Learning to Stay (40 page)

“All this?” I ask.

“Veterans stuff.”

I tell him, then, about our project—Pets and Warriors, or PAWs for short. I tell him about how Jones has completely transformed Brad. I tell him that psychiatric service dogs have been used to treat bipolar disorder and schizophrenia, obsessive-compulsive disorder and general anxiety. “There’s conclusive research showing that dogs have helped members of the general population with PTSD. If it works for them and if it’s worked for Brad, I believe there’s no reason this can’t work for other soldiers, too.”

Without my realizing it, Senator Thorne has led us to the Vietnam Memorial and I stop talking. There’s something about this wall of polished black that commands silence. He slows, examining a panel, and then stops. He leans forward and with one finger traces the names down, down, and down until he stops even with his hip on the name Davis Smith. He finds the name quickly and efficiently. It’s clear this isn’t his first time at this memorial, in this spot.

“I knew this guy,” Senator Thorne says, turning only his head toward me. “Hell, I knew too many of these guys. But this poor son of a bitch, I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Not as long as I live.”

He taps Davis Smith’s name twice with the tip of his finger. Then he traces it like a line of Braille and starts walking again.

“Davis Smith,” he says, shaking his head. “He was a tunnel rat. Know what that was?”

“No,” I say.

Senator Thorne shakes his head harder, as if trying to jar something loose. “Worst job in Vietnam, and that’s a pretty low bar. Viet Cong built tunnels all over that hellhole, and tunnel rats would go in after them with a couple of hand grenades, a pistol, and a flashlight. That’s what Smith did for back-to-back tours, even though they weren’t supposed to do the tunnels for more than a handful of months at a time. Man had nerves of steel, until one day he didn’t. Started talking to himself, seeing things, stringing VC ears on a necklace—all the shit you think Hollywood makes up for their movies. It was awful to watch. But what were we all supposed to do? Then, one day, he solved the problem for us. Walked out into a clearing in the middle of a firefight as if sauntering onto a dance floor. And that was that.”

I look at Senator Thorne, who glances out the corner of his eye at me, still facing straight ahead and still walking at a good clip. “No dog was going to save Davis Smith,” he says after a few strides. “War is hell. A dog’s a dog. It’s not a miracle worker.”

“With all due respect, Senator, I disagree.”

“How do you know?” he asks.

I think of Brad nuzzling Jones. The way his body relaxes when she’s near him, touching him. The way she can snap him out of one of his spells the way nothing else can. “Because I’ve seen it,” I say.

The senator stops this time and turns to face me. “It’s one dog,” he says. “One guy.”

It’s my turn to shake my head.

“My husband was the love of my life. He’s the only family I have. And I almost left him. I was afraid all the time. I was afraid when I
was with him and I was afraid of what he’d do if I wasn’t. And then came this dog.”

Senator Thorne turns, leading us off the mall and onto a sidewalk.

“This can work, Senator. It works with the elderly and the infirm and the disabled, and it works with soldiers like Brad.”

“But it’s not been proven,” the senator says.

“Nothing’s been proven,” I say. I am trying not to raise my voice, but for an elected official who seems so enthralled with the idea of helping veterans when the cameras are rolling, he sure isn’t now. “There aren’t any cut-and-dried treatments for any of these problems. You want to support our troops—really support them? Then do something more than talk about it.”

We come to Twenty-first Street, where Senator Thorne has to turn off for his meeting. “And what, exactly, young lady, do you propose I do?”

“You’re the Appropriations chair. You could direct the VA to work with nonprofits that train service dogs to pair their dogs with veterans, fund that program, and then direct additional funds for research.”

“And how much funding would you propose I throw at this little project of yours?” he asks.

Senator Thorne has a bulbous nose that looks like raw meat, and I have an urge to squeeze it. Hard.
Little
project? What an ass!

I repeat Randy’s quote to me, substantiated by a fair amount of research on my part. “Fifty thousand dollars per dog—give or take,” I say, flinching. It sounds so much bigger, more impossible, to say it out loud.

Senator Thorne chuckles, and I instantly wonder if I should have quoted something more reasonable.

“You have to train the dog and the dog-soldier combination,” I continue, by way of explanation. “Then there are vet bills and overhead,
and transportation costs. A lot goes into these dogs, sir, but I can tell you that they’re worth it. They let these vets live a normal life.”

“You mean they let
your
guy live a normal life.” I picture squeezing that nose again.
Honk, honk.
The senator offers me his hand. “I like a girl with enthusiasm,” he says. “And I appreciate what you’re trying to do.”

My stomach clinches. It hasn’t worked. I’ve tried, but it isn’t enough.

I take Senator Thorne’s outstretched hand, making sure to get a good grip on it. I can feel my eyes well, but I smile, willing the tears to stay put a few moments longer. He pumps my hand once, twice, three times, four.

“Well, you know, I’m not big on earmarks.” The senator releases my hand, and he winks at me. Then, turning on his heel, he walks away, whistling “Yankee Doodle.”

August 2006

A late-summer sun beats down, teasing drops of sweat from our pores. My skin feels as crisp as a baked chicken. Even my hair is hot.

Today, it’s all hands on deck: Ricky; Randy and her husband, Kevin; Mert; and Brad and I. A chorus of ringing thuds fills the afternoon as we all work to put the finishing touches on the place—nailing freshly painted siding on the barn and planting some shrubs and flowers. Tomorrow, three soldiers will arrive: two veterans of Operation Iraqi Freedom and one from Operation Enduring Freedom. They will each be paired with a dog that will help them to live in their own skin again, that will help them piece the broken parts of their lives back together.

I hold a board in place, pressing my body against the rough grain to make sure it doesn’t move while Brad and Mert secure it on either end. Sweat stings my eyes, and I bring my shoulder and face together to try to wipe them clean. When I look up, I see Brad pause, his hammer in midstrike, and smile out the corner of his mouth at Mert. Father and son. Each taps a nail a few more times, and it’s done; the
last board is in place. Mert steps back and wipes his hands on the front of his jeans, then takes out a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the sweat from his face. He nods in acknowledgment, his eyes beady and serious, and he says, “This is good. Real good.”

The smell of hamburgers wafts from the grill, and we rehang shovels and put tools away before our collective hunger leads all of us to the picnic table. Ricky’s new girlfriend, Coreen—a lovely woman who adores Rick and spends her days cashiering at Walmart and her nights caring for her Alzheimer’s-stricken mother—sets out platters of burgers, salads, and fruit, and we eat in near silence born of contentment and pride. Four of us, save for Randy’s husband and Coreen, squish together on the side of the picnic table facing the barn so we can admire our work while we eat.

Our chorus of hammering has been replaced by the yipping and happy growling of our newest dogs at play: exuberant and lovable Bama, beautifully brindled and kind-eyed Orlando, and puppylike Monchichi—all pit bulls, all rescued from fighting rings, and all now destined for a gentler, more purposeful life.

As I watch the three of them along with Jones wrestle and play, I feel an arm slip around my shoulders, and I’m surprised to find that it’s Randy.

“You should be proud of this,” she says.

“We all should be,” I tell her.

Randy shakes her head. She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Maybe, but you most of all. You had the most to lose. You’re the one who made it happen.”

“I didn’t have anything left to lose. Either Senator Thorne said yes, or he said no. It was the only thing I could have done. I had to ask.”

In the months that followed our meeting, the senator introduced legislation that created a program pairing psychiatric service dogs with veterans. Brad and I attended the bill signing, where he and
Jones were mobbed by the media. Pictures of Jones—looking like she was mugging for the cameras, with her big tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, and my husband, looking handsome in a navy blue suit, sans tie, with a smile to match Jones’s, ran on every station. Anderson Cooper interviewed him on CNN. The ladies of
The View
asked him to stop by. He and Jones joined Matt Lauer on
Today
. Donations started to pour in, and though the senator’s legislation hadn’t yet taken effect, we had enough funding within a month of the bill’s passage to start our operation.

“Well,” Randy says, stopping to take a sip from the glass of pink lemonade sweating in front of her, “I’m just glad you thought to do it. I never would have. Not in a million years.”

“It was luck, as much as anything. I feel like we’ve won the lottery.”

Randy puts her hand over mine. “We have,” she says. “We all have.” She scissors her legs over the bench and extricates herself from the table. She stands and stretches her arms toward the sky, grimacing. “That’s going to hurt tomorrow,” she says. Then she turns to Kevin. “Ready to go? We’ve got a big day coming up.”

She’s right. Tomorrow, Second Lieutenant Kit Fritz, Specialist Ryan Evers, and Corporal Jose Soto will arrive for ten days of intense training before being sent home with their new service dogs.

We’re all exhausted from the day, and with Randy’s announcement as cover, Rick and Coreen get up, too. Most of the table is strewn with paper plates and plastic cups, which everyone helps to clear, and Coreen and Randy make quick work of the rest of the dishes, stacking them and transporting them to the kitchen. By the time Randy’s and Rick’s trucks disappear down the driveway in a thin haze of dust, Mert is asleep in his recliner and Brad has gone to work, feeding and watering the dogs.

Inside our apartment, I sink into Brad’s ratty old armchair that I
moved up here from Madison. Three camouflage vests hang by the door, each bearing a patch that reads
PETS AND WARRIORS SERVICE DOG
.

One day, a handful of months ago, Brad and I tried to board a bus with Jones and Bama, but the driver stopped us.

“No dogs,” he said.

“They’re service animals,” I told him.

“Service dogs have a handle to hold on to,” the driver said. “They don’t got a handle.”

“They’re not
guide
dogs. These are
service
dogs,” I said. I could see Brad tensing, his face hardening. I saw Jones move closer to him and nudge his leg with her snout. She could often sense one of his attacks coming on long before I, or even he, could.

“Why you got a service dog? What’s wrong with you? You don’t got a missing leg. You don’t look blind.”

“By law, we’re not required to answer that,” I said, smiling. “You can legally ask two questions: ‘Is the dog required for assistance because of a disability?’ and ‘What tasks or work has this dog been trained to do for you?’ But you can’t ask what disability someone might have, and you can’t request proof that the dog is a service dog.” I reached into the bus to hand the driver a postcard I’d had printed up regarding rights and responsibilities related to service dogs under the Americans with Disabilities Act. He scanned it, then handed it back to me. “So we can board now?” I smiled at the driver, trying to win him over, even though inside I wanted to wring his ignorant neck.

The driver shook his head and started to close the doors. “I said no dogs. Not on my bus. Especially when you sure don’t look crippled.” He reached for the doors and pulled the lever to close them.

“And you don’t look stupid!” I yelled at him as they hissed shut.

I turned around to find Brad, his eyes wide, trying to stifle a laugh. “Hooah!” he said. “My little lady is fi-red up.”

I rolled my eyes at him. I wanted to remain indignant, but a giggle escaped, and before long we were both doubled over on the sidewalk, laughing.

“Little lady?” I said, as Brad and I finally calmed ourselves and started walking down the street.

He shrugged. “I guess not. If I had a choice between taking on this one”—he drops a hand to scratch Bama’s neck—“and you, I think I’d take the pit bull.”

That night I dug my mother-in-law’s sewing machine out of the basement and set to work on making Jones a proper vest out of Brad’s fatigues, still stiff with desert sand and his sweat. On one side I sewed a patch I had ordered that read
OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM/INJURED VETERAN/SERVICE DOG
, and on the other, the triple bars of a sergeant insignia—one step above Brad’s rank. (“She’s in charge,” he said. “She should outrank me.”) When we accept a soldier into the program now, I ask if he’d like me to do the same for his dog’s vest.