christenings. Family pictures showcasing five generations of holidays and weddings and birthdays and anniversaries gone by. Children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
I thought of my mother’s house, also full of family photos. But much to her eternal woe, there were only two wedding photos—her own and my sister Nina’s. She did have three grandchildren and one more on the way, courtesy of Nina and my best friend Chris, who’d gotten married right after our first stint in the Army. Despite the fact that we both signed on for four more years after that and did two additional combat tours apiece, he still managed to knock her up twice during that time and twice more since we’d come home.
I didn’t much like thinking about the logistics of that, but I did love being an uncle to their kids, eight-year-old Harrison, six-year-old Violet, and fourteen-month-old Ethan. Any day now they’d add that fourth to their brood, and my mother was constantly pestering me about catching up, as if we were in some kind of reproductive race.
In fact, she kept one section on her mantel purposefully empty, and she claimed she was waiting for me to get married and have kids so she could put something there. Every so often when I’m at her place, she’ll find a moment to stare at it and sigh longingly, or dust it off with a rag. Last Christmas, I gave her a framed photo of Renzo and me and told her that was as good as it was going to get. She harrumphed, but she kept the photo on proud display. She loved that dog almost as much as I did.
“Yoohoo, Deputy McCormick, your snack is ready!” Mrs. Jensen called.
Exhaling heavily, I retraced my steps and headed through the dining room and back to the kitchen. Mrs. Jensen had set out a plate with a sandwich, some potato chips, and a pickle slice on it. Next to the plate was a glass of milk, and she’d pulled out the chair for me.
“It’s a BLT on toasted bread, just like Mr. Jensen used to eat.” She laughed and shook her head. “God forbid I ever forgot to toast the bread!”
“Thank you so much, ma’am, but I really can’t stay. My shift is about to end, and I need to get back to the station and do some paperwork before I take Renzo home for the night.” And you’re cutting in to my baseball time, lady.
“Oh.” She looked crestfallen. “Can you come back when you’re through?”
Smiling, I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Well, why don’t you let me pack this up for you? No sense in letting it go to waste, is there?”
I thought for a moment. “I guess not.”
“Wonderful.” The smile was back on her face. “You just give me a minute to put everything in a lunch sack for you, and then you can be on your way.”
“Thank you. I looked around the living room, but I didn’t see anything out of order. However, if something turns up missing, you just let us know.”
“Oh, I will,” she said, pulling a brown paper bag from a drawer. “I always call the sheriff when I have an emergency.”
And when you don’t, I thought to myself. But I couldn’t bring myself to be angry about it. I knew what it was like to miss somebody. It got to you sometimes.
A few minutes later, I had the lunch sack in my hand and she was following me down the front walk toward my car. Through the window, I could see Renzo’s tail wagging in anticipation. I opened the door, and he hopped onto the grass where we stood, excited and happy. He wore a collar that said K-9 Unit, complete with a sheriff’s badge.
“Sit,” I told him, and he obeyed. “Good boy.”
“May I pet him?” asked Mrs. Jensen.
“Sure.”
She patted him on the head a few times. “How old is he again?”
“He’s five.”
“My, such a big dog for only five. He must weigh a hundred pounds!”
“He’s about eighty pounds, which is average.”
“He seems very sweet.”
“He can be.” Off-duty, Renzo was energetic and high-spirited and just wanted to play all the time, but when he was working, he was a well-trained, badass machine—fast, agile, aggressive, vicious if necessary, and loyal to me beyond comprehension. I sometimes felt like I had two sides to me as well, so we were a good match. He’d been at my side every day for three years.
“Can he have a little snack?” Mrs. Jensen asked brightly. “I don’t have