Chapter 3: A Whisper From The Past

Pilar is tireless, gotta give her that. She entered Hobo in a couple of sheepdog contests mainly as a lark. And because her beloved border collie would enjoy it, love being outdoors, running, jumping, herding.

Turns out he’s good at it. And Pilar must be too. Although it’s harder to tell with the handler. But between them, they started finishing in the money. Well, taking home a ribbon anyway.

So Pilar applied herself. Talked with other trainers, owners, breeders. Studied countless videos. Watched closely, learned. They got better, Hobo and Pilar.

Walker is pretty good too. He and Hobo brought home a few ribbons too. But Pilar was simply on a higher plane so Walker stepped back, turned the stage over to her.

I know my son, know how much he loves her. I’m pretty sure there isn’t any resentment, no jealousy. She’s simply better at it and, in this instance, it’s more important to her.

It’s an insular world, herding sheep and cattle. And as you move from local competitions — among friends mostly — to regional to national ... well the pressure goes up. It becomes more intense.

Not that you could tell from observing Pilar and Hobo. She is as cool and casual, on the outside anyway, as if they were playing with a Frisbee on the roof of the Wrigley.

Hobo of course adores his time with her. And obviously enjoys the trials. He appears to be less intense than the other dogs. He moves so fluidly, almost with insouciance.

Okay, that may be anthropomorphic on my part.

In any case, the ribbons were more blue than not. The trials more competitive, the crowds larger.

Pilar and Hobo just take it in stride. Having fun.

The first Gunther news seemed more of a curiosity than a threat.

Hank Morristown had received a follow-up e-mail from the FBI home office. Otto Gunther. The Philadelphia stockbroker who had disappeared when Greta Gunther and the rest of her clan went down.

He reappeared at his office off Rittenhouse Square just this morning. Monday morning. Since he hadn’t been wanted, not even for questioning, law enforcement hadn’t been looking for him. Not officially anyway.

Hank told Daddy and me, “He just waltzed into work like he’d never been gone.”

Daddy frowned. He may be retired from the cop shop, but he still doesn’t like loose ends. Oddities.

Hank said, “Philly will keep a casual eye on him.”

In the meantime, I have a titty bar to run. BaBoomz.

My life is doing just what I need it to do. Percolating quietly along. No American Nazis, no snipers, no ... not anything like that. Comfortably boring, that’s what I’m aiming for.

Our life in the Wrigley. Harold’s whores. Vanessa’s restaurant. A nude elevator operator. Even the titty bar seems innocent. Comparatively.

Quiet, determined Pilar has Walker speaking Spanish every day. He sounds fluent to my untrained ear.

Walker seems more centered these days. And I attribute some of that to Pilar’s calming influence. Although it certainly helps that those spastic growth spurts of his have stopped. At least for now. Six feet, two inches is plenty for a 15-year old.

Walker’s new body-comfort means that he’s more relaxed, smoother. He doesn’t move with Vanessa’s panther-like grace, but he’s no longer hunch-shouldering along.

And that contributes to his sense of self-worth, his confidence. Vanessa, Pilar, and I can still make him blush, usually something to do with sex. But it’s not so easy these days; my boy is coming into his own.

For one thing, he’s mostly stopped wearing those obscene tees — ‘Winter Sucks Cock’ and the like. Maybe he’s outgrown the foolishness. Although I kind of get a kick out of them. Of course I’m too mature to say so. It’s a lady thing.

I recently consulted with Vanessa, then Pilar’s mother, Lina. I sat Pilar and Walker down and smiled, “Green light.”

Pilar got there first. Nudged Walker, “Fuck-permission.”

Walker stared at me, “You sure, Winter?”

I didn’t joke around, “Yes, babe. After Greta Gunther ... what you and Pilar went through ... yes, I’m sure. Be gentle. Enjoy.” I handed Pilar her first month of birth control pills. A gift from her mother. She accepted solemnly.

She’ll be fine, our Pilar.

Irony is woven in to the fabric of our lives, isn’t it? Maybe not for those who lead essentially shallow lives, unexamined lives. But most of us experience incongruities, wry coincidences, odd paradoxes, as we stumble along.

I’m in counseling. Seeing Dr. Lindsey Conners three mornings a week. I resisted it for the usual dumb reasons. I’m tough. I’m fine. Don’t need any help.

But that Oasis investigation. One of my Irregulars, Birdy Cummings, had her head blown off by a pointblank shotgun.

Horrific as that was, my family -- Walker, Vanessa, Pilar -- were targeted to be killed by Greta Gunther. Me too, but by that time I wouldn’t have much cared. Or maybe some deep rage would have had me fighting to the bitter end.

In any case, I found myself exploding awake, heartbeat in Emergency Room ranges, gasping for air. Breathless. Other nights, after Vanessa was fully in the clasp of Morpheus, I just lay there, crying silently beside her.

Time for a change.

Dr. Conners lives in Mission Hills. This tells us a couple of things. One, she probably has money. Possibly a great deal of it. Two, she lives in that fucking armpit of a state, Kansas.

But, being adult, I would overlook her geographical shortcomings.

Turns out, Dr. Conners does come from a monied family. Chocolate. Not something I’d normally associate with wealth, but look at Hershey. Mars.

In any case, the good doctor can afford to pick and choose her clients. Can afford an unconventional practice. I’m glad she accepted Mindy Montgomery, back when the young girl was coming off a stay with the cult that couldn’t shoot straight.

And I’m glad she accepted Walker and Pilar after their traumatic encounter with Greta Gunther.

Finally, I’m thankful that she took me on as a patient. I didn’t want it, not at first. But I needed it in ways that I couldn’t yet imagine.

Her unconventionality? Dr. Connors sees only two patients a day. One morning appointment, one afternoon. I was surprised to learn that she doesn’t have the clock ticking. I’ve had sessions that last half an hour. And others than run for more than three hours.

One thing I really enjoy is that there is no structured setting. She doesn’t sit behind a desk, I don’t lie on a couch, she doesn’t take notes. We talk, chat really, all over the place. She might make us tea in her sunny kitchen. Or we might sit out on her redwood deck with three Golden Retrievers. (Fine dogs, from what I can tell, but hardly up to my standards.)

Oftentimes, we go on walks. Now Kansas isn’t particularly pedestrian-friendly. Johnson fucking County less so. But Mission Hills is so peaceful, tree-lined roads winding around, there’s so little traffic ... it’s calming and pleasant and I find myself just talking and talking and talking.

Expensive strolls? Yes.

But the case — Oasis — that drove me into therapy is also the insurance company that’s paying for said therapy.

Sometimes irony can be bittersweet.

Pilar: What’s worse than waking up at a party and learning a penis was drawn on your face?

Walker: Finding out it was traced.

Probably to keep Walker’s Spanish lessons interesting, Pilar mixes in street idioms, obscenities, slang. She calls him Papi while she is Chica. A lot of dirty jokes, cornball jokes.

But it was serious time when Vanessa and I came off the freight elevator this Wednesday evening. I told Nature Boy, nude as usual, “Thanks for the lift.”

Then Pilar, grim-faced, and Hobo greeted us. Vanessa and I knew instantly something was wrong. Hobo watched the elevator door close, then looked back at Pilar. She said, “Walker is okay. He got hurt in a fight. I put him to bed ... he’ll be fine.”