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A Day At The Beach

Roman pulled up in front of Bobby’s house
just a few minutes after noon. It was a little Spanish-style house, and you could actually see the ocean in the distance a few blocks away. How anyone could be depressed living in a place like this was beyond me. It was overcast but not
too
too cold.

I was nervous, there was no doubt about it, chewing my nails down to stubs. We got out of the car, Becca and Roman walked behind me, but I wished they were walking in front.

I knocked on the door and heard a dog barking like crazy. A woman answered. She was about my height, blond hair, tanned. She was pretty but had this tired look about her that must come from losing your only son. She looked at me and gave a quick look at Becca and Roman. They were all dressed in black with their scruffy black high-tops. She was probably wondering if we were there to rob her. (I wore my new red sweater with the hood to counteract their darkness.)

We made our introductions.

“Hi, Mrs. Sullivan. This is my sister Becca and her boyfriend Roman.”

Becca reached out her hand first. “I’m really sorry about your son.”

Roman put out his hand. “Good to meet you. Sorry about your son.”

She was taken aback, I could tell, like she was fighting tears. She invited us in.

“Come in. Have a seat. And call me Annette. Please.”

Beautiful house. Wood floors, yellow walls, comfy sofa and loveseat, pictures on the walls. A whole wall of family pictures. It was a warm-feeling house, not cold like I thought Bobby’s parents would be.

She offered us a seat on the couch, sat down on the loveseat opposite, and immediately asked the question I hoped she wouldn’t but knew she probably would.

“So how did you all know Bobby? I don’t remember hearing your names before.”

Becca and I kind of looked at each other, then quietly Becca said, “We were in Brookside together. He really helped me out a lot there, and we became good friends.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, not needing any more explanation. She smiled. “Let me go get Jimi.” Then she gave us a serious look. “Are you ready? I’ve gotta warn you, he’s a
little
rambunctious.” And she kind of laughed like this was a
big
understatement.

Jimi the Dog was standing outside the sliding glass door—this total nut of a dog—just standing there trembling and pawing at the glass. I looked over at Becca and Roman and gave them this look like, “Oh, crap.” Bobby’s mom opened the door and tried to keep him under control, speaking to him in this sweet voice that he was completely blowing off.

“Come on now, boy. Calm down.”

She had her hand on his collar, which he shook off immediately and ran to us. I crouched down, ready for him.

“Come here, boy,” I called to him. In about two seconds, he was all over me, licking my face, trembling, knocking me flat on my butt. And I was laughing, trying to get him to calm down for one millisecond so I could actually pet him. Then he ran over to Becca, licking, sniffing. Then Roman, licking, sniffing. Then back to me, wagging his tail, smacking us with it. He was a crazy dog, just like Bobby said he was. “Jimi, sit! Sit!” Annette said. He didn’t even look at her. We were
way
too exciting for that.

After acting like a complete lunatic for five minutes, he relaxed at her feet. And we took turns petting him and making small talk about unimportant things—things that weren’t about Bobby.

“Would you guys like to take him for a walk?” Annette asked, surprising me.

“Could we?” I said quickly before the other two had a chance to object. “That would be great.” Except that I knew I was
no
match for this dog, and I looked over at Roman who kind of had his eyebrows raised like “Don’t look at me.”

She got his leash out of the closet, and the second he saw it, he went absolutely bonkers. Berserk. She tried to hold onto his collar so she could attach the leash as his tail was wagging, smacking into her as she scolded him, laughing.

“Are you
sure
you’re ready for him?”

I pointed to Roman. “Roman, would you?”

Roman gave me a death stare, and I gave him one back.

“Come
on
, Roman!” I said under my breath. He sighed, taking the leash from Annette.

We were off, heading toward the beach. Annette stayed on the porch watching us leave, watching Roman as he tried to keep up with this insane, lunatic dog who was sniffing everything, hiking his leg every three seconds, and then pulling ahead like he had some important appointment he had to get to. Becca kept laughing as Roman made weak attempts to gain control. I’m pretty sure he’d never walked a dog in his life.

“Come on, Jimi!” he pleaded, sounding frustrated. (At least frustrated for Roman).

The beach was cold and gray. There was a couple walking on the shore, a handful of people, and two black dots in the water—surfers waiting for a wave—and that was about it. Nobody here really goes to the beach in the winter.

Jimi pulled on the leash until Roman accidentally dropped it, then he immediately started running around the three of us in these giant, wide circles.

“Jimi! Here, boy,” Roman called, then whistled, and whistled again as we all reached out trying to catch him. He’d let us get
so
close to where he was
just
within reach, then he’d make this little dart move off to one side.

It was pretty hilarious, this dog with his tongue hanging out, spit flying, herding us like we were three dumb, slow cows. The three of us were chasing him in all directions, laughing, and it suddenly hit me that I was
laughing
, and it felt pretty good, even though my teeth were starting to chatter together.

Becca yelled over the wind to me, “Dude, it’s freezing.”

“Put your hood on,” I yelled back.

She and Roman were shrouded in black with their hoods pulled down, looking like two deranged monks, as Jimi ran around poking at pieces of driftwood until he found a good one about two feet long, then he picked it up, shoving it at Roman.

The three of us took turns throwing this huge piece of wood into the ocean, and Jimi dove right into the waves. I could tell that the log was the most important thing in his life. (He’s very focused, this dog.)

When Jimi finally wore himself out, he flopped down, tongue hanging out, panting. We crouched down on the wet sand, my body shivering as I felt the wind pulling against my sweatshirt. It was freezing for California. Roman and Becca’s hoods were pulled down over their faces, and my hands were jammed into my pockets.

When we couldn’t take the cold a minute more, we headed back to Jimi’s house. He was a happy dog, but I think his teeth were chattering too.

Coffee And Family Pictures

Annette laughed when she saw us with her soaked dog
, who immediately shook all of the water off as soon as she got him inside. Becca and I exchanged worried looks, but Annette just brushed it off.

“Come on in, you guys, get warmed up.”

A fire was going in the fireplace, and the three of us huddled around it trying to get warm. And because we’re immature idiots, we started pushing each other out of the way, laughing, to get the best spot right in front of it.

Becca
really
didn’t have to punch me in the arm though.

“Can I get you guys some coffee? Or I can make cocoa?” Annette offered.

I looked at Becca and before I was able to say “No thank you,” because I didn’t want to put her out, Roman spoke up, shocking me.

“Um, some coffee would be nice.”

All right
, Roman. Becca and I looked at each other, impressed.

“Okay, guys. Let me go put the pot on.” And she left us to go off into the kitchen, and we heard the sound of pots clanging. We stood in front of the fire, and Roman kept trying to push me away from my spot in the middle, and we laughed. I kept poking him under the armpits until a man walked through the front door, catching me mid-poke. He wore a rain jacket and looked like he was coming in from maybe taking a walk. We all kind of straightened up all of a sudden.

He was tall, handsome, and had black hair with little specks of gray in it. He took a look at us, and then put out his hand, kind of cupping mine when he shook it. He looked me right in the eyes, but with a friendly look on his face, surprising me by how warm his touch was.

“Hi, I’m Bruce.”

“Hi, I’m Stacy, a friend of Bobby’s.”

It felt funny saying it, and he looked down for a second, like he was thinking about something, but then smiled.

“Make yourselves at home,” he said as he motioned to the couches, and we sat trying to not look so awkward. I took a look at our wet, sandy shoes and hoped we weren’t making the house too messy. But then again, Jimi was slobbering all
over
the place and giving his master these big, wet kisses, and he didn’t seem to mind. At all.

I watched Bobby’s dad, trying to see—understand—why he and Bobby had so many problems, but I couldn’t see it. I mean, I didn’t see anything but a nice older man who was friendly to complete strangers, who looked like total messes—sitting in his living room. And what really killed me—he looked like an older version of Bobby, how Bobby would look at fifty.

Annette brought out the tray with our coffees and little cans of cocoa and cinnamon to sprinkle on top. And little shortbread cookies.

“Would you like to see some pictures of Bobby when he was little?” she asked nicely, and Becca gave me this look like, “Noooooooo.” But one thing I’ve learned in life is that any time somebody asks if you’d like to see pictures of their dead relative, you say, “Yes, absolutely.” So I said, “Yes, absolutely,” before Becca had a chance to say anything.

We crowded around the living room table with our coffees, and Annette showed us pictures of Bobby and his older sister Melissa in their Halloween costumes—he was Frankenstein, and she was a ballerina. Then there was one of Bobby in a Little League uniform, and he looked so beautiful, before all of the tattoos and piercings, that it nearly took my breath away, and I just stared at it for a few seconds, absorbing the image until she turned the page.

I sat there and watched his parents look at the pictures of their dead son, and it hit me—how complicated the situation must have been. It was obvious that they really loved him. And it sucked. It really did.

Sometimes people just have problems, and there’s
not
always someone to blame even though we really do want to blame somebody. Bobby’s parents weren’t these horrible, awful people who just wanted to make his life miserable. They really cared about him; they were devastated too.

After we finished looking through the album, Annette said something that completely caught me off guard. She was looking down at a picture of Bobby and his dad standing together on their front porch. Bobby looked like he was about eight years old in the picture.

“Last week, we got the coroner’s report back, and they think it was accidental.” She stopped, clearing her throat a little. “They think he probably just lost track of what he’d already taken.” And she paused for a second, then continued. “So I just thought you’d want to know that.”

We were all quiet then. Annette had confirmed what I thought was true but maybe wondered about a little, like this nagging thought I’d had:
Did he do it on purpose?
I felt this mix of emotion, in a way more sad than before, knowing that it was just a tragic accident and what a waste. But I also felt this big relief that he was planning to get better and go to work as a mechanic and come see me graduate from high school. And not kill himself.

My emotions were right on the surface. I was starting to feel the little ache inside, and I was having a hard time keeping it together, so I kind of motioned to Becca that we needed to go. She gave a little nod back.

I reached out to Annette to shake her hand, but she gave me a hug instead, surprising me a little, whispering in my ear, “Thank you for coming.”

It just about got me, those few little words. The ache became stronger.

“It was really nice meeting you both,” I managed to get out, even though I wanted to say more. Some day, I’d tell them how much Bobby meant to me, but not now. Some day, maybe I’d write them a letter.

“Why don’t you come by again when it’s warmer, in the spring,” Annette said. “We can have a barbecue, and you guys can take Jimi to the beach again. How does that sound?”

“I’d really like that,” I said. And I couldn’t help myself, I hugged her, and this time it lasted for a few seconds, and I felt her arms wrapped around me—tight—like she didn’t want to let go. When she did let go, I looked away, because I didn’t want her to see the tears in my eyes. Becca had tears too, and she gave Annette a hug while Roman and Bruce shook hands.

We drove away from the beach house, trying not to lose complete control over ourselves. Then Roman let out a fake fart, really loud, and we laughed like crazy. The moment was over, and we were idiots again.