The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

by David Wroblewski

  Afterward she fell back into bed. Was it time for her next set of pills? Or had she taken them? One late afternoon had begun to look much like the next, but she was sure she had taken the pills before she called Frost. The antibiotics made her terribly sleepy. She recalled Edgar standing in the bedroom doorway, telling her that things were going smoothly in the kennel. He’d grown so serious since his father’s death.

  She rolled over. Sleep was the important thing. The way these things worked, tomorrow she would wake up on the other side of it. The fever would have broken, and she would sit up, read a bit, make some phone calls. Get on top of the paperwork.

  She took the vial of pills from the dresser and shook them onto the blanket and counted them. It was surprising. So many left.

  ON THE FIFTH EVENING, Edgar slipped into the house, checked on his mother, and ate dinner. After washing dishes, he and Almondine walked to the barn to do the chores, but when they got there, exhaustion settled on him like a lead blanket. The straw bales felt luxurious, the pillow soft as a cloud, and for the first night in a long time, there were no dreams. He awoke with Almondine breathing in his face. The windup alarm clock said two o’clock. He sat up and rubbed a hand across his face. There was something wrong with that. He hadn’t done the evening chores.

  He could get away with leaving everything else until morning, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving the dogs without water, and as long as he was going to do that, he could feed them, too. He scooped a mound of kibble into the middle of the aisle and filled a bucket of water from the tap in the medicine room. When he threw open their doors, his litter bounded into the aisle, bumping his legs and dashing for the food. He’d piled up enough for all the dogs, not just three or four pens’ worth, and he needed to get them out fast so that the first ones didn’t gorge themselves and leave the last ones hungry. By the time he’d gone down the aisle, eighteen dogs were scrambling over the cement floor, jockeying for position. Edgar stepped into a pen and began to fill the water trough.

  He never saw what started the fight. There was a yelp, and from the corner of his eye he saw a dog leap into the air. Finch. He dropped the pail of water and stepped into the aisle and that was all the time it took for him to realize the enormity of his mistake. One dog in motion at a time, his mother had said. It was one of many rules in the kennel, rules that didn’t always make sense, or even seem important, until some situation drew the lesson out.

  Finch landed and nosed his right hind leg and turned back to the mass of dogs, head lowered, grimacing nastily to show his teeth. He spun to face one of the older females, a dog named Epi, dominant in her litter, bigger than Finch, and not in the least fearful.

  In all his life, Edgar had seen only one real dog fight. That had been broken up when his parents sprayed water on the antagonists, hauling them away by their tails. Later, his father said a person never, ever reached between fighting dogs. To make his point, he’d pulled up his sleeve and shown Edgar the puckered scar running along the axis of his forearm, jagged and shiny. A dog in a fight will bite before it realizes what it’s doing, he’d said. It won’t mean to hurt you, but it will see motion and react.

  Some of the dogs were backing away from Finch and Epi, hackles raised. Edgar clapped his hands, grabbed two dogs, and hauled them into the nearest pen. Then another two. The noise had grown instantly deafening. He kenneled Tinder, Essay, and Pout. Baboo had already retreated to his run; Edgar shoved Opal and Umbra in after him and ran down the aisle wrestling dogs into their pens one after another and slinging shut the doors.

  When he turned, only three dogs remained in the kennel aisle: Finch, Epi, and Almondine. Finch lay on his back. Epi stood over him, jaws buried in the fur at the base of his throat. On her muzzle there was a smear of red. Finch alternately lay limp and struggled to escape. A pace away, Almondine stood with her lips raised, growling, but the moment she stepped forward, Epi released Finch and lashed her muzzle toward Almondine, ears flattened. Almondine jerked her head away but stood her ground.

  The important thing was to separate them. Edgar ran forward, coming at Epi from behind. He thought briefly of kicking her to force her away, but he’d have to kick hard, maybe hard enough to injure her, and he wouldn’t do that. Anyway, he was too close and running too fast. When he reached Epi’s hindquarters, he simply threw himself at her.

  Later, he would try to understand it all from Epi’s point of view. Someone had appeared over her shoulder. A dog’s eyes are oriented along the axis of their muzzle, with less peripheral vision than a human being. Edgar intended to thread his fingers through her collar and pin her to the ground using the momentum of his fall, like his mother sometimes did when a dog refused to down. Done right, a dog would be flattened before it had time to resist. If you had enough surprise. If you used enough force. If you got a solid grip on its collar.

  Edgar wound up with none of these.

  Epi threw her body sideways until her hind feet skidded out on the smooth cement. She could have turned and fled, but her mind was geared toward engagement, and by the time Edgar rolled onto his side, she towered over him. All he could do was loop two fingers through her collar, but without his hands free, he couldn’t issue a command, and Epi wouldn’t have obeyed anyway.

  If it was idiotic to step into a dogfight, it was suicidal to fall into one. He lay on his back, Epi’s body suspended over him, all arcs of muscle and fur, and before he could move, she stepped back, arched her neck, and bit him.

  In fact, she bit him twice, lightning fast. The first time, her teeth barely touched his skin, as if she were taking bearings, but the second time was for real and by then he was resigned to it, even felt she had the right. The surprise was that she restrained herself, suppressed the bite pressure that could have crushed the bones in his forearm, checked the upward jerk that could have sliced across tendon, muscle, and vein from wrist to elbow in a track just like his father’s. Instead, a flicker of recognition appeared in her amber eyes. She was a good dog, just besieged and confused, and when the point of her canine tooth penetrated his arm, she froze.

  Then Almondine’s muzzle entered his field of vision from the right. She was taking no chances. Epi was younger and stronger, and if Almondine had ever been in a dogfight, it was so long past that Edgar could not recall it. But Almondine didn’t want to fight. She wanted Epi off him, off her boy. She didn’t bark or growl, she didn’t try to bite Epi’s neck or harry Epi into releasing Edgar’s arm.

  At that moment, Almondine had one idea: to blind Epi.

  TRUDY SAT UP IN BED, annoyed and confused. In her dream, Gar had been on the television, talking to her, so it was terrible enough to wake up at all, and doubly bad when she understood that what had woken her was the dogs, barking and crying, every one of them. Her first thought was that an animal had gotten into the barn. This happened every so often, though God knew why, since the place surely reeked of dog. But once inside, the sounds either paralyzed the animal or drove it into a mindless panic. One time it had been a raccoon; another, unbelievably, a cat. The uproar that had ensued sounded alarmingly like what she now heard coming from the barn.

  She tried to stand but lost her balance and began to cough. A yellow haze spread across her vision. Pain shot along her ribs. She sat down on the corner of the bed. The house was pitch dark. She tried calling to Edgar, but she couldn’t raise her voice above a whisper. When she felt strong enough to stand again she made her way slowly to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Edgar?” she said. “Edgar?”

  She waited for a light to come on in his room, or for Almondine to appear. When neither happened, she walked up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, she paused for breath. His bedroom door was open. She walked to the doorway and turned on the overhead light.

  The sheets had been carelessly pulled off, the pillow and blankets gone. She made her way down the stairs again, her movements slow and cautious. Something bad was happening in the barn. She pulled on a pair of slacks and a shirt over her
nightgown, slipped her feet into unlaced boots, and opened the door.

  EDGAR’S EYES WERE FIXED on the sight of Epi’s jaws on his forearm, how his skin had rucked up around her canine tooth like a loose stocking. There was no blood yet, and no pain, only a pulling sensation in the skin of his arm.

  And so, lying there on the floor, all he saw was a blur and then a gash opened near Epi’s eye. Then Almondine’s muzzle was stretched wide next to Epi’s face and a sound came from her he’d never before heard from a dog—not a bark, but a scream, so raw and ferocious and bloody that, for all the baying and howling of the dogs until that moment, the kennel might as well have been silent.

  Epi released his arm and scrambled backward. Before he could move, Almondine had straddled him and when he tried to sit up, she thumped him with her hip hard enough to knock him over, as if he were a pup. He had to scoot from beneath her to climb to his feet. Her pelt contracted when he touched her.

  Epi had retreated to the front of the barn, alternately growling and nosing the door. A trail of black drops led across the cement. She pawed at her muzzle and shook her head. Edgar led Almondine to the medicine room and flashed his hands over her. She wasn’t cut or bleeding. He stayed her, firmly, and turned to Finch. He led the dog to the center of the aisle where the light was brightest. He wouldn’t take any weight on his left front foot. When Edgar tried to examine him, Finch jerked his leg away, but not before Edgar saw the gash near the dog’s left elbow, and a flash of white through the dog’s blood-matted coat. He ran his hands along Finch’s muzzle and throat. His fingers came back wet, but not bloody.

  Kennel up, he signed. Finch hobbled to his pen. Once the latch was closed, he turned to Epi, pacing near the front door. Whenever he made eye contact with her, she flattened her ears against her skull and lifted her hackles. Her cheek looked like it had been opened with a knife. The sight made his heart thud.

  He’d knelt and begun to coax Epi forward when the door swung open and his mother stood illuminated against the night. Instantly, Epi bolted, forcing his mother to step back and grab the door to keep her balance. She watched Epi flee into the darkness, then turned to Edgar.

  What are you doing here? he signed, frantically.

  “What’s going on?”

  There was a problem. A fight.

  “But it’s the middle of the night. Your arm—are you hurt?”

  He looked down. Blood was smeared across his shirtsleeve. He couldn’t tell if it was his or Finch’s. He pushed it flat against his side, hoping to conceal the gash on his forearm.

  I don’t think so. Not much. But Epi’s face is cut. She’s going to need stitches. Almondine bit her. Finch is lame. I can’t tell how bad.

  His mother teetered and corrected herself.

  You shouldn’t be outside, he signed. Go back to the house.

  He tried to turn her around.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “Look at your arm.”

  Go back to the house. First let’s do that.

  “Edgar, I’m here already. I might as well stay.”

  No! Doctor Frost said you could end up in the hospital! He said you could die!

  She started to respond, but a coughing fit doubled her over. When it passed, he steered her into the night. It wasn’t especially cold for spring, but neither was it warm, and he wanted to get her to the house. Then he remembered Almondine. She sat near the medicine room, watching them from the aisle. He clapped his leg, but she wouldn’t budge.

  Come on, he signed. Come on! We don’t have time to screw around. She took a few steps forward, then faltered and sank to the cement.

  He turned to his mother. Just go, he signed. Please.

  Almondine was up again by the time he reached her, walking unsteadily toward the door. He hovered alongside.

  What is it? he signed. What? What?

  By the time he’d slung the kennel doors closed after her, she’d regained some equilibrium and she trotted behind his mother. He shooed them all up the porch steps. Once inside, Almondine lay down again, panting. He dropped to his knees beside her.

  Something’s wrong, he signed. She stumbled, back in the barn.

  “Was she bitten?”

  No. I checked.

  He slid his hand under her belly and motioned her up. He lifted her feet and flexed her joints, watching for a wince. His mother made him describe Finch’s injuries and Epi’s; she didn’t ask how any of it had happened, or how Almondine had been involved. She just looked at Edgar like he wasn’t making sense.

  We need to call someone, Edgar signed. He kicked the floor in frustration.

  His mother began to talk through the options. “Page is in Florida until…” She glanced at the calendar on the wall. “It’s what? Wednesday? He won’t be back until next Monday.”

  I’m not talking about Doctor Papineau, he signed.

  “There’s no use calling that vet in Ashland. Not in the middle of the night. He’ll never…”

  But Edgar was shaking his head.

  “Well, what then?” she said, annoyed. “If we can get them in the truck, I could drive…”

  He lifted the telephone receiver and set it on the countertop.

  Call Claude, he signed. Call him right now.

  Epi’s Stand

  TRUDY SAT AT THE TABLE AND WATCHED EDGAR CLOSE THE kitchen door as he headed out again to find Epi. She’d made coffee, hoping it would clear her head, and a cup sat on the table issuing ribbons of steam. The overhead light starred and sparked in the periphery of her vision. She found it hard not to squint and would have walked to the switch to turn off the lights but she lacked the energy and possibly the balance.

  Something had changed. It was difficult to gauge exactly what, but every movement ached. She could draw a deep breath, but when she exhaled there was a wheeze in her right lung, the sound transmitted through her flesh and bones. She shivered and sweated at the same time. This is the sort of thing that made people believe in possession, she thought. And she did feel inhabited, taken over, usurped by something blind and ferocious. What had Doctor Frost said about the antibiotics? How long before they took hold? The walls of the kitchen receded alarmingly. She felt a doubling, a sense of being inside her body and floating above herself at the same time.

  She closed her eyes to shut it out. After a time, she jerked awake.

  Just stay awake, she told herself. But the reason escaped her.

  She stood. She made her way toward the bedroom, watching it all from above, her blue and shrunken hands reaching forward, gripping the counter, Almondine, lying on her side by the refrigerator, panting, the kitchen table with the now-cool cup of coffee, the feed store calendar with a picture of a farm hanging by the door. How oddly the veins crawled over the bones of her fingers. She was wearing an old flannel shirt of Gar’s over her nightgown. Her hair stood out in a wild tangle.

  When she reached the bedroom door she stopped to look at Almondine. She’d had some sort of spell in the barn, Edgar had said, but Almondine was fine. She lay there resting, showing none of the inward look of a dog in pain. She was just old. Edgar needed to start babying Almondine, stop expecting her to have the energy she’d had five years ago. Trudy thought of the very first night Almondine spent in that house, a bumbling ten-week-old. There’d been a thunderstorm, she remembered, and Almondine had whined half the night, frightened and lonely for her littermates. Now her muzzle had grayed and she couldn’t stand up quickly after a long sleep. But her gaze was as steady and clear as it had ever been. That gaze was what had made them choose her out of all the other pups. Nowadays it seemed to take in more than Almondine could possibly express, and it gave her a sad, pensive look.

  Trudy closed the bedroom door behind her. She dragged a twist of linen across her shoulders and lay back. Someone was coming. Page? No, Claude. There’d been a dogfight. She’d tried to get Edgar to explain as he maneuvered her back to the house, but he’d said he would explain later, and she lacked the strength to argue. More and more, he was his fa
ther’s son, so certain he was right.

  In the morning she would call Doctor Frost and tell him the antibiotics weren’t working.

  There was a chance he would want to send her to the hospital.

  Perhaps she’d give it one more day.

  CLAUDE ARRIVED IN A SNOUTY, mean-looking car with the letters SS overhanging the front grill. Impala, said the insignia on the blue scoop of its front fender. It was a twenty-minute drive from Mellen, and unless Claude had been ready to key the ignition the moment his mother called, Edgar thought, he’d driven very fast. Claude brought the car to a halt near the barn, where Edgar stood waiting.

  “Your mom said there was fight?” Claude asked. The odor of beer and cigarettes clung to him like a halo.

  Edgar handed across the note he had written in advance.

  Epi is behind the barn. I can’t get near her.

  “Where is she hurt?”

  He ran his finger along his eyebrow.

  Claude cupped his hands in front of his mouth and shivered and looked up at the night sky. His breath whitened in the air. He walked past Edgar and into the barn. In the medicine room he rifled the cabinets. When he was finished, he turned back empty-handed.

  “Is there still Prestone in the milk house?” he asked.

  Edgar looked at him.

  “You know, starter fluid. We used it in the tractor last fall. There was almost a full can back then. Go see how much is left.”