When Linus Bowen started down the stairs the second time, it seemed a different man inhabited his skin—an older, sicker, frailer man who could barely hobble without leaning on the cane and the big dog. He was halfway down the stairs when Mark’s head appeared. The man was frowning and looking pale and miserable.
“Mr. Bowen, here, let me help you.” Mark started up the stairs, but Bugsy’s warning growl had him hesitating.
“Nope, nope nope. Can make it down just fine,” Bowen said between exaggerated pants and his very best old man moans. “We’re used to doing things by ourselves. Don’t like people much.” He made sure to glare at Mark as the man retreated so that he and Bugsy could limp past him.
“Good morning, Mr. Bowen! I have fresh coffee brewed and I’m making your favorite, steak and eggs with all the fixings,” Eve smiled prettily over her shoulder as she stirred what Bowen thought smelled like grits.
“See you made yourself at home,” Bowen grumbled. “Even though no one gave you permission to.”
“Well, I thought since you couldn’t make it to your Corner Café this morning—I’d make the Corner Café come to you. I’ll even pour your coffee.”
She was doing just that when Bowen caught her gaze with his. “How long have you been following me?”
She laughed. “Oh, not long at all. But you were a hard man to find. Why is that, Mr. Bowen? Hey, may I call you Linus?”
“I’m not hard to find. Not if you’re friend or family. And, no, you may not call me Linus. I’ll take two sugars and a dollop of cream in my coffee.”
“Here you are, Mr. Bowen.” Eve handed him the steaming cup of coffee. He raised it to his lips as Bugsy whined pitifully up at him.
“Sorry, old girl. I’m not myself today. Almost forgot.” Bowen put the mug down on the kitchen table and slowly began hobbling toward the front door, leaning on his stick and resting his other hand on the wolfhound’s strong back.
He’d only gone a shuffling foot out of the kitchen when Luke was suddenly standing in front of him. “I think you need to sit down. You’re not moving so good.”
Bowen looked up at him wearily. “’Course I’m stiff and hurtin’. You would be too if you were an old man and some young bucks had broken into your house and thrown you around. My hips don’t work like they used to.”
“My brothers are sorry about that,” Mark said, coming up behind Bowen and circling around the slit-eyed dog. “But why don’t you have a seat in your recliner? We’ll bring your breakfast to you and anything else you need.”
“Well, that sounds better than a sharp stick in the eye, but I gotta take Bugsy out first for her morning constitutional.” Bowen continued limping slowly, painfully, toward the door.
Matthew stepped up beside Luke. “Can’t let you do that, Mr. Bowen.”
The old man lifted his head and skewered the two men with his icy eyes. “Boys, you are damn lucky I’m not just a few years younger. Did you know I played football for the U of I? Didn’t know that, huh? Well, I did. Back when football players weren’t pussies and didn’t need titanium helmets and a mound of pads. Too bad you didn’t know me then. I would’ve enjoyed taking you out back and teaching you a thing or two about respect.”
“Okay, okay, old dude. We hear you. You used to be the shit. Well, now you’re just old, and you’re not going outside with that giant thing you call a dog,” said Luke.
“Riiiiight,” Mark drawled the word. “Because he can obviously run away—in the middle of a tropical storm—over sand and sea grass and whatever else is out there—when he can barely hobble to the front damn door. Step aside and let him take his dog out for a crap.”
Bowen held his breath as Eve joined them.
“Empty your pockets,” she told him.
Slowly, making sure his hands trembled like a frail old man, Bowen emptied his pockets, which held nothing but lint. The money and ID pressed safely against his skin inside his hidden wetsuit shirt.
“Where are your car keys?” she asked.
Bowen pointed to a corkboard by the front door where a set of keys dangled.
“You can take the dog out. But leave her out there,” Eve said.
“Storms make Bugsy nervous,” Bowen said.
“Put her in the garage,” Eve said.
“Would you want to sit out a storm in the garage?” Bowen grumbled at her.
“No, but I’m not a dog, either. And that’s the deal. You can take her out. Do whatever you want with her, but she doesn’t come back in with you. Got it?”
Bowen stared down at Bugsy, fixing his face before he looked at Eve. When he did he made sure his voice sounded tired and sad, and he bowed his shoulders even more. “I’ve got it. I’ll put her in the garage.”
“Excellent. Don’t be long. I’d hate for your breakfast to get cold.”
Bowen said nothing. He continued to limp slowly toward the door, but before he could get there Mark had it open.
“Do you need help? Want me to bring blankets for Bugsy? A water dish or something?”
“No, son,” Bowen said, not unkindly. “There’re old work blankets in the garage, and I keep extra bowls out there. She’ll have water from the hose and her dry food.”
“There’s nothing I can do to help?”
Bowen looked into Mark’s eyes and saw the utter lack of hope that filled the space between his quiet demeanor and his obvious concern. Bowen recognized that hopelessness. He’d lived it as he watched his beloved wife slip away from him and leave behind the shell in which she used to reside, and then even that shell faded into dust. For a moment the recognition of hopelessness made him feel bad for the young man, and he used that moment. Bowen rested a trembling hand on Mark’s shoulder. “There is something you can do. Can you let me have a few minutes with Bugsy? Eve wants me to hurry, but I need to let the old girl know everything’s okay. I—I just don’t want her to be afraid. Do you understand?”