Stepdog (20 page)

I had not been expecting dachshunds, I admit. They were so quirky and cute, it was hard to reconcile them with the bloke who'd just casually said he'd shoot Jay if he didn't keep his word. These two dachshunds, like most dachshunds, wore slightly concerned expressions. They trotted briskly past Alex as if they had no need of him now that he'd opened the door, and made a beeline for me.

I temporarily, with effort, pushed aside my irritation with Alex. To demonstrate I was a dog person—as that seemed to be part of what he was looking for—I leaned down and offered each of the dachshunds the back of one hand. Their damp noses probed me, and then, having determined that I was a human, they looked up at me, wagged their whiplike tails, and barked approvingly. Cody, of course, would not have barked; she'd have flipped over onto her back and given me a hopeful, submissive look. I felt my diaphragm tense suddenly. I actually
missed
her.

“They're cute,” I said, hoping that was an appropriate term.

“Why, thank you,” said Alex. He ambled to the kitchen sink and opened a cabinet above it. “All right, then,” he said. “Let's the two of us get better acquainted.” He took out a lidded mason jar, filled with a cloudy, light brown liquid. I could easily guess what
that
was. So. That's how you proved what kind of man you were: You got plastered. I was Irish, so I knew all about that.

“All right now,” said Alex happily. He placed the jar on the table. “And let's get some munchies.” He turned to the humming white refrigerator with decorative magnets stuck on, opened it, and took out an oval plate on which was preset a variety of sliced cheeses, all colored variations of what is called “American cheese.” (That's because no other nation will claim responsibility for it.)
There were also other snack foods, mostly lots of chopped veggies, and hummus, and a serving of that American oxymoron “jumbo shrimp.” After Sara's phone call, Alex must have gone out and shopped especially for my arrival. I felt oddly flattered, and very grateful that I'd soon have real food in my belly. Also: this gesture probably meant that he
wanted
to like me. So the game should be mine to lose.

“There we are,” he said, setting the plate on the table. “I believe that should do us for a while.” He rubbed his hands together and planted himself in the creaky captain's chair across from me.

Soon as he sat, the dachshunds lost interest in me and scrambled back across the floor to him. They looked up, a matched set, and he patted his broad thighs. In perfect synchronicity they leapt up onto his lap, landing one per thigh. They gazed at him as if for permission and then—again in hilarious unison—flopped onto their sides between his body and the wooden arms of the chair, so that they were cradled, and also cradling him. Granted Cody was bigger, but I couldn't imagine even Sara having her dog on her lap while she was eating.

I looked at the food, grateful for the veggies and hummus. I didn't know about that cheese, though. “Hey there, little cuties,” said Alex. He scratched each under its chin, and they both raised their heads to offer their necks. “Let's get you guys taken care of first.” He reached over to the most fluorescent of the cheeses, tore the top square in half, then in half again, and offered a quarter of it each to the dogs, who licked their lips like starving orphans, eyes upraised solemnly. “There you go, snuggle bunnies.”

For a moment I thought he was speaking a foreign language, saying something that just happened to sound like “snuggle” and
“bunnies,” because “snuggle bunny” was not the kind of word I'd expect from a big boisterous man like Alex. But there he was, saying “snuggle bunnies.” To some dogs. This man was definitely related to Sara. If he was a softy with his dogs, then he was a softy, period. Probably in Iraq he'd had a desk job or something; stupid of me not to realize that sooner.

“All right now,” said Alex, looking up. He reached for the moonshine. “Here's a little homemade North Carolina truth serum to get the ball rolling. You're probably not used to drinking out of a jar.”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, eager to gab my way to charming him, “there was a pub in Dublin called the Diggers, beside a graveyard, and all the gravediggers would come in on break, for a pint, but then take the glasses back out to the graveyard with them and leave them there, and the pub owner got tired of his glasses always going missing, so he started using jam jars so it wouldn't be so costly, and that became the vessel of choice and now we say we're ‘goin' for a jar.'”

I'd said it all in one sentence because I had a feeling he would start talking over me if I didn't. But it made me sound nervous. Then I realized that, in fairness, I
was
a little nervous. The man was waving moonshine under my nose and expecting me to drink it so he could get to know my character—I, who was such an unreliable character when I got lit. 'Course I was nervous. A bit.

He pulled his chin in, interested in my anecdote. Briefly. “Really? I like that story. We're going to share this jar. Made this batch myself.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Apple-pie flavored,” he added. “With cinnamon.”

“Doubly wow,” I said. “But, sorry, I don't drink.”

If I had said, “I don't breathe oxygen,” or “I don't eat solid food,” he'd have given me about the same look. This explained why Jay had been agreeable to the arrangement. Jay knew I didn't drink—hadn't I said so in his very home? That wasn't gospel, but still, he knew Alex would measure me in part by how much I could put away.

“An Irishman who refuses to drink with his host?” Alex said with a delighted yet incredulous laugh. “Ha! I gotta tell you, brother, that's just going to raise suspicions here, not relieve them any.” He was mightily amused by all of this.

Fuck.

I took a deep breath of both resignation and determination. But as I began to reach out for the jar, Alex pushed it aside. He stared at me for a moment with Sara's intense green, dark-lashed, almond-shaped eyes. It was disorienting to see those eyes in such a different face. God, I missed her. I had to get her dog back safely. “Well, all right, then, sir,” he said. “We'll
ease
our way in. You with me?”

I nodded once. I bet Jay had already hightailed it out of town and how the fuck was I ever going to find him now?

“This your first time in the South?” Alex asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, welcome. A lot of us are descended from a lot of you. Natural affinity. Which is interesting 'cuz there's actually a lot in common historically, too.”

“Is there?”

“Sure,” he said. “What you guys call the Troubles over there in Northern Ireland? Just like the Civil War.”

“Really?” I said in a neutral voice, pretty certain that was bollocks.

“Oh, yeah. There are those who will tell you that the Civil War was all about slavery, but that's just bullshit.”

Oh, fuck.

N
o, really,” he assured me, when I said nothing. “It's bullshit. I use a simple pop quiz to prove it. I debate this in bars and I've changed a lot of minds.”

I decided not to comment yet. This bloke was more complicated than I'd anticipated and I'd better play my cards close to the chest until I understood him better.

“This is how the quiz works. First, I'll throw 'em an easy one, like, what were the dates of the Civil War?'

“Sixteen forty-two to 1651,” I said on reflex.

He blinked, then laughed. “Ha!
English
Civil War, right? But you're Irish.”

“Born in England.”

He nodded. “All right, you get a pass. The correct answer is 1861 to 1865. Which everyone knows, so that makes them feel cocky. And
then
I'll ask: ‘True or false: prior to the Civil War, there were slaves in
both
the northern states
and
the southern states. Answer: true. Final question. The North cared
so much
about fighting a war to end slavery that in 1861, the North freed—multiple choice here—
all
of its slaves,
some
of its slaves, or
none
of its slaves.”

At this moment, I noticed that the decorative magnets on the refrigerator depicted what looked like the Union Jack or the Saltire of Scotland. Confederate flags. It was the twenty-first century and the bloke had
Confederate flags
on his
refrigerator
.

“The right answer,” said Alex, “is: none of the slaves. The North quote-unquote ‘went to war over slavery' and felt so strongly about it that they freed
none
of their own slaves!”

“So I s'pose it was about something other than slavery,” I said, pulling my gaze away from the magnets. I'd better play
very
close to the chest until I got a feel for him—Sara had not prepared me for a secessionist. “What was it about, then?”

“So glad you asked! On the side of the Confederacy, there are literary references, from soldiers of all ranks, infantrymen to generals, saying that they're going off to fight for independence, for freedom from a northern oppressor. You find very few references to ‘I'm fighting to preserve slavery.' That just wasn't
there
. For them it was all about
freedom
. Freedom from
oppression
.”

Except for their slaves, for fuck's sake,
I wanted to say. But this bloke was a little alarming now, and I didn't want to engage until I had a better sense of him. So all I said for now was, “But for the
northerners
, it must have been about slavery? I saw
Lincoln
—”

He smirked. “The great myth is that Lincoln was a guy with a mission, but in fact, he stated in his inaugural address, in 1861, that he had no intent of ending slavery! You can Google that, it's right there in the speech.”

Well, good for him for evolving, then,
I thought.
Good for him, for changing and growing and learning to operate for the greater good and all that.
But aloud, I just said, “Oh.”

“See, it was a time when, really, you had two different societies,
you had an agricultural South and a more industrial North.” He settled his large hands, one to either side of the jar, to represent the North and South. He did it in a way that suggested we were going to be here for a while. “They had grown apart economically and culturally, but they just happened legally to be this group of united states. It was a pretty dysfunctional situation, so the southern states started to secede, and you know what? Nobody in the North gave a shit. They didn't care about maintaining the Union. In fact, they tried to institute a draft up north just to raise an army, and they had draft riots, because nobody wanted to fight. And
that
is how the Civil War became about slavery.” He reached for a piece of cheese.

“Sorry?” I said.

“The government in the North needed people to go to war,” he said, tearing the cheese in thirds and offering a piece to either dachshund. “To stop the secessionists. But they couldn't find any actual issue that everyone could get behind—except fighting slavery.”

Was this some kind of logical-reasoning test? Is
that
how he was going to “suss me out”? “If everyone could get behind that one thing,” I said, “doesn't that make it, by definition . . . the thing that they went to war for?”

“You're missing the point,” said Alex earnestly. “Slavery was an
excuse,
it wasn't a
cause
. But the winners write the history books and that's why it became ‘about' slavery.” He used air quotes for “about,” a strip of orange cheese flopping between his left thumb and forefinger.

“Ah,” I said. So it wasn't a logical-reasoning test, it was what he actually
believed
.

Alex tore the remaining bit of cheese in half and again made an offering to the dachshunds. “And even then,” he continued, taking a gulp of moonshine but not, thank God, pushing the jar toward me, “the North never had the passion the South had. Which is why the North got the shit kicked out it for the first three years of the war.” He reached for one of the shrimp. Food. Good idea. I began to shovel hummus into my mouth with a celery stick. “Because in terms of the staffing,” Alex continued, “when the United States Army split up, the South got all the good officers. They had almost no natural resources but they had a whole bunch of guys willing to fight for their rights, while the North had the resources, but nobody who actually wanted to fight a war.”

“That's ironic,” I said, “Given that, y'know, they won.” What was the polite way to mention that down here, anyhow? Express condolences?

He made an exasperated sound. “The only reason the South didn't win the Civil War is because Lee's right-hand guy, Stonewall Jackson, was killed by friendly fire earlier on. If Stonewall Jackson hadn't been killed, the South would have won the war. See, Gettysburg was an accident. Shouldn't have happened.” He was warming to his subject as the drink warmed him. I could not believe how abruptly and intensely he had hijacked the conversation from anything relevant. “The South had been kicking the North's butt. Lee felt they only needed one more victory on northern soil. Then the South would win the war—not as in taking over the North, but just that they'd be allowed to secede and finally throw off their oppressors.” Bright green eyes stared intensely into mine. “You're Irish, so you can relate to that part, right?”

I couldn't pretend slavery didn't count for anything, which
meant I couldn't equate the Confederacy with Sinn Fein or 1916 as a way for us to get jolly and pally. I wanted the dog back, but not on those terms. Roddy Doyle had already pegged us as the blacks of Europe, and I wasn't in the humor to hear how we were somehow also the rednecks of Europe. But hard as it was not to say anything, I wasn't going to argue with somebody like this. We'd be at it for hours, and for no reason but to argue. I would let him talk himself out, then have him take me to Cody. “So the battle was an accident?” I asked quickly.

“Right,” said Alex, apparently failing to notice I hadn't answered him. “Lee didn't have maps of the area, and got entangled in the battle accidentally and that kind of caused the destruction of his army.
But
the historical thought is that
had
Stonewall Jackson been there,
then
the battle wouldn't have happened as it did, and the South
would
have won the war.”

I said nothing. I sensed we were nearing the end of this.

“Now, if that had happened,” he continued, “in my humble opinion, it means that we would have had one country that was the northeastern states, another that was the southeastern states, and then a whole bunch of territories out in the West, that would have eventually formed their own country. We might have evolved like Europe, with smaller countries having wars every five years, for hundreds of years, until we came together and made a permanent peace treaty, just like in Europe.”

That wasn't exactly how I remembered things from my history classes, but I wasn't going to argue, because that would lead to more shite talk and all I wanted was to get through this part and then get the dog back.

“So in the larger picture,” he continued, “it's good that the
North did win the war—not because their way was better, just because the long-term, big-picture alternative would have made us more like Europe, and that would suck, don't you think?”

Not that I'm a big defender of the EU or anything, but maybe he had already forgotten I was Irish? Or maybe he thought Ireland didn't count as part of Europe? No matter, I continued to strategically keep my mouth shut.

“That said,” he continued ruefully, “the period of Reconstruction was very painful for the South. So. As I said. Was the Civil War about slavery? No. But at the end of the day, the winners write the history books.” He reached for the moonshine and took another large swig.

Then he gave me a meaningful look, and pushed it across the table toward me.

I stared at it. This would be like bungee jumping without the bungee cord. I drew a breath to prepare myself.
It's okay,
I thought,
it's for a very good cause.
I sipped a little bit—it went down smooth as apple cider, and oh, did I feel those wee alcohol molecules right off. Alex grinned at me.

I took a breath, brought the jar to my lips again, tipped my head back, and swallowed.

It burned like a flame all the way down into my gut. It was almost a religious experience.

“Wow,”
I coughed, coming up for air.

“Yes, sir,” said Alex. He looked more pleased with me than he had since he'd started monologuing. “That's the real deal. Didn't know if you could handle it. Glad to see you can.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Because at first you said you didn't drink at all, so it's interest
ing to me that you crumbled under peer pressure and just downed it like that. I can't help but wonder what that says about your moral strength.”

Taken aback, I felt my mouth drop open, and I deliberately closed it. “Seemed impolite to refuse a local custom,” I said, scrambling, praying my smile did not look like I was sucking up to him.

He mulled over this a moment, and then nodded. “Fair enough. Especially given, no offense here, you seem to be the ingratiating type.”

I felt myself redden. “Do I?” I said. If my mates could hear anyone ever say that about me! Rory O'Connor, ingratiating? Charming and persuasive, but
ingratiating
? Desperate times called for desperate measures, but still that was an insult. I couldn't believe I had to sit here and take all this bollocks all for the sake of a dog.

“I've been saying some things that don't go over well with most Yanks,” Alex was continuing. “I've been saying them
deliberately
. You can argue with me if you want to, y'know.”

Did he really think I'd fall for that? Alienate him when I needed his help? Anyhow, what's the point of arguing with somebody so married to his own opinion? Maybe if we had nothing else to do for the evening, but I wanted to get to Step Two: Dog Retrieval. “I'm not a Yank,” I said, and gave him a friendly smile. “I have no argument.”

He grimaced. “Well, that's disappointing, I have to tell you. You probably think I was just running my mouth off—”

“Oh, no,” I said. He ignored me.

“But I told you that this evening was about sussing you out, and
that's what I've been doing, and I hate to report it, sir, but I'm not finding much to suss. You're giving me nothing. You're opaque.”

“Opaque.”

“Yes, sir. I trust transparency a lot more. See, that's what I always liked about Jonathan. He thought my ideas were all wrong, but he liked me for stating them honestly. We'd have some truly awesome debates. We'd get drunk and shout at each other. Don't know that we ever changed each other's mind about anything, but we got the honest measure of each other, and I respect that in a man.” He gave me a searching look, a challenging look, a you-are-such-a-loser-Rory look. “Can
you
respect that in a man?”

Oh, fuck me. I'd gotten it exactly backward. And I would never be able to simply outdrink him to make up for it. I was screwed. I felt like a character stuck in a Beckett play.
Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
Well, at least I was getting
that
right.

That moonshine, man. What a lovely buzz. It felt so fucking good, and I suspected now that I would not be feeling good again for a while. Possibly ever.

“Do you understand what I'm saying, Rory?” Alex said, perfectly friendly, like a coach explaining why he had to bench me.

“You're saying you find Jay to be a fine upstanding gentleman and I am full of shite.”

“Well, sir, that's awfully harsh if by ‘shite' you mean ‘shit.' Jonathan's not exactly upstanding, but at least I know what he's made of. He's passionate; he genuinely believes Sara did him wrong and he's just getting his own back. Whether I agree or not isn't the point—the point is I know his position. I'm not saying you're a bad man, don't get me wrong. I'm just saying I don't know that
you're a good man because frankly, sir, I'm not seeing any evidence that you're a man at all.”

“I drank the moonshine,” I said bitterly, almost under my breath.

“Even ladies drink moonshine,” he said, light as a breeze. “Unless they declare themselves nondrinkers. In which case they don't drink anything. Which I respect, because they're sticking to their principles. You didn't do that here.”

I was almost in tears from the pressure of keeping my cool while feeling the heat of the drink in me. “Are you saying I've flopped? Is that the bottom line? Are you telling me I've failed and you're not going to help me get the dog back?” This last sentence came out furious staccato, like a machine gun.