My dog George introduced me to David. We were walking by the pier near Michael Phelps' house, and when George spotted him, his little tail started to wag.
Having been abused by a man in rural Pennsylvania, my dog George was usually shy around men, but not David. He had the broad shouldered build of someone who labored for a living; turned out, he was in the Army Special Forces. He didn't have to wear a uniform and got extra pay for "hazard work."
I later found out that meant catching bad guys in Iraq. He'd been there 6 times - they'd leave on missions in the middle of the night and once caught a guy drilling a hole into another man's calf. So they duct taped his arms and legs together and threw him into the back of their Hummer.
On the drive back to the base, their truck hit a land mine and exploded, killing the Iraqi and one of David's friends. David lost part of his hearing as a result. He was awarded 2 years of combat leave, in which time he was stationed in a nondescript office building outside of the Columbia Mall. That's when we met.
He was sweet to me, leaving gifts by my door, surprising me with desserts from Bonaparte Bakery, asking my permission for a kiss. Around this time my Mom unexpectedly got sick. She had bronchitis, which quickly became pneumonia, which in the hospital turned into an antibiotic-resistant infection in her lungs called MRSA. For 30 days I watched her slip away. She was drugged beyond recognition and moaned about the pain in her side. Her doctor wore a space suit.
Then she took a turn for the worse and needed emergency surgery. It was the last hope. For a full week afterward she breathed on life support, and we wondered if she'd make it. I learned then that the hospital parking lot is the loneliest place in the universe. Night after night I'd cry so hard on the drive home on I-95 that I could barely see the road.
Eventually she recovered. And David was there for me - on the weekends we'd walk George or drink chai or have Sunday pastries at Vaccaro's. He'd hold my hand when my voice broke. And he'd tell me about his own messed up life - we were united together by a universal pain.
We walked down the streets of Fells in the dying afternoon light, admiring the colonial homes. A sea captain owned one; a slaveowner another. We could tell their age by the mortar between the bricks. At Christmastime, he came with me to the Mt. Vernon Monument lighting ceremony, and between his shoulders, I felt safe.