It would be, Robert though, too damned easy to lie in bed and let the world turn without the help of one Robert A. Stock. The covers kept him warm and the dogs were a comforting presence against his back. He could feel the chill of the room nipping at the tiny bit of his nose that wasn't buried.
The dogs felt the change in his breathing and Blackie came over and put her nose right up to his. She never licked him, that was Ginger's job. If he didn't want a nose cleaning by spaniel tongue, he would need to move. Robert groaned and pushed the covers back. Cold air rushed in and seized his joints. He moved each joint listening to the cracks and pops. I sound like a breakfast cereal, he though.
The dogs watched him with their deep brown eyes. They lay on her side of the bed as if they missed her as much as he did. Probably they did. Robert took his first painkiller of the day and washed it down with the water beside his bed. He was sure the dogs sipped from it in the middle of the night, but he couldn't find the energy to care.
After making sure that he could move, Robert picked up the tension bandage that was the next part of his morning routine. He carefully wrapped the stump of one leg then the other before putting the prosthetic limbs on. He could give up and just use a wheelchair, but the house wasn't designed for wheelchairs. He would have to move. He wasn't ready to move. The house was full of memories of her. She may have left him, but he wasn't ready to leave her.
He held the canes and levered himself to his feet. It was strange, standing on legs that ended just below the knee, but he was getting used to it. They said that you could get used to anything in time. He looked at the empty side of the bed. They were idiots.
Robert walked to the kitchen and fed the dogs. He put them out, then made his own breakfast. No noisy cereal for him. He made oatmeal, thick enough to stand a spoon in, then poured on milk. She like sugar and raisins with hers. He used to tease her that it wasn't oatmeal but pudding that she ate for breakfast.
God, he missed her. If life had been fair, they would both have died in that crash. Instead he had been left with no legs and a broken heart. Well, if life was easy, anybody could do it.
Robert washed his dishes then put the dogs on their leashes. He clipped the leashes to the breakaways on his wrists.
They walked along the sidewalk stopping at the usual places for the dogs to catch up on the local news. It had been long enough since the accident that people didn't feel they needed to say anything more than 'good morning'. He didn't mind, but it was painful watching people trying to find words for the unspeakable. He made his way down Main St. nodding at folks. The gal at the post office came out and gave him a hug and Blackie and Ginger biscuits. She had never said anything, but Robert knew she understood.
He reached his shop and opened the door. Kent was sitting at the counter and waved at him. Robert let the dogs off their leashes and they trotted over to the corner that they had claimed the first day he brought them to work. He went back to the workshop and sat on the chair that Kent had adjusted with endless patience to fit Robert's needs. Robert picked up the guitar neck he was working on and looked at it critically. It would do. He picked up some 200 grit sandpaper and went to work.
The door chimed off and on through the day. Kent chatted with people and sold them music or strings or whatever they needed. When the crash had put Robert in the hospital for months of rehabilitation, it was Kent who had kept the place open. He was just a punk kid that Robert had hired to run the counter Saturdays and maybe teach a few lessons. That punk kid had changed his schedule at school and started opening the store from after lunch until early evening. He had changed his classes from art and music to business and accounting. He did everything but cut his hair short to keep this place open.
Kent was the reason Robert crawled out of bed in the morning. Robert couldn't imagine doing what this kid had done when he was that age. Now he walked down the street and worked on his guitars while this extraordinary young man ran his business for him. Robert started laying out the fretboard. His hands ached and he swallowed another pill, then went back to work.
Kent came back sometime later and put a cup of tea on the counter where Robert could reach it, but it wouldn't get dust or varnish in it.
"Pretty good day," Robert said.
"Steady," Kent said, "You've got a good name in the community. People want to support you. It doesn't hurt that dude mentioning that he plays one of your guitars."
"Really? Who was that?"
"I don't remember his name, they've just started up."
"So when are you going to start up?"
"Someday, maybe." Kent went to the other bench and checked the fittings for an electric guitar in the body he had finished. It looked jet black until he moved it, then colours ran across the guitar. Kent had said it was car paint. "This is ready to get hooked up as soon as I have the neck on." The neck was painted with the same black, but without the colour. He deftly fitted the pieces together and tightened up the assembly. He checked to see that the neck was square.
"Looks good to me, Kent."
"Says the guy who will only make acoustic guitars." The electronics fitted in their places quickly. Kent soldered the connections, then strung the guitar.
"Try her out." Robert followed the young man into the front of the store and sat on a drum stool.
Kent grinned and plugged the guitar into one of the demo amps. He hit a few chords then went into a screaming solo. He didn't notice the door open and a crowd of kids come in and listen open mouthed.
"Man," one said, "That was wicked! I wish I could play that way."
"You want to try her?"
"Nah, all I can do is Guitar Hero."
"Here, this is easy." Kent started playing the chords from Smoke on the Water. He got the kid to give it try, then one of the others. They laughed and joked at each other then left. Kent hung the guitar up with the others.
"I could never talk to kids that way," Robert said.
"I find that hard to believe."
"There's a reason I don't teach."
"You sure taught me a lot."
"Really?"
Kent picked up another guitar and started playing. This time it was a gentle tune on an acoustic.
"I came in looking for work so I could pay off a fine for vandalizing the pavilion at the park." Kent changed the tune to a minor key. "I figured I would work for a few weeks then just take off. Do you remember the job interview?"
Robert shook his head.
"You made me sit down and play something. I played some hard rock garbage that must have made your eyes water, but you picked up another guitar and started playing some chords. You turned the noise I was making into music. When we'd finished you told me I had the job, and that I could practice with any of the guitars whenever it wasn't too busy."
"I remember now." Robert picked up a guitar from a stand and started playing. Kent joined in. No hordes of kids came into see what was going on, but that was all right.
"I couldn't believe that you would just let me play music. It was the first time anyone had just trusted me. I decided I was never going to let you down."
"You haven't," Robert put the guitar back. "This is why I still get up."
"I just knew I had to keep the store open for you."
"Not the store, Kent. You." He picked up an electric guitar. "If I had a son, I couldn't have hoped for more." Robert grinned and began playing a heavy metal riff. Kent picked his jet black guitar off the rack and plugged it in. He started playing a solo over the riff that had the windows rattling.
Making noise into music.