Page 46 of Monk
I walk through the back door, with Bo right on my heels, and into the kitchen. Finding a bowl of treats on the counter, I pull one out and Bo immediately sits down, looking up at me, licking his lips expectantly. I give him a scratch behind the ears, laughing, and feed him the treat.
“You are a very good boy, aren’t you?”
The big brindle colored Pit turns in a circle, looking excited. I open the refrigerator and fish a pair of beers out, then take them back outside. Jacob has the table set up and my stomach rumbles as I look at the steak on my plate. It looks grilled to perfection and has a nice, thick dollop of a garlic butter melting on top of it. There’s some grilled asparagus on the side, and a bowl of rice pilaf to go along with it.
“You put on quite the spread,” I say as I take the seat across from Jacob.
He shrugs. “It’s nice to cook for somebody for a change.”
“I don’t recall you ever liking to cook.”
“Things change.”
I nod. “That they do.”
A silence descends between us that’s awkward and strained. It feels pregnant with a lot of words unsaid between us. And when I look up, my gaze meeting his, he seems to be struggling to find the words as well. I clear my throat and give him a smile I hope doesn’t look too forced.
“This all smells fantastic,” I say, unable to come up with anything else.
“Well, let’s dig in.”
As we tuck into our meals, I see him cutting off chunks of a steak set on a separate plate—sans butter and garlic—and he tosses them to Bo, who’s sitting patiently by. The big dog snatches the pieces out of the air and chomps on them with zeal.
“You never cared much for dogs when you were younger,” I say.
He looks fawningly at Bo. The look of adoration on his face is precious, showing me that gentle, sweet side of him he hides from the world.
“What made you decide to get a dog?” I ask.
Jacob’s face clouds over and he frowns. He gives Bo another piece of meat and sits back in his chair. He picks up his bottle and takes a long swallow, his expression inscrutable, his eyes troubled. Jacob sets his bottle down and lets out a long breath, looking as if he’s trying to decide whether or not to say what’s on his mind. Or if so, how much to tell me. Which I find odd.
He looks up at me, that frown still on his face. “When I rotated home, I was seeing a counselor at the VA and she suggested… rather, she ordered… me to get a dog. She thought I needed the companionship.”
Jacob’s never been the most social of people, but to know that a counselor ordered him to get a dog tells me just how far he’d isolated himself. And that breaks my heart for him. How bad must have things been for him that he’d shut himself that far away from the world?
“And has Bo helped?”
He nods and favors the dog with a big smile. “Yeah. He has. Knowing he relies on me kept me going. Wouldn’t let me just give up and pack it all in.”
Hearing him say that he’d even considered “packing it all in” so blithely sends a jolt through me. Despite all of his struggles when he was younger and the horrible environment he grew up in, Jacob had never said anything remotely like that. He’s always been the strongest person I’ve ever known, better able to deal with all the adversities and bullshit life throws at you.
“What happened to you over there, Jacob?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
He flashes me a rueful smile. “Not much that was good, I can tell you that.”
He tosses the last piece of steak he’d grilled for the big dog and Bo catches it out of mid-air, gobbling it down, then turns to Jacob, looking hopeful. He laughs, then takes a bite of his own meal.
“You’ve had enough, big guy,” he says to the dog.
Bo, as if understanding him, lies down, but keeping his eyes on Jacob, no doubt trying to bribe him out of another piece of steak. I look out over the backyard. It’s not that big, but it’s large enough to accommodate a lemon and an orange tree. The backyard, much like Jacob’s house, is nothing like what I’ve expected. For one thing, the place is immaculate. Everything has a place and everything’s in its place. Which is a stark contrast to the filth and squalor he grew up in. But then, maybe it’s because of that upbringing that Jacob is so fastidious.
“You look deep in thought,” he says.
“Not really. I was just thinking that you have a really nice place. It’s so neat and organized. I’m surpr—”
Feeling embarrassed, I realize how horrible that sounds. It’s elitist and snobby. If Jacob is bothered by such a callous and judgmental assumption, he doesn’t show it.
“Figured what? That I’d have cars up on blocks in the front yard? Maybe a backyard with a mountain of beer bottles? Or that maybe I’d have bike parts on my dining room table and porn mags spread out everywhere?” he asks.
