by Ellen Datlow
The Litter’s Runt by Christopher Pelham.
He sipped his scotch and perused the back cover, his face growing warm with the line, “. . . and sexual awakening of a gay kid from small town North Carolina.” The book seemed highly uncharacteristic for his mentor, but opening the cover, he noted an inscription:
To Walter,
Who was like a second father to me. Chris
Without giving the action any thought, Scotty tucked the book into his jacket’s inner pocket the way he’d once slotted his checkbook before leaving the house, and only after he took another sip of his drink did it occur to him that he was breaking the law. It was then he decided that taking the novel was an act of respect. If someone else found the book on the judge’s desk, it might lead to ridiculous speculation, particularly considering the odd inscription.
He returned to the throng filling the front of the house, where nothing had changed during his brief absence. The faces of the crowd, a garden of somber blossoms, fell in around him. He’d known most of these people all his adult life. Walter had brought them together for holiday parties, political fundraisers, or just to fill his house with like-minded friends.
“He was a great man,” noted a slender lawyer with a tightly fitted suit. “He had a brilliant mind,” said a young woman with perfect hair and crooked teeth. “I never saw a man his age in better shape,” said a diminutive gentleman with a tight, tanned face.
Scotty paused at the periphery of this conversation, waiting to be noticed. Dr. Desmond Threlkeld was his personal physician; he’d been Walter’s as well.
“Scotty,” Threlkeld said, cocking his head away from a matronly woman who wore her white hair in a globe on the top of her head. “I’m so sorry. I know how close you and Walter were.”
The crowd pushed in tight at Scotty’s shoulders and the weight of the book against his chest reminded him of his crime. He thanked the doctor. “It’s been a shock for all of us.”
“It has,” Threlkeld agreed. “I was just saying how fit Walter seemed. Shocking.”
“And there were no signs something like this might happen?”
“I can’t speak to specifics, of course, but no.” Dr. Threlkeld’s face grew pensive as if he were trying to remember the name of an actress from an old film. He leaned in closer to Scotty and whispered. “The medical examiner is a friend of mine. He had some difficulties with the autopsy.”
“Difficulties?” Scotty asked.
“Oh, you know,” Threlkeld said. “The aftermath.”
Scotty nodded. It was a grisly business. After suffering a lethal cardiac event in his backyard, Walter had lain exposed to the elements for at least twenty-four hours, and some of those elements had had teeth. Though animal attack had been ruled out as the cause of death, the local media had been happy to report that his corpse had suffered the attentions of wildlife and stray pets.
Before Scotty could ask his next question, a hand gripped his arm and pulled. Rachel Smith, an attractive young associate with the firm, whose eyes blazed with ambition, faced him for a moment and then threw her arms around his shoulders.
“This must be so hard for you,” she said. The scent of the expensive perfume dousing her neck crawled into his head like a virus, instantly triggering the tightness in his sinuses he associated with an impending allergy attack. “First Miranda, and now this. I’m so sorry, Scotty.”
He patted her back, eager to send her on her way.
“If you need anything,” she said as sweetly predatory as a kitten toying with a roach, “you let me know. I’m here for you.”
He thanked her and excused himself, but when he turned to resume his conversation with the doctor, he couldn’t find the man. Scotty worked his way through the crowd, distracted by Threlkeld’s words and the book in his pocket. What difficulties had the doctor meant? Had something important been left out of the coroner’s report? As for the book, why would the story of some homo in North Carolina hold any interest for Walter Griff? Further, what had been meant by the inscription?
Giving up on his search for the doctor, Scotty left the reception, carrying a sense of disappointment along with his questions and grief. The word “difficulties” persisted, clicking around in his head.
• • •
In nature, the runt of a litter not only struggles for nourishment but also attention. Fighting with its stronger siblings for a place at the teats, a runt can die of starvation while its brothers and sisters grow strong and healthy. Sensing this weakness, this inferiority, the parent will often ignore the runt, instinct dictating that such a defenseless creature deserves neither effort nor resources, because ultimately it has no chance for survival. It’s an evolutionary imperative, you see. It’s animal. It’s primal. While I certainly had more than enough to eat as a child, my parents, Father especially, practiced this brand of natural selection.
I was the runt of my litter. Weaker and smaller than my brothers, weaker and smaller than my classmates. To my father, I was an embarrassment. A waste.
Outside the walls of my home, the world treats me as prey. My pack doesn’t protect me. If I am unable to find or create a new pack, I may never survive my youth. . . .
• • •
The blue-black horizon at the edge of the ocean faded to a lavender-hued sky. Scotty stood on the wraparound porch, his drink sweating a ring on the stark white railing as he gazed at the foaming tide. In the distance a dog barked angrily, as if warning an intruder away from its property.
Though he felt miserable, he couldn’t complain about the view. Three years ago, before real trouble had found his daughter, he’d come home to find the lawn of his former residence littered with three-thousand dollar suits and garbage bags gorged to near breaking with his other belongings. At that point, he’d commandeered the beach house with its sharp-edged modern exterior and an interior color palette reminiscent of a Cape Cod vacation rental his ex had adored. The blues and greens, all framed in glaring white trim, had always been too soft for Scotty, perhaps too feminine, but he’d never gotten around to having them painted.
He inhaled deeply. Salted air filled his lungs.
“Fuck,” he said to the ocean view.
He’d been reading the book he’d stolen from Walter’s study. It only added to his confusion. Though a tremendous reader, Walter Griff’s taste in literature had always run to nonfiction: histories and biographies. The few novels he had discussed incorporated dense and accurate historical notes. In short, he didn’t read fluff. He certainly wasn’t likely to read the blunt and self-pitying account of a young homosexual.
Scotty couldn’t help but wonder if Walter had actually known Christopher Pelham, the author of the book. The copyright was more than twenty-five years old, around the time Scotty had first fallen under Walter’s wing.
To Walter,
Who was like a second father to me.
Scotty certainly understood the sentiment.
The distant barking drew his attention down the beach. He saw the animal, way off, barely larger than a speck near where the Zanes property met the Williamsons.
The presence of the agitated animal, even so far from him, made Scotty uneasy. He couldn’t say why exactly. He’d been reading Pelham’s novel, and clearly the author had identified strongly with the creatures, but the novel hinted at nothing even remotely sinister about the animals.
His phone rang. It was the tone designated for his daughter, the opening notes of a song she’d loved as a child. A year ago, she’d downloaded the ringtone and loaded it onto his phone. Miranda had said it was “their song,” which had made Scotty wince. He hated the six bars of music.
He continued to stare at the shimmering water and the darkening sky, as the melody played over and over. The rail proved sturdy enough for his tightening grip and the weight his now-swaying body placed on it.
Tomorrow, he thought. His emotions had been thoroughly wrung for the day. Tomorrow he’d take her call.
The dog, maybe a German shepher
d, darker than any he’d seen, was closer now. It ran along the shoreline. Through a trick of distance or fading light, it appeared that the charging animal actually made no forward progress, despite the rapid pedaling of its legs. The eager animal ran, but went nowhere, like a digital image endlessly looping.
Unnerved by this illusion, Scotty lifted his glass and walked inside.
• • •
It is the last day of school, and I am ten years old. Already, the summer’s promised heat has descended on Hargett’s Bend. Pollen dust still speckles the air, lit by the sun’s glare. Walking with Jacob Larimer, I drift in and out of a daydream in which I imagine swimming through a sea of radiance, a fantasy ocean of luminous tides.
I walk with Jacob, not because we are friends, because we certainly are not, but because he had announced to the class that his dog had mothered a litter of pups, and the news had compelled me to see the animals.
Without a note of hospitality or facade of friendliness, he walks me through his house to the mudroom beyond the kitchen. The Larimer house is very much like my father’s house. So many of the houses of our class resemble one another, inside if not out.
There, in a large wicker basket that might have once held towels at the poolside, lays a magnificent shepherd. Nearly all black, she reclines as three fist-sized pups crowd against her belly. A fourth pup tries to wriggle in for its meal but is nudged aside. After several attempts it plops down on its backside and stares up at me with the most beautiful black eyes, satin eyes, silken eyes.
“That one’s going to die,” Jacob says casually. “The others cost three hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Why is she going to die?”
“How do you know it’s a she?”
“I just know.”
“Weird,” Jacob concludes. “Well, she’s going to die. Father said that if she wasn’t getting fed he’d drown her in the pool. It’s a mercy, he said. Better than starving to death. The others won’t let her anywhere near the tits, so he’ll probably dunk her tonight.”
“I’ll take her.”
“What’s she gonna suck for food?” Jacob asks and then bursts out laughing, driven to hysterics by his own crass humor.
My eyes haven’t left those of the pup. I have already named her. I will call her Bette, and I will find a way to feed her. I will never let Mr. Larimer “dunk” her.
“She’s still gonna die,” Jacob taunts before closing the door at my back.
“I’ll shoot that fucking thing,” my father says later that evening. “If I even smell it in the house, I’ll put a bullet in the bitch’s skull.”
• • •
In his office, Scotty listened while the phone played his daughter’s favorite song. Work lay scattered on his desk, but he had no heart for it. He mourned for Judge Griff and remained confounded by the book he’d found in the man’s library.
He couldn’t say he enjoyed the book, but he’d read late into the night. At first, he’d found the narrator’s dedication to the shepherd pup cloying and sappy. It seemed like an easy emotional button the author could press to get a collective empathic sigh from his readers, but as he finished the chapter that detailed the lengths the boy had gone to in saving the dog’s life, he found himself admiring the kid’s tenacity.
When the phone gave up, Scotty listened to his daughter’s message. It was nearly verbatim to the one she’d left the previous evening:
“Hi, Daddy. Can you visit tomorrow? I haven’t seen you in forever, and I really need to see you. Mom won’t come. She said she can’t because of Clint. She thinks I’m so stupid. I know she just doesn’t want to. Please can’t you come? I’m so alone. I miss you.”
The message brought an ache to Scotty, but the pain grew hot and liquefied. After a few moments, the sadness he genuinely wanted to feel was gone, and in its place was offense. Another manipulation. Another running of the fingers to find cracks that could be exploited and ripped open.
Walter had warned him about Miranda’s behavior. The judge had seen it in his offices and the courtroom for years. He talked about the skilled deceit addicts practiced. He’d noted that lies and manipulations were drugs unto themselves. They started small, little hits of misdirection and falsehood, which eventually blossomed into an uncontrollable dependence on fabrication.
He hadn’t believed a thing his daughter had told him in more than three years. For too long, he’d pretended to be convinced by Miranda’s fresh devotions to honesty, but the performances were exhausting. Invariably, he’d forced a smile, patted her shoulder, and reached for his wallet.
Nothing had changed, except for her address.
Scotty simmered in his office for thirty minutes more and then gave up on the day.
• • •
My father and Carl sit by the pool, drinking highballs and smoking cigars. Father is bundled in his white terry cloth robe, but Carl wears nothing but his swim trunks. They grip his strong thighs and waist, covering his masculinity like a layer of sky-blue paint. Water glistens from where it beads on his shoulders, from where it clings to the hairs on his chest, from the stream trickling down his belly to the pale blue lip of his trunks. The sight of him suffocates me.
He raises his head and turns his attention in my direction. He smiles and lifts his hand to offer a friendly wave. My father also sees me by the pool house, and his face tightens and darkens. Beside me, Bette whimpers before nudging the back of my leg with her snout.
She is smarter than I. She understands the danger, but I remain ignorant, or, if not ignorant, indifferent, as my eyes have found a paradise they refuse to vacate. Carl says something to Father, who shakes his head and scowls. Then Father is laughing and lifting his drink to his lips.
Carl glances my way again. I detect something different in his expression. I tell myself that he is looking at me in the same way I am looking at him.
Bette whimpers. She begs. She backs away and then returns to my side, clearly distraught. And finally, though hesitantly, I give in to my best friend’s demands.
• • •
The text from his assistant arrived with a startling trill at just after one in the morning. Scotty struggled into wakefulness and coughed violently as a dense odor crept into his nose and down his throat. Sniffing the air, he noted a musky scent fading as the tone from his phone grew clearer in his ears. Scotty blinked several times and then retrieved his reading glasses from the bedside table.
Reyna: I thought you’d want to see this. It’s probably a hoax or a scam to get money from his estate.
A link followed the brief and unsettling message. Scotty tapped it with his finger and waited for the web page to load. When he saw the headline, he groaned and shook his head before throwing back the covers and racing from the room to make his way down the hall to his study. He read the words displayed in a tiny font on his phone as he threw open the door and went to his desk.
“No. Fuck no. Fuck no,” he muttered as he powered up his computer.
Conservative Judge spends weekend at gay resort with teenage boy three weeks before his death.
Outside the house, Scotty noted a grating sound, like wood scraping wood. He thought about the swing on his porch, the swing his daughter had once shared with him, and wondered if it had fallen loose.
The noise persisted, creating a distant, unsettling rhythm for his reading.
An eighteen-year-old man, named Ross Michaels, claimed to have spent three days at a gay bed and breakfast in Hargett’s Bend, North Carolina, with Judge Walter Griff.
“I saw his picture, you know, with his obit, and I couldn’t believe it,” Michaels said. “I started surfing around, and damn, what a prick. I saw the terrible people he used his money to support, and all of the right-wing shit he’s said over the years, and no way was I gonna shut up about it. These people are a disease. You know, like cancer? And they’re killing us from the inside.”
The grating sound grew more determined. Louder. It sounded as if it were coming from the front do
or. Scotty winced at the noise, but refused to leave his desk chair.
The article was clearly a fabrication, meant to tarnish the reputation of a good man. Scotty would have stopped reading two sentences in to the ridiculous story if it hadn’t been for the name of the city in which the alleged tryst had occurred: Hargett’s Bend. It rang a bell, but he couldn’t place the town in his memory.
Scotty ran half a dozen searches, but found no indication that the real media had picked up the story. It was only a matter of hours, he knew. Even if the accusations went unsubstantiated (and they can’t be true), the fucking hairdos with microphones would be jizzing buckets over a story like this.
E-mails and additional text messages began to trickle in from Walter’s friends and peers. Within ten minutes they were arriving every few seconds. Behind all the pings and trills, the scraping sound at his door played like a jug band washboard, now all but booming in his ears.
“Damn,” Scotty bellowed. He pushed himself away from the computer and stormed into the hall.
At the top of the stairs, he paused and gazed down at the entryway. The white rectangle of the door, with four, small, absolutely black windows, suddenly frightened him. The scraping sound persisted, and though he felt determined to discover the source of the distracting noise, his legs refused to take him any further. He inhaled deep breaths and experienced a flash of heat along his cheek and throat. Raising his hand to touch his neck, he looked down and noticed he was naked. In defense of his trepidation, he told himself that modesty had nailed his feet to the oak floorboards.
Below, the scratching continued. And it was scratching, he decided, like a dog eager to enter a house to see its master.
Scotty took a step back. The heat at his throat intensified. Burned. Sweat ran in a line down his spine to tickle a path to his backside.
“Oh, horseshit,” he mumbled defiantly.
He stomped down the stairs. In the entryway, he flipped on the porch light and grasped the doorknob. The frantic scrabbling on the other side of the plank grew furious, and Scotty twisted and yanked, pulling the door wide as the racket instantly ceased. On the sand beyond his porch, he caught sight of a dog’s haunches and the flash of a scythe-shaped tail, all shadow and murk. It flashed for a moment and then vanished behind an enormous earthenware vase in which his ex-wife had constantly failed to grow roses.