Home from Hamstead

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, attempting to feel more present with life at Hamstead Park. They say that people who go blind develop a keen sense of hearing. Maybe if I concentrated hard enough, my own senses would become heightened—the way they once were.

Sitting on my favorite bench, trying to will my body into accepting the world’s vibrancy, had become a routine exercise for me. The wind, which wove freely through the trees, felt sluggish on my skin. The smell of winter honeysuckle had lost its sweetness. I even found myself missing the bitter cold that all the passersby seemed to feel—except me. They frequently bustled past, bundled up and shivering, never paying me any mind. I wasn’t warm by any means, but the chill was tolerable.

The one silver lining I found in my numbness was the absence of pain—the type that was hardly uncommon for a man my age. How old was I again? I seemed to have traded my aches for my memory.

When I finally accepted defeat, I opened my eyes—and was startled by the mangy mass before me. I rose to my feet in alarm and stood still, waiting for the creature to continue on its way. But it had already arrived. It sat on its hind legs, facing me. Looking at me expectantly.

-

The initial fright subsided when I realized it was nothing more than a downtrodden dog. His matted coat was thick with mud and debris, his overgrown nails curling slightly at the tips. Some disgusting gunk glued the fur over one of his eyes. Despite his offensive appearance, his demeanor was unthreatening.

Excitement filled his eyes, and his tail wagged lazily. I was sure this strategy had worked on many dog-loving parkgoers. One look at his desperate, puppy-dog eyes, and any easy mark with a heart would be sure to toss him their lunch scraps or whatever else counted for sustenance. Unfortunately for him, I had nothing to offer.

When I realized he wasn’t going to move from my bench, I figured this was as good a time as any to begin my usual evening stroll through the trails. I maneuvered around him, careful not to make eye contact—afraid doing so would invite his attention. My resilience was for naught. The pitter-patter of paws on dirt and stone accompanied each of my steps. I quickened my pace, sidestepped left, then right. I only succeeded in encouraging him.

I spun around abruptly.

“Shoo! Get lost, dog!” I tried sternly. Once again, my effort proved futile. His playful eyes beamed up at me.

He was, admittedly, quite charming. Friendliness exuded from his expression. I felt confident that if I reached down to pat his sticky head, he would respond with joy and excitement. Not that I wanted to.

My eyes narrowed as I inspected him more closely. A surprising realization washed over me. Curiosity forced me to bend down and grab his face with both hands, thumbing away the fur to peel the street from the poor creature.

Beneath his discolored and unkempt exterior, he looked to be an English Otterhound—an exceedingly rare and expensive breed of hunting dog. Certainly not the kind of dog you'd expect to find wandering alone. I should know. I had one just like him. That was a long time ago.

He had to be a runaway. There was no other explanation.

“What poor devil let you out of their sight?”

I dug through the clumps of fur around his neck in search of a collar. My hands found what they were looking for and glided along its circumference until they arrived at the tag.

Charlie.

“A fitting name for such a handsome dog, wouldn’t you agree, Charlie?” His emphatically wagging tail seemed to agree.

I turned the tag over.

Property of Sean Hughes. 71 Swanson St.

Swanson. I knew where Swanson was. At least, I thought I did. It was hard to remember what I knew and what I didn’t.

“Looks like we know where you belong. What do you say, Charlie? Want to go home?”

Charlie barked in excitement, as though he understood.

I straightened myself and looked around, searching for my bearings. There were two options: we could head back toward the bench—well-lit and familiar—or away from it, toward the park’s exit, dark and uncertain.

My instincts knew which decision was the right one. But I was struck by an inexplicable fear of what lay ahead.

Charlie took the first steps for me, trotting down the dark path. How this dog seemed to read my mind, I could not understand. But I was strangely grateful for it. When he realized I hadn’t moved, he paused without looking back.

He was waiting for me.

I hesitated. Then obliged.

-

As I watched the park’s entrance shrink from view, winter’s chill finally began to sink in. I regretted ever wishing for it in the first place. It was the kind of cold you don’t feel on your skin—but in your bones.

The dimly lit streets were mostly empty, which accentuated my uneasiness about leaving the familiar confines of Hamstead. Nature provided a type of comfort that couldn’t exist within four dead walls. The swaying of the trees, the songs of the thrushes, the trickle of the streams—I had never felt more at peace than when I spent my days navigating the hunting grounds of Hamstead. When my knees wouldn’t allow for the hills anymore, sitting on my bench was enough. The park never expected anything from me. It was never disappointed.

But it wasn’t just its natural beauty that drew me there. The park was home to countless cherished memories. Although I couldn’t fully access them, I knew they were there.

My mind drifted to the many adventures I had with the hunting group. Whether or not we earned our trophy at the end of the hunt, we always drank enough to celebrate. As I walked through the rows of lifeless houses with this forgotten stray, nostalgia subdued the chill.

I remembered long evening walks with my own, long-lost Otterhound, taking long breaks at our bench. He would listen to me endlessly as I stroked the length of his magnificent coat—spotless and beautiful. Keeping him clean was the least I could do for a dog as dutiful as he was. Never once was he impatient with me as I droned on about my thoughts, my worries, my regrets. It got me through that especially difficult period after my diagnosis.

Those days were long gone.

An image of my son running ahead, energetically encouraging me to catch up, flashed through my mind. He was moving too fast. Being too loud. He scared away the game. And then I scared him away. That was the last time he joined the chase—until years later.

I wished I had found a different memory. The fear returned. So did the cold. I turned to look for Hamstead, but it was nowhere to be found.

Without realizing it, Charlie and I had been navigating street after street at a slow, even pace, neither of us leading the other. Somehow, we both knew where to go. If I had taken a moment to think about it, I might have gotten lost. Charlie would have been fine—Otterhounds had an amazing sense of direction. He would have known his way home.

I was just there to make sure he got there all right.

-

The more I looked around, the more I understood why it was so easy to find our way. Our town was small. Every building held significance, an easily identifiable landmark. Nothing ever changed.

Nobody could truly be lost here—not even a forgetful old man or an ill-kept stray.

We arrived at the town’s main street—if you could call it that. Visions of times gone by reeled through my mind as we passed each storefront. My memories were becoming clearer, more specific.

Ashburn Sweets.

Its colorfully painted windows, depicting children enjoying all manner of sugary treats, were unmistakable. It was where I had gifted my son more toffee than he could manage for his eighth birthday. He ate himself sick.

The missus was hardly pleased, but I knew—by the sticky grin on his face—that he felt it was well worth the cost.

It became a secret tradition of ours for years after. I didn’t always remember to get him something until after we ate cake, but the store was close enough for me to run out at the last minute.

I never missed a year.

Well. Maybe one or two.

His name was…

Evan.

A smile stretched across my face. It always felt good to remember his name.

My trance was broken when Charlie suddenly stopped next to the local pub. He lifted his leg and relieved himself. I mustered a chuckle. I’d been there before.

The King’s Crown.

The best place in town to get a cold pint after a long day out on a hunt. The group would take up the long table in the back after getting properly liquored up during the outing.

Many blurry nights. Many faceless friends.

It was where I had taken Evan when he became too old for toffee—after he caught his first mink.

His face was easy to see.

He had forgotten all about the times on the trail when I let my ire out on him. Or maybe he had simply forgiven me. Or maybe neither.

In any case, I could tell he was proud that I was proud of him. I should have told him more. I certainly was—especially on that day.

Hell, I was even proud of the pup. He had picked up the scent faster than any Pointer I had ever known. It was the first of many for him.

Charlie started again just before I could rationalize my guilt away. He veered off the pavement into an alley, toward a strewn pile of rubbish in search of dinner.

The poor boy probably hadn’t had proper nourishment in ages. I needed to get him home. But I allowed him the opportunity to quell his hunger. The remains Charlie settled on had come from the attached cookshop next door.

A pit grew in my stomach when I recognized its red awning.

My breath hastened.

Shepherd’s.

I felt the memory trying to intrude.

"Time to go, Charlie."

He continued chomping on his slop without giving me a second glance.

I saw Evan across from me at the table. He was gleefully listing possible names for his baby, entirely unaware of the difficult news I had for him. If it was a boy, he wanted to name him after me.

A dagger.

Outside, in the cold, I was panicking. Charlie was eating more viciously. The snorting, gnashing, and gnawing of his feasting became louder.

I turned toward our heading. Not a soul could be seen. The streetlamps flickered dimly. All the houses were quiet.

I was freezing.

Charlie’s teeth locked onto some kind of rotting meat. He yanked at it, his full weight pulling the sinew from the bone. A putrid smell wafted through the air, surrounding me. The sounds of tearing muscle and grinding teeth amplified in my head.

His previously friendly eyes were consumed by something else. Something darker.

I looked back toward where we had come, as though Hamstead’s entrance would be waiting for me. But it was long gone. I was sure I could find my way again.

Each of my breaths was desperate for air. I had to leave. I couldn’t stay there. I wanted to tell Charlie, but the words caught in my throat.

I turned back toward the park, picking up my pace.

Charlie immediately swiveled his head and barked.

Loud. Stern.

Like a parent reprimanding a child.

He didn’t need to say it twice.

I froze.

Peering into the window at Shepherd’s, I stared at the table we had once sat at.

-

Evan looked at me from across the table. His face was more serious than when he had been speculating baby names just moments before.

"So, how have you been holding up on your own?"

"I’m not on my own! Charlie is good company. We take the long path in Hamstead nearly every day."

"That’s great, Dad."

A grin curled at the corner of his lips. Mentioning Charlie never failed to crack Evan’s usual concerned demeanor—no matter how short-lived.

"But you know that’s not what I meant."

It hurt me to see him care. I was undeserving.

"I’m not quite the chef your mother was, but I’ve been getting by. Thank God for Shepherd’s."

This time, Evan’s smile returned without the threat of quickly dissolving. He seemed happy.

"Hear, hear!" Evan exclaimed, plopping a forkful of pie into his mouth.

"And your visit to Dr. Harrison’s went well, I take it?"

"A perfect bill!" I said with a bright smile.

That was a lie, of course. How could I tell him that I wouldn’t be there to meet my namesake? That I wouldn’t be there to teach his son the difference between a fox print and a mink’s?

Not that he should ever need to know.

How many times had I missed family dinners because I was out on the grounds making that distinction?

I wouldn’t even be able to give him consolation toffee on his birthday. Another childhood I should have been there for—missed.

I returned to the evening street. My cheeks were damp and red. Charlie was sitting in front of me, his eyes filled with something close to understanding. Kindness.

I bent down and embraced him. I didn’t try to hold back my tears. Charlie didn’t rush me. He never had. When I was ready, I stood. And I walked forward.

-

The fear was all-encompassing. Each step brought us closer to the end. The only distraction from the horror of it all was Charlie’s presence—his quiet, unwavering gentleness.

It pained me to watch him limp. I needed to get him home to Evan. He should be free of this pain. His coat should shine. His vision should be clear.

We turned onto Swanson. We were close now. At the end of the block, a single house glowed, light spilling from its windows. I had seen it many times before. I used to live there. Before I settled on my bench. Now, we were standing in front of it.

71 Swanson Street.

I was paralyzed. I wanted to move forward. I had to. Charlie needed to go home. But I couldn’t.

Once again, Charlie took the first few steps for me. Then he turned back, waiting.

This time, he wouldn’t mind if I ran back to Hamstead.

This time, he wouldn’t reprimand me for choosing my bench.

The front door swung open. Both of our heads turned. A man stood in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the warm light behind him. A much smaller figure waddled around his leg, peering curiously into the dark. I didn’t need to see their faces to know who they were.

Evan. And my grandson, Sean.

"Charlie? Is that you?"

Evan bent, patting his knees.

"Come here, boy!"

He didn’t see me.

If I spoke, he wouldn’t hear me.

I knew that.

Charlie looked toward the house, his body tensing with longing. I could see it in his posture, in the way his paws shifted ever so slightly forward. He wanted to run inside. He wanted to jolt up those stairs like he used to when I lived there. Instead, he turned back to me.

"Go ahead, Charlie. Go on home."

He didn’t move.

"You don’t need me, you dumb mutt! You torture yourself for nothing!"

He slowly approached. Sat beside me. His tail wagged.

We’d been here before.

How many times?

I couldn’t say.

Once for every night he spent in the cold.

Once for every meal he’d scavenged from Shepherd’s bins.

The cold made my teeth chatter.

"I… I can’t… I can’t do it. I’m… I’m sorry."

I didn’t deserve the warmth of my family.

The forgetful father, who preferred the company of shallow companions over those who depended on him.

The angry drunk, who was quick to see the shortcomings of others but never his own.

I deserved the outside. A cold bench. The easy choice.

Charlie rubbed his head against my leg. Another thing I hadn’t earned. He started walking. Heading back toward Hamstead. Expecting me to follow. I hung my head. And, once again, I obliged.

His limp was worse now. The fur under his chin was stained red from the meat in the alley. The blockage over his eye had thickened, completely covering it.

He looked up at me.

And still—despite everything—the love in his expression remained unchanged.

"Charlie!"

Evan’s voice rang out from the house. Charlie didn’t look back. Once again, an innocent creature suffered for my selfishness. It would be easier if he hated me for it.

Charlie never had.

Evan never had.

"Okay." I whispered.

Charlie stopped.

"Let’s go home."

Charlie and I walked side by side toward the entrance.

Toward Evan.

Toward home.

This time, he let me lead. He wouldn’t go inside unless I did first.

Evan lowered himself and embraced Charlie at the doorstep.

It was long overdue.

I stepped inside.

My legs passed through their bodies.

And, for the first time in a long time—

I felt warm.