The Mission
Later that day, out on the dunes with a thin afternoon sunlight illuminating a high fog, Joe sat in the dry grasses and watched Moka trot close by along the sand. She pawed at small bubbling crab holes, snapped at gossamer flies and attempted to stalk the savvy seagulls. He’d decided to forego a training session with her, instead turning his attention inward and to what Brother Thomas had said earlier in the day.
He wondered if he had fantasized the whole mission thing. Maybe it was just a way to bolster himself as Brother Thomas had suggested. He dredged through his memories of the depression he had endured before retiring. Was his “mission” a last-ditch, panicky effort to bootstrap himself out of misery?
As he considered the idea that his mission didn’t exist, the reality of his situation took hold. Shit. If there’s no mission, I’ve got nothing to show for myself. I’ve got no job. Stole government property. And I’m hiding out with a bunch of monks who are going to kick me out in just nine days.
Joe realized Brother Thomas was right. Right now, the mission, whether real or not, shut out an ugliness he didn’t want to face.
During the next week, Joe was vigilant for signs and hunches. But there were none. There were no dreams about loping down a path with Moka into the hopeful future. When he’d found a United States map in the monastery library and spread it open, he’d felt no special pull to one part of the country or another. When he stood contemplating the ocean from the top of a dune, he felt no expansiveness, no super-charged confidence—nothing but the sea breeze billowing his jacket.
As he let go of the mission idea—a delusional idea, he’d come to realize—sharp-taloned anxieties about finding a livelihood surfaced, along with enervating depression about his troubled retirement from the Army. He was grateful for the monastery work, relentlessly physical, that kept him upright. It burned off the adrenaline-fueled fear and amped up his sagging energy when depression blanketed him.
But it was Moka, sweet-tempered and smart like her mother, Lady, who pulled him through. He slept with his fingers curled in her ruff. He talked to her about his crazy feelings in a way he’d never allow himself with another human being. He told her about his fears, defeats and anger. She listened, and in the telling, Joe began to face the future.
Two days before he was to leave the monastery, Joe found a small beach sheltered from the wind by boulders. He put Moka in a sit, then held a meat scrap in front of her face, said “Down,” and moved the scrap down and a little away from her body. She followed the treat with her nose, lowering her front legs so that she was lying on the packed sand. He praised her and let her gobble the meat. After a few more trials, he got her into the down, then added, “Stay.”
While Moka, sighing, laid her head on her front paws and stretched out her back legs, Joe fingered a broken shell and took stock. He had gradually come to accept the loss of his mission. There’d been no signs, no dreams, no epiphanies, no special knowledge. He now acknowledged that he was a man who’d become demoralized, drank too much, lost hope and then went a little crazy. He didn’t like it, but he had to admit what he’d done.
He looked to the featureless gray sky as he spoke to Moka. “Dammit, girl, I’ve got some serious trouble. I can’t be just waiting around, twiddling my thumbs. How are we going to eat when we’ve got to leave here?”
Grim but resolute, Joe pulled a pencil stub and small notebook from his shirt pocket. He began to make a list of actions he could take to try to fix the mess he was in.
Number One was to make sure Moka stayed hidden and unidentified, at least for a few months. No, not because there was a mission. But because he didn’t want to be arrested for stealing her. Besides, now that they’d been through all this together, he damn well wasn’t giving her back. He figured he’d drive to a different state, maybe somewhere in the Midwest.
Number Two was to return to his apartment, pack up what he’d minimally need, and give notice. He’d have money wired to him from his account when he needed it.
Number Three was to get a job wherever he ended up. Maybe take something, anything, right away to live on, but eventually he wanted work he could feel good about.
Number Four was to stay off the sauce. At least until he’d found a decent job and was sure he wasn’t being pursued by the Army.
Finally, and maybe the most important thing. He made a mental note to keep reminding himself that he’d been an excellent cop. The Army was corrupt. He was not. He’d done a good job. He was the good guy. When he kept that thought foremost, he felt better about himself. Sure, he’d gone a little loony-tunes for a while, but now he was fine.
But he’d left the Army, the only life he’d ever known. So what the hell would he do with himself? Continue the police work? Rent-a-cop? Security systems? Private eye? It all tasted flat. None of that interested him as it did when he was younger and eager to catch the bad guys and save the world.
Moka, who’d fallen asleep, awoke and yawned. Joe ruffled her fur. “We’re going to be okay, girl. I’ll find some kind of job to put food in your bowl, then we’ll look around. We’ve got each other.” He felt hope, like a friendly hand on his shoulder.
