Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  She gave him a final scratch and headed towards her study, the painful irony of her quip coming back in a cruel instant the moment the veterinarian told Amy and Patrick how Oscar died.

  12

  The veterinarian left the small white room, leaving Patrick and Amy by themselves.

  “I can’t believe this,” Patrick said. “How could I have been so goddamned stupid?”

  “Honey, it’s just as much my fault—hell, it’s even more my fault than it is yours.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “His behavior. I should have known something was wrong. He didn’t even want to eat this morning. And this is a dog that ate a severed finger for God’s sake.”

  Patrick flashed back to Crescent Lake. His family on the dock ready to fish. Caleb pulling what was supposed to be a worm from the bait container. Patrick spotting a fingernail, flinging it to the ground. Oscar approaching the finger and gobbling it up as though it were a cocktail weenie.

  He closed his eyes and willed the images away, almost angry at Amy for handing him the reel so he could watch them again. “You couldn’t have known,” he said.

  “But I’ve heard about it. I know how lethal antifreeze can be to pets,” she said.

  “You might have known that, but putting the two together … ?”

  “What?”

  “Well have we ever had a dog before? Have we ever had antifreeze leak on the driveway before? Whether you knew about what antifreeze does to pets or not, it isn’t a surprise you didn’t immediately make the connection. I knew about antifreeze and pets as well, and I never said anything. I could have told you not to let Oscar outside once you spotted the leak.”

  “But he never went back outside after you called. It must have happened right after he followed Carrie out to the bus. He took forever to come back inside. Now we know why. This is more my fault than anyone’s.” She dropped her head.

  He hugged her. “It’s nobody’s fault, baby. How could you have possibly made the assumption that a puddle of antifreeze was the reason Oscar took so long to head back inside? If we have to blame someone we can blame the stupid car.”

  “The doctor said if we brought Oscar in immediately they might have been able to save him,” she said.

  Patrick looked at the oval clock on the wall. 7:15 P.M.

  Amy continued. “I should have known something was wrong, antifreeze or not. I should have known—his behavior was so out of character.”

  Patrick pulled away and looked at her. She had tears in her eyes. “Honey, you can’t do this to yourself. It wasn’t like he was vomiting or freaking out or anything. You said he was just sleeping, that he looked tired, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay then. I wouldn’t have taken him to the vet either. I mean we can blame ourselves—and Lord knows we will—but at the end of the day, Oscar died as a result of an accident.”

  Amy looked away. When she looked back, Patrick read her mind and his blood ran cold.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “and you need to stop it now.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “I’m not even going to say it.” But he’d be lying if the thought didn’t flutter annoyingly around the periphery of his own psyche.

  Amy clucked her tongue. “Just more bad luck?”

  “Amy, stop. You know as well as I do that this was an accident.”

  She only stared. And it angered him. Yes his fears had indulged the very thoughts she was alluding to, but they were just that: fears. He knew the truth. And they both knew Jim was dead. Both knew Arty was locked up tight in Pittsburgh somewhere awaiting trial. And yet with that knowledge, after all their therapy, all the progress they had made, this is the immediate thing she jumps to after a bump in the road?

  Guilt. Yes—guilt was doing it. Her right mind knew that no one could be responsible. “You’re feeling guilty,” he said. “Your guilt is making you jump to irrational conclusions.”

  “So you’re saying this really is all my fault?”

  “No—I already told you, I’m just as much to blame. What I am telling you is that this is an accident, Amy. An accident.” He paused, wondering if he should say it. It was assuredly on both their minds; she had even hinted towards it. But to say it. Oh to say it. Screw this, he thought. We are not letting this set us back to square one. “And I don’t mean the kind of ‘accidents’ we had at Crescent Lake.”

  Amy twitched a little. Patrick knew it was his wife’s indomitable restraint that kept her rooted and composed. It reminded him of the old “two for flinching” game he played as a kid, where someone deliberately swung a hand in your face. If you flinched, two punches were your prize. Keeping still as the hand flew past your face was damned difficult, especially if caught off-guard. Well, Amy was on-guard, but the forever-tainted words that were Crescent Lake were a metaphoric swing from Mike Tyson. “Okay?” Patrick said.

  She did not break his gaze, but her shoulders dropped. “Fine. What are we going to tell the kids?”

  “You mean Carrie.”

  “Well—and Caleb.” She sighed. “But, yes … Carrie.”

  Patrick took a deep breath, let it out slow. “Well for starters we don’t tell her about the antifreeze. We simply tell her that Oscar was old, and …” He took another deep breath. “And that it was just his time, I guess.”

  Amy pulled a face. “Old? He had the energy of a jumping bean.”

  “Honey, he was a stray. We never did find out how old he actually was.”

  “He wasn’t old enough to die of natural causes.”

  “Well, yeah, you and I know that. But Carrie doesn’t have to.”

  Amy’s shoulders dropped some more and her eyes finally settled. “I know.”

  “We’ll tell her that Oscar was old, it was his time, and that he’ll be waiting for her at Rainbow Bridge.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll find it online when we get home. It’s a beautiful little piece written by an anonymous author about what happens to pets when they die. It gets me choked up every time I read it.” He then added quickly: “But not in a sad way. In a happy way. You’ll understand when you read it.”

  Amy sighed. “Okay. Why don’t I drop you off at home, you can find the Rainbow Bridge thing, and I’ll go pick up the kids at your parents’.”

  “Sounds good.” He held out his hand. She took it, squeezed it, but did not move into him.

  “I still can’t believe this,” she said.

  He did not pull her in, just squeezed back and shared her grief with a sympathetic smile. “I know. I can’t either.”

  • • •

  Monica sat in the waiting room, a magazine covering her face. The door to the small white room opened and both Patrick and Amy stepped out. The receptionist offered her condolences as they left.

  Monica set the magazine on the chair next to her and approached the receptionist. “Sad,” she said.

  The receptionist, a heavy young girl in blue scrubs, nodded with genuine compassion and said, “Yeah.”

  “Lost their dog, huh?” Monica said.

  The receptionist nodded.

  Monica smiled inside. “Shame,” she said.

  “Yeah,” the receptionist whined. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if something happened to my baby.”

  “Me neither,” Monica said for some reason.

  “What kind of dog do you have?”

  “Pug,” popped into her head.

  “Me too.” The receptionist’s face brightened. “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl.”

  “Me too.” The receptionist was giddy now. “She’s the most precious thing in the whole world. Her name’s Sophia. What about yours?”

  Monica wanted to hit her. To hurt her. This exchange they were having. This … exchange … as though they were the same species.

  “Cunt,” Monica said.

  The receptionist stopped smiling. Softly, she said, “What?”

  Monica was
not smiling, nor was she brooding. She spoke in a calm, confident manner that held the strange blend of patronizing courtesy. “Cunt,” she said again.

  The young girl flushed, spoke softer still. “I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “Weren’t you … weren’t you just telling me the name … ?”

  “The name of what?”

  The receptionist cleared her throat, her fair skin looking suddenly scorched by the sun. “The name of your pug.”

  “I don’t have a pug.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “I don’t have a pug.”

  The receptionist broke eye contact, feigned interest in a stack of papers in front of her. Quickly, she said, “Okay, well you have a good day then.”

  Monica stayed put. The receptionist kept her head down, shuffling the papers aimlessly like an anxious child might twist a lock of hair. She risked a peek up without lifting her head.

  Monica was still staring at her.

  The receptionist dropped her head into the papers again. There was a silver bell on the counter. Monica hit it and the receptionist jumped. She then started to cry—silent tears from eyes still too frightened to look up, dripping down her full red cheeks.

  Monica smiled and left.

  • • •

  On her way to the car, Monica went for a cigarette but found the pack empty. She cursed, crumpled the pack into a ball, and tossed it to the ground.

  “Excuse me.”

  Monica turned.

  A woman, mid-40’s, leading a small white poodle by a pink leash. “You just threw your trash on the ground.”

  “I know,” Monica said.

  “Well that’s disgraceful. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Monica approached the woman until they were a foot apart. She was pleasant when she said: “Say that again?”

  “I said—”

  Monica slammed her forehead into the woman’s face. A dull crack echoed in her ears as the woman’s nose exploded. Monica’s belly tingled as the woman hit the pavement ass-first and then slowly rocked backwards until she lay like a starfish on the ground. Monica bent over the woman and waved a hand back and forth above her bloodied face. The woman did not acknowledge her. She stared up at the sky, eyes wide and glassy, mouth opening and closing without words like a dying fish. Complete shock.

  The only definitive sound thereafter came from the poodle, whose relentless yap seemed its only means of attack as it maintained a guarded distance from the stranger who had floored its master.

  Monica glanced at the dog as she brought two fingers to her forehead (it felt wet) and wiped away blood. The stupid woman had bled on her. Monica squatted down and held her bloodied fingers out to the poodle. The dog cautiously approached, sniffed, and then began licking Monica’s fingers.

  Finished, Monica then guided the poodle with her two fingers towards its still horizontal master’s face, where more of the same delicious red goo its palate had been tantalized with was leaking in abundance. The poodle instantly began licking away, and the dazed woman could only lie there and allow it.

  Even though she really wanted a cigarette, Monica still drove off thinking today had been a great day.

  13

  Patrick and Amy each took a side of Carrie’s bed as she sobbed in the middle. Caleb had cried briefly, but it was more a cry of empathy for his sister; he was not as attached to Oscar as she was. He remained in his bedroom while Amy and Patrick took turns soothing their daughter.

  “I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” Carrie cried.

  Patrick stroked her silken hair. “I know, sweetie. We’re so sorry.” He glanced up at Amy. Her eyes were already on him, and he’d have bet his left nut she was thinking the same exact thing he was: Our fault, our fault, our fault.

  Amy took her eyes off Patrick and wiped the tears from Carrie’s cheeks. “Have you ever heard of Rainbow Bridge, honey?”

  Carrie looked up at her mother with swollen wet eyes and a runny nose. “Huh?”

  “Rainbow Bridge,” Patrick said. As he had promised Amy, the first thing Patrick had done when they got home was rush to the computer and perform a Google search for “Rainbow Bridge.” Sure enough, the anonymous piece appeared on several links. He clicked one, changed a few things—added Oscar’s name to make it personal, omitted or substituted words Carrie may not understand—printed it, and now held it in front of his daughter.

  Carrie fixed on her father and the piece of paper. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Would you like me to read it to you?” Patrick said.

  “What is it?” she asked again.

  Amy stroked her hair. “It’s where Oscar is, sweetie.”

  Carrie’s head whipped towards her mother. “He’s not dead?”

  Patrick felt sick. And once again he felt Amy’s eyes leaning on him, sharing the grief. He did not look at her this time; he couldn’t. Instead he swallowed (it went down like peanut butter) and focused solely on Carrie.

  “No, honey—Oscar is still gone. But he’s in a wonderful place. A place called Rainbow Bridge. Would you like Daddy to tell you about it?”

  Carrie’s head had turned slowly back to her father after he had dismissed the hopeful notion that Oscar was still alive, and her eyes were heavy again. She nodded towards her father and that was all.

  Patrick cleared his throat, twice. He almost asked Amy for a glass of water before starting:

  “Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

  All the animals who had been ill and old like Oscar are restored to perfect health. Those who were hurt are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and full of joy, except for one small thing: they each miss someone very special to them who had to be left behind.”

  Carrie started to cry again. Both Amy and Patrick consoled her until the crying softened to intermittent sniffles. Patrick continued:

  “They all run and play together, but the day comes when Oscar suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His eyes are bright. His excited body quivers. Suddenly Oscar begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

  You have been spotted! And when you and Oscar finally meet, you cling together in a gigantic hug, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress his beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

  Then you and Oscar cross Rainbow Bridge together….”

  Patrick expected more tears. His delight was off the charts when he saw hope and joy in his daughter’s eyes.

  “Is all that really true?” she asked. “Oscar’s at Rainbow Bridge waiting for me?”

  Patrick smiled and nodded. Carrie turned to her mother. Amy smiled and nodded.

  Carrie frowned for a moment, her lips tightening. “But when I go to heaven, I’ll be old. Will Oscar still remember me?”

  “Of course,” Patrick said. “That’s what Rainbow Bridge is all about. Right now he’s just playing and having fun and waiting for you to arrive. He will never forget you. Ever.”

  Carrie’s frown left. Her tight lips softened and eventually became a smile. “I like Rainbow Bridge.”

  Patrick didn’t know who wrote it, but if he ever found out, he was buying him or her a diamond-studded diamond wrapped in diamonds. “I’m so glad, baby,” he said as he kissed her forehead. “You feel a little better?”

  “A little,” she said. Her eyes were still puffy, but the tears were drying.

  Amy took her turn kissing her daughter before she and Patrick tucked her in. Wh
en Patrick checked on her ten minutes later, Carrie was already fast asleep. He hoped she was dreaming about Oscar and Rainbow Bridge.

  14

  Monica Kemp watched her father appear among the masses at the gates of Philadelphia International Airport. He was not hard to miss. Six-foot-one and two hundred and fifty pounds of solid mass that made men half his fifty-two years glance in envy, John Brooks could have easily been mistaken for a retired linemen of the Philadelphia Eagles, returning to his old stomping grounds. A retired linemen who opted for a gym as opposed to a couch after retirement.

  Monica, catching glances from young men herself (for exceptionally different reasons), was dressed in posh attire that hugged every curve of her tight figure with a design that allowed teasing glimpses of skin while still maintaining a decent level of warmth during the winter season.

  John wore faded jeans, a grey wool coat, and boots.

  “You always dress that way?” he immediately asked, setting his bag down to hug her.

  She hugged him back and said, “Like what?”

  He grabbed her shoulders, held her back at arms length, looked her up down. “That. You look like some rich celebrity.”

  “I am rich,” she smiled.

  He gave her a face. “You’re hard to forget looking like that.”

  “This look,” she began contemptuously, “is one of many. I can be a bag-lady with a dead security guard tucked away in a utility closet in under five minutes.”

  “Scary.” He picked up his bag.

  She shook her head and could not help but smirk at him. “Such an asshole.”

  They walked side by side towards the escalators. A man and his teenage son were a step in front, but John shoved them to one side as he and Monica boarded the top of the escalator. The man went to open his mouth, but John need only glance at him before the man snapped it shut.

  “What’s our itinerary?” he asked as they descended. “When can I see Arthur?”