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Chapter 2

To fulfill his service hours, the court provided Will a list of area hot meal programs. He chose the Shepherd’s Table on Simonton Street, which had served the homeless since 1976. Not one missed day of service; not one mistreated guest. He had never ventured into that part of Annapolis, the needy part.

Saturday’s volunteers were students from Loyola High looking to earn service learning hours, a pod of insurance company office workers, and a math teacher from Lakeview High, who was more nervous than his first day of teaching. In early business, all the volunteers were given disposable hair nets. With netted hair, Will felt nostalgic for his pollen mask. He packed the front pockets of his green apron (name tag: “Will”) with zip-lock bags and brown paper bags for the guests to carry leftovers.

“You won’t be on the floor at first, Will. We need you on the line doing desserts,” said Todd, the volunteer coordinator. “Each plate needs one dessert. No more than one. The dessert trays are over there.” Stacked on a metal rolling shelf, the trays were elbow-to-elbow in cupcakes, pound cake, blueberry muffins, chocolate cake, pecan pie, marble cake, disowned wedding cake, star-shaped sprinkled cookies, and quaking wedges of lemon meringue pie.

In his first act of community service, Will was Dessert Guy.

At 10:30, the Shepherd’s Table opened its weathered double doors. Seventy-five people took their seats and exchanged tokens for their only hot meal of the day. The 18 tables were set with tea and water pitchers on Easter-egg-colored placemats. Several guests said grace; others said nothing. The bread servers took orders, and each guest was entitled to up to seven pieces. The potato bread was always the first to go. The servers at each table began holding up five fingers to signal he needed five meals. On the line, volunteers began ladling out tuna casserole and green beans on the plates before Will loaded them with a dessert. Everyone knew their job. Will admired the logic and order of the operation – the soup kitchen ran like a classroom. But, better in a way. Here, instant results. You give a man a slab of marble cake, you have something to show for yourself. And people thank you! No one thanks an algebra teacher.

By noon, the orders came faster. Volunteers slid four, five plates at a rapid clip to Will for dessert placement. He rushed his work. Leaning towers of pound cake toppled into the tuna casserole, wedding cake slices lost their balance and went head first into the green beans. He manhandled slabs of pecan pie (not the pecan pie!) with such force they buckled. After emptying yet another tray, Will crossed the kitchen to retrieve a new tray. His fingers, exposed by torn gloves, were smeared with assorted frostings. This constant, intimate handling of sweets soon left Will with what he hoped was a temporary hostility toward desserts.

What happened next Will blamed on a slick spot on the kitchen floor. A more objective assessment might indicate a loss of concentration. In any case, Will dropped a tray of 45 desserts. Looking down at the carnage around and on his shoes, he had an epiphany: along with taste, desserts use their shapely form and appetizing presentations to attract. What he saw on the floor was not salvageable. Will had destroyed dessert for 45 homeless people of Annapolis.

“Do you have any potato bread?” a guest asked, startling the Dessert Guy.

Will was mopping up birthday cake from the tile floor. In the dining hall, someone was yodeling. While the homeless man was an able yodeler, the musical form quickly overstayed its welcome. Will’s head was splitting.

“Excuse me, do you have any potato bread?”

Will looked up into the face a very tall homeless man.

“Sorry, I’m not the Bread Guy.”

The older man wore too many coats for inside. He had a faded Orioles cap on – back when the bird looked duller, back when the team won a World Series. Will sponged more cake off the floor before rising from his knees, his apron smudged with assorted frostings. Seven plates awaited dessert. Will’s hairnet felt tighter on his head. His guest wanted potato bread.

“I can’t help you.”

“Pardon me?”

“Do you understand what I said? I said I can’t help you. Now take your seat.”

Will tried to make up for lost time but another volunteer stepped in to fill the dessert trays. Todd, the volunteer coordinator, asked Will to step aside and refill the iced tea pitchers. It was a blatant demotion; grade-school probationary rookies refilled the iced tea pitchers. Dessert Guy was the cool job.

When the shift ended, the Shepherd’s Table had fed 412 guests, some of whom missed out on dessert. In the kitchen, volunteers stripped off their hairnets and threw their aprons in the laundry bin.

“Will, can I talk to you?” said Todd.

A soup kitchen does not have a principal’s office, but the bread stock room worked in a pinch.

“Our mission is to help everyone who dines with us. One of our guests said you told him you couldn’t help him.”

“He wanted potato bread, and I didn’t have any.”

“The potato bread is popular,” Todd said, which was understood.

“Did you tell our guest he needed to sit down?”

“It’s a habit, I guess. I teach high school.”

“I’m sure you’re a fine teacher, but this isn’t a classroom,” Todd said. “If you treat a customer like that again, you won’t be allowed back, and I will notify the court.”

“But I was Dessert Guy…”

• • •

Maryland requires couples seeking a no-fault “Absolute Divorce” to stay separated 12 continuous months (buying a gun was far simpler). At such time, neighbors, friends, work colleagues can testify the couple in question has not strayed onto each other’s orbit for one year. Easier ordered than done. Will and Terri couldn’t help but run into each at school. Joint custody of Dean wasn’t practical, so Will became the dog’s sole caretaker.

One year:

Drunk dialing (six times) his legally-separated wife and spying on her coaching lacrosse (23 times) from the window in the teachers’ lounge that overlooked Lakeview’s ball fields.

Trying not to drink on school nights, but the need scratched at him from the inside when he got home from work. The loudness of his empty home. The rituals of his marriage inexplicably dissolved. No one to hold or kiss. No one’s air to take when kissing.

Finishing his community service hours at the Shepherd’s Table. Finishing a 10-hour, online anger management class and barely passing the final online exam on anger emotion, anger behavior, mental anger rehearsal and anger strategies – all of which agitated Will. The teacher had graduated from anger management school still trying to understand how learning is changed behavior. Crimes against poetry anthologies were not analyzed.

And one year of not looking twice at any other girl. One year to realize Terri Morrow, the first girl he ever loved, was not coming back.

The crisp business envelope arrived on a Tuesday – the week’s dimmest day. Will never received business envelopes, except teacher union forms and updates he ignored. He opened this new, suspicious envelope and pulled out two pieces of paper from the Anne Arundel County Circuit Court. William P. Larkin and Teresa Morrow had been granted a no-fault divorce. No fault, no mess. No goodbye dinner or hug. The end.

Will showed the document to Dean, who expressed a startling lack of empathy. It was February and the dog was late for his rabies vaccination. Reminder postcards (2) had come in the mail. Beyond any tardy vaccinations, something was up with Dean. He had lost interest in eating, had become listless and snappish. Plus, he had this nagging cough. Will hoped it was just the dog missing Terri. Hell, he was listless and snappish, too.

On Saturday Will drove to the Annapolis Animal Hospital and took the parking space farthest from the front door and closest to the evaporated creek bed where Dean took his pre-visit leak. Dean was on a blanket in the back of Will’s silver Honda. He reached back to stroke Dean’s head and was nearly bit. He left him on his blanket and went inside. In the waiting room, a mother and son sat on the plastic-covered couch under the pet adoption notices. At the boy’s feet, a Lab pup tried wiggling out of his leash. The mother showed her son how to pick up and hold the dog. The boy used both hands.

Will loped over to the counter where they kept the Heartgard, dog beef jerky, surplus business cards and second-string leashes with pharmaceutical names.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” said a veterinary technician, whose name tag said “Parker.” As in Parker Posey or Mary Louise Parker, Will thought, conjuring his two favorite actresses spliced into one Parkeresque being. He felt guilty for noticing her – guilty and excited, those two adorable first cousins.

Will picked up a business card then put it back where he found it. On a hook under the counter, the leashes looked artificially red and green. Dean didn’t need a leash anymore. He stopped walking three days ago, and earlier this morning Will dabbed water on Dean’s muzzle, but the dog wouldn’t drink.

The vet tech finished running a Visa card.

“I called about Dean. He’s out in my car. Can you help me?”

Parker Cool got up from her swivel chair and disappeared into one of those mysterious vet hallways and came out the other end through Exam Room 2. Together they walked to the parking lot. Will pointed to the silver Honda and walked back inside the office. Parker peered in the backseat.

“Hi, baby,” she said. “I’m going to pick you up nice and slow. You can stay right in your blanket.”

She planted her feet, leaned into the backseat, and lifted the dog out. Inside, Will played with the dog leashes, anything to distract him. Parker came in with the dog and asked Will if he wanted to say his goodbyes.

“That’s not my dog.”

“What?”

“That’s not my dog.”

“You said the silver Honda,” Parker said.

“I did say that, but that’s not my dog.”

They walked to the window, parted the cheap curtain, and counted two, no three silver Hondas in the parking lot. On the other end of the horseshoe-shaped counter, a middle-aged woman with an unnatural tan and chest approached the stunned vet technician holding a dog that was not Will’s.

“Why are you holding my dog? I came in to buy heartworm medicine. There’s not a thing wrong with my Buddy.” Buddy, another basset hound.

Parker handed the dog over. A slew of professional apologies appeared to pacify the pet owner. With an escort this time, Parker went to the parking lot and found the correct silver Honda. Dean still hadn’t moved. Will leaned in and kissed his dog on what he always believed was Dean’s forehead, a bony peak book-ended by quilted ears. Still a beautiful coat. Still didn’t look that sick. Parker waited until Will was ready. She carried Dean in his towel into the animal hospital.

Five minutes later, Parker found Will outside by his car.

“I’m so sorry about that. That’s never happened to me.”

“We all get distracted.”

Parker Cool prided herself on never getting distracted.

“My theory is the world has too many silver Hondas,” Will said.

“Do you want to see Dean? There’s time.”

“What do you mean there’s time?”

“Didn’t someone…”

“No. No one has said anything to me. I don’t know anything other than you picked up the wrong dog. What’s wrong with Dean?”

Parker raced back into the office and returned with Dean’s vet, Dr. Branham. Dean had a sudden blockage of blood flow in his heart, something called caval syndrome that will lead to his heart’s collapse, the vet explained. There is nothing we can do to help him, he told Will. It’s your decision but the sooner the better.

Parker handed Will the dog collar. Will took off the circular tag and pried it onto his key ring. My name is Dean. I belong to Will & Terri…

“Are you going to be all right?”

Will’s eyes were damp.

“I’ll call you to let you know,” she said.

Will walked out of the office and sat on the hood of his car, leaned back and felt the windshield wiper jab his back. At the corner of Randall and State streets, Wishing Well Liquors was open. Will could stand in the parking lot and try to stop crying or sprint across the street to Wishing Well Liquors. The sprinting would be a problem, though. He had not sprinted since middle school when his gym teacher required participation in the depraved event known as the 50-yard dash. Will had always been a lousy dasher, could not dash, so he walked (briskly) across the street to buy beer. Back in his car, he twisted open a Yuengling and stared at the bald eagle on the label. He drank two Yuenglings in his car before driving home.

At home, there was no hound dog bark or tail-thwapping against the back screen porch like the sound of jazz drum brushes. No clickity-clacking, as Dean tacked upstairs to the master bedroom, step by step hacking into gravity’s pull. Dean was only 9. He should be at least 12 or some crazy age like 17. When he was a boy, Will begged his parents for a dog but instead, they bought him a gecko named Andrew, which moved three times during the calendar year. A few years later, Barb and Bill Larkin adopted a cat, but within three months it died of an intestinal ailment. Will forgot the cat’s and ailment’s names.

He remembered driving to Pennsylvania to pick up Dean. Across the state line, Interstate 83 turned rough and washed out. Will found the farm or maybe it was a ranch – no, probably a farm because there were free-roaming chickens and four, five goats staring at nothing. The dog breeder, a sour man of dubious commerce, sold the basset hound pup for $200. Insisted on cash. Will wanted to get the hell out of there. He put his new dog in the front passenger seat on a blanket, where the basset hound snoozed for most of the ride home...

“It’s the Annapolis Animal Hospital. I wanted to let you know,” Parker said on the phone.

Dean, with the bad breath and caval syndrome, had been put down. His foreleg had been shaved, his fur wetted to expose the vein, then the overdose of dark green anesthetic, the involuntary muscle twitching, the stillness.

“Were you with him?”

“Yes,” she said.

Had they disposed of Dean’s body? Was there a special box or bag for him? Maybe a company came around every Tuesday to collect the special boxes or bags out behind the building where pet owners couldn’t see. Some people buried their pets in the back yard, but there must be county ordinances against that. God forbid flooding.

Will declined to take Dean’s remains. The collar was enough.

“Hello?”

“I’m still here.”

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

He thanked the vet technician for calling then dragged Dean’s green bed out of his bedroom and into the mud room where he folded the bed like an omelet. Dean’s water dish was emptied, dried, and stowed in a supermarket bag along with Heartgard chewables, dog brush (used twice) and plastic tick remover. The dog’s Christmas-red collar was hung on a peg in the mud room; the collar smelled of grass, dirt, and neck. Copper rabies tags matted together on the leash ring. Dean was finally up to date on his shots.

That night, Will drank five beers and called his wife.

• • •

Seven miles away in Terri’s new apartment, the telltale number announced itself.

“Will?”

“It’s me.”

She hadn’t heard his voice in a year. For a split second, she considered hanging up, but he wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important. It better be important – her day had been lousy and dispiriting enough.

Terri discovered her sophomores had never heard of Frederick Douglass, the abolitionist, statesman, author, and native of Maryland’s Eastern Shore. So, she threw together an impromptu lesson on Douglass and his escape from slavery in Fells Point, where he had worked as a shipyard caulker. This prompted a side-discussion not on slavery (her intended subject) but on what a shipyard was and what was meant by the word caulker. It sounded dirty, several students hypothesized.

“I’m sorry but I had to call,” Will said.

“I’m listening.”

“Dean got sick.”

“Sick? How sick? Can I see him? I can come by tomorrow.”

How he wished.

“He stopped eating, walking and even drinking water, Terri. You should have heard him cough.”

No sound on the phone from her end or the sound of someone trying not to cry or scream.

“I had to do it.”

“Do what?”

“I had to, Terri.”

She said she couldn’t talk anymore and hung up. Will turned off the light over his ill-fitting queen-sized bed. The alarm clock read 12:15 in red, double-jointed numbers. He wedged a pillow between his feet to stop the cricketing. A stale glass of water stood stagnant guard on his night table. At 2:43, he buried the alarm clock in the top drawer. Rogue sleeplessness filled the time with brutal self-evaluations before quicksand dreams of falling, and in one water dream, capsizing. Someone yanks him up hard by the arm, a man in a black robe. The man looks like Fred Gwynn. In a seamless segue, Will is in a courtroom decorated in marble ancient columns, and Fred Gwynn is reading charges brought against William P. Larkin. For the crime of selfishness, how do you plead? Guilty, your honor. For the crime of immaturity, how do you plead? Guilty. I hereby sentence you to Life.

Will was especially relieved to have to get out of bed and go to work.

• • •

At Lakeview High, he waited four years for Mrs. Howell to retire before they gave him her classroom. Will had been a “floater” – teachers unassigned a room who rolled a metal, warped-wheeled cart of their school belongings from classroom to classroom for six periods. For the dozen floating teachers, home base was a suite of cubicles aptly nicknamed “Dilbert.” There, the floaters parked their carts until it was time again to haul their educational wares. Some teachers claimed to like floating, but they were also the ones who perpetuated the Secret Santa gift-swapping ritual. Real team players.

Will did his hard time and last year, finally, Room 215 was his. The classroom was closest to the men’s room and the main stairway leading to the office, where moody gatekeepers issued paychecks, schedules and contested chaperone duties. Room 215 featured slender windows providing a cheap view of the football field. In the back of the classroom – where Will smartly stationed his desk and microwave – he could monitor his yearly crop of teens.

This year’s menu of bureaucratic bullshit included the following edicts from the Hopewell County School Superintendent’s Office: No student will receive a 0 grade; no accepting late work anymore (“Not even in July?” Will asked snarkily during a poorly-attended department meeting); homework grades are not to be applied to a student’s academic record, and failing a student was essentially not an option. These new practices coupled fretfully with an “epidemic” of students leaving school grounds daily to dine at the nearby Chipotle and Chick-fil-A. Lunching off-campus was against the rules for liability issues, but students remained determined to take their appetites elsewhere. Once, Will interrupted one of his student’s cell phone conversations with her Uber driver who apparently was charging too much to get the girl to Chipotle. He felt nostalgic for last year’s cheating epidemic.

Still, for every front office cluster fuck, behavioral epidemic, debasing parent-teacher conference and further demolition of student accountability, Will’s Honda was always 38 paces from his classroom. So what if his classroom was too cold in the winter and too hot in late spring. So what if the janitorial staff used a leaf blower to sweep out his room, which accounted for backpack flotsam clinging to the ceiling’s cobwebs. So what if he taught house-unbroken pups of freshmen every year. Room 215 was his.

Will was not expecting calamitous news when he was summoned to the main office on Monday. He had faithfully reported the gazebo incident and received an officious warning, as noted in his personnel file. What was the worst thing Hull could do? Give him all Standards next year? Fine with him. Fewer college recommendations to write; fewer parents to e-mail-stalk him. Will preferred the Standard kids. He had been a Standard kid.

“Have a seat,” said assistant principal Hull, who always struck Will as more of a loud oil painting than a human (and that croaking, glottal voice, that classic vocal fry). The administrator sat at his Office Depot desk and on the cinder-blocked wall behind him a laminated inspirational poster: “I’m a School Administrator. What’s Your Superpower?” Two framed photographs of the Family Hull were turned outward on his desk for visiting staff and teachers to appraise. The Hull children looked cretinous. The Hull woman looked like she could drown the lot of them. Cut the brakes and roll their minivan into a lake with the doors locked. Staged press conferences. Fake tears. The whole show.

“As you know, we’re getting a new math teacher. This is her first year, and I’m not going to have her float. She’s going to be lost enough as it is. I need you to be the team player that I know you are,” Hull said, scraping out his words.

“You’re taking my classroom?”

“I’m hoping it’s only for the remainder of the year, Will.”

“I was a floater for four years before I got my classroom. Then I floated again this year. Now, I have to float again? Is this because of the gazebo? That was a year ago. I reported that immediately. I haven’t had an issue, any issue since. And now you’re giving my room to a new teacher?”

Hull had lost confidence in his algebra teacher and suspected Will of faking a cough on the phone last month so he could skip school for the first time in four years. Not to mention Will terrorizing his neighbor’s property last year. The man might be cracking up, a man who had never once changed his daily lesson plan, never once asked for a different classroom or schedule. Hull feared the teacher might be capable of entering school grounds after hours and taking a chainsaw to his Ikea desk, family photographs or his inspirational poster!

“You’re a team player, Will. And I know you will continue to be a team player.”

Will walked out of assistant principal Hull’s office and passed Pete Wilson rolling his cart to Ms. Emmart’s room to teach his U.S. history. Pete was only five years older than Will, but Pete looked 65 and broken down like a junkyard microwave. The wheels of the metal cart wobbled and squealed. Pete took the corner with his cart and math books toppled onto the ground. Will felt sick to his stomach.

He was a floater again.