Before My Eyes

by Caroline Bock

  I sniff the air over her head, hoping the eggs are not to be forgotten.

  “When your father gets home from this business trip, he’s going to talk to you, okay, Barkley? Are you listening to me? What exactly is going on here, Barkley? What have I done wrong?”

  I glance behind me. Sheets are strewn on the floor over papers and dirty clothes. The pictures are torn from the wall. The garbage is tumbled over. This was the result of being a bug, wasn’t it? Even without being a bug, I can smell the rotting tuna in my garbage can, which is probably what bothers her. I will promise to empty the garbage. Before I turn back to her, I check the desk drawer with the Glock: locked and secured.

  “Barkley, what’s happened to you? What exactly is going on? Don’t you see there’s something wrong here?”

  For a second, I fear that she will touch me. I must not be touched. I skitter back into my room and try to push the door closed, though she is as quick as I am and jams her running shoe in the door.

  “Where are your clothes? What did you do to yourself?” Her hands find her throat, not a long, graceful neck like Claire’s. She takes a ragged breath and so do I. She does not understand that this is the result of a dream, only a dream. I was a bug; I was vermin. I look down at myself, almost expecting to see my body still encased in a black armor shell or waving six hairy legs, and I sigh, frustrated at the thought of being forced to explain another thing to her, or to my father, that they wouldn’t comprehend, having, in general, limited imaginations.

  “Are you going to get dressed, Barkley?” Her voice is strained. “Because I think I am going to have an anxiety attack any minute, if you don’t. I am going to scream, to be exact.”

  I want to help her, but I am hungry. “Are you going to feed me?” I move toward her. I feel larger than I have ever been. “Please,” I add.

  She shrinks from me. She screams, or more precisely, wails, incoherent and loud. She holds the side of the doorway so I can’t shut the door on her.

  The voice in my head orders me to inform her that everything is okay, so I say it, slowly as if in another language. “I am okay, Mom. But hungry.”

  “I don’t understand this,” she says between gasps of breath. “None of this. Where’s the child that I brought into the world? Where is he? I’m calling the doctor, Barkley, okay? I’m going to help you. Let me help you. I’m calling your pediatrician right now.”

  She is panting, her eyes closed, her ponytail swinging back and forth, so I repeat, “Hungry, Mom.”

  Instead of hurrying to the kitchen, she backs away from me. I am forced to repeat it in two monotone syllables, as simple as possible for her to understand. “Hungry.”

  More screams crest out of her, rip into me. I am caught in a tidal wave. This is not helping her, or me.

  She does not understand the necessity for answers, only you do, says the magnificent voice. Careful.

  I pull myself back into my room, away from this crazy person.

  Max

  Saturday, 9:15 P.M.

  “How about a walk?” I say to King after having fed him his favorite dog food. I jingle his leash so he can hear the “going out” and the “being free” sounds. At my voice, he is already racing around in circles, barking, excited, jumping.

  I’ve been promising to bring King to the beach all summer, not that he understands, but I’ve said it to him as if he could. I know he loves it there. After hours, when the beach is empty, he can safely run free. He can test the waters with his nose, taste the salt, bark as loud as he wants. I should talk to my father about letting him out in the house during the day. I made the bargain to keep King in my room only for a short while, not forever.

  “Everything okay in there?” shouts my father.

  Other than being trapped in my room with a blind dog, I’m fine. “Just going for a walk.”

  “Only a walk?” says my father, striding down the hall toward me, his cell phone pressed to his ear, telling the other person on the line with him, “One minute, one minute.”

  I snap the leash on King. We’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want his one minute.

  “When you get back I want to talk with you, Max. Got that? We all need to be in a good place the last few weeks of the campaign.” He’s saying that to me as much as to the other person on the line with him. See? Two things achieved.

  “Let’s go.” I don’t have to say this twice to King. We’re out of the house in a flash. A weak warm breeze greets us. King leaps over the clipped lawn. I keep up a patter with him so he knows that I’m here. “Good boy, King. Good boy.”

  Near the bushes, King does his business. I plan to clean it up tomorrow. Right now, I am worn out. Jumpy. Feel like spiders are crawling up and down my skin. I’ve got to walk. I should have taken a pill or two but my mother was watching me the entire time and I don’t really need them, except to sleep.

  I tug his leash to the left instead of the right. We usually go right so he’s confused for a second, has to stop and mark the way again. He lifts his snout toward me and I say, “Don’t worry, King. Don’t worry, boy. Let’s try a different way tonight. I need to go somewhere different. Not the park.”

  So he follows me left, and we trail along the sidewalk into the shadows. “Good boy,” I say to him every few feet. He raises his head at my voice. Spit drips from his strong jaws. His black fur glistens. I wish I could bring him to the beach right now, just to see how happy he’d be with the water on his skin, how he’d leap into the waves, grateful for the coolness, for the chance to run in an open space and be a dog like any other dog.

  “Party tomorrow night,” I say to him after a few blocks. “No barking. No racing around the room. No trying to escape, no joining the party. Don’t act like last year and you’ll be fine.”

  He barks and I take that as an okay. Last year, the entire soccer team showed up. We got drunk on beer and played boys against the girls in a pickup game. The girls were good. Better than us—or at least less drunk.

  I break into a slow jog with King close to my side, and the McMansions fall away into the background, a backdrop to someone else’s life, more like a movie set than something real. After a few more blocks, the houses grow smaller and closer together, as if needing one another for protection. The garages shrink from two- or three-car garages to one and in some cases disappear. The trees are older here, too, leaning over rooftops. Streetlights dim, a hazy yellow. Somehow there are more dogs on this side of town and they’re all outside, behind fences, barking one after another as we pass, as if announcing our arrival.

  “Good dog. Good King,” I say to him, as we amble on, as I even out, as I feel calm for the first time all night. I’m careful about running with him on the leash—he could veer out into traffic, he could trip over branches, he could smash into a tree. We make our way, not too fast, not too slow, even though what would make him really happy is to race. But it’s too dangerous for a blind dog. I even resist giving him more slack on his leash.

  We round a corner, and all of a sudden, no more dogs, only the silence. The winds pick up. The trees rustle. I didn’t expect to find myself here. I really didn’t. I scan my memory and come up with the address she gave to me in anger when we thought we had lost Izzy. I’ve never been on this block before. I take a few steps on the sidewalk, cracked and split. Old trees loop electrical wires, which sag against heavy branches. Her house is in shadows—no outdoor lights on—but I can make out the number above the front door. All the windows are wide open. Old oaks press against white vinyl siding. Three steps lead to her front door. King strains at his leash. He pushes his face into her overgrown lawn, as if it would smell different from any other.

  Why did I end up on this side of town? Why her block? Why didn’t I walk King over to the playground near my house, the one that has a sign that states, No dogs allowed. That’s the one we always go to at night.

  For precaution, I reel in King. He lopes back and rubs his snout between my legs. I know he wants to make sure it’s me,
but who else would it be, standing in front of Claire’s house in the night shadows? (And why am I here, again? I should go.)

  The muscles in the back of my neck tense. I should bring King home and call this a night. As if sensing that I might go, King roots in the grass.

  I could knock on her door, ask casually how she is doing. But that would be too weird. Who just shows up at somebody’s door? And what if her father or, worse, her mother answers?

  I could say that I was just walking by and wanted to check if she was okay after all the drama on the beach today.

  “Does that sound right, King?” My dog hunkers down on her front lawn. “What do you say, boy? What do you say, King?” He pants. I change my mind. “Let’s go.”

  Above, stars swim in the sky, silvery points of light. The moon, almost full, floats in the night sky. King howls. I tug at his leash. He isn’t moving. “Let’s go,” I insist.

  The door opens. Look at her.

  First, she searches the sky. Her neck is long and tan. Her hair is smoothed back in a ponytail. She has on a white muscle shirt and short blue gym shorts. I wonder if she is going out or getting ready for bed.

  In the doorway, she peers across the front yard.

  I should call out to her, something like, “Hey, Claire, just walking my dog,” but I don’t.

  King barks as if to say: if Max is not going to say something, I will.

  “Hey,” she says, her chin high, as if calling out to King as much as me.

  I can’t answer. I duck my head. King strains toward her. I have to loosen his leash.

  King rests on his haunches. He cocks his head toward her. Now he’s playing “good dog.”

  She isn’t wearing anything under the tank top and everything is round and full and loose. Crossing her arms across her chest, she covers everything that is illuminated in the moonlight.

  King is no help. He moseys on up to her. She laughs and lets him smell her hand. I imagine it smells like the sea.

  “I wish I had something for him,” she says. “Maybe I should go in? I should be able to find something for him.”

  “He’s okay.”

  “Are you okay?” she asks. Her eyes, big, brown, fall on me.

  “Sure.” All her questions throw me off. “I mean, why wouldn’t I be?”

  She scratches behind King’s ears. He sniffs at her. She doesn’t seem to mind. I try not to look down at her—and at King. I force myself to scan the sky, as if I’m interested in constellations, or looking for a stray comet. “Hey, did you hear that I’m having a party?” I quickly say.

  She doesn’t look up. “You are?”

  “Tomorrow night. At my house. I live in North Lakeshore. Not far from here. We were just out for a walk, King and me, and if you’d like to come, it should be fun.”

  “What kind of party?”

  I make out the Big Dipper. “A birthday party.”

  “So, it’s your birthday?”

  This girl is way too difficult.

  Claire whispers something in King’s ear and they perk up, alert; he’s almost smiling at her, licking her hand as if she’s offering him treats. I double-check. She’s not feeding him anything out of her fingers. Her palm, a shade lighter than the rest of her tanned skin, cups his snout. She kisses him. Her breasts sway. I force myself to exhale. Yup, the Big Dipper is still up there.

  “Why are you asking me to your birthday party? You don’t feel like you have to, do you?”

  She widens her eyes. I don’t know this girl—with the legs and the breasts and the waves of hair and luminous brown eyes. I could spend a while looking into those eyes, even though she’s not my type. She doesn’t go to my school. She lives across town. I shouldn’t even be at her house. I wasn’t planning on walking over here and seeing her.

  “Maybe I should go?” I ask.

  “Go. Am I holding you here?”

  She straightens up. King whimpers at her feet. “I don’t need you or anybody, thinking they’re going to save me, even if you kind of did save me. I know Izzy appreciates your rescue attempt, and so do I. I do. How about that?”

  “Attempt?”

  She undoes her ponytail, shaking all of her hair. I lose her face. This girl just isn’t for me, so why do I want her at my party? School starts Wednesday, first game of the season is next weekend. I don’t have time for her. She pushes her hair from her eyes. I start pacing and talking. “Hey, I’ve got to admit, you’re not my type. I mean, you’re not like the other girls I usually like. Not like the girls I know, I mean. Not like the ones on the beach, or in my high school. You’re not pretty. I’ve got to admit, in your own way, you are but—”

  She flinches. Her shoulders straighten. The moonlight flickers against her face.

  I search the sky, wishing a star would just fall on me and end my misery. The Big Dipper is lost behind the clouds.

  “Anything else you want to add, Max?”

  “You’re different is what I mean.”

  “Some guys like ‘different.’”

  I look up at her at the top of the stairs. Claire is something other than pretty. I need to say this to her but somehow I’ve said too much already. She steps down to the grass with me.

  “Why did you invite me to your party?” she asks.

  More questions. King flops down at her bare feet.

  “Let me get this straight, you invite me to your party, but I’m not your type? In fact, I’m not pretty, isn’t that what you just said?”

  “I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “But you did, didn’t you?”

  “You can’t just answer a question. You answer a question with a question a lot.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Wings beat through the trees. A flock of sparrows appears and aims for the moon. “I don’t think I can come anyway, how about that?”

  “Don’t come then,” I respond. “Don’t do me any favors.”

  “That’s interesting. I owe you, don’t I? A thank-you?” She looks, not like she wants me to admire or praise her, but to join her in something, something that she finds odd or something that even in the calm eye of a storm will tell us more about ourselves. A smile plays on her lips. Maybe she just finds me diving into the ocean after her delusional. I’m crazy and it’s funny to her. Or maybe she thinks I’m desperate. Well, I’m not. I don’t need her at my party. Still, what do I need to do to prove to her that I’m—that I am what? Not a guy who tells girls that they aren’t pretty?

  “How about this: if my father comes home, maybe I’ll go. Sound okay to you?” I don’t know why she is smiling at me—looking warm, wet-lipped, eager for my response when I don’t have one.

  After a while of just standing there, I ask, “Where is he? Your father?”

  The look and smile drop away.

  “What about your mom?”

  She shrugs into herself.

  I continue with a sudden earnestness and urgency, which is not me at all. I don’t do “earnest,” but I try. “I can actually make myself very presentable. And I’m a state senator’s son.”

  “They aren’t home, and if they were, they wouldn’t care that you are a state senator’s son. How about that?” She doesn’t want an answer from me and it’s as if she’s challenging me to ask her another question. I want to keep her outside so I’m hurting my brain for a retort or at least a question. But I don’t get her. I don’t understand her at all. I don’t even know why I want to keep her outside and maybe that’s what I should ask her. Do other guys need to be as careful with you as I am? Before I can ask anything she is through the grass and back at her front door. She turns to enter her home.

  I whistle for King. I still have his leash in my hand, but I want him at my side. He isn’t pleased to be leaving. I don’t know why I came. I don’t plan on returning.

  Claire snaps on a bright light inside the house. Moths flitter around her. She raises her hand in a wave. I realize, after a second or two of gazing at her, not kno
wing what I want to do next, that she is waiting, with that look of hers, for me to signal back. So I raise my hand—my chest pounds as hard as it did when we were in the ocean together—and I return her gesture. She slips into the light. The click of the lock is sure and final. Yet for some reason, I’m smiling in the dark.

  I run King home. I let him race at top speed, and he is happy.

  Claire

  Sunday, 10:00 A.M.

  Blink my eyes. Taste the morning stale in my mouth. Rubbing my arms doesn’t help. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. You’ve done enough crying since your mother’s stroke. I don’t know why I’m crying again. A dream. I had another dream. I was a small bird sailing over the sea. Not a sea gull, but a simple sparrow. Sea spray glistened on my wings. I could follow the sun and know which way I should go. I could fly anywhere. I want to go back into that dream.

  I shiver. I yank off the comforter. Time to get dressed. Time for Izzy to get up. Time for my father—if he’s home, but he must be home by now—I can talk with him about what we need to do once school starts. I resist the urge to shout out for him. I don’t want to scare Izzy if he’s not home. If he’s not home, I’ll go to the rehab center with Izzy and—I’ll do what? What if he’s not there? What will I say to my mother? What I need is a shower. I hurry into the bathroom and turn the water on as hot as it will go, plunge in. Pull my fingers through the morning knots. Douse them with conditioner. Drop my head back into the steaming water. I don’t want to think of Izzy, or my father, or anything for five minutes, not even Max and his invitation. Of course, I can’t go. I have responsibilities.

  My fingertips dig into my scalp. The scalding water churns my skin red and raw. Cut the water off. Step out of the shower. Izzy calls me, pounding through the house. My skin prickles.

  “Coming,” I whisper to the locked bathroom door.

  “Claire!”

  “I’m coming.”

  The mirror is fogged over.

  The other voice, Max’s voice, filters in. You’re not pretty.

  I want to scream.

  But he wants you to come to his party. Or was he just asking you because he felt sorry for you? You’re not pretty, isn’t that what he said?