Page 22 of The Way Back Home

“It’s a terrible shame, and if we could change it, I’m sure everyone in this room would,” Kathy says. “But I’m afraid I fail to see how your little program works, and more importantly, how it’s going to keep the general public of Magnolia Springs safe. How can you guarantee that they won’t snap?”

“I can’t. No one is ever sure if a dog will snap or not. They’re animals, not people.”

“Exactly. I don’t think it’s too much to ask that we be safe in our own town.”

“It’s no different from owning a damn Beagle. If a dog is trained properly and given all the care it needs, there’s no need for an animal to snap unless it’s provoked or feels threatened.”

“Apparently the same can be said for humans too,” Kathy says, simpering in that southern belle way of hers. Her friends all titter in agreement.

“Ladies, if I may?” Jude says, standing beside me. “I’ve already discussed Ms. Anders’s program at length with her, and I’m more than happy to look over the dogs and ensure every one of them has a clean bill of health and are no danger to our town.”

It takes me a beat to pick my jaw up off the floor. I smile awkwardly. He nods and gives the crowd a little wave.

“Hmm, figures Doctor du Pont would be involved,” says the woman in front of us to her pew neighbor. She doesn’t even try to whisper, and they both shake their heads while making a tisking sound. I frown and take a deep breath. I’ve lived in small southern towns all my life; I know better than anyone that southern hospitality sometimes only goes as far as your front door.

“Doctor?” I say under my breath.

Jude leans in and whispers, “Doctor du Pont. Town veterinarian and longtime hoagie lover. You didn’t let me get that far with our introduction the other day.”

“This town is just full of surprises,” I mutter and nod my thanks before turning to address the room. “The dogs are safe.”

“And what about us?” a big, burly man a couple of rows from the front says. “Are we safe from these ex-veterans who want to ‘distance’ themselves”—he puts air quotes around the word distance—“from us, and who might use their dogs to do it?”

“It isn’t about distancing themselves from others, sir,” I say. “In many cases our veterans return suffering from both physical and psychological wounds. An assistance dog can stand between you and their veteran if you get too close to ward away a PTSD episode.”

“A PTSD episode?” Coveralls says. “When I served, we didn’t have none of this PTSD bull—”

“Shh!” The woman in front of me stands with her finger pressed to her lips and a furious expression on her face. “This is the house of God.”

Coveralls tips his head in her direction. “We didn’t have none of that. You enlisted, you deployed, you killed the bad guys, and you came home.”

“Thank you for your service,” I say respectfully. “Hundreds, if not thousands of men and women have reported numerous cases of PTSD post-war. For some people that can be crippling. There’s no shame in them admitting they need help.”

Coveralls pffts me.He actually pffts me. I purse my lips and take a deep breath in through my nose to keep from losing it altogether.

“How many of you know August Cotton?” There are a bunch of murmurs and nods, but no one actively speaks up. “How many of you know what happened to him during his service?”

It’s as if one lonely cricket cries out. The church is eerily silent. “You know, I’ve been here a mere week, and already I can see how alone that man is. Have any of you even thought to ask if he was okay? Or if Dalton Brooks was alright, or needed someone to talk to? Did anyone ask Jason Lambert if he was just fine before he put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger? No?” I say accusingly. I stare down the shamed faces of Magnolia Springs and decide not to go easy on them. Life is always easy for those who don’t serve, for those who choose to turn a blind eye. The real strength is in fighting, not just for yourself or for your country, but fighting against those who seek to repress us, even if those people are in our own back yard.

“I’m not a member of this town, but I can tell you every man and woman owes their life to all three of these men, and there are so many more. The Lamberts lost their son last spring. You could have prevented that. Each and every one of you sitting here in this church could have prevented that. Now I know that’s hard to hear in a place like this, but it’s the truth. Twenty-two American soldiers who fought for your right to have Founders Day festivals, and Fourth of July celebrations, and participate in your Moon Pie-eating contests, die every day by their own hand. Twenty-two of those men and women kill themselves, every day. Not every year, or every month, but every day they take their own lives because they can’t live with the aftermath of war. It’s my job to make sure the ones in this town don’t do that. It’s my job to pair them with not just a service dog, but a friend, another living being who’s all out of chances, and who just might make them stop and put down the gun.”

Silence follows my little tirade, and the faces all stare blankly at me, as if they weren’t expecting that. And I suppose they weren’t.

“Thank you for that enlightening information, Ms. Anders,” the mayor says, and my cheeks pink up, then I duck my head, hand Jude his jacket back, cinch my skirt together, and squeeze my way out of the pew.

“Excuse me,” I say, and then, holding my head high, I take several steps down the aisle before I remember my hoagie and go back for it. I don’t even care that everyone is getting a full frontal view of my thigh. I just walk as calmly and as steadily as I can out of the church until I push the doors wide and I’m hit by blinding sunlight. Once the doors close behind me, I exhale and deflate. I also balk at the figure sitting on the edge of the cement flowerbed.

“Hi.” I give a pathetic little wave.

“Wow,” August says. “I thought they really hated me, but they really, really hate you.”

“Yep.” I flash Broadway hands at him, which earns me a half smile that’s gone before I really have time to appreciate it. “I thought you’d be long gone.”

“I’m waiting on Bett.”

“She’s here?” Oh God, please don’t tell me I said all of that in front of a tiny human being.

“They round up all the kids and keep ’em busy in the Sunday School room while we have our town meetings. I don’t like to pull her away from the others. Besides daycare, she doesn’t get too much social interaction with other kids.”

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