The Animal Hour

by Andrew Klavan

She dropped the thing as if it had burned her. She clutched the purse shut with both hands, all ten fingernails digging into the leather.

  Then she raised her eyes, fast. The beggar had shuffled in even closer. The sour, rancid smell of him, of his piss and his sweat, clogged her nostrils.

  Why don’t you shoot him? Why don’t you just shoot him?

  Oh shit, she thought. This is definitely getting out of hand.

  “Just a quarter, Miss. Come on,” the man said.

  “I’m sorry.” She managed a breathy whisper. Her breath was fluttering in her chest. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. I’m … I’m sorry …”

  She tried to stand up. He bore in on her. He held her so close to the bench she couldn’t straighten her knees. The smell of him gagged her. His grin—his chancred lips—seemed an inch from her eyes.

  “Please,” she said.

  She twisted her body sharply. Twisted away from him, away from the bench out into the path. Her head felt as if it were spiraling down. The yellow leaves blowing and whirling in the air made her stomach turn. For a moment, the trees around her seemed to keel over. City Hall seemed to tilt up on its side and fall back again.

  “You can spare a quarter, Miss,” said the beggar. “I know you can.” He came at her again. He held his hand out. His ragged shoes chafed the path.

  “No,” she said. She pressed one hand to her head. Clutched the leather of her purse so tight with the other that her fingernails bent painfully. “No, no, no, I’m going … I’m going …”

  Nuts, she thought. I’m going nuts. This is how you go nuts.

  “I have to … I have to … go. I’m sorry.”

  She spun away from him unsteadily. Clutching that purse closed as hard as she could. As if the mouth of it might tear itself open. As if the gun might jump out of it. As if the gun might just jump right into her hand.

  Why don’t you shoot him?

  She started walking. Down the path, toward the hedges and the plots of grass. Toward the fountain spraying up at the far end near the street. Away. She heard her flats clap-clapping on the asphalt. She felt her knees wobble, as if she were on high heels. She took three steps. Four. Five. And then …

  “You won’t forget now.”

  She pulled up short. It was the beggar’s screaking whisper behind her.

  “Eight o’clock. You won’t forget.”

  Slowly, Nancy turned around. He was still standing there beside the bench, under the bough of the tree. His hand was still out. His knotted yellow-white hair fell around his jowls. He smiled wildly, his eyes bright.

  Nancy stared at him. She swallowed hard.

  “That’s the Animal Hour,” he cackled. “You have to be there. That’s when he’s going to die.”

  Staring, clutching her purse, Nancy shook her head. “Leave me alone.” She couldn’t believe the sound of her own voice. The deep, hollow, throaty sound. As if she were dead with fear. “Leave me alone.”

  The beggar just stood, just smiled, his hand still out, his eyes still on her. Behind him, the other beggars sat, huddled into themselves, paying no attention. The gray-black shapes of them pocked the green benches on either side of the path. The path led away, under the sycamores, toward City Hall. She could see the cops there, both of them, beneath the trees. Both were at the bottom of the Hall steps now. They were standing together, chatting, their hands on their guns.

  Call to them. Why don’t you just …

  shoot him?

  Call to them?

  “Come on, Miss. Come on,” said the beggar. His voice seemed to crackle with laughter. His eyes were mocking her.

  “Leave me alone,” Nancy said, louder now. “I said leave me … leave me alone right now or I’ll call the police!” Just then, on Broadway, a truck roared. It gunned past with a long explosion of black exhaust into the trees. The noise blew her words away. Even she couldn’t hear them.

  All the same, the beggar seemed to get the idea. When she mentioned the police, the shape of his grin changed. It cork-screwed up on one side, down on the other. It became a sneer. He dropped his outstretched hand. Waved it at her; a crimped claw. “Ah!” he said, disgusted. And he turned his back. He started to walk away.

  You’re sure you can’t stay now? Nancy thought. In her relief, she had closed her eyes for a moment. She took a deep breath. Next time, don’t be such a stranger. When she looked again, the beggar had shuffled even farther down the path. The bent shape of his dusty black coat was slowly pushing away from her. The scrape of his footsteps in the leaves was growing softer.

  All right. All right, she thought. Another breath. Steady as she goes. All right now. Everything’s fine. Everything’s going to be absolutely … going to be … She looked down. Her fingertips were white with the effort of holding her purse shut. She could feel droplets of sweat running down her palm. She gave a sickly smile. Well, maybe not absolutely fine, she thought. Something was going on, that was for sure. There was some kind of glitch in the old brainworks. This fever she had. This flu. Causing some kind of hallucinations or something. That’s all. That’s all it was. No need to go all hypochondriacal about it or anything. Just because a few funny things start happening, just because you see, hear a few strange things doesn’t mean you’re …

  Nuts. Going nuts.

  … totally certifiable or anything.

  Right. She licked her lips. Her lips felt stiff and bloodless. Her stomach felt delicate and weak. She relaxed her hold on her purse. Brought it up, still unzipped, under her arm. She stood where she was another second, waiting for her heart to slow. Waiting for the panic to subside.

  It was just a beggar, Nance. Just a beggar in the park.

  She watched him going. A smaller figure now. His head hung, his hair dangling. Shuffling slowly past one garbage can after another. Shuffling under the trees, through the intermittent falling of their leaves. He went between the rows of benches that lined the path. Between the homeless men on the benches, their bowed heads, their slumped dark bodies on either side of him. He shuffled away from her, toward City Hall.

  Nancy felt her heart wind down as he receded. Felt her breathing ease. Her panic was shrinking. It shrank down to a low burn of fear in the pit of her stomach. She did not think it was going to get much better than that. She couldn’t just shrug this off anymore. She was afraid, and she was probably going to stay afraid until she had it all figured out. Something was definitely going screwy here. There was no doubt about it. It wasn’t just a question of the people in her office. Or of her driver’s license. Or of her elementary school. There was the gun in her purse. The voice she had heard. And this bum, this thing he said about … What was it? The Animal Hour.

  She had to go home. She had to make an appointment with Dr. Bloom. Get a checkup. Ask some questions. Find out what was happening to her.

  After all, she thought, maybe it was something simple. Like a brain tumor. Or a flashback from a previous existence. Or maybe she had just died in her sleep and would be forced to live her worst nightmare over and over throughout eternity. There had to be some kind of reasonable explanation.

  Nancy smiled a little to herself, watching the beggar go. She nodded. Sure. Stay cool. It’s going to be all right.

  On a bench not far from her just then, one of the other beggars lifted his head. He was a black man with moldy dreadlocks. He had an eerie, distant smile and those same glaring white eyes as the other. He turned those eyes, that smile, directly on her. He winked.

  “You won’t forget now. Will you?” he said.

  Nancy made a noise in her throat. It was a small, horrible noise. Like a frightened animal. Like a snake’s prey. She stood frozen like that—like a mouse in the stare of a snake. Staring at the black man on the bench. Staring into his weird smile, his bright eyes. Her heart had sped right up again. Her pulse was drumming between her ears. She shook her head: no.

  But the black man kept smiling from the nearby bench. “Eight o’clock,” he said. “He’s gonna die t
hen, girl. You’ve got to be there. That’s the Animal Hour.”

  She shook and shook her head: No. No. She backed away from the laughter in his eyes, from the twisting grin. She clutched her purse against her side. She put the heel of her palm against her forehead. Gritting her teeth. Thinking: Stop. Stop. Stop.

  Another head popped up. Another beggar looking at her from a bench farther down the line. Another sudden pair of eyes. Another gray face grinning at her.

  “Don’t forget now. Don’t forget the Animal Hour.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Nancy said. Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears, as she thudded her forehead with her palm’s heel. “Jesus Christ.”

  “That’s when he dies. That’s when he’s going to die.” It was a fourth beggar, one on the other side of the path now. A hulking gray creature with a face of running wet clay. “He’s going to die at eight o’clock,” he said. “You have to be there.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  And another one lifted his eyes as Nancy backed away. As she shook her head at them, thinking: Stop. Stop. Another beggar on the benches by the path raised his grin, his glare. And then another did. And then, one by one, all of them. All the beggars on the two rows of benches lining the path. All the grimy faces under the low boughs of the trees. They were all murmuring at her. Their lips were moving. Their eyes were all bright, white and bright. Their whispers floated up around her like tendrils of smoke, encircled her, enclosed her like wisps of smoke. And their words were like flies, like horseflies, swarming around her, nipping at her face as she swung her hand—Stop. Stop—to try and brush them off. The words closed over her:

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “That’s the hour.”

  “That’s the Animal Hour.”

  “That’s when he dies.”

  “You have to be there.”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “The Animal Hour.”

  “You won’t forget now.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  With a small, frightened cry, she spun away from them. Turned her back on the double row of eyes and faces. Tears spilling down her cheeks, she raised both hands. Brought her purse up in front of her face as she tried to press both hands to her ears. But the whispers were still curling around her, the words still swarming at her ears.

  “Don’t forget.”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “That’s when he dies.”

  “That’s the Animal Hour.”

  It’s a dream, she thought. She felt the panic swelling in her. Swelling out of her stomach, into her chest, into her throat. She felt it was too much. She felt it would explode, that she would explode. A dream. A nightmare. Got to be. Got to be dreaming. Walking down that old nightmare road, that’s all. That nightmare highway. Her eyes were shut tight. The purse was in front of her face. Her hands were over her ears.

  “Don’t forget now.”

  “The Animal Hour.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  In a second, in a second, I’ll be in my bed. My heart’ll be bumpety-bumping against the old mattress. Good old Mom’ll be in the kitchen. “Time to get up, Nancy. Time for work.” The sizzle of a pair of eggs frying. I don’t even like eggs, but that Mom, she always makes ’em for me. Good old Mom. Making those eggs. Those stupid, oppressive, insistent eggs. Why didn’t I move out? Why didn’t I leave home like an adult, for Christ’s sake? For Christ’s sake, they’re driving me crazy. They’ve driven me crazy!

  “That’s when he dies, Nancy.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  “Eight o’clock. Eight o’clock.”

  Oh, Jesus, wake me up, wake me up, Mom. Make this stop, okay? You can make the damned eggs. Fry me right up a hearty pair of those over-easies, okay? Okay, Mom? Just make this stop. Just please make this …

  A hand clapped down upon her shoulder: The smell of sulfur went up her nose, down her throat. Her eyes wide, wild, she swung around. She screamed—or tried to scream. The sound turned to dust in her mouth. It choked her. Made her gag.

  The beggar. That first beggar. With his hanging jowls and his knotted hair. He was right there, right in front of her. His clawed hand, his festering hand, was on her shoulder. The chancres on his loose-fleshed cheeks pressed into her face. That thin screak, that mocking cackle:

  “You won’t forget now.”

  He grinned and pressed down on her.

  She cried out. She tore herself out of his grip. Stumbled backward, away from him.

  “Leave me alone!” Her voice was ragged with tears.

  The gray-haired beggar grinned. He shuffled toward her. The other beggars hunched on the benches grinned behind him. They murmured at her. They glared at her with white eyes.

  “Eight o’clock,” said the beggar before her.

  Nancy’s hands were down now in front of her. Her purse hung open in front of her. She looked down and saw it. Oh God! she thought. She jammed her right hand into the open purse.

  “Get away from me,” she said. Spit flew from her teeth. “Get away from me, I’m telling you.”

  The beggar came toward her on stiff legs. He reached out for her. His eyes seemed completely white. His grin seemed slack. Drool ran from the sides of his mouth into the purple sores under his stubble.

  “Don’t forget. Don’t forget,” he kept repeating.

  Nancy felt the cold metal of the gun. She felt the rough grip. Her hand closed around it.

  Don’t do this!

  “I’m warning you,” she heard herself scream.

  “The Animal Hour,” the beggar said. “You have to remember. You have to remember.”

  “All right!” Nancy cried out. “All right! That’s it!” She yanked her hand out of the purse. She held the revolver up in front of her. The muzzle of it wavered wildly. “Get away from me,” she screamed. “Get away from me or I’ll shoot!”

  The beggar’s grin grew wider still. His jaws, his jowls, hung slack. His white eyes looked at nothing. He took another step in her direction. His hand reached for her.

  “He dies at eight o’clock. That’s the time. That’s the Animal Hour.”

  “Get away!” Nancy screamed at him. She waved the revolver in his face. “Get away! Get away!”

  And then she pulled the trigger.

  Zachary Perkins awoke peacefully that morning. He had had no dreams. He lay in bed with his eyes closed, his mind a blank at first. Then, as the moments passed, he began to imagine a woman.

  A sparrow was singing morning songs in the maple tree at the window. There was a breeze three stories below in the garden of Lancer’s café. He could hear leaves tumbling lightly over the flagstones down there. He imagined a woman with sable hair, a mane of sable hair.

  She was a regal creature. He had imagined her before. She was nude, but armored in her nudity, arched in it, proud. She stood on a raised platform, glaring down at those below. Her flesh was as smooth as a page in a magazine, her skin was as gleaming. She had large breasts that stood erect. She had her hands on her hips. Her long legs were akimbo.

  Zachary stirred. He felt his naked body against the sheets. The cool—the somehow wistful—breeze blew in through the window now. It played over his face and made him long for the woman, ache to have her there with him in the flesh. He moved his hand under the sheets, down to his erection. His erection was very hard. He stroked it, imagining the woman’s imperious smile. He moved his hand faster. He threw off the bedsheet with his other hand. Breathing rapidly, he opened his eyes. He looked down at himself …

  “Christ!” he whispered. “Christ!” His erection shriveled. He stared, saucer-eyed, at the blood.

  There were streaks of it—dried blood—on his forearm and the back of his hand. There were brown cakes of it under his fingernails. He rolled his hand over, staring. There were more dried daubs of it on his palm. It looked like paint or chocolate, but he knew what it was. He knew what it was the minute he saw it.

  He sat up. His heart thudded in his chest. He co
uldn’t think. He couldn’t think of anything. He surveyed his genitals desperately to make sure they weren’t damaged. He looked on the floor by his bed and saw his clothes in a pile there. His T-shirt was on top of his jeans and it was soaked in blood, still damp with blood.

  “Oh God,” he whispered. “What is this? Where am I?” He couldn’t think. His stomach was grinding over like a cement mixer.

  He gasped. Someone was at the door. There was a knock—three knocks—quickly—one-two-three.

  “Mr. Perkins?” A man’s voice, but high and mild. No expression in it. The knocks again: one-two-three. “Mr. Perkins? Are you there?”

  Zach’s lips moved, but he couldn’t speak. He stared wildly around the room. White walls with gray gouges where the paint had chipped. Bookshelves made of bricks and boards, stacked with newspapers and magazines. A dirty braid rug. A broad passage into the other room. He was at home, an East Village railroad flat. His own apartment, his and Tiffany’s.

  “Mr. Perkins?” The voice at the door was still soft and expressionless. “Mr. Perkins, this is Detective Nathaniel Mulligan of the New York City Police Department. If you’re there, would you open the door please?”

  The mews. It came back to him in a burst of light, like a camera flash. He remembered what had happened in the mews.

  Oh Christ, he thought. He put his fingers to his lips. Oh Christ. They figure it’s me. Oh God. They figure I did it. That would be the first thing they’d think.

  “All right, Mr. Perkins.” A poster of Dali’s Crucifixion hung on the front door. Mulligan’s mild voice came right through it. “We’re coming in now. We have a key from your landlord. If you’re there, please don’t do anything foolish. We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  All Zachary could do just then was stare at the poster. It was a picture of a modern man, half-naked, his head flung back, his arms pinioned against the sky. All Zach could do was watch fascinated as the detective’s voice spoke from it.

  “We’re coming in.”

  Then he heard a key scrape in the door lock. He heard men’s voices murmuring. The lock began to turn over.

  Terror coursed through Zach like blood, like liquid lightning. He jumped out of the bed.