s appraising a diamond ring, not checking over a doorframe in a church basement that was shitty to begin with.Once I had the supplies, it didn’t take too long, and he seems vaguely surprised that I knew what I was doing.
Not that it kept him from checking on me every five minutes.
He lets me go at last with a handshake, a clap on the shoulder, and an offer to call me if they have any other things that need fixing around the church.I laugh and thank him, even though I havenointention whatsoever of actually taking him up on that.
When I get back to the bunk house, I fall onto an ancient armchair in the living room and just stare at the wall in front of me.For the past ten days at least, I haven’t had a moment of quiet between being in the fire camp, working eighteen-hour days, and then coming back here and being treated to a circus of a spaghetti dinner right away.
That’s not evencountingClementine.
I don’t know where the other guys on my squad are, but they’re not here, so I take the silence as a gift.
I’m not there for three minutes when there’s a thump on the door, like someone’s trying to open it with their hands full.Before I can even sit up, there’s another thump, then another.
I’ve just gotten on my feet when the door creaks open and a yellow-and-white snout pokes through, followed by the rest of averyfurry dog.
I guess that door doesn’t latch too well,I think, then walk to the door and pull it open.
There’s no one there.The dog walks into the living room and looks around expectantly, like it owns the place, and I raise my eyebrows.
“Okay, c’mere,” I say, and it turns around obediently, bumping its head into my hands.I scratch it behind the ears, and the dog starts wagging its tail and pushing its body against my legs, tongue lolling.
God, I miss dogs.
Before I know it I’m on the floor, play-wrestling and letting it lick my face, scratching that spot right above the tail that makes it hop a little in the air, it’s so excited.Ithinkit’s a female dog, though I haven’t gotten quite well enough acquainted to check.
Finally, I grab the collar and look at the nametag: TROUT.
“You’re Trout?”I ask.
Trout licks my face.
“Atta girl,” I say.
She licks me again, and I laugh.
“Trout, where are your people?”I ask, but she just pants in my face.
I flip the tag over to find a phone number.Scratching under her chin, I pull out my phone and dial it.
“Someone’s probably worried about you,” I say, and Trout lays on the floor and rolls over, requesting a belly rub.
As I sink my hand into her shaggy fur, I hear something I haven’t heard since cell phones became common: a busy signal.I look at my phone in confusion for a moment, then shrug and put it back.
