4. Marley
FOUR
MARLEY
As it turns out I can, in fact, still undress and redress myself. I may have nearly blacked out a few times, but I did it.
“I’m decent!” I call out to Bennett when I’ve pulled the sweatshirt down over my body. I am indeed swimming in the clothes, but I’m also not complaining because they’re clean and cozy. I have spent the better part of the past decade in very uncozy situations, so I’m choosing to view this as a silver lining.
When Bennett comes back in, his eyes do a quick sweep of my body before quickly looking away and sitting on the couch across from me. I expect him to lean back and get comfortable, but instead he leans forward with his forearms resting on his thighs, looking only marginally more comfortable than he had in the woods. And now I’m wondering if I look too comfortable like I’m enjoying sitting in this cushy chair, swimming in a sweatsuit, utterly basking in this impromptu lounging session. I push myself up a bit so I’m sitting a bit straighter and try to think of something intelligent to say.
The problem with trying to think of something intelligent to say is that it often leads to me putting my foot directly into my mouth, and because I’ve already made an incredible first impression, I continue down that path. “You’ve got a nice home. I mean, I haven’t seen beyond this room and the kitchen could be a dump, but it seems nice.”
Bennett laughs a little and finally sits back. “The kitchen is, in fact, a dump. My grandfather was in the middle of renovating it when he passed away, and I’m so busy with the dogs I haven’t done much to it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Very on brand, Marley. “Was it recent?”
“Three years ago.”
“Oh.” I know for some three years is recent but for others, it’s forever ago. Navigating one’s own grief is tricky; navigating someone else’s is a fucking minefield. I have a complicated relationship with grief—it’s how I keep ending up in shelled-out buildings taking pictures for media outlets to cash in on. “Were you close?” I ask.
His brows knit together like he’s trying to find a diplomatic way to say what he’s thinking. “It was not an easy relationship. But not uneasy enough for him to have left all his earthly possessions and money to someone else.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? I mean, have you seen the cost of things nowadays?” I laugh thinking about what I pay for an apartment I’ve barely lived in to store stuff I barely care about. “Did he leave you a bunch of dogs or…” I trail off as Yogurt appears out from under the couch. Yogurt is not a large dog by any means, but I cannot for the life of me figure out how he managed to get under the couch.
“Nah,” Bennett says, bending to pick the dog up and plunking him in his lap. Don’t you dare think it , I tell myself as Yogurt spins a few times before finally curling up with his head resting on Bennett’s thigh. “He couldn’t stand dogs.” A slow, somewhat evil smile pulls at his lips while he looks down at Yogurt.
“So are they all revenge dogs or something? Or is this a ‘I went a little off the deep end when I moved away from home’ situation? You know, the kind that usually involves drinking too much or drugs? I guess that could work with dogs too.”
He laughs, and I decide I want to hear that rich, smooth sound as much as possible while I’m stuck here. “I had two before he died. Then a friend called maybe a month after I moved back here and said she had found a dog wandering around her neighborhood. The shelter nearby has a high kill rate so she begged me to take her. I figured I had the room now so why not, and I guess things kind of escalated.”
“How many are there?” I have heard the odd bark since the start of this little adventure, but if I hadn’t seen all the dogs, I would be shocked to discover there are so many running around.
“Twenty-one,” he says, looking guilty like he’s been caught sneaking cookies or something.
“That’s…” Insane? Bold? Too many dogs? “That’s a lot of dogs,” I say. “Is this your job then? Is this place like a shelter masquerading as a fancy country retreat for canines?”
“Sort of.” He shrugs, and I’m starting to realize this is all feeling like a job interview.
“Do you have a phone charger I could borrow?” I ask, changing the subject and reaching for my bag to pull out my phone.
“I do, but it’s for an Android,” he says apologetically.
“Oh.” I unlock my phone and see that I have 15% battery left. I’m usually really good at keeping things charged, but I had been listening to an audiobook in the car on my way up to the trail, and it was only when I arrived that I noticed my cable wasn’t charging. “I’m just going to text my friend to let her know I’m alive.”
“3087 Fire Route A, Harcourt,” Bennett says .
“Sorry?” I look up from my phone.
“That’s where you are.”
“Right,” I probably should have asked that earlier. I’m starting to wonder if I hit my head at some point and don’t remember. “I’m usually better with being aware of my surroundings.” I laugh nervously as I text Izzy, grateful for the app that helps make my dyslexia seem nonexistent.
I’m alive and at 3087 Fire Route A, Harcourt.
Izzy
Why wouldn’t you be alive?
Long story. I sprained my ankle on the trail. A nice man and his dogs rescued me and took me back to his place.
Izzy
Excuse me? I’m asking Tom to google the address now and we’ll come pick you up.
You can’t. The driveway was washed out. Bennett will take me to the hospital when there’s road access again.
At least I think he will? We haven’t established anything beyond that his house was my only option and some clean clothes. Oh, and that he has nearly two dozen dogs as a big fuck you to his grandfather.
Izzy
Mar, do we trust this guy?
He has given me no reason not to. He’s been a perfect gentleman.
Izzy
Most are until they aren’t .
I ignore that and let her know my phone is dying so I’m going to turn it off unless I absolutely need it.
This, unsurprisingly, does not go over well with Izzy.
Izzy
Marley Diane Cunningham, you cannot just turn off your phone! This is how horror movies start!
I sigh because it’s all I can do at this point.
“You can give her my number too. That will probably put her mind at ease.”
“It’s not that, she’s just… Yeah, that’s probably not the worst idea.” Of course, I didn’t think of it because I’m on a hot streak of poor choices.
I tell her again not to worry and type out the number Bennett recites, then I power down my phone and slip it back into my bag before turning my attention back to my host.
“I bet you’re used to having strangers in your home.”
“Probably as accustomed to it as you are to being in a stranger’s home.” I have to laugh because I am actually very accustomed to that. He looks confused at my reaction.
“I’m a conflict photographer. I often find myself in strangers’ homes, or what were once their homes.”
Bennett’s face tells me he thinks I’m full of shit. And honestly, why the hell wouldn’t he? I haven’t exactly given the impression that I’m prepared to be tossed into a hostile environment, I sprained my ankle on terrain I’d describe as “barely uneven” and threw up all over myself less than two hours ago. When people think of conflict photographers, I am not the ideal candidate, in my current state anyway. But that is what I do, and it is who I am. I mean, I think it is. I was properly lost in thought about my future when I snapped, crackled, and popped my ankle like a human Rice Krispie.
“You don’t believe me?” I ask.
He shakes his head slowly. “It’s not that. You just caught me off guard.”
Now it’s my turn to do the not-believing thing. “Mm-hmm.” I purse my lips and scrutinize him. “What kind of job would you expect me to have?”
“I don’t know.” He lifts one shoulder and contemplates for a minute. “A teacher, maybe?”
“What kind of teacher?”
“Hmmm.” He studies me for a beat. “An English teacher?” When I say I bark out a laugh so loud it could wake the dead, I am not exaggerating. “So, not an English teacher?” he smirks while rubbing at his temples.
“No.” I cackle, trying to pull myself back together. “Most definitely not an English teacher. But I cannot wait to tell Simon.”
“Simon?” he asks, his head tilting. And if I was delusional I may convince myself that his expression is reading as slightly disappointed with a touch of worry.
“Oh, he’s a journalist, the pen-and-paper kind. Simon keeps me sane. He’s like…” I try to put into words what the guy is to me outside of our professional world. “A wise uncle, older brother, and father figure rolled into one.” Bennett is nodding but has gone back to pressing on his temples, and now that he’s not looking at me, I notice the strained set of his mouth and a slight flair of his nostrils.
“Headache?” I ask quietly.
He nods and moves Yogurt off his lap before standing slowly, “Probably just dehydrated. Can I get you something else to drink? I’ve got water and”—he thinks for a minute—“well, basically just water.”
“Water sounds great,” I answer quickly, not wanting to prolong his suffering.
Before he leaves he removes the ice pack from my ankle and says he’s going to pop it back into the freezer. Then he grabs my empty glass and leaves the room, Yogurt trailing at his feet. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do for the next little while. It’s too early for bed. Shit. My eyes snap open, and I stare at the ceiling. Am I sleeping in this chair? Is this my home now? And oh my god, what happens if—no, when —I have to go to the bathroom? Maybe we can create a set of makeshift crutches. Those can’t be too hard to construct, right? Certainly no harder than Ikea furniture. There are fewer pieces than the Hermawhatever in my bedroom. Bennett strikes me as the type of person who could not only forage but would enjoy looking for some strong sticks or branches.
I take a few deep breaths and remind myself that I have been in far worse situations. Hell, two weeks ago, I was sleeping on a grass mat in Tunisia next to a gassy camel and a rookie American journalist who was distraught over a broken nail. I’m not sure I’d say I was in my element there, but if I really examine things, it was more my element than my present timeline. That is to say, I know how to handle whiny reporters and gassy camels far better than nice, handsome men who dedicate their lives to rescuing dogs and injured hikers. I’m also questioning why everything has felt so easy. In the field, something that seems too easy usually means shit is about to hit the fan. Yet I’m sitting here without much worry at all, and I can’t decide what that means.