ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For eighteen years, DAVID MOHRMANN was a playwright and professor of theatre. During that time he wrote and produced ten plays. He is “inspired and informed by the dynamics of oppression, constantly reminded of the intricate, oftentimes absurd ways in which we humans hold on, in vain, to our minimal power,” he says.

What Happened to Banks

By David Mohrmann


This is how Alan remembers it. He was working on the fence—something he’d been trying to get to for weeks—when a car pulled up out front. It was an older woman. She smiled, gave him a short wave. More like a signal really. As he walked toward the car he saw Banks in the back seat. He’d been missing for a few days, which was not, at that point, unusual. In fact, it was by then a fairly regular thing.
“I think this is your dog,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “How did you know?”

“I’ve been asking around.”

“Oh. Well, thanks,” he said, then instantly feeling he hadn’t said enough. He wondered if he should be apologizing for the trouble she’d gone through.

“It was no trouble,” she said.

Whoa, thought Alan, maybe he should be careful what he’s thinking. He held back the urge to thank her again. Though deeply grateful that she’d found his dog, there was another feeling too. Was he being judged?

“Where did you say you found him?”

“Oh no,” she said, “he comes to our house.”

“Really?”

“We live over by the school. My husband and I. Over on Parr.”

“He comes to your house?”

“Almost every day.”

So that’s where he disappears to, thought Alan. Did she say every day? Probably an exaggeration, but how could he be sure? It was hard enough, every day, remembering the things that absolutely needed to be remembered.

“I’m sorry if he’s bothering you.”

“Don’t you worry, dear, he’s no problem for us. No problem at all.”

What a relief, thought Alan. She was, at least, reading the hopeful parts of his mind. And it wasn’t judgment he felt, it was something else. Compassion, he hoped. He sensed that this complete stranger, this gray little woman, would, if she could, take away all his problems. Now there’s a full-time job he wouldn’t mind giving up. Ever since their second child was born things had been difficult. Complicated. He rarely had time to take Banks to the river anymore. Hardly time to take him for a walk. He was working more than ever—left early and got home late—but at least, until fairly recently, he was able to bring Banks along. Most people didn’t mind a dog lying around while he hammered on their roof. Until Mr. Hancock, that is. Mr. Hancock was a special case. He needed three of his rental houses re-roofed, which was great for Alan, of course it was, except that Mr. Hancock didn’t want Banks there because it made him worry.

“Because I’m a worrier,” he said. “I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to put up with.”

Mr. Hancock worried, among other things, about the neighborhood cats. Didn’t want any complaints, he said. So Alan, who could not afford to quit this job, was offered a couple of bad choices. He could leave Banks in his truck the whole damn day, which he knew wasn’t right. Or, only slightly better, he could leave him at home. And that’s when the problems started, the way Alan remembers it. That’s what led to his wandering.

“There’s no fence that can hold this old boy,” he said to the woman.

“I can see that,” she smiled.

“Well, thanks again for bringing him back.”

You’re welcome. That’s what Alan expected her to say, but that’s not what she said. He remembers her not saying anything for a few seconds, remembers her squeezing the steering wheel and looking ahead, down the road, like she was ready to take off, make a getaway, even though the engine wasn’t running. She turned and looked at him.

“You’ve had him for a long time.” She said it in a peculiar way, a formal way, like a therapist might, at the same time intimate and aloof, as if she were discussing one of his recurring nightmares instead of his dog. This caught him by surprise, made him stop and think about it.

“Twelve years,” said Alan, “ever since he was so big.” He cupped his hands to show her how tiny this big slobbering lug of a dog had been. She smiled again. She was in her seventies at least, with soft wrinkles around her eyes. She had a nice smile, he remembers.

“Tell me,” she said.

And for some reason, he wasn’t sure why—maybe just because it gave him the chance to remember Banks, he and Banks, the way they used to be before the wife and kids and house and job—he started telling her things.

He told her how they used to always be together. Even after he and Claire had hooked up, there was Banks. He’s part of the package, he’d warned Claire. No extra charge, he’d said. Before getting married they’d traveled, the three of them, around Mexico and Guatemala in Alan’s Volkswagen bus. They’d backpacked together in lots of different places. And when the kids came along, there was Banks too, slobber and all, right in the middle of it. He told the lady how much Banks loved people—big people, little people, to him it was the same. He was thirteen years old now, but still strong, his black coat still long and shiny, though Alan could see a lot more gray around his snout.

“That’s more or less it,” he said, opening the back door, thinking they were finished. Banks didn’t move, only looked at him. Alan didn’t understand. “Is he okay?”

“I think he misses you.”

If so, thought Alan, why not show a little enthusiasm? But he knew what she meant, that from a dog’s heart it was Alan, not he, who’d been missing.

“Yeah … well,” he said. He didn’t know what else to say. He looked at Banks, gave him a face, snapped his fingers and slapped his thigh. “C’mon buddy,” he said.

Banks turned his head back in the other direction, laid it on his paws. Alan could feel the woman watching him. It was a long few seconds, a long hard time before he was able to say something.

“I guess I’ve been too busy,” he said.

He remembers her kind eyes. She didn’t say anything—at least nothing he can remember—only waited, as if she somehow knew he wasn’t finished. And he wasn’t. Not by a long shot. He remembers her sitting there, listening, while he told her other things, like about coaching his son’s tee-ball team three evenings a week, and the new baby—who took nearly every bit of Claire’s time—and how they wouldn’t be going camping this year because he had to work on the addition to their house during his days off to make sure it was weather-proofed by winter. He even told her about Mr. Hancock and the cats.

When he was finished she said she understood. He could tell she did. He supposed that was why, when she then started telling him things, he listened. He sat in the back seat, petting Banks, as she told him about Ben, her husband, and how long they’d been married. Thirty-four years, she told him, and how they hadn’t been able to have kids. How she regretted it. She said how lucky Alan was, even when things were hard, to be blessed with children. He remembers her eyes watering up a little, and his too.

When he asked, because at that point it seemed very strange not knowing her name, she told him. Edna. Then Edna told him how much she and Ben loved his dog, how they looked forward every day to his visits, how they loved it when he stayed over and how sad it was when he would one day disappear again. They didn’t know his name, Edna said, so they called him Sam. He remembers that distinctly. Sam. He remembers how direct she was, like this was some kind of unfortunate business that had been forced upon them, a difficult business that they’d both reluctantly agreed to. If it was too hard for him, Edna said, she promised they’d take good care of Banks. They were moving to a place in the country where he would be able to run around. They were retired, so would be able to give him lots of attention.

“Yeah,” Alan remembers saying. “Yeah, I know, I know that’s what he needs.”

He’d told every bit of what happened to Claire. He’d explained his feelings and his actions as best he could. Later, he would tell other people how understanding his wife had been about giving Banks away. It was his dog, Claire had said, so it was his decision. He’d loved her so much for that.

That was ten years ago, in a different house, a different place altogether, and since then he’d told this story to a lot of people. He told it to Jen, the woman he was seeing, when trying to explain what his wife was like. Claire is a good person, he told Jen, only he didn’t love her the same way anymore. He didn’t know how else to put it.

Once he came home from Jen’s with his tee-shirt on backwards. He could hardly believe it happened. How, he thought—I mean how the hell, he wondered—how could such a thing happen? And how could Claire not notice? That was the kicker, he realized. That showed how far off it had gone. Up until the shirt incident he was hoping their marriage might still have a chance.

Though he and Jen broke up, that didn’t stop him from thinking of other women. Then one morning Claire came up from behind while he was reading the paper. Nothing was going on—nothing at all—he was only sitting there reading the sports page. She leaned her hands on his shoulders.

“Are we over?” she said.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” he said, and he moved out the next day.

Of course they talked a lot about why. They would meet at the Plaza Grille, a big bustling place that always, no matter how crowded, had a little corner for them to hide in. They would drink beers or wine and discuss, or sometimes argue about, what had gone wrong. Sometimes they even joked, made fun of themselves, laughed. By the fourth round or so, Alan wondered if this might be the beginning of their getting back together. If that was the case, and he would have been in favor of trying, he decided they should each stop being so careful.

“It was the sex, mostly,” he said. He explained the way he saw it, that it had been okay at the beginning, or at least not bad. It got bad, he said, when the kids came along. What he didn’t say was how he’d begun to believe that all she ever wanted was the kids. No use getting mean, he decided. “It felt to me like you were mostly faking it,” he said.

“I stopped trusting you,” Claire said. “That’s why. I never knew when you were telling the truth.”

The truth about what? About Jen? Maybe his wife had been paying more attention than he gave credit for. But no, he could tell that’s not what she meant. She was referring to the stories he used to tell.

“What stories?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “I don’t remember exactly. I mean the way you’d be talking about something that actually happened, and then, for no reason, start making things up.”

“Like what?” he said. This was her way, he thought, of avoiding the sex thing. She didn’t like talking about it any more than she liked doing it.

“Never mind,” said Claire, “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

As soon as he heard that—that goddamn never mind—he was ready to explode. He hated it when she said something then couldn’t back it up. Or else would change the subject, or say it didn’t matter, or some such shit. He wasn’t going to let her get away with it this time. “What the hell are you saying?”

“And sometimes you lie,” she said.

“Lie?”

“No, not lie, exactly. I don’t know what.”

The truth was simple, he thought. The truth was, she couldn’t take the truth.   

“So tell me,” he said. “When did I lie?”

“I didn’t mean lie. I shouldn’t have said that. That’s not it.”

“For shitsake, Claire, what then, exactly, is it?”

“Okay,” she said, like a warning. “Damn it,” she said. “What about Banks?” she said.

“Banks?”

“Yes, Alan, let’s talk about Banks.”

“What about him?”

“What happened to Banks?” she said.

“You know what happened.”

“Yes, I do, Alan. You forgot him, that’s what.”

“What does that mean?”

“You didn’t mean to, I know you didn’t. You were busy, okay, you were preoccupied. You spaced him out.”

“Fuck you!” he said, surprising them both.

“Okay,” she said. “Never mind.”

People were staring, he could feel it. He took a breath and looked around, saw people looking away. He leaned across the table, his voice low but sharp. “What the hell’s wrong with you anyway?”

“There wasn’t any woman, Alan.”

“Woman?”

“That woman you tell people about, the woman you say took him to live in the country.”

“Edna?”

“Edna,” she said. “Edna,” she repeated, as if speaking of someone very familiar whom she would just as soon never see again. Claire now leaned over the table toward him. “There is no Edna,” she said. “Never was. That whole story of yours never happened.”

“What are you … I don’t know what you’re—”

“You’ve never wanted to admit it,” she said, “what really happened.”

“Happened?”

“To Banks.” She reached across the table, put her hand on his. “I was away with the kids, Alan, visiting my mother. Banks had disappeared again a few days before we left. I told you to call the pound and you said you would. I called you again a couple of days later to remind you. I knew how busy you were. I thought you might forget.”

“I don’t believe this,” he said.

She squeezed his hand. “I know Alan. I know it’s hard.”

Alan pulled his hand away, knocking over a glass. Red wine spread over the grainy wood, dripped to the floor. He didn’t care. He got up, got out of the restaurant, out onto the street. He couldn’t believe any of this.

Truly, he could not believe it. That’s what he kept saying to himself over and over as he walked. Like a weird mantra that might, if repeated enough, make things right again. For a long time it didn’t matter where he was going. He might have been walking up and down the same street the whole time. Or anywhere. He doesn’t remember. It didn’t matter.

At some point he stopped. He recognized the movie theatre, rain slanting down through the marquee lights. Like a picture, he thought, which made no sense to him either. Why the hell would he think such a stupid thing? A picture of what? he wondered. What?

It was then he realized his clothes were sopping wet, that he was shivering. He wondered if he’d ever before stood like this in the rain. He just stood there then, wondering, knowing he had to feel the cold for as long as it took.



Published July 2009