What Remains

What Remains

Sometimes I wish I never rescued him. 

When the money dries up and more lights flicker than shine, I find myself staring at the gray creeping around his ears, the scar on his back paw, and wondering if Buddy would’ve been better off with someone else. Someone who could afford the vet. Someone whose lamp still worked. At least I still had the old wall phone. 

“You hear what happened to Samson?” Timothy questioned me. 

“No, why?” I responded. Though, I had a feelin’.

“Poor Samson was let go, apparently Boss said the Chinese got too good of prices for steel to keep him around.” Jesus. If only David could see the state of things now. I sigh and place my hand on my head. “Say, how’s Buddy doin’? I saw you walkin’ him the other day.” 

I take the moment to stare at him chewin’ the old bone I got. The gray that creeped around his ears was growing as the days passed. Poor fella looked like an elder but had the spirit of a young pup. I found Buddy outside my good friend David’s house after he left the city. He lost his job at the ‘ol steel factory sometime last year – a fate I only hope won’t happen to me. But with the steel industry collapsing, the outlook ain' t lookin’ so good. Especially not after hearing what happened to Samson. 

“He’s good, David was real good at keepin’ up with his shots and everything.” 

“Well, that's good,” Tim responded, “Well,” he paused, “See you at work tomorrow?” 

“Yup.” 

The line goes dead. If only he knew. 

The sun barely reaches through the windows anymore. I tug on the chain of my table lamp, but it doesn’t click. 

“C’mere boy,” I say while tapping my foot. Buddy barks and comes closer, pressing his face against my knee. 

I must’ve dozed off, ‘cause when I wake the sunlight is flooding the living room. Buddy’s curled in my lap, sleeping though whimpering. I only hope he ain’ in pain. 

    Regardless, I gotta get up for work. Boss ain’ too keen on missed shifts. 

    The factory floor is a combination of rust and sweat by the time I arrive. After ‘bout an hour, I’m unloading what little steel came in on the truck. Not much steel these days. Ain’t surprising. Prices keep rising even though the work is thinning out. 

    If David could see the situation we’re in, he’d shake his head. Or maybe laugh dryly like he always did. Cancer got him quick – too quick. Years of welding the beams together, breathing in the fumes that made him feel masculine and swore wouldn’t hurt him. Guess steel won’t bend easily, but people do. 

    Just as I set the last bundle of steel down near the loading dock the lunch bell rings. Too early. My stomach knots before I get a chance to look at the clock. 

“What’d you think the bells for, Rodney?” Tim asks, lifting his mask and setting down his bundle.

“No clue,” I respond, “Guess we’re ‘bout to find out though.” 

We sit together in the break room while we wait for Boss to give his usual lunch-break speech. Tim talks about his wife and Amelia – who can’t sleep through the night yet, who he’s afraid to hold wrong, how every hour spent here in this shithole is for them. He smiles when he talks about them, though his eyes are heavy. Boss wasn’t too happy when Tim missed work during his wife’s labor, but none of us here blamed him. At least one of us got family waiting at home. 

    And yet, I couldn’t help but think of my Buddy. Probably sprawled across the couch, sleeping away or gnawing at the bone I dug up from the dumpster outside the factory. 

    “Alright! Listen up!” Boss yells as he slams the breakroom door open, “You’re all headin’ home early. Factory ain’ making enough to keep you all here for the rest of the shift.” 

The break room erupted into chaos – someone pleading, yelling, voices mixed together in a shared desperation. Tim had the worst of it, fear blanketed his face as his eyes grew wide. He sat there, staring at the Boss in complete silence. 

I keep quiet even as my ears begin ringing. Of course I’m a little disappointed, but I don’t get many mouths to feed unlike these other men. I only got Buddy and me. 

“Thanks, Boss,” I mutter while patting his shoulder on the way out. I don’t know why I say it – maybe habit.

Knowing my next paycheck was going to be lower than usual, I walked the three miles home instead of taking the bus. That meant walking past her house. 

I walked slower than usual, invisible chains dragging behind me. Each passing lamppost reminded me of the destination ahead - and of the memories we made, walking hand-in-hand on these same streets. 

Clara lives on the third floor of the only red-brick apartment building on the street, just atop the hill. I kept my head down, careful not to look at her bedroom window, but my mind had other intentions.

The flowerbox beneath her window overflowed with blooms, a rainbow of color and life. Her window was open, a faint strain of music drifting down. Part of me wanted to knock on her door and apologize. I wanted to hold her again, to dance with her until the sun came up. 

Like we used to. 

 I met Clara in high school, and we got engaged right after graduation. While during the day she attended classes at UPitt I worked at the steel mill, and our nights in the beginning were filled with homemade meals, dancing, and snuggling on the couch. But when the steel industry began to really pick up, my shifts went from eight hours to ten, and eventually to twelve hours a day. I worked as much as I did for her.  I wanted to give her the dream wedding she always wanted. I wanted to buy her a house with an open backyard and watch our children grow up as we grew older. 

The work paid off. I have the house we wanted. But I haven’t talked to Clara since we broke off the engagement. 

The rest of the walk home was long – and quiet. 

For the first time in years, I made it home before the sun's gone down. Buddy’s head appears in the window as I turn the corner, his tail wagging so hard his entire body’s shaking. 

I smile.

That night, the house felt smaller. The hum of the fridge was louder than usual, the walls thinner. The window just barely keeps the wind at bay; small drifts break in and send shivers up my spine.

Buddy watches me walk over to the kitchen, while he’s cuddled up in my work jacket on the couch. 

I open the top cupboard. Only one can of meat left. 

I heat it slowly over the stove, stirring it carefully so it doesn't burn, pretending it makes it worth more than what it is. When I pour the meat out I don’t split it evenly. Buddy gets a little more than I do. I tell myself I’ll eat more later. Always do. 

I carry my bowl over to the couch anyway, a spoonful or two of dried meat stare back at me. Buddy looks over to his bowl, snifts it, and then stops. He looks up at me, ears crooked and stares.

“Go on,” I tell him. I tap my foot. 

Looking back at his bowl, Buddy eats carefully. He finishes a little too fast. Realizing I didn’t give him enough to eat, I poured the rest of my dinner in his bowl. Poor Buddy is getting skinnier by the day. Despite the protest from my stomach, I sit there and rub Buddy’s head as he eats. 

I don’t feel heroic. I don’t feel like a savior. I feel something quieter.

When Monday rolls around Buddy and I are stretched out across the stained carpeted floors of the living room – him chewing his bone and me staring at the ceiling while half asleep, the phone rings. 

Taking a deep pause, I let it get to the third ring before answering. 

“Rodney,” Tim says, his voice thicker than usual. I can hear the cries of baby Amelia in the background. 

I stare out the window then, wondering what it would’ve been like to have a family. Buddy barks in protest. 

“Yes?” I responded. 

Tim clears his throat before responding, “They shut it down. The factory Rod, they shut it down.” 

My chest tightens. 

“For good too. I got there this morning for my usual shift and there was a sign on the door. Locks were changed too. No warning, no nothing.” Amelia’s cries grow louder but do little to cover Tim’s own quiet breaking. 

I close my eyes.

“I-I don’t know how I’m gonna do this, you know? Amelia needs formula. My wife– His voice cracks, and I hear a loud breath on the other end. “Just thought I’d let you know.” 

“I’m sorry, Tim.” 

The line goes dead. 

I hang the phone up and crumple to the kitchen floor, until Buddy nudges himself under my chin. I hold him tight. 

I hold him until the silence becomes too heavy to bear – until the absence of laughter, little kids running, Clara and I dancing to music, and the life I could’ve lived presses down on my chest. I struggle to breathe as a silent cry escapes my throat. 

Then again, even Timothy couldn’t escape it. 

After that call, there wasn’t anything left to wait for. 

Three years later, Buddy and I stare at the rusted gate, the broken windows, and graffitied walls. The sign’s half fallen, losing letters like missing teeth. 

The city’s slower these days. So are Buddy and I. 

We walk past the  gates and go around the perimeter to the loading dock. I sit on a concrete block and throw a stick for Buddy – not too far ‘cause of his leg, but far enough. 

“I used to think work meant everything,” I tell Buddy, “Thought as long as I had a job, I was worth somethin’.” 

Buddy drops the stick near me and rests his head on my knee. I scratch his ears, now fully gray and feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. 

The factory looms behind us, empty and quiet. 

Buddy never knew we were poor. He couldn’t hear my voice. But he was always glad to see me when I came home. 

“Rodney?”

 Clara’s voice came from behind. 

“Guess I was wrong,” I say softly. 

The weight of her old engagement ring is heavy inside my pocket. 

For the first time in a long while, I feel content.