They spent Halloween evening playing with his dogs. He and his mother—a bear of a woman with a considerable gut and close-cropped blond curls—had a feverish love of dogs. They adopted them rapid-fire, kept some, and tried to find others homes. He hated that the New Canaan pet shelter wasn’t no-kill.
“They put down any animal that doesn’t get adopted in seventy-two hours,” he told her. “If it’s got so much as the sniffles, they’ll put it down even faster.”
They adopted a new dog almost every month and then made phone calls and put ads in the paper to try to place each one. They only had enough room on their property to keep so many. Plus, the dogs would sometimes attack one another. She loved watching him with the animals. That night they sat in the vast, yawning expanse of backyard, which, compared to the wee double-wide, was the main event: grass and forest and those beautiful Ohio hills rising to the dawn and stars. They fed the dogs, threw tennis balls and sticks and toys, watched the pups sprint after them in an excitement that didn’t have a human parallel. Like they knew they’d been saved.
That evening she found Symphony with burrs in her hair, and he grabbed a pair of scissors to cut them out.
“You think she’d learn better by now.” He snipped into the dog’s coat and brought out yet another small barb tangled in fur. “Swear she runs into that patch every time we let her out back.”
She watched from beside him, holding the scrawny mutt gently with two hands, rubbing the poor girl under the jaw. She was the newest of the strays, some timid mix of Australian shepherd and cattle dog, according to 56. Something bad had happened to her. She trembled every time a human got near her and had horrible scars on her snout.
“Maybe she’s trying to run away,” she suggested.
“Can see the fence right there.” He gestured to the back of their property where wood posts and welded-wire field fence enclosed three acres. He finished cutting the burrs out and fed Symphony a treat. The dog took it with deference. Let it drop to the ground and sniffed hesitantly before picking it up.
“Good girl,” he whispered to her, scratching around her head and neck. “You’re such a beautiful girl.”
It was cool outside. Fall trying to break through summer. The clouds huddled around a setting sun so that the sky looked like pink cupcake frosting. They talked about what life would be like in just a few years when he went pro. The things they could buy. The worries they could forget forever. The house he’d build his mom. The dogs that would bound across their enormous property. He’d use his money when he made it to the NFL to open a no-kill pet shelter in his hometown. And then open them everywhere and save all of these beautiful pups.
She waited in Cole’s Cobalt a long time. She’d brought nothing to do, no magazines or crossword puzzle to occupy her. That was fine. She stayed in the dark alone with her memories. She imagined the whole span of her life like it was a world of fireflies trapped in a jar.
When the door banged open and 56 stumbled out, she almost didn’t recognize him. She’d seen him only from a distance in the last few years. She’d seen the weight he’d gained, especially in the belly and face. His jaw had gone round and fleshy. His stubble now covered a pouch beneath his chin. She knew that he still went to the cheapo gym out by Bluebaugh Auto Body where he benched and squatted, but all that muscle now had a heavy coating of fat. Tonight he wore a red Buckeyes hat that had dirtied and faded to a crimson rust. He moseyed on to his truck, excavating keys from his jeans pocket.
She turned the key in the ignition. It revved and then sputtered out. Her skin went cold with dread. The battery was old and the engine cranked sluggish, but it always turned over. Not now. She looked back to 56. He tottered slightly. She expected him to get into the truck before he noticed, but as he sifted through his many keys, she saw him catch sight of the tire. His cuss rang out through the quiet. She tried the ignition again. It wheezed, struggled, and failed. Wait ten seconds. Don’t panic. But panic was all around. She found herself praying as she tried it a third time.
Fifty-six bent down to examine the wheel, and just as he was pulling his cell phone from his pocket, maybe to call a buddy for a ride, the engine caught and turned over. She put the Cobalt in drive and her foot to the accelerator.
Her heart thundered in her chest. Memories winking in and out in the jar.
She thought—she didn’t know, but she thought—it had something to do with the day in the black depths of a midwestern winter her sophomore year, his senior, when Mr. Clifton, the music teacher, stopped her after class. She could see 56 waiting for her down the hall as students scurried to the next period. He had his eyes on her when Mr. Clifton shut the door.
“I just wanted to speak with you very quickly, Tina. Hope you have a minute.”
“Sure. I have chemistry, though.”
“I can write you a note.”
He motioned for her to have a seat in a front-row desk. He sat beside her, folding his hands. Mr. Clifton was probably the most adored teacher in the school. He was funny and warm, and he took a direct interest in every student, knew everyone by name, knew their sports and extracurriculars. His voice reminded her of a middle school vocab word she’d never forgotten: mellifluous. When it flipped from a rich baritone to a high peeling laugh, it was a sound of extraordinary pleasure to the ear. The tone of this kind voice troubled her now, though. She had no idea what he might want.
“You date Todd Beaufort on the football team, right?”
She nodded. “For a year now.”
“And that’s going well?”
“Of course. It’ll be hard when he goes away to school, but it’s only two years, and I’ll probably visit every other weekend.”
He nodded, stared at her.
“I heard some…” he began and then stopped. His teeth worried his lower lip. “I heard some pretty outlandish stuff from a student. In regards to you and Todd. I won’t go into the details, except that my position almost requires me to inform the higher-ups of… of what I heard if it’s true.”
She frowned. “What did you hear?”
Mr. Clifton looked extremely uncomfortable. Beads of sweat had popped out on the high part of his brow where the hair had receded. He swiped at his mustache.
“Does Todd treat you the way he should?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Mr. Clifton nodded. He opened his mouth, but was cut off by the snick-snack sound of the classroom door unlatching. Fifty-six stepped into the doorway, still holding the knob. His eyes assessed them the way they would an offensive line: quickly, expertly.
“Everything good in here, Tina?”
“Excuse me,” said Mr. Clifton. “We’re having a conversation. Please shut the door.”
“What all about?”
“It’s okay,” Tina said, but neither of the men seemed to hear her.
“A private one,” said Mr. Clifton. For the first time since she’d known him, she heard anger in his voice. “Shut the door, Mr. Beaufort.”
Fifty-six kept his eyes cool, indifferent.
“Another day not that long ago, Mr. Clifton,” he said, “and you wouldn’t dare talk to me like that.”
Mr. Clifton bolted from the student desk. “Excuse me?” He took two steps and put his face inches from her boyfriend’s. “What did you say?”
He was a great deal taller than Mr. Clifton, but he turned his gaze to the side anyway. “Nothing.”
“No, why don’t you repeat that, Mr. Beaufort? Repeat that to me right now.”
Number 56 shook his head back and forth lazily. “Can’t even remember what I said.”
The two of them stood like that, nose to chin, for a moment. Tina pictured him in his pads on the cold sideline and could nearly see the steam wafting from his skull. Finally, Mr. Clifton said, “If you want to play Friday, get out of my sight right now.” He slammed the classroom door in her boyfriend’s face.