Dark Rivers of the Heart

those countless taverns were, in their essence, the same church confessional; sitting on a bar stool instead of kneeling on a priedieu, he murmured the same admissions to strangers who were not priests and could not give him absolution.
        His confessors were drunkards, spiritual guides as lost as he was.
        They could never tell him the appropriate penance he must do to find peace.
        Discussing the meaning of life, they were incoherent.
        Unlike those strangers to whom he often quietly revealed his soul, Spencer had never been drunk. Inebriation was as dreadful for him to contemplate as was suicide. To be drunk was to relinquish control.
        Intolerable. Control was the only thing he had.
        At the end of the block, Spencer turned left and parked on the secondary street.
        He went to bars not to drink but to avoid being alone-and to tell his story to someone who would not remember it in the morning. He often nursed a beer or two through a long evening. Later, in his bedroom, after staring toward the hidden heavens, he would finally close his eyes only when the patterns of shadows on the ceiling inevitably reminded him of things he preferred to forget.
        When he switched off the engine, the rain drummed louder than before-a cold sound, as chilling as the voices of dead children that sometimes called to him with wordless urgency in his worst dreams.
        The yellowish glow of a nearby streetlamp bathed the interior of the truck, so Rocky was clearly visible. His large and expressive eyes solemnly regarded Spencer.
        "Maybe this is a bad idea," Spencer said.
        The dog craned his head forward to lick his master's right hand, which was still clenched around the wheel. He seemed to be saying that Spencer should relax and just do what he had come there to do. As Spencer moved his hand to pet the mutt, Rocky bowed his head, not to make the backs of his ears or his neck more accessible to stroking fingers, but to indicate that he was subservient and harmless.
        "How long have we been together?" Spencer asked the dog.
        Rocky kept his head down, huddling warily but not actually trembling under his master's gentle hand.
        "Almost two years," Spencer said, answering his own question.
        "Two years of kindness, long walks, chasing Frisbees on the beach, regular meals… and still sometimes you think I'm going to hit you."
        Rocky remained in a humble posture on the passenger seat.
        Spencer slipped one hand under the dog's chin, forced his head up.
        After briefly trying to pull away, Rocky ceased all resistance.
        When they were eye-to-eye, Spencer said, "Do you trust me?"
        The dog self-consciously looked away, down and to the left.
        Spencer shook the mutt gently by the muzzle, commanding his attention again. "We keep our heads up, okay? Always proud, okay?
        Confident.
        Keep our heads up, look people in the eye. You got that?"
        Rocky slipped his tongue between his half-clenched teeth and licked the fingers with which Spencer was gripping his muzzle.
        "I'll interpret that as yes."
        " He let go of the dog. "This cocktail lounge isn't a place I can take you. No offense."
        In certain taverns, though Rocky was not a guide dog, he could lie at Spencer's feet, even sit on a stool, and no one would object to the violation of health laws. Usually a dog was the least of the infractions for which the joint would be cited if a city inspector happened to visit. The Red Door, however, still had pretensions to class, and Rocky wouldn't be welcome.
        Spencer got out of the truck, slammed the door. He engaged the locks and security system with the remote control on his key chain.
        He could not count on Rocky to protect the Explorer. This was one dog who would never scare off a determined car thief-unless the would-be thief suffered an extreme phobic aversion to having his hand licked.
        After sprinting through the cold rain to the shelter of an awning that skirted the corner building, Spencer paused to look back.
        Having moved onto the driver's seat, the dog stared out, nose pressed to the side window, one ear pricked, one ear drooping. His breath was fogging the glass, but he wasn't barking. Rocky never barked. He just stared, waited. He was seventy pounds of pure love and patience.
        Spencer turned away from the truck and