Leash Slack

You know, I’ve never walked my dog without thinking about how similar it is to raising a kid. I don’t think you should ever really walk your dog, but you also can't let your dog walk you. Dogs are never wrong, that’s the thing. They’re all instinct, baby. Sometimes you gotta let ‘em chase a scent, but then sometimes you gotta hold ‘em back, you know? Those sons of bitches—haha.

My husband died a couple months ago.

I don’t really know what to do with myself—haha. You know? Fuck, I just can’t stop crying. He’s the last thing I think of at night, and the first when I wake up. I can smell him, still. I’m afraid to wash his clothes. I just want to make him last forever.

He left me a small black notebook.

Went up to the attic after I thought I heard a noise, maybe I just wanted an excuse to look through the old scrapbooks—he used to go to his scrapbooking club every Thursday while our daughter Layla and I would play darts and eat cheesies and drink orange soda, and then hide all the evidence before he got back.

I noticed the notebook perched on the exercise bike I never used. The book was the only thing not caked in dust. Funny thing, he had actually already gifted it to me about fifty years ago, when I was 19. He was 25.

* * *

We were alone, finally. “Adriano, can I ask you something?”

He always made direct eye contact with his piercing green Italian gaze. “Of course, Tommy.”

Let me tell ya, I was a pretty tough kid growing up in Boston with an asshole for a father, but at this moment, my hands trembled and my heart pounded at my ribcage. I had a cut under my eye and bruises covering my shins and elbows... Adriano wore luxury silk scarves from Spain and France, and his hair was curly and rich and playful. He just looked perfect, even in a place like this.

We were tree planting, living out in the woods, and it was the end of our season. Our camp was doing a secret santa; he had me. He gifted me a little black notebook cause I had told him that I was thinking of getting into poetry—haha. He glued a pine tree sapling to the inside of the front cover. I knew it was now or never.

I looked down at my callused hands. I wanted to throw up. “I was just wondering, you know, someone told me that you might be bisexual? Feel free not to answer that. I just got some questions, that’s all.”

Adriano exhaled out of his nose, his face a little flushed. “Yes. I’d say I am. What do you want to know, Tommy?”

He always used my name. He inched a little closer and smelled like vanilla.

I locked eyes with him for a moment but then looked away. “How do you know? Did you just know?”

Let’s be honest I knew I was gay. I’ve always known. I just didn’t know how to ask my next question.

He smiled and put his hand gently on my knee. “I think like anything you just have to try it out, see what feels right.”

I swear he could’ve been a glove model.

I swallowed my spit. “Do you think I could join ya in your tent tonight?”

“Honestly, Tommy, I thought you’d never ask.”

He winked, put his hands in mine, and leaned in. His lips were soft, and his short stubble itched against my face. I thought, why is he so good at this? How many times has he been here before? But then I thought, I could get used to this. I love this. I want this, forever.

* * *

I only ended up writing one poem in that notebook—haha. Something stupid, too. I think it was about how awkward it is to shake hands with straight guys cause ya never know what they’re going for. Now I wanted to read it.

I opened the notebook. I swear the pressed pine smelled like vanilla. A tear hit the page, and then another. I ran my hand down the tree, feeling its roots. That damn Italian, always trying to open me up. He even taught our daughter Layla to open me up. I had only cried once before I met Adriano, when I was eleven-years-old and my dog died.

I thought about all the picnics he had set up, the candle-lit dinners, the poems he wrote for me. My chest slowly caved in, and my throat was filled with lumps. He was everything I’m not. He was better than me.

I blew my nose into one of his old handkerchiefs and flipped over to my old poem. There was a hundred dollar bill stapled to the page. I flipped again, another hundred. I kept flipping, hundred, hundred, hundred. The book had two-hundred pages. At the end, I found a note.

Tommy,

You never were a poet, but that never stopped you from dreaming. I apologize for having never told you about the money, it was supposed to be a surprise. I crossed my heart and fingers for us to find the time to go to Ireland before it started spreading. We always wanted to go to Ireland. Me for the castles and the cliffs of Moher, and you for the Guinness beer and the Irish stew.

There’s something else I never told you. About thirty-five years ago, when I was at our neighbor Oliver’s house, I told you I had to work late. Nothing happened between us, but I came really close. I was almost sure our spark had flatlined. That’s why I wanted to adopt Layla so soon. I thought she could reignite our love, and she did. I’m so sorry I never told you. I knew how you could get sometimes—even you cannot deny that. I pray you’re able to forgive me.

I told Layla about it and about the notebook, in case you never got back to poetry. She is a beautiful woman now. She certainly takes after your toughness. And luckily after my taste in fashion!

I need you to not be sad, Tommy. I need you to let go. Just like I did. I’m giving you this money because I know you're still that crazy Boston kid who loves adventure, the kid who showed me what it means to be genuine—you always called me on my bullshit when no one else would. I love you, Tommy.

I sent some plane tickets to Layla by email—and to think that I was finally getting good at technology! I sincerely hope she didn’t hop on that plane with that new boyfriend of hers!

I left her some money too. The twenty thousand is for you (and old Buster, of course). My only rule is that you spend it on yourself. You deserve it, my love.

See you soon—hopefully not too soon, those Irish roads sure are narrow!

Your Love,

Adriano xoxoxo

I dropped the book, crying, panting, wanting so desperately to hold my husband. He had done it now. My leash was cut; the leash my bastard father had put on me all those years ago.

Layla entered through the back door. She rushed over and wrapped her arms around me. I couldn’t stop crying. She rubbed my back and whispered, “It’s okay, dad, it’s okay.” She smelled like vanilla.

She made me some coffee, and tea for herself. We spoke about the time I got ejected from her softball game for yelling at the umpire from the crowd. The convenors made me sit in the parking lot. Adriano was one of her coaches and had to grab the orange wedges from our trunk at the end of the game. Boy was he mad at me.

One time, we left a cup of water on his bedroom door on April fool’s day and heard him yell. When we went up to check on him, he denied the water had ever hit him, but there was hardly any on the floor and the shirt he was wearing was nowhere to be found.

We laughed, cried, and reminisced for about an hour. Or maybe it was two. We spoke about Ireland. She said we’d be leaving in two weeks.

For the first time in months, I was not sad. I was excited to hit those Irish roads with my daughter, just like old times.

I helped her put the coffee table she came for in the back of her car and squeezed her tight before she left.

As I looked at the notebook filled with money, I swear I could hear Adriano laughing as he watched me unstaple each bill to collect my earnings, frustrated and excited at the same time.

He had one of those laughs that would make you laugh, you know? Strangers often thought he was choking or had asthma or something. I miss his laugh. I miss his sense of humour.

Twenty-thousand dollars. What was I gonna do with twenty-thousand dollars in Ireland?

* * *

I stopped to take a piss before heading over to his tent and told him I would meet him there. It was dark, and I didn’t have a flashlight. I had a feeling he was hiding behind a tree to try to scare me so I bolted over. When I got there I could see him under the covers, or so I thought.

“You know for a second there I thought you were hiding—

“BOO!”

I jumped back and fell, feeling like my chest got capsized. The son of a bitch was hiding under the pillows and made a fake body out of my backpack and some clothes. I could’ve easily kneed him in the head.

I tried to catch my breath. Can’t lie, I was a little pissed. Had it been my brother, I would’ve knocked his lights out, but he was much prettier. “Holy shit, dude. You got me, you got me good.”

He leaned in and kissed me again. Worth it.

* * *

I wish I could have one more kiss from him. Just one. Instead, I’ve been kissing about everything he owns, or used to own. The other day Layla almost walked in on me kissing one of his scarves. Maybe she did. She didn’t say anything, though.

I thought more about Ireland. Maybe I could check out the cliffs of Moher or some castles or something. I’ll certainly be drinking a lot of Guinness.

I went upstairs and tossed on one of Adriano’s scarves. It felt good to have him so close to my face. I asked old Buster if he wanted to go for a walk, he reminded me of Layla when I used to talk Adriano into ordering a pizza on Fridays.

Not a day goes by that I don’t notice the similarities between walking Buster and having raised Layla. You don’t give ‘em enough slack and you’ll choke ‘em. Pull too hard and they’ll start pulling away from you. Don’t keep your grip and they’ll take the leash.

The reason kids and dogs are always right is because they’re just following a scent. But at the same time, they don’t understand rules, like you can’t go pissing on someone else’s shoe, or shitting on someone’s front yard. You can’t just greet whoever you want, not everyone wants to be greeted and you can’t expect cars to always see you.

Another thing is that eventually you’ll have to get to your destination. You can’t be held up at a snowbank for a whole walk. I swear sometimes Buster acts like we’re at the opera.

Other than that, I let the old guy do what he wants. I follow my gut, he follows his. We walk together.

I bet Adriano could’ve turned that into a pretty good poem—haha.