Chapter 6 Dean
Dean
By four in the afternoon, my kitchen table was a disaster area—cordons of paperwork fanned out like a forensic diagram, the bodies labeled: Funeral Home Estimate, County Death Certificate, Victim Advocate Form, Los Alamos PD’s “next steps” checklist, each page smudged where I’d pressed the heel of my palm too hard trying to keep my handwriting straight.
The rest of the apartment was silent, the kind of hush that rang in your ears after a live round fired in a tunnel.
Only the dog’s breathing and the brittle tap of sun against the glass.
Three days had passed, and I’d yet to get my payback.
Sergeant had learned the new perimeter fast. She took up sentry under my feet, chin down, side pressed to the spindle of the chair like a sandbag against collapse.
The first night home, she’d pissed the kitchen tile, then crawled into the bathtub to wait for judgment.
After that, she made it her business to guard me, maybe figuring I needed more help than anyone else in the unit.
Instead, I flipped through the envelopes on the table.
Half the names were from people I barely knew—insurance adjusters, strangers with tidy script who signed “With Deepest Sympathy” like it was a legal requirement.
But the other half were from old friends of Ma’s, ladies she’d worked with at the college lab or dragged to Mass on Christmas Eves when I was a kid.
One had slipped a ten-dollar bill inside her card—“for coffee and pie, in memory of sweet Del”—and I nearly lost it right then, over the taste of pie that would never land in my mother’s mouth again.
The walls still smelled faintly of machine oil and the club’s clinging cologne.
The cut hung on the back of my chair, Bloody Scythes patch glowering in the soft amber light.
I kept my father’s dog tags out on the table, next to the only surviving photo of him in civvies—a Polaroid from before I was born, when he looked younger than I’d ever been.
Every time I read a new line in the death paperwork, I caught myself rolling the tags between thumb and forefinger, the raised letters biting at the swirl of my skin.
I forced myself to focus on the task at hand. The funeral director wanted an obituary for the program, something “celebratory but concise.” I’d started five versions, each worse than the last.
First attempt was dry and factual, a bullet-pointed eulogy: survived by, preceded in death by, degree in biology from UNM, three years of chronic pain, one shithead son. It read like a shopping list for the newly deceased.
Second try, I went for poetry. Regretted it instantly. The word “luminescent” made me want to staple my own tongue.
Third, I tried to write in her voice, as if she could reach through the paper and tell the world what to remember: Don’t let him smoke indoors, he never learned to fold a fitted sheet, if he shows up for the rosary without clean shoes, tell him I’m watching.
I got halfway through before I started to cry, which made the ink run.
Sergeant licked at my ankle, then looked up with the careful eyes of someone who’d spent their whole life waiting for the next bad thing. I exhaled, wiped my wrist across my face, and tried again.
The phone rang a second time, this one with “Private Caller” on the screen. I let it buzz out, waited for the voicemail notification, then checked the transcript.
“This is Detective Valdes. Please contact me regarding the ongoing investigation. We have additional information about the suspects in your mother’s case.”
I deleted it. I already knew what mattered: two shooters, one lookout, all wearing masks and gloves. No prints. No shell casings left behind. The only thing they left was Ma, and even she was gone. I’d seen the color of the body bag in my dreams every night since.
The pile of funeral brochures on the table mocked me with names like Eternal Rest, Peaceful Memories, Sunset Crematorium. I wanted to burn the whole stack and start over, but you don’t get to break down until the paperwork is done.
Sergeant groaned, rolled on her back, and pawed at the air. It worked; I smiled, in spite of myself. “You hungry?” I asked, voice cracked and low. The dog twitched an ear.
I remembered I’d left a can of food on the counter. I stood, knuckles tight, and limped over, feeling the grind of the old knee injury with each step. I made a production of opening the can, spooning it into the ceramic bowl, pretending it was a ritual and not just feeding a dog.
She ate with the ravenous precision of a soldier on rations, licking the bowl clean in thirty seconds. Then she sat, tail curled, waiting for the next move.
I had no moves left.
Back at the table, I tried the obituary again.
My handwriting shook, the letters uneven.
I started with her name—Dolores Medina, born March 3, 1955, in Espanola—and let the rest spill out.
Raised a son after her husband died overseas, never missed a day of work, believed in God even after the world had gone to hell.
I stopped, hands hovering over the paper, unsure how to end it.
I thought of the photo on the fridge, Ma grinning over a mess of Christmas tamales, hair tied up in the ragged blue bandana she’d worn since cancer stole half of it.
I thought about the last thing she’d said to me, the morning before the robbery—Don’t let the club use you up, Dean. Promise me.
I hadn’t promised. Not really. I’d just nodded and left.
Sergeant bumped her nose into my shin, hard enough to break the trance. I scratched behind her ear, felt the slow thump of her heart, and let the pen drop to the table.
Through the window, the light had changed. The sun dipped behind the western ridge, turning everything in the room the color of blood and honey. I let the stillness hold me, the weight of the tags around my neck heavy and cold.
The phone buzzed again—another condolence, or maybe another demand for closure I wasn’t ready to give. I let it ring. I let everything ring. I picked up the pen and finished the sentence.
She never met a stray she couldn’t rescue. She never left a room without saying I love you. She will be missed.
The words blurred. The paper curled under my fist.
Sergeant licked my hand, her tongue warm and persistent, and I felt the first real breath in what felt like hours.
I closed my eyes, let my head drop forward, and let myself be still.
Tomorrow, I’d make the calls. Tomorrow, I’d print the program and pick the flowers and tell Detective Valdes whatever he wanted to hear. Tomorrow, I’d start the slow process of turning grief into action.
Tonight, it was just me and the dog, the silence, and the long shadow of everything I’d lost.
***
The next three days vanished in a stream of pixels and vibration. The world shrank to the glow of my phone, a list of missed calls, and the quiet panic of not wanting to talk to anyone, least of all the people who meant well.
It was easier with Emily. She didn’t call—she texted, never more than once in a six-hour stretch, as if she’d mapped the landscape of my nerves and was careful not to cross any boundaries.
Tuesday 10:48 AM: “Hey. I can pick up flowers if you need. Have a car with decent trunk space. LMK.”
I didn’t answer.
Wednesday 2:09 PM: “Draft obituary template attached. If you don’t want to use it, that’s fine. Ignore this if it’s out of line.”
The PDF opened slick and blue on my screen: “Dean, just put your edits in the yellow fields.” I stared at the boxes—Name, Date of Birth, Special Memories, Photo Upload Here—and felt something twist inside me, sharp as a bent staple.
Wednesday 5:42 PM: “Let me know if you need food. I can drop something by. I’m around most nights after six.”
I almost replied. Instead, I closed my eyes and pictured her making the offer out loud, the way her mouth went crooked when she tried to act casual. I wondered if she was this efficient with everyone, or just the hopeless cases like me.
Thursday 12:13 PM: “I can sit with the dog if you want to go out. Or I can sit with you, if that’s better. No pressure.”
That one stuck. I read it twelve times, thumb hovering over the keyboard, cycling through all the ways to say “thank you” without sounding like a child.
Sergeant watched me from the living room, her tail a metronome against the worn-out rug. I rolled the tags in my hand, let the chain bite a circle into my palm, and finally typed:
“You were right about the obituary. I keep screwing it up. If you have time, maybe you could look over what I’ve got. I can’t get the words to line up.”
The message sent with a blue whoosh. The minute after felt longer than any church service I’d ever sat through, the air in the apartment pressing in until I had to stand and pace the hallway.
The only sound was the rattle of my boots on the floor and the faint, hopeful whimper of the dog, who never asked for anything but the next meal and a place to sleep.
When the reply came, it was a single line: “Of course. I’m free tonight. Just let me know when.”
I let the phone go dark, held the silence in my hands, and felt the smallest crack in the concrete wall of my chest.
***
At seven sharp, a knock landed on my door.
Not the rattle of knuckles looking to collect, or the muted thump of someone trying to avoid attention—just a solid, matter-of-fact three-count.
I braced for a neighbor or the club’s errand boys, but when I opened up, it was Emily, arms full of takeout bags and her hair caught in a windblown mess that made her look less like a caseworker and more like someone real.
She stepped inside without a greeting, holding out the bag. The warmth hit me first—rosemary, garlic, fresh bread still radiating from the paper. It overwhelmed the apartment’s usual hangover of old coffee, engine grease, and laundry that never quite dried right.
“Did you eat yet?” she asked.
I shook my head, surprised by how much I meant it.