He placed his hand on the grip and wrapped his index finger around the trigger. He wondered what this moment might feel like, this moment of both ultimate power and weakness. He lifted the dead weight and placed it square on his undeveloped chest. There was a moment of chilled discomfort which prompted him to adjust the piece slightly. Both arms hung lifelessly by his side.
He stared down the barrel wanting to feel happy or angry or at least impressed by the ingenuity that created such a weapon. His mind wandered to stories of wrist slitting and self-hanging. He admired those who could take their lives in such a noble way. But he couldn’t do it. He needed this gun.
A southpaw, he brought his left up to the gun and moved the now warm metal up to just below his chin. He formed an ‘o’ with his lips and stuck the gun in like a popsicle. The barrel struck his teeth causing him to flinch; the gun fell from his mouth onto his left arm and then onto the floor with a thud. A shiver ran down his spine. He spit onto the throw rug, trying to extract the metallic taste. For an instant, he had the urge to flee, if only because the metal on his teeth made him remember the multiple fillings he had endured.
He rolled over on the couch and reached for the gun; it was just out of his reach. ‘Shit,’ he said aloud as he rolled onto his back. His eyes closed; the smell of something rotten filled his nostrils.
He found himself in a dirt pit with sides as high as cliffs. Above him men and animals leapt across the chasm. He grasped a root that stuck out of the wall of dirt and yanked it, only to find that the tree to which it had been connected had died long ago. A yelp came from above; one of the animals hadn’t made the leap. Down it came tumbling against rock and dirt. ‘Nothing can survive that fall,’ he thought to himself. He pressed himself against the side hoping to avoid both the falling debris and the animal itself. He expected a thud, but heard instead an eloquent thump. He opened his eyes, and there before him stood a King Cobra, both beautiful and terrible. Fear washed over him. Not this way, he thought. Not by a snake in a pit. The snake smiled at him, his teeth a bright white with fangs longer than the mouth should be able to contain. Except it was a human smile. He looked into its eyes and saw not the eyes of a serpent but of a man, a pensive man who was considering his options for escape.
‘If we work together, we can essscape,’ the cobra lisped between his giant teeth.
He stared at the teeth and considered whether he should respond.
‘I will not bite you; I am not hungry,’ the snake admitted in an even tone. ‘If you wait, however, you will be consssumed.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, almost willing not to be scared.
‘I ate a man before I fell into this pit. I am no longer hungry.’
‘Oh.’
‘Shall we essscape?’ The snake moved its head toward him.
Suddenly, he felt no fear for the cobra but for what existed outside the pit. ‘I don’t know if I want to.’
‘You would rather remain here with me then? We can wait. They will sssave me; I am rare. You are not.’
He felt indignation at the snake’s claim. ‘I’m a man. They would save me.’
‘You are worthlessssss,’ the cobra spat.
‘And you are a killer. They will kill you.’
‘Yesss. If I kill too many men. But I will not. I will kill enough to sssate my thirssst. And no one will know the differenssse.’
‘They will know if you eat me.’
‘They will think it ssself defenssse,’ the snake slurred.
He considered the snake’s stance for a moment and realized he had no defense. ‘And if I do want to escape?’ he inquired. ‘What makes me think I can believe that you would be true to your word?’
‘I have not given my word, my friend. You have little choissse in the matter.’
‘There’s always a choice.’
‘Yesss, between the frying pan and the fire. Which will it be?’
He considered his position. ‘I’d rather neither if I have the choice.’
Something akin to a laugh escaped from behind the snake’s forked tongue. ‘But you don’t.’
‘If I were to agree, what must I do?’
‘Trussst me.’ The snake smiled.
‘Fine. What do I need to do?’
‘You mussst kill a man.’
‘I am a pacifist.’
The snake laughed again. ‘You are a liar.’
‘I am not. I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve never so much as got into a fight.’
‘You’ve never had the desssire to hurt anyone? Ever?’ the snake asked mockingly. ‘I think you have.’ The words lingered in the pit; they caused a recurring echo that grew louder in his ears.
‘Stop! Stop, please! I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘Even kill sssomeone?’
‘Yes, if I must,’ he whimpered.
‘You mussst.’
A stone hurtled down and struck the dirt beside him. Another came soon after. ‘What’s going on?’ he questioned the snake.
‘It’sss your opportunity. Take it while you can.’ The snake spoke while trying to avoid the falling rocks.
‘What do you mean?’
The snake looked up. And suddenly a rope descended with a single man attached to its end. The man immediately saw the snake but did not see the other inhabitant of the pit. He struck at the snake with some kind of tool meant to paralyze it.
He knew it was his chance. In an instant the tool struck the snake leaving it unconscious. The snake tamer extracted a burlap bag and stuffed the snake inside. Still, he did not see the other man in the pit. He was about to give a tug when the other man revealed himself.
‘Please help me. I need to get out of this pit,’ were the first words from his mouth.
Startled, the man wielded the snake paralyzer and struck at the other man, who barely avoided the strike. He then grabbed the rope and attempted to tug. Meanwhile, the trapped man leapt from the ground and tackled the snake charmer.
‘Look,’ he said,’ I just want to get out of here.’
The snake charmer elbowed the trapped man squarely in the jaw dislodging him for a moment. He yanked the rope with his next moment and waited impatiently for the rope to ascend. But the trapped man was on him again, pulling at his clothing and hair.
‘You have to help me,’ he screamed. ‘You can’t leave me down here.’
The snake charmer pulled a small knife from his belt and swiped cutting open the trapped man’s leg. Blood gushed from the wound. But the adrenaline rush kept the trapped man focused on his goal. He grabbed for the snake charmer’s hand with his left hand and punched him in the mouth with his right. The snake charmer dropped the knife. The trapped man snatched the knife and in one moment stabbed at the snake charmer’s abdomen. It was a fatal strike. The snake charmer struggled with what little strength he had but it was not enough. The trapped man extracted the knife and cut the rope. He then grabbed the bag with the snake and pulled hard on the rope. In an instant, he was ascending from the pit.
While ascending, the snake somehow slithered from the bag onto his arm and wrapped itself securely around his midsection. ‘Are you ready?’ asked the snake.
At the moment he looked down, the snake buried its fangs into his stomach. The venom spread almost instantly throughout his body. He felt the life drain from the body he had inhabited. Except, he didn’t feel as though he was dying. Of course, he had never actually died – or at least he had never recalled dying in the past – so he couldn’t be certain that this wasn’t dying. But something in his consciousness told him that he wasn’t.
‘How do you like thisss essscape?’ he heard the snake’s voice say.
He opened his eyes and immediately noticed a change. ‘I’m a snake,’ he thought to himself.
‘But you aren’t, my friend. I am the ssssnake. You are my unfortunate guesssst.’ The slurring wracked his mind. ‘I look forward to your sssstay…’
His eyes opened. The sweat glistened on his brow. He listened to his breath. In and out. In and out. In and out. As he breathed, the memory of his dream faded. There was dirt. And falling stones. No way out. Nothing he could do. And there was someone. Or something. There was fear. He breathed. In and out. He tried to remember. The memory teetered on the edge of an abyss. He closed his eyes again and focused. He felt himself losing consciousness; he had never been able to revisit a dream. But this one was important. He knew it. He had to go back. He felt the weightlessness of sleep. ‘Ssssam…’
‘Sam!’ The exclamation yanked him from the gray matter of sleep. ‘What are you doing?’ His sister’s frantic voice lingered in his ears.
He shook his head. ‘Hi, sis. What’s up?’
‘What’s with the gun?’ She kept her distance from both him and the gun.
‘Jeff left it here,’ he lied.
‘Jeff? Why did he leave a gun here? What were you doing?’
‘Sleeping. I just woke up.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Sam. Don’t lie. Don’t be like dad. Let me help. Let me help you. Why is this gun here?’ she yelled.
‘You want to know?’ he yelled back. ‘Do you?’ He grabbed the gun with his right hand and put his left index finger on the trigger. He leaned the gun back until the barrel was under his chin. ‘I don’t care anymore. What’s the point? I’m tired. I’m young. I’m stupid. Things aren’t fair. What’s the point? Really.’
His sudden movement paralyzed her. She simply watched; there were no words.
The moment passed. He loosened his grip with his right hand and let the barrel fall forward. His left index finger flinched. There was a shot.
He heard a voice, ‘Even kill sssomeone…’ The hissing laughter lingered for what seemed an eternity.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Outta Time 6
Please see Outta Time for the first part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the second part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 3 for the third part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 4 for the fourth part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 5 for the fifth part of the story.
The sirens were getting closer. But he couldn’t leave without understanding what had happened.
His eyes went immediately to the perfectly made bed. And it wasn’t the perfection of a good housewife, but rather it was that of a hotel maid. Or of a new cadet recently graduated from boot camp. He surveyed the bureau and spotted Ella’s untouched purse. A stack of neatly folded clothes sat on a nearby end table.
‘Ella?’ It was a whisper. He cleared his throat. ‘Ella?’ This time it came out as something of a scream except an octave higher than his normal voice.
Something was very wrong with the picture. He walked to the window beside the bed and looked out at a few of the local buildings as he had when he lived there. Then he glanced down at the street below and noticed a commotion. He also noticed at that moment that the sirens had ceased. He opened the window and stuck his head out the screenless window. Below, he saw what looked to be a large quilt covering something on the sidewalk.
He backed away from the window catching his left foot on the edge of the throw rug. He fell with a thud. The precious seconds quickly ticked away, limiting his potential options. Still, he felt the paralysis of indecision. He could try to make a run for apartment H and ‘sit on the couch’ as he was told. He could try to get out of the building, which was less and less promising every moment he waited. Of course, he could just wait to be caught and try to explain the strange events that had been happening. He had the DVD after all. But the DVD wasn’t much; in fact, it was nothing more than a cut-rate production that made no reference to any person specifically.
‘Okay, gotta go,’ he said out loud. ‘The apartment seems as good a choice as any.’
He stepped back into the hallway and grabbed the fungo. He moved past the kitchen and glanced down at the floor. On the floor laid Bruce face down in a pool of blood; there were two gunshot exit wounds in his back. Darren froze. For whatever reason, he couldn’t move. He just stared at the expired body.
A loud knock came at the front door, startling Darren. His time to contemplate had ended.
‘Darren Brahm, we know you’re in there,’ came the voice of a young man. ‘Surrender yourself.’
Darren considered his remaining options. He wasn’t going to bring a fungo to a knife fight; that much was certain. He turned and ran back into the bedroom. He looked out the open window at the crowd below. Then he looked from side to side. The wall was sheer.
‘This is your last warning,’ spoke the muffled voice.
Darren threw the bat onto the bed and seized the wooden trunk in front of it. With all his might, he lifted the trunk by its two handles and carried it into the hallway. He placed the trunk gently in front of the front door.
Then, he called out as non-chalantly as he could muster, ‘I’ll let you in in just a moment officer.’
‘I’d advise that you open the door now, Mr. Brahm!’
It was just the time he needed. Darren backed away from the door, extracted the DVD from his jacket, and put it into the DVD player. He hit the red power button to turn the television on.
The first thud upon the front door followed, but the door itself held. ‘This is for your own good, Darren!’
He wasn’t listening. The screen came to life showing the destruction of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
He heard gunshots. The officers were shooting out the locks. Somehow, the deadbolt and the trunk held the door shut.
The screen went black. The voice exclaimed, ‘There are no escapes this time.’ Playing softly in the background was End of the Line by the Traveling Wilburys.
Darren sighed. There came another volley of shots to take out the deadlock.
He had two options. He could wait for them to enter. Or he could decide to allow gravity seal his fate. The latter seemed more enticing at that moment.
The television cut suddenly to one of the closing scenes from Star Wars III. A droid presented each of the twins to Padme to be named. The voice spoke, ‘I wouldn’t choose gravity if I were you because Ella wasn’t completely honest with you about the abortion.’ The DVD ended.
An explosion came from the front door, and two men – rather boys – entered.
Darren dashed into the bedroom and grabbed the bat. The two boys stood in the doorway. The short, stocky white one had a pistol. The taller black kid – whom he recognized as the one from the street – had his hands in his jacket pockets.
The white one spoke, ‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way.’
Darren grabbed the bat and decided that he’d try to bring the bat to a gun fight after all. He stood and, with all his might, flung the bat at the gun-toting kid. The white kid stepped back. The black kid rolled forward and bounced to his feet. In the next moment, the black kid extracted a small device and aimed it square at Darren’s chest. ‘The easy way,’ he said through a smirk. He pressed the button and tased Darren until he rendered him a limp body on the apartment floor.
Please see Outta Time 2 for the second part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 3 for the third part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 4 for the fourth part of the story.
Please see Outta Time 5 for the fifth part of the story.
The sirens were getting closer. But he couldn’t leave without understanding what had happened.
His eyes went immediately to the perfectly made bed. And it wasn’t the perfection of a good housewife, but rather it was that of a hotel maid. Or of a new cadet recently graduated from boot camp. He surveyed the bureau and spotted Ella’s untouched purse. A stack of neatly folded clothes sat on a nearby end table.
‘Ella?’ It was a whisper. He cleared his throat. ‘Ella?’ This time it came out as something of a scream except an octave higher than his normal voice.
Something was very wrong with the picture. He walked to the window beside the bed and looked out at a few of the local buildings as he had when he lived there. Then he glanced down at the street below and noticed a commotion. He also noticed at that moment that the sirens had ceased. He opened the window and stuck his head out the screenless window. Below, he saw what looked to be a large quilt covering something on the sidewalk.
He backed away from the window catching his left foot on the edge of the throw rug. He fell with a thud. The precious seconds quickly ticked away, limiting his potential options. Still, he felt the paralysis of indecision. He could try to make a run for apartment H and ‘sit on the couch’ as he was told. He could try to get out of the building, which was less and less promising every moment he waited. Of course, he could just wait to be caught and try to explain the strange events that had been happening. He had the DVD after all. But the DVD wasn’t much; in fact, it was nothing more than a cut-rate production that made no reference to any person specifically.
‘Okay, gotta go,’ he said out loud. ‘The apartment seems as good a choice as any.’
He stepped back into the hallway and grabbed the fungo. He moved past the kitchen and glanced down at the floor. On the floor laid Bruce face down in a pool of blood; there were two gunshot exit wounds in his back. Darren froze. For whatever reason, he couldn’t move. He just stared at the expired body.
A loud knock came at the front door, startling Darren. His time to contemplate had ended.
‘Darren Brahm, we know you’re in there,’ came the voice of a young man. ‘Surrender yourself.’
Darren considered his remaining options. He wasn’t going to bring a fungo to a knife fight; that much was certain. He turned and ran back into the bedroom. He looked out the open window at the crowd below. Then he looked from side to side. The wall was sheer.
‘This is your last warning,’ spoke the muffled voice.
Darren threw the bat onto the bed and seized the wooden trunk in front of it. With all his might, he lifted the trunk by its two handles and carried it into the hallway. He placed the trunk gently in front of the front door.
Then, he called out as non-chalantly as he could muster, ‘I’ll let you in in just a moment officer.’
‘I’d advise that you open the door now, Mr. Brahm!’
It was just the time he needed. Darren backed away from the door, extracted the DVD from his jacket, and put it into the DVD player. He hit the red power button to turn the television on.
The first thud upon the front door followed, but the door itself held. ‘This is for your own good, Darren!’
He wasn’t listening. The screen came to life showing the destruction of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
He heard gunshots. The officers were shooting out the locks. Somehow, the deadbolt and the trunk held the door shut.
The screen went black. The voice exclaimed, ‘There are no escapes this time.’ Playing softly in the background was End of the Line by the Traveling Wilburys.
Darren sighed. There came another volley of shots to take out the deadlock.
He had two options. He could wait for them to enter. Or he could decide to allow gravity seal his fate. The latter seemed more enticing at that moment.
The television cut suddenly to one of the closing scenes from Star Wars III. A droid presented each of the twins to Padme to be named. The voice spoke, ‘I wouldn’t choose gravity if I were you because Ella wasn’t completely honest with you about the abortion.’ The DVD ended.
An explosion came from the front door, and two men – rather boys – entered.
Darren dashed into the bedroom and grabbed the bat. The two boys stood in the doorway. The short, stocky white one had a pistol. The taller black kid – whom he recognized as the one from the street – had his hands in his jacket pockets.
The white one spoke, ‘We can do this the easy way or the hard way.’
Darren grabbed the bat and decided that he’d try to bring the bat to a gun fight after all. He stood and, with all his might, flung the bat at the gun-toting kid. The white kid stepped back. The black kid rolled forward and bounced to his feet. In the next moment, the black kid extracted a small device and aimed it square at Darren’s chest. ‘The easy way,’ he said through a smirk. He pressed the button and tased Darren until he rendered him a limp body on the apartment floor.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Do Over
She sat on a coffee-colored leather sofa in the split ranch waiting for her husband to come home. She felt no real desire to see him. She couldn’t yet admit to herself that her lack of desire was, in fact, disdain bordering on disgust. But she justified the relationship because this one had to work. After three failed marriages, there wasn’t much of a choice. She reached for the wine glass but miscalculated sending the Cabernet tumbling to the floor. The stain blossomed on the carpet. She leaned back into the couch and stared at the empty images spewing from the television. Her eyes closed; she wished – not for the first time – that she could do the whole thing over.
The glass had fallen out of her sight. She reached her slender fingers down over the couch and felt the foot of the glass. Her hand slid up the stem until she felt the round bottom of the bowl. She slid the stem between her ring and middle fingers and squeezed. She perceived the jagged edge of the glass on her index finger not as pain but as discomfort, a textural abomination. The libation dulled her reaction. Instead of flinching and dropping the broken chalice to the ground, she pulled it up to her face and watched as blood dripped rhythmically onto her indigo bathrobe. With the bleeding hand, she placed the glass delicately on the coffee table and then pulled back her bloodied finger to her mouth. The thick liquid had a familiar metallic taste, like milky unfiltered tap water. She leaned her head against the couch, waiting for the white blood cells to do their work.
The heavy car door slammed shut outside. The key twisted in the lock. He kicked off his shoes and threw his backpack onto the ground. ‘Honey, I’m home,’ he called with mock sincerity. ‘As if that really mattered anyway.’ He didn’t climb the eight short steps but instead descended into his man cave to drink his limeless Corona and catch the back-to-back reruns of Seinfeld. The door closed with a thud.
She opened her eyes and focused on the television. A news anchor with bad hair described the beating of an elderly man in broad daylight. She grabbed the remote control and pressed the power button. The screen went blank.
She slowly took her finger out of her mouth and felt the tears come one after the other until her cheeks were wet. Her drunkenness diminished, she set her foot down into the spot where she spilled her wine. Red liquid bubbled onto her toes and stained her nails. She looked at her feet and smiled. The smile gave way to a giggle. As she did when she was a little girl, she retrieved the nail polish and set to work on painting her toenails.
She sat squarely in the middle of the queen-sized bed and set the bottle of nail polish on a book of art by Kandinsky that one of her more artistic friends purchased for her. The book had never been opened. She dipped the small brush into the viscous liquid and transferred the color to her pale, yellow nails. Back and forth she stroked the brush on each nail until they were neon pink. She smiled at the sight.
The door flew open; the knob thwacked the already indented drywall. Startled, she jumped knocking the polish onto the book causing Kandinsky’s Yellow-Red-Blue to sport more pink than the artist originally intended although Vassily might have been well pleased with the conical shape that extended from the mouth of the bottle to the corner of the book cover.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he slurred.
She ignored him. She stared at her toes.
‘Are you gonna make some food? Or are we doing pizza again?’
She wrapped her arms around her knees and began to rock slightly.
‘You’d think by now that you could handle your liquor. But you’re just a lightweight.’
The last word struck a nerve. Since high school, that was the one word no one could rightfully use to describe her. ‘Shut up and get out of my room.’
‘Ah, so she speaks,’ he mocked. ‘You gonna make me?’
Her guile receded. She continued rocking.
‘I thought not. I’m gonna order some pizza.’ He walked back into the living room.
She listened to him as he ordered. ‘Pepperoni and olives. Yeah, extra cheese. And I’m gonna pay by credit card.’ He read the number. After a pause, she heard, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Can you try this one?’ He read the 16 digits from another card. After a moment, he replied, ‘Sorry, the economy’s not been good to us. Can you wait just a moment?’ He yelled out sweetly, ‘Honey, where’s the Visa?’ She didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry, she must be downstairs. I’ll call back in a bit.’ The phone beeped, indicating the end of the call. He stomped back into the room.
‘Didn’t you hear me calling, honey?’ he emphasized the final word not so sweetly. ‘Why are you being such a bitch?’
Her rocking became more pronounced.
He crossed the room and grabbed the purse on her dresser. He rummaged through until he found the wallet. ‘I’m guessing you won’t mind that I use your card to order some pizza.’ He looked back at her. ‘It doesn’t look like you mind.’ He noticed the blood on her bathrobe. ‘That time of the month, huh? Oh wait, I think you’re done having kids. When was the last time they called you, by the way? Never? Thought so.’
She could smell the gin each time he exhaled. She stared at her toes and tried to take comfort in the neon pink color. Meanwhile, the polish continued to drip on the bed.
He walked out and called the pizza place back. ‘Yeah, we’re trying to consolidate some debt,’ he lied. ‘This one should work.’ He read the number. ‘Yeah, I’d like a large pepperoni and olive. Extra cheese.’
She didn’t eat meat, hated olives, and was lactose intolerant.
‘Nope, that’s it,’ he crooned. ‘Thank you so very much.’ She heard the beep to indicate the end of the call.
He walked back down the hallway and stopped at the door. He flicked the card at her and hit her in the back. ‘Thanks for the pie, dear.’ He slammed the door shut.
She hadn’t noticed the tears streaming down her face until the door slammed. She began to sob.
It isn’t true that death is the only moment that a person’s life flashes before her eyes. It happens also during those potential life changing moments when all seems lost. She saw her dead father grinning at her with his cleanly teeth. She saw her first boyfriend lean in for a kiss. She saw each of her past husbands as she spoke her vows to them, in the Catholic church, on the beach, and in the court clerk’s office. She saw herself trip over her elder son and fall down the steps in her first home. She saw herself search desperately for her younger son. She remembered the Christmas when neither son called her.
The sadness welled inside her, flooding her heart with despair. She stopped crying only because there were no more tears. For the second time that night, she wished she could do the whole thing over. But there were no do-overs. There were too many memories to forgive and forget those around her, not to mention herself.
She grabbed her red Samsung and searched the names. She called Bryan first, but there was no answer. Then she tried her younger son, Nicholas. He picked up on the third ring.
‘Hi mom.’
‘Hi Nick. How are you?’ She tried not to sound drunk.
‘Okay. Long day. What’s up?’ he asked. He wasn’t accustomed to answering calls from his mother.
‘I miss you.’ She felt her throat close.
‘Yeah. Well, we miss you too, mom. How are things?’ he asked casually.
‘Nick, I’m going to be honest. You and your brother are the best choices I ever made.’
There was a pause.
‘Thanks, mom. Are you okay?’ Nick had always been the more blunt of the two boys.
‘Not really. I’m so sorry.’ She slurred each ‘s’.
‘Well, I have to go change Bella. Are you coming up any time soon?’
‘I hope so. I think I have to.’
‘Okay, great. Let us know. We’d love to see you.’
‘Okay. I love you, Nick.’
‘Love you too, mom. Talk to you later.’
The line went dead.
The doorbell rang. It was the pizza, and it was her chance to act. She grabbed the credit card on the bed and tossed it into her purse. She paused for a moment to consider what else to bring with her. She grabbed the small bag that rested by the bureau and packed a few shirts, a few pairs of jeans, and underwear. The Kandinsky book followed. She heard the front door close, followed by footsteps down the stairs. She opened the bedroom door quietly, her purse on her shoulder and the small bag in her hand. She crept down the hallway and used the stairs to the back door. She heard nothing. Once out the door, she walked through the wet grass around the house and found her Rav 4. She clicked the button on her keychain. The doors unlocked quietly. She threw her belongings into the backseat and shut the door as quietly as she was able. She then moved into the driver’s seat.
She put the key into the ignition. And then she sat. She looked at the house she had purchased. It had been the first house she had purchased alone. She didn’t turn the key. Instead, she considered the situation. In her head, a voice spoke. ‘Four failed marriages.’ Then she heard her father’s voice, ‘Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’
And then another voice spoke. ‘Where will you go? What will you do? You have no plan. You have no course of action. You have only a bag and a credit card. You are leaving your house. You will have four failed marriages. You will have been defeated in every aspect of your life.’
She considered her situation. She felt the migraine begin to creep into her skull. And then she saw the garage door open. She knew it was now or never. She turned the key and heard the SUV roar to life. Her husband ran out to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.
She wanted to put the car in reverse and be rid of him. She wanted to find a hotel and plan the next steps of her life. Instead, she lowered the window.
‘Yeah?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Away from here, from you,’ she replied.
‘What about me,’ he asked in as desperate a voice as he could muster.
He heard that cry from each of her former husbands. And she still didn’t know the answer.
‘I’m sorry. I had a bad day at work. I’ll do better.’
‘How many times have you said that?’ she asked. How many times had all her husbands said that?
‘I know what I did. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.’
And how often can people say they’re sorry without being contrite?
‘Come back inside. I’ll get a pizza you want with my own money. I just got paid today.’
‘Four failed marriages,’ spoke a faraway voice.
‘C’mon, Lizzy,’ he showed his sad, brown eyes.
‘You can’t treat me like this,’ she cried. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He opened the door and put his right arm around her back. ‘Come inside.’
She climbed out of the SUV and followed him into the house.
The key dangled in the ignition.
The glass had fallen out of her sight. She reached her slender fingers down over the couch and felt the foot of the glass. Her hand slid up the stem until she felt the round bottom of the bowl. She slid the stem between her ring and middle fingers and squeezed. She perceived the jagged edge of the glass on her index finger not as pain but as discomfort, a textural abomination. The libation dulled her reaction. Instead of flinching and dropping the broken chalice to the ground, she pulled it up to her face and watched as blood dripped rhythmically onto her indigo bathrobe. With the bleeding hand, she placed the glass delicately on the coffee table and then pulled back her bloodied finger to her mouth. The thick liquid had a familiar metallic taste, like milky unfiltered tap water. She leaned her head against the couch, waiting for the white blood cells to do their work.
The heavy car door slammed shut outside. The key twisted in the lock. He kicked off his shoes and threw his backpack onto the ground. ‘Honey, I’m home,’ he called with mock sincerity. ‘As if that really mattered anyway.’ He didn’t climb the eight short steps but instead descended into his man cave to drink his limeless Corona and catch the back-to-back reruns of Seinfeld. The door closed with a thud.
She opened her eyes and focused on the television. A news anchor with bad hair described the beating of an elderly man in broad daylight. She grabbed the remote control and pressed the power button. The screen went blank.
She slowly took her finger out of her mouth and felt the tears come one after the other until her cheeks were wet. Her drunkenness diminished, she set her foot down into the spot where she spilled her wine. Red liquid bubbled onto her toes and stained her nails. She looked at her feet and smiled. The smile gave way to a giggle. As she did when she was a little girl, she retrieved the nail polish and set to work on painting her toenails.
She sat squarely in the middle of the queen-sized bed and set the bottle of nail polish on a book of art by Kandinsky that one of her more artistic friends purchased for her. The book had never been opened. She dipped the small brush into the viscous liquid and transferred the color to her pale, yellow nails. Back and forth she stroked the brush on each nail until they were neon pink. She smiled at the sight.
The door flew open; the knob thwacked the already indented drywall. Startled, she jumped knocking the polish onto the book causing Kandinsky’s Yellow-Red-Blue to sport more pink than the artist originally intended although Vassily might have been well pleased with the conical shape that extended from the mouth of the bottle to the corner of the book cover.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he slurred.
She ignored him. She stared at her toes.
‘Are you gonna make some food? Or are we doing pizza again?’
She wrapped her arms around her knees and began to rock slightly.
‘You’d think by now that you could handle your liquor. But you’re just a lightweight.’
The last word struck a nerve. Since high school, that was the one word no one could rightfully use to describe her. ‘Shut up and get out of my room.’
‘Ah, so she speaks,’ he mocked. ‘You gonna make me?’
Her guile receded. She continued rocking.
‘I thought not. I’m gonna order some pizza.’ He walked back into the living room.
She listened to him as he ordered. ‘Pepperoni and olives. Yeah, extra cheese. And I’m gonna pay by credit card.’ He read the number. After a pause, she heard, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. Can you try this one?’ He read the 16 digits from another card. After a moment, he replied, ‘Sorry, the economy’s not been good to us. Can you wait just a moment?’ He yelled out sweetly, ‘Honey, where’s the Visa?’ She didn’t reply. ‘I’m sorry, she must be downstairs. I’ll call back in a bit.’ The phone beeped, indicating the end of the call. He stomped back into the room.
‘Didn’t you hear me calling, honey?’ he emphasized the final word not so sweetly. ‘Why are you being such a bitch?’
Her rocking became more pronounced.
He crossed the room and grabbed the purse on her dresser. He rummaged through until he found the wallet. ‘I’m guessing you won’t mind that I use your card to order some pizza.’ He looked back at her. ‘It doesn’t look like you mind.’ He noticed the blood on her bathrobe. ‘That time of the month, huh? Oh wait, I think you’re done having kids. When was the last time they called you, by the way? Never? Thought so.’
She could smell the gin each time he exhaled. She stared at her toes and tried to take comfort in the neon pink color. Meanwhile, the polish continued to drip on the bed.
He walked out and called the pizza place back. ‘Yeah, we’re trying to consolidate some debt,’ he lied. ‘This one should work.’ He read the number. ‘Yeah, I’d like a large pepperoni and olive. Extra cheese.’
She didn’t eat meat, hated olives, and was lactose intolerant.
‘Nope, that’s it,’ he crooned. ‘Thank you so very much.’ She heard the beep to indicate the end of the call.
He walked back down the hallway and stopped at the door. He flicked the card at her and hit her in the back. ‘Thanks for the pie, dear.’ He slammed the door shut.
She hadn’t noticed the tears streaming down her face until the door slammed. She began to sob.
It isn’t true that death is the only moment that a person’s life flashes before her eyes. It happens also during those potential life changing moments when all seems lost. She saw her dead father grinning at her with his cleanly teeth. She saw her first boyfriend lean in for a kiss. She saw each of her past husbands as she spoke her vows to them, in the Catholic church, on the beach, and in the court clerk’s office. She saw herself trip over her elder son and fall down the steps in her first home. She saw herself search desperately for her younger son. She remembered the Christmas when neither son called her.
The sadness welled inside her, flooding her heart with despair. She stopped crying only because there were no more tears. For the second time that night, she wished she could do the whole thing over. But there were no do-overs. There were too many memories to forgive and forget those around her, not to mention herself.
She grabbed her red Samsung and searched the names. She called Bryan first, but there was no answer. Then she tried her younger son, Nicholas. He picked up on the third ring.
‘Hi mom.’
‘Hi Nick. How are you?’ She tried not to sound drunk.
‘Okay. Long day. What’s up?’ he asked. He wasn’t accustomed to answering calls from his mother.
‘I miss you.’ She felt her throat close.
‘Yeah. Well, we miss you too, mom. How are things?’ he asked casually.
‘Nick, I’m going to be honest. You and your brother are the best choices I ever made.’
There was a pause.
‘Thanks, mom. Are you okay?’ Nick had always been the more blunt of the two boys.
‘Not really. I’m so sorry.’ She slurred each ‘s’.
‘Well, I have to go change Bella. Are you coming up any time soon?’
‘I hope so. I think I have to.’
‘Okay, great. Let us know. We’d love to see you.’
‘Okay. I love you, Nick.’
‘Love you too, mom. Talk to you later.’
The line went dead.
The doorbell rang. It was the pizza, and it was her chance to act. She grabbed the credit card on the bed and tossed it into her purse. She paused for a moment to consider what else to bring with her. She grabbed the small bag that rested by the bureau and packed a few shirts, a few pairs of jeans, and underwear. The Kandinsky book followed. She heard the front door close, followed by footsteps down the stairs. She opened the bedroom door quietly, her purse on her shoulder and the small bag in her hand. She crept down the hallway and used the stairs to the back door. She heard nothing. Once out the door, she walked through the wet grass around the house and found her Rav 4. She clicked the button on her keychain. The doors unlocked quietly. She threw her belongings into the backseat and shut the door as quietly as she was able. She then moved into the driver’s seat.
She put the key into the ignition. And then she sat. She looked at the house she had purchased. It had been the first house she had purchased alone. She didn’t turn the key. Instead, she considered the situation. In her head, a voice spoke. ‘Four failed marriages.’ Then she heard her father’s voice, ‘Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.’
And then another voice spoke. ‘Where will you go? What will you do? You have no plan. You have no course of action. You have only a bag and a credit card. You are leaving your house. You will have four failed marriages. You will have been defeated in every aspect of your life.’
She considered her situation. She felt the migraine begin to creep into her skull. And then she saw the garage door open. She knew it was now or never. She turned the key and heard the SUV roar to life. Her husband ran out to the driver’s side and knocked on the window.
She wanted to put the car in reverse and be rid of him. She wanted to find a hotel and plan the next steps of her life. Instead, she lowered the window.
‘Yeah?’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Away from here, from you,’ she replied.
‘What about me,’ he asked in as desperate a voice as he could muster.
He heard that cry from each of her former husbands. And she still didn’t know the answer.
‘I’m sorry. I had a bad day at work. I’ll do better.’
‘How many times have you said that?’ she asked. How many times had all her husbands said that?
‘I know what I did. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.’
And how often can people say they’re sorry without being contrite?
‘Come back inside. I’ll get a pizza you want with my own money. I just got paid today.’
‘Four failed marriages,’ spoke a faraway voice.
‘C’mon, Lizzy,’ he showed his sad, brown eyes.
‘You can’t treat me like this,’ she cried. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ He opened the door and put his right arm around her back. ‘Come inside.’
She climbed out of the SUV and followed him into the house.
The key dangled in the ignition.
Friday, May 13, 2011
The Basement
They told me they had guests in the basement. It was immediately before they left for the wedding. He had been a good friend from high school; I didn’t really know his wife.
I had arrived only that morning after a short train ride. It had been shorter that I had expected, though I’m not sure why I expected it to be longer. The ride had always been that brief, at least as far back as I could remember. Ian and his wife had picked me up at the station. I had commented to Ian about how long it had been. ‘Since graduation, I think. We certainly made a scene.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘Or maybe… There was that one time in Seattle when we tried to climb Mt. Rainier.’ He smiled and nodded again.
I had free roam of the house, except for the basement. It wasn’t that they told me I couldn’t go into the basement; it was the mere fact that I knew I shouldn’t.
I was only staying the night, and I could amuse myself without access to a television. I perused the books. I saw Death of a Salesman and The Yankee Years. I thought them oddly juxtaposed. I wondered if Ian’s wife was the Yankees fan.
My phone rang. I answered without looking at the number.
‘What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?’ came the familiar voice.
‘I have to be back in the afternoon,’ I said to him.
‘I’m your father; I want to see you.’
‘Okay, I can go back in the evening.’
‘I’ll be there around 11,’ he growled.
‘See you then,’ I chirped.
I clicked off. The phone began vibrating in my hand. I answered again without looking.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, how’s my favorite son?’
‘That’s no way to speak, mom. You have four other kids.’
‘And I tell them all the same.’
‘That seems to defeat the purpose.’
‘Don’t judge. I heard you’re in town. Will I get to see you?’
‘Umm…’
‘I never get to see you.’
‘I can do breakfast.’
‘What are you doing for lunch?’
‘I’m not available for lunch. Can we make it early?’
‘How’s nine?’
‘That’s fine, mom.’
‘Okay, looking forward to it.’
I hang up again. I wait for another call. None comes. I hear rustling in the basement, but I ignore it. Instead I sit at the kitchen table, and stare out the window into the darkness. I sit for three hours. I sit completely still, waiting for something tragic.
The rustling becomes something more than rustling. I suppose it could have been called pounding. I heard things breaking too. I thought about going to bed, but something told me to go downstairs. The voices were not the better angels of my nature.
I opened the cellar door and peered down. I saw red lighting amidst which there came a flicker, like a television. I stepped down into the darkness and saw movement. There was a lot of movement. People were moving around one another. It was almost an orgy. Almost. I took one more step and looked over the railing down into the room. It was a television flickering. Further squinting indicated a horror film. I think it was Texas Chainsaw Massacre, though I can’t be sure because I’ve never seen it. My eyes wandered further into the room where I saw something resembling an orgy. Except it wasn’t an orgy. There were people with weapons impaling each other. I saw a body that looked like it had been hit by a bus. The blood oozed everywhere. I felt sick and flew up the stairs.
They hadn’t noticed me. They hadn’t even turned. They simply stabbed each other with delight. I felt the shock engulf me. I considered calling someone; I could think of no one. I didn’t have Ian’s number. I didn’t think I should share the information with my parents. I decided to go to bed. There was nothing I could do.
I woke up in the morning. There were bloody footsteps on the kitchen floor. My mother called to say she would be late. My father called to say he would be early. They arrived simultaneously, my father walking up the driveway from the front and my mother traversing the backyard from behind. They had keys and entered. I sat at the kitchen table with my head down. I didn’t want to tell them what had happened. I wanted to be with both of them away from the house as quickly as possible.
The doors opened. Ian and his wife entered. They greeted me, and noticed I was white as a ghost.
‘Something wrong?’ Ian asked.
I pointed to a red sneaker mark on the ground. ‘They reenacted Texas Chainsaw Massacre downstairs,’ I said louder than I had intended. ‘Except it wasn’t really with a chainsaw.’
Ian rolled his eyes and sighed as if to say, not again. He and his wife began cleaning the kitchen as I sat at the table.
When they were finished, Ian turned to me and motioned me downstairs, ‘Can you help me clean up? The wife’s exhausted from the wedding.’
I stared at Ian as if trying to remember something. I shook my head. Nothing happened. I shook it more vigorously and realized what was happening. I shook my head again and lifted it groggily from the pillow.
My wife sat on the bed; there were tears in her eyes. I sat up too quickly and saw stars.
‘What is it?’
‘I just got a call from the Barkleys. Aaron died in an accident just an hour or so ago. He was riding his bike along a busy road, lost control, and was bit by a bus.’
I blinked. ‘He’s only 10.’
‘I know. They’re going to cancel the Little League games tomorrow.’
‘Oh my God.’ I reached for her and pulled her into me.
A knock came at the door followed by a 9 year old bursting with excitement. ‘Ready for the batting cages, dad,’ he exclaimed. But Alex stopped short when he saw his parents holding each other.
‘Alex,’ I started. ‘I have something I have to tell you.’
I had arrived only that morning after a short train ride. It had been shorter that I had expected, though I’m not sure why I expected it to be longer. The ride had always been that brief, at least as far back as I could remember. Ian and his wife had picked me up at the station. I had commented to Ian about how long it had been. ‘Since graduation, I think. We certainly made a scene.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘Or maybe… There was that one time in Seattle when we tried to climb Mt. Rainier.’ He smiled and nodded again.
I had free roam of the house, except for the basement. It wasn’t that they told me I couldn’t go into the basement; it was the mere fact that I knew I shouldn’t.
I was only staying the night, and I could amuse myself without access to a television. I perused the books. I saw Death of a Salesman and The Yankee Years. I thought them oddly juxtaposed. I wondered if Ian’s wife was the Yankees fan.
My phone rang. I answered without looking at the number.
‘What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?’ came the familiar voice.
‘I have to be back in the afternoon,’ I said to him.
‘I’m your father; I want to see you.’
‘Okay, I can go back in the evening.’
‘I’ll be there around 11,’ he growled.
‘See you then,’ I chirped.
I clicked off. The phone began vibrating in my hand. I answered again without looking.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, how’s my favorite son?’
‘That’s no way to speak, mom. You have four other kids.’
‘And I tell them all the same.’
‘That seems to defeat the purpose.’
‘Don’t judge. I heard you’re in town. Will I get to see you?’
‘Umm…’
‘I never get to see you.’
‘I can do breakfast.’
‘What are you doing for lunch?’
‘I’m not available for lunch. Can we make it early?’
‘How’s nine?’
‘That’s fine, mom.’
‘Okay, looking forward to it.’
I hang up again. I wait for another call. None comes. I hear rustling in the basement, but I ignore it. Instead I sit at the kitchen table, and stare out the window into the darkness. I sit for three hours. I sit completely still, waiting for something tragic.
The rustling becomes something more than rustling. I suppose it could have been called pounding. I heard things breaking too. I thought about going to bed, but something told me to go downstairs. The voices were not the better angels of my nature.
I opened the cellar door and peered down. I saw red lighting amidst which there came a flicker, like a television. I stepped down into the darkness and saw movement. There was a lot of movement. People were moving around one another. It was almost an orgy. Almost. I took one more step and looked over the railing down into the room. It was a television flickering. Further squinting indicated a horror film. I think it was Texas Chainsaw Massacre, though I can’t be sure because I’ve never seen it. My eyes wandered further into the room where I saw something resembling an orgy. Except it wasn’t an orgy. There were people with weapons impaling each other. I saw a body that looked like it had been hit by a bus. The blood oozed everywhere. I felt sick and flew up the stairs.
They hadn’t noticed me. They hadn’t even turned. They simply stabbed each other with delight. I felt the shock engulf me. I considered calling someone; I could think of no one. I didn’t have Ian’s number. I didn’t think I should share the information with my parents. I decided to go to bed. There was nothing I could do.
I woke up in the morning. There were bloody footsteps on the kitchen floor. My mother called to say she would be late. My father called to say he would be early. They arrived simultaneously, my father walking up the driveway from the front and my mother traversing the backyard from behind. They had keys and entered. I sat at the kitchen table with my head down. I didn’t want to tell them what had happened. I wanted to be with both of them away from the house as quickly as possible.
The doors opened. Ian and his wife entered. They greeted me, and noticed I was white as a ghost.
‘Something wrong?’ Ian asked.
I pointed to a red sneaker mark on the ground. ‘They reenacted Texas Chainsaw Massacre downstairs,’ I said louder than I had intended. ‘Except it wasn’t really with a chainsaw.’
Ian rolled his eyes and sighed as if to say, not again. He and his wife began cleaning the kitchen as I sat at the table.
When they were finished, Ian turned to me and motioned me downstairs, ‘Can you help me clean up? The wife’s exhausted from the wedding.’
I stared at Ian as if trying to remember something. I shook my head. Nothing happened. I shook it more vigorously and realized what was happening. I shook my head again and lifted it groggily from the pillow.
My wife sat on the bed; there were tears in her eyes. I sat up too quickly and saw stars.
‘What is it?’
‘I just got a call from the Barkleys. Aaron died in an accident just an hour or so ago. He was riding his bike along a busy road, lost control, and was bit by a bus.’
I blinked. ‘He’s only 10.’
‘I know. They’re going to cancel the Little League games tomorrow.’
‘Oh my God.’ I reached for her and pulled her into me.
A knock came at the door followed by a 9 year old bursting with excitement. ‘Ready for the batting cages, dad,’ he exclaimed. But Alex stopped short when he saw his parents holding each other.
‘Alex,’ I started. ‘I have something I have to tell you.’
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The Suitcase
Barney waddled up to George and licked him on the cheek with his semi-wet tongue. Without a word from George, Barney gingerly dropped to his stomach and rolled half-heartedly. George rubbed the old beagle’s belly and showered him with loving remarks.
‘You’ll only be gone a few days,’ remarked Molly, George’s dearest friend.
‘He’s my boy,’ he retorted earnestly. ‘The only guy who’s stuck with me through everything.’ He turned his head back to the resting dog. ‘Aren’t you, Barney?’
‘What about me?’ Molly asked.
‘You’re not a guy. Technically, though, I’ve known Barney longer.’
‘We’re not going through that again.’
‘Well, I knew him when he was in the womb. Queenie’s second or third litter, I always forget.’
‘Yeah, I know, I was the unfortunate neighbor who got dragged into helping.’
‘Don’t sound so upset. That’s when we met. And here we are now,’ he exclaimed with an innocent joy.
‘Yeah, yeah. So when are you leaving?’ she asked with a hint of sarcasm.
‘Oh, yeah, what time is it?’
‘Almost eight.’
‘It’s about that time. I need to catch a cab. I should make it in time for an eleven o’clock flight.’
‘Yeah, you should be fine.’
Before he stood, he buried his nose into the nape of the Barney’s neck. The dog glanced backward nonchalantly and licked the air a few times; the last tongue swipe landed on George’s cheek.
‘Bye, bye Barney. Good boy.’
Barney remained on his stomach but tracked George with his sad, brown eyes. Barney knew what was happening, but he just didn’t have the energy to leap and lick with as much enthusiasm as he did even a few years prior. At almost seventeen years of age, everything was a chore.
George donned his jacket and grabbed his suitcase. ‘Thanks again, Molly.’ And then to the dog, ‘Good boy, Barney. Good boy.’
The dog wagged his tail in response. When the door closed, Barney stood and waddled over to it. He then plopped down in front of the door and closed his eyes.
Molly grabbed the remote and turned on the television. She decided on a marathon of the seventh cycle of America’s Next Top Model. She became absorbed in her disdain for Melrose, her least favorite contestant, and jeered aloud when Melrose won multiple challenges.
Sometime in the middle of the ninth episode, Molly noticed that Barney hadn’t scratched at the door as was his habit when he needed to potty. She hoped she hadn’t ignored him accidentally. She got up from the couch and walked toward the front door, where Barney had seemingly remained since George left. She reached down and patted his head as a passing gesture. Not only did the dog not move but his head felt unusually cool. She let her hand skim Barney’s nose; it was sandpaper dry.
‘Barney?’ She tried his name a few times with increasing volume. The dog didn’t stir. She felt her hands getting sweaty; her heart was starting to race. She reached down and jiggled him a bit. Nothing. ‘Oh my God. Don’t be dead.’ She felt hot tears forming in her eyes. ‘Barney!’ She put her ear down by the dog’s mouth and nose. There was no breath.
The dog was dead.
‘Oh my God, oh my God. What am I gonna do?’ she asked herself as she sat back down on the couch.
Molly started thinking of anything that could get her out of this situation. She thought about leaving the dog in front of the door until George came back. But she couldn’t lie to George if he asked how Barney was doing. She thought about getting another dog, another Beagle she could call Barney so she could soften the blow. But that was ridiculous.
Of course, there was only one thing she could do. She had to call George. But she didn’t know if she could do it; she didn’t know if she could speak the words without breaking down. She picked up her cell phone and found his name. She pushed the call button and readied herself to blurt out what she needed to say.
After the third ring, she knew he wasn’t picking up. And then she remembered that George was on a flight to Seattle and wouldn’t be landing for another four hours. Molly hung up the phone and put it down on the table.
At that moment, it became apparent to her that she was sharing the apartment with a corpse, a dead body. Her brain took it from there. Her hands became clammy. She heard strange noises. She was convinced she smelled rotting meat. She turned off the television to try to focus on what to do next, but the silence proved louder than noise; she turned the television back on. She noticed she had to pee, but ‘it’ was blocking the path.
After a few paralyzing moments, she shook her head vigorously. ‘Snap out of it,’ she said to herself. ‘What’s next?’ She found that talking to herself often helped when she felt nervous or upset. ‘I could leave him here. But then he’d start to stink. I can’t do that.’ She paused and looked up the ceiling. ‘I have to do something with him, but what do I do with a dead dog in the city? I can’t throw him away. And George would be pissed if I did anyway.’ She curled her legs underneath her until she was sitting Indian style. ‘I should call someone.’ Her father’s calm face appeared in her mind, and she felt the lump in her throat. Then she thought of her mother; not a chance. ‘Who would I call in this situation?’ She paused. ‘George, that’s who. Well, what would he do?’ And then it hit her. ‘The vet.’
She bounded off the couch and into the kitchen. The vet’s number was on the refrigerator. She grabbed her phone and dialed. A woman answered.
‘Yeah, hi, I need some help,’ Molly replied.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Well, I… umm… well… uh… there’s a dead dog here, and I don’t know what to do with him.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Was he a patient of ours?’
‘Yes. But I’m not his owner. I was dog sitting. His owner’s gone, and I can’t reach him.’
‘Okay. Can you give me his name?’
‘The dog or the owner?’
‘The owner.’
‘George Bell.’
‘Barney?’ the woman asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, are you in the city?’
‘I’m at George’s apartment.’
‘Do you have a car?’
‘No, I take subways.’
‘Here’s what you do. Now this may sound strange, but there’s not much choice. Put Barney in a suitcase and bring him to the office. We can take care of his body from there.’
‘Can’t you come get him? I don’t know if I can…’ her voice drifted.
‘Sorry, hon, we’re just not staffed for it. And it’s better if you bring him in sooner than later.’
‘Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you soon.’
‘Okay,’ the woman said hesitantly. ‘See you soon,’ was the extent of her wisdom.
Molly put the phone down. After staring out the window at the cloudy sky for a moment, she decided that she would heed the woman’s advice; she had to find a suitcase. After she thought a moment, she decided that the only place he could keep a suitcase was under his bed. She hopped the corpse and entered the bedroom. She ducked down and felt for the suitcase; when she felt the handle, she pulled out a gigantic, tan monstrosity made sometime in the 1960s. She unpacked George’s summer clothes onto the bed.
She carried the open suitcase into the hallway and placed it next to the body. Without thinking, she scooped the corpse up and flipped it into the bag. With another motion, she slammed the top down and zipped it up. She took a deep breath and paused. She gathered her keys, cell phone, and money clip; grabbed the suitcase; and exited the apartment.
At once, she realized the suitcase had no wheels; they had broken off at some point in the distant past. She became immediately aware of what dead weight really meant. She struggled down the stairs and through the streets. A few passersby even offered to lend a helping hand, but she politely refused.
She descended the stairs to the subway and somehow maneuvered through the turnstile. It was only a short time before an uptown train squealed to a halt in front of her. She dragged the bag onto the half-filled train and sat in the corner.
All the while, she was convinced that the suitcase was giving off an odor. Or that some kind of bodily fluid would seep out. Or that the suitcase would rip revealing the ear or the tail of a dead dog. She guiltily surveyed the train and caught only fleeting glances from disinterested strangers.
One stop before the closest stop to the vet, the train conductor announced that the next stop was closed because of construction. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough notice for her to escape the train with the suitcase. Instead, she decided that she would get off at the next stop.
She dragged the suitcase off the train and made it to the bottom of the escalator. The broken escalator that ascended the equivalent of 3 flights of stairs. She had the option of getting on another train north and going to the next stop in order to catch another train south. Or she could suck it up and do the stairs. She chose the latter.
And thus she began her trek up the escalator stairs. Luckily, there weren’t many others trying to get by.
About half way up, she heard someone jogging up the stairs at a good pace. She inched to the side and pulled the suitcase close. She looked back and saw that it was a guy with a red Yankees cap, a navy blue t-shirt, and jeans. She looked ahead again and waited. Suddenly, she felt the bag jerk away from her; she grasped the rubber handrail for balance. She looked up and saw the guy with the bag in his right hand galloping up the stairs. She raced behind him up the stairs trying to yell between her breaths. But he was too fast for her. When she got to the exit, he was nowhere to be found.
She asked the nearest couple if they had seen a guy with a suitcase. But when she looked around, she realized how stupid that question was. Half the people around her had suitcases. The couple shook their heads solemnly.
Molly began running south. Down the sidewalk she galloped, knocking into trash, trees, and tourists. She didn’t realize she was crying. She kept yelling, ‘Barney.’
When she arrived at the vet, she was a tear-stained mess. She leaned onto the counter and stammered between sobs, ‘I don’t have Barney.’
The nurse – the same woman who had answered the phone earlier – came from behind the counter and put her arm around Molly. ‘It’s okay,’ she said softly. ‘Where’s Barney?’
‘I don’t know,’ Molly admitted. ‘He’s gone.’
‘I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s okay. He’s in a better place.’
‘No, he isn’t. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Is he still at the apartment?’
‘No,’ she said a bit too loudly. ‘He’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He took him.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know! I couldn’t find him.’
‘Wait,’ the nurse squared Molly’s shoulders. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone stole the suitcase.’
At that moment, Molly’s phone began ringing. She dug it out of her jeans. She saw the picture of Barney appear. And the name George. She sniffled, dragged her finger across the screen, and raised it to her ear.
‘Hi George. I have some bad news.’
‘You’ll only be gone a few days,’ remarked Molly, George’s dearest friend.
‘He’s my boy,’ he retorted earnestly. ‘The only guy who’s stuck with me through everything.’ He turned his head back to the resting dog. ‘Aren’t you, Barney?’
‘What about me?’ Molly asked.
‘You’re not a guy. Technically, though, I’ve known Barney longer.’
‘We’re not going through that again.’
‘Well, I knew him when he was in the womb. Queenie’s second or third litter, I always forget.’
‘Yeah, I know, I was the unfortunate neighbor who got dragged into helping.’
‘Don’t sound so upset. That’s when we met. And here we are now,’ he exclaimed with an innocent joy.
‘Yeah, yeah. So when are you leaving?’ she asked with a hint of sarcasm.
‘Oh, yeah, what time is it?’
‘Almost eight.’
‘It’s about that time. I need to catch a cab. I should make it in time for an eleven o’clock flight.’
‘Yeah, you should be fine.’
Before he stood, he buried his nose into the nape of the Barney’s neck. The dog glanced backward nonchalantly and licked the air a few times; the last tongue swipe landed on George’s cheek.
‘Bye, bye Barney. Good boy.’
Barney remained on his stomach but tracked George with his sad, brown eyes. Barney knew what was happening, but he just didn’t have the energy to leap and lick with as much enthusiasm as he did even a few years prior. At almost seventeen years of age, everything was a chore.
George donned his jacket and grabbed his suitcase. ‘Thanks again, Molly.’ And then to the dog, ‘Good boy, Barney. Good boy.’
The dog wagged his tail in response. When the door closed, Barney stood and waddled over to it. He then plopped down in front of the door and closed his eyes.
Molly grabbed the remote and turned on the television. She decided on a marathon of the seventh cycle of America’s Next Top Model. She became absorbed in her disdain for Melrose, her least favorite contestant, and jeered aloud when Melrose won multiple challenges.
Sometime in the middle of the ninth episode, Molly noticed that Barney hadn’t scratched at the door as was his habit when he needed to potty. She hoped she hadn’t ignored him accidentally. She got up from the couch and walked toward the front door, where Barney had seemingly remained since George left. She reached down and patted his head as a passing gesture. Not only did the dog not move but his head felt unusually cool. She let her hand skim Barney’s nose; it was sandpaper dry.
‘Barney?’ She tried his name a few times with increasing volume. The dog didn’t stir. She felt her hands getting sweaty; her heart was starting to race. She reached down and jiggled him a bit. Nothing. ‘Oh my God. Don’t be dead.’ She felt hot tears forming in her eyes. ‘Barney!’ She put her ear down by the dog’s mouth and nose. There was no breath.
The dog was dead.
‘Oh my God, oh my God. What am I gonna do?’ she asked herself as she sat back down on the couch.
Molly started thinking of anything that could get her out of this situation. She thought about leaving the dog in front of the door until George came back. But she couldn’t lie to George if he asked how Barney was doing. She thought about getting another dog, another Beagle she could call Barney so she could soften the blow. But that was ridiculous.
Of course, there was only one thing she could do. She had to call George. But she didn’t know if she could do it; she didn’t know if she could speak the words without breaking down. She picked up her cell phone and found his name. She pushed the call button and readied herself to blurt out what she needed to say.
After the third ring, she knew he wasn’t picking up. And then she remembered that George was on a flight to Seattle and wouldn’t be landing for another four hours. Molly hung up the phone and put it down on the table.
At that moment, it became apparent to her that she was sharing the apartment with a corpse, a dead body. Her brain took it from there. Her hands became clammy. She heard strange noises. She was convinced she smelled rotting meat. She turned off the television to try to focus on what to do next, but the silence proved louder than noise; she turned the television back on. She noticed she had to pee, but ‘it’ was blocking the path.
After a few paralyzing moments, she shook her head vigorously. ‘Snap out of it,’ she said to herself. ‘What’s next?’ She found that talking to herself often helped when she felt nervous or upset. ‘I could leave him here. But then he’d start to stink. I can’t do that.’ She paused and looked up the ceiling. ‘I have to do something with him, but what do I do with a dead dog in the city? I can’t throw him away. And George would be pissed if I did anyway.’ She curled her legs underneath her until she was sitting Indian style. ‘I should call someone.’ Her father’s calm face appeared in her mind, and she felt the lump in her throat. Then she thought of her mother; not a chance. ‘Who would I call in this situation?’ She paused. ‘George, that’s who. Well, what would he do?’ And then it hit her. ‘The vet.’
She bounded off the couch and into the kitchen. The vet’s number was on the refrigerator. She grabbed her phone and dialed. A woman answered.
‘Yeah, hi, I need some help,’ Molly replied.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Well, I… umm… well… uh… there’s a dead dog here, and I don’t know what to do with him.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Was he a patient of ours?’
‘Yes. But I’m not his owner. I was dog sitting. His owner’s gone, and I can’t reach him.’
‘Okay. Can you give me his name?’
‘The dog or the owner?’
‘The owner.’
‘George Bell.’
‘Barney?’ the woman asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, are you in the city?’
‘I’m at George’s apartment.’
‘Do you have a car?’
‘No, I take subways.’
‘Here’s what you do. Now this may sound strange, but there’s not much choice. Put Barney in a suitcase and bring him to the office. We can take care of his body from there.’
‘Can’t you come get him? I don’t know if I can…’ her voice drifted.
‘Sorry, hon, we’re just not staffed for it. And it’s better if you bring him in sooner than later.’
‘Okay. Well, I guess I’ll see you soon.’
‘Okay,’ the woman said hesitantly. ‘See you soon,’ was the extent of her wisdom.
Molly put the phone down. After staring out the window at the cloudy sky for a moment, she decided that she would heed the woman’s advice; she had to find a suitcase. After she thought a moment, she decided that the only place he could keep a suitcase was under his bed. She hopped the corpse and entered the bedroom. She ducked down and felt for the suitcase; when she felt the handle, she pulled out a gigantic, tan monstrosity made sometime in the 1960s. She unpacked George’s summer clothes onto the bed.
She carried the open suitcase into the hallway and placed it next to the body. Without thinking, she scooped the corpse up and flipped it into the bag. With another motion, she slammed the top down and zipped it up. She took a deep breath and paused. She gathered her keys, cell phone, and money clip; grabbed the suitcase; and exited the apartment.
At once, she realized the suitcase had no wheels; they had broken off at some point in the distant past. She became immediately aware of what dead weight really meant. She struggled down the stairs and through the streets. A few passersby even offered to lend a helping hand, but she politely refused.
She descended the stairs to the subway and somehow maneuvered through the turnstile. It was only a short time before an uptown train squealed to a halt in front of her. She dragged the bag onto the half-filled train and sat in the corner.
All the while, she was convinced that the suitcase was giving off an odor. Or that some kind of bodily fluid would seep out. Or that the suitcase would rip revealing the ear or the tail of a dead dog. She guiltily surveyed the train and caught only fleeting glances from disinterested strangers.
One stop before the closest stop to the vet, the train conductor announced that the next stop was closed because of construction. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough notice for her to escape the train with the suitcase. Instead, she decided that she would get off at the next stop.
She dragged the suitcase off the train and made it to the bottom of the escalator. The broken escalator that ascended the equivalent of 3 flights of stairs. She had the option of getting on another train north and going to the next stop in order to catch another train south. Or she could suck it up and do the stairs. She chose the latter.
And thus she began her trek up the escalator stairs. Luckily, there weren’t many others trying to get by.
About half way up, she heard someone jogging up the stairs at a good pace. She inched to the side and pulled the suitcase close. She looked back and saw that it was a guy with a red Yankees cap, a navy blue t-shirt, and jeans. She looked ahead again and waited. Suddenly, she felt the bag jerk away from her; she grasped the rubber handrail for balance. She looked up and saw the guy with the bag in his right hand galloping up the stairs. She raced behind him up the stairs trying to yell between her breaths. But he was too fast for her. When she got to the exit, he was nowhere to be found.
She asked the nearest couple if they had seen a guy with a suitcase. But when she looked around, she realized how stupid that question was. Half the people around her had suitcases. The couple shook their heads solemnly.
Molly began running south. Down the sidewalk she galloped, knocking into trash, trees, and tourists. She didn’t realize she was crying. She kept yelling, ‘Barney.’
When she arrived at the vet, she was a tear-stained mess. She leaned onto the counter and stammered between sobs, ‘I don’t have Barney.’
The nurse – the same woman who had answered the phone earlier – came from behind the counter and put her arm around Molly. ‘It’s okay,’ she said softly. ‘Where’s Barney?’
‘I don’t know,’ Molly admitted. ‘He’s gone.’
‘I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s okay. He’s in a better place.’
‘No, he isn’t. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Is he still at the apartment?’
‘No,’ she said a bit too loudly. ‘He’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He took him.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know! I couldn’t find him.’
‘Wait,’ the nurse squared Molly’s shoulders. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone stole the suitcase.’
At that moment, Molly’s phone began ringing. She dug it out of her jeans. She saw the picture of Barney appear. And the name George. She sniffled, dragged her finger across the screen, and raised it to her ear.
‘Hi George. I have some bad news.’
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