Monstrous Affections

by David Nickle

“It’s Father’s Webley revolver,” said Wallace. He held it out. “You can hold it.”

  Rupert touched it, but pulled back before Wallace could put the weight of it in his hands. The revolver was for officers; Rupert didn’t feel right about holding it, not unless an officer said he could, and even then . . . Wallace shrugged and took it back in his own arms. He cradled it like it was a baby.

  “There’s no bullets in it,” he said. “I know where they are, though.”

  “Put it back,” said Rupert. “Come on.”

  Wallace shook his head. “Remember how I said we have to stick together, brother?”

  Rupert swallowed, and nodded.

  Carefully, Wallace unwrapped the straps from the holster, and with one hand pulled the revolver out. It was huge in his hand, butt curved like the blade of a scythe. The barrel was short, but wide.

  “Good,” he said, holding the gun so it pointed out the window, toward town. He closed one eye and sighted down the barrel. But the gun was heavy enough he couldn’t hold it that way for long. “’Cause tomorrow, we’re going to have to.”

  “Put it back,” said Rupert again.

  “Yeah.” Wallace slipped it back into the holster and set it back in the drawer. “Don’t worry, brother. We’ll be safe.”

  “Safe from what?”

  Wallace slid the drawer shut, and walked over to the Maxim.

  “There’s — ” Wallace hesitated. A dog, is how he should have finished, but the word dog wasn’t the word he was looking for to describe the dog that had assailed him that morning. “There’s a beast,” he said. “We can’t let it be.”

  “What do you mean to do? And what do you mean ‘we’?”

  Wallace took hold of the grip of the Maxim. He sighted down it.

  “I mean we,” he said. “And you know what happens if we’re not?”

  Rupert didn’t have to say. He knew. “Tell me about this beast,” he said instead, and listened, as Wallace described the thing, and what he meant them to do about it.

  Rupert said the Grace at supper. Mrs. Gleason said he did fine, but Rupert knew he hadn’t; he’d mumbled and stuttered through the whole blessing, and when he sat down he was sweating. Helen poured him a tall glass of water at the end of it. She even said, “You’re very welcome, Rupert,” and smiled at him after he thanked her.

  Meantime, Wallace brooded. He had wanted to get his father to tell the story of the Webley again, but Rupert had said that wouldn’t be a good idea, given everything he had in mind. Wallace didn’t see what the problem was. His father told the story often enough, whether to the family, or to pals over draft beer at the tavern. He had been in transit, promoted to lieutenant after his lieutenant had taken a bullet, on his way back to the war.

  Well, you must understand, an army officer doesn’t come from places like Fenlan, where we work with our hands and our backs. Officers are fancy fellows. Gentry. They ought to have a sidearm. They bloody well ought to provide it themselves.

  And for officers commissioned on the home front, that’s an easy thing. For those of us who send our pay home . . . something else again. So. (And he rubbed his hands together, and got a wicked look to his eyes.) There I am, on a troop transport crossing the channel. Back to action. And there are a band of officers, young fellows. From the Imperial army. They stick together — even sleeping together, lying like spokes of a wagon wheel, heads at the rim, feet in the middle. And in the middle of that: they stack their pistols.

  And so I wait . . . I wait until the last of them starts snoring. And everso-quiet, I step between them, and snatch one of their pistols — a Webley revolver, short-barrelled like they carry in the Royal Navy. And creep back to where I’m billeted with the Canadians — tuck the gun away with my kit — and under the bright stars of Heaven, sleep the sleep of the just.

  And the next day, sure enough, we’re sitting at breakfast, and isn’t one of those fellows complaining at me: how blimey an’ dash it, you can’t trust an enlisted man. “They’ll steal your sidearm, fast as look at you!”

  “What,” I say back, “is the world coming to?”

  And Father would chuckle. The same chuckle, every time he told the tale, at the same time in it. The chuckle was part of the story. And it was a great story.

  But Rupert had been clear. “You want to do this thing, don’t go letting anyone think you’re thinking about it. Not that I think you should do it.”

  So Wallace sat and ate his supper and Rupert held himself in check, and at the end of it, Wallace saw Rupert to the end of the driveway and bade him good night.

  Wallace Gleason rose early. It was easy, he told Rupert when they met at the foot of the Gleason driveway. He had not truly gone to sleep.

  “I didn’t want to let anything happen to the gun,” he said, yawning, stretching. The butt of the Webley appeared as his shirt stretched past it. The casual gesture made Rupert nervous, and he looked around quickly. But they were alone on the road.

  “Is it loaded?” he asked, and Wallace nodded.

  “But there’s no bullet in the chamber,” explained Wallace. “So we’re safe.”

  “Just stop stretching,” said Rupert, and they headed into town, to school.

  Rupert had not slept much either, and when he did sleep, his rest was troubled by dreams: of a huge, black-pelted wolf lurking atop the hay bales of Rupert’s barn . . . watching his brothers as they flung open the doors, as they came into the great, dark space, unwitting . . . the flash of its red eyes, the only hint that it was there, hunting.

  He knew, in the light of morning, that this nightmare hound was not Wallace’s beast. The same as he knew that taking the Captain’s revolver to the dog that had troubled Wallace so was a dangerous game.

  It was a game, however, that he couldn’t quit. There was more at stake than friendship.

  They started to school — along the route that Wallace and Rupert always took. First, a mile along the concession road. They passed three other farms before getting to the road between the farms, and the town. Another mile or perhaps a bit more, on this road. The dog’s road.

  Along here, the properties were smaller, and farther from one another. Anyone farming what soil there was, would be doing it to feed themselves rather than for market. Most of the houses along here were not even managing that. Roofs needed shingling; fences, a coat of paint. There were no lawns, few gardens. Neither Rupert nor Wallace knew anyone who lived here. As far as they knew, no one did.

  They slowed past one. Rupert peered up the driveway — a short ribbon of dirt and gravel, dressed in low flowering weed. The house at the end of it was one floor, with a small porch on the front. The wood had been painted a pale green. The shingles were green with moss. An apple tree bent close to the south side. Looking close, Rupert could see the bruised red curves of fruit that had fallen into the high grass.

  Wallace stood on the balls of his feet, craning his neck as though there were a fence to look over. The house was quiet.

  “This is the place,” Wallace said gravely. He worked the Webley’s grip where it protruded over his belt, kept peering at the house. Rupert stood there with him, and looked.

  This wasn’t how the plan was supposed to go. Wallace had gone over it just minutes before.

  Okay, so this dog (he’d started to call it a dog by that morning) . . . it comes down the driveway. Fast. So fast you have to run. It’s like you don’t have a choice. The dog knows this. And it gets on you. On your tail. And then you’re done for. Except this time, when the dog comes . . . we’ll trick it. It’ll start coming at us, and then I’ll take the Webley. And I’ll sight down the barrel (he checked around, then pulled the gun out, and sighted down the barrel). And then: I’ll let fly (and he made a quiet sound like a pistol report through his teeth). And that’ll be the end of that damn dog.

  “Maybe it only sees you when you’re moving,” said Wallace. “We should go back, and walk by the driveway again.”

  “We should just go to school,” said Ru
pert. “Maybe on the way home . . .”

  But Wallace was already doubling back, beckoning him to follow. Rupert sighed and walked back one house, and then they both turned around and crossed the driveway again.

  It was the same this time as the last: nothing.

  Wallace stood as he had before, staring at the house. A pickup truck rolled past them on the road into town. It kicked up a small cloud of dirt around them; the morning sun through the leaves gave it a glow like magic dust.

  Wallace’s mouth turned down at the corner, and he glared through it at the house. He swore under his breath, and then at volume: “Goddamn.” Rupert, liking the look of the dust in the light, kicked up more dust with his feet. And looking down, he spied Wallace’s grammar text. He picked it up.

  “Hey,” he said. “You drop this?”

  “Goddamn!” Wallace’s face went red, and his shirt went up, and the Webley drew across his white belly, and it was pointing right at Rupert.

  The gun barrel wavered in Rupert’s face, and as the dust settled around them, Rupert thought about their battle a week ago in the dust, the sickening feeling of Wallace’s fist in his face, the taste of dirt, and wondered: Should I have apologized?

  The book fell from his hands. And after a long moment, Wallace lowered the gun.

  “I won’t shoot you,” he said flatly. “We got to stick together.”

  “Don’t point that at me again,” said Rupert.

  “I already said I won’t shoot you.” Wallace bent down and picked up the book. Tucked it into his bag one-handed, while the Webley dangled from the other.

  “The dog — ” Rupert was about to say that it wasn’t coming. But as he spoke, he glanced at the house. The screen door rattled, and through the slats in the porch railing, he could see the flank of an animal. Wallace saw it too.

  “Goddamn,” he said, and crouched down.

  Rupert looked some more, and finished the thought. “The dog isn’t coming.”

  The dog had settled on the porch, at the end near the apple tree. Squinting, they could make out his eyes — unblinking, peering through the slats and the high grass at them.

  “Should we walk past again?” asked Rupert. Wallace hushed him.

  “I’m gonna see if I can hit him.”

  “Not from here you can’t.”

  “I bet I could.”

  Rupert shook his head. “Best luck, you’ll just wound him. Then he’ll be angry, like a bear.”

  Wallace considered this — and, Rupert hoped, considered the wisdom of retreat — just putting the Webley away, dumping the bullets first, and going on to school, grammar text retrieved and calling the game even. But Wallace was considering something else. His lips set thin against his teeth, and he nodded briskly. “You’re right,” he said, and pulled off his book bag, and set it down in the slope of the ditch. Then, keeping low, Webley held in both hands, he made his way up the driveway.

  Rupert didn’t follow. It felt like the dream, him watching his brothers file into the barn — the wolf, hiding in wait. He couldn’t do anything then. He couldn’t — wouldn’t — couldn’t do anything that morning. Not anything but watch, as Wallace walked down the driveway, gun held in front of him.

  The dog shifted, and Rupert could no longer see its eyes. Wallace could, and he lifted the gun. “Here, doggy,” he said. His voice sounded higher. The gun wavered in front of him, as Wallace tried to sight down the barrel.

  A low growl came from the porch. Even as far as the end of the driveway, it raised hackles on Rupert’s neck. Wallace moved his finger behind the trigger guard — touched the curve of the trigger. Peered through the grass and the slats, looking for the eyes.

  And then, as he watched — the dog vanished. There was nothing but the peeling green paint on the porch; the screen door, half-ajar.

  Wallace didn’t see the dog leap. Rupert did. It was the first time he saw the dog in full, in morning light. It was a beast.

  It came up over the railing of the porch fast — touching it with front paw, then pushing off a second time with its hindquarters. The old wood of the railing protested at the launch, and the animal flew, a twisting, dark missile. It came down hard amid the high grass. Then it came up. And down again, lost in a swirl of weed. Up once more, lunging high and throwing off barks like punches — as Wallace raised the gun.

  Rupert shut his eyes, expecting thunder from the Webley’s short barrel, and the barking to turn into a short yelp, and a thump! Then maybe another shot, to finish the kill. He shut his eyes and then held his breath.

  There was no shot. Rupert opened his eyes. He looked out at the empty yard. Held in perfect silence, for a perfect instant — long enough, just, to let him think: Wallace is gone.

  Then the dog’s back, curved and shaking, emerged over the grass. And the scream came. It was a bleat — a baby scream. It was, a deep part of Rupert knew, how he’d sounded, pressed into the dirt, crying out under the flurry of Wallace’s fists.

  The grass rustled and the dog’s head came up, eyes turning to show thin crescents of white. It dropped again and another cry came, and Rupert, a shameful grin seeding his face, thought:

  Wallace is gone.

  He couldn’t even pull a trigger, thought Rupert. He couldn’t even manage that.

  Rupert bent down, and reached into the scrub. His hand closed around a rock. And he stood straight, and without aiming, he pitched it. The rock went too far, clattering onto the porch and falling just short of a window. He picked up two rocks next time, one in each hand, and he threw them fast, one after another.

  The second rock hit home and the next fell short. The dog yelped and its muzzle flashed up as the third rock thumped into the ground. Rupert and the dog met eyes an instant. Its eyes were not red but black, as unreadable as a bug’s. Its teeth flashed. It growled.

  Rupert reached down again. His hand closed around sand and pebbles, and by reflex, he flung them, not even standing up to do so. They made a rushing sound as they cascaded off the leaves of a shrub.

  The dog snapped its jaw. It barked twice. Rupert reached down again. This time his hand found a bigger rock, rounded at the edges but flattened, like the wing of an aeroplane. It was wedged in hard-packed dirt. Sand tore at the flesh on Rupert’s knuckles as he wedged his fingers underneath to pry it up. The dog barked again. It started toward him.

  Rupert strained. The rock came up. It was the size of a lunch plate, and heavy. Half of it was dark with soil. A centipede fell from it as Rupert drew back. The dog came up again, and he could see its tongue, lolling behind fangs that were long and yellow, sharp as a snake’s.

  Wallace appeared over the grass — rising up on one knee. His face was filthy, and one arm was red with his blood. His eyes were wide and wet. He didn’t have the gun. He wouldn’t look at Rupert.

  Rupert threw the rock overhand. So hard his shoulder wrenched. He would not be able to throw again with that shoulder, it hurt so badly. The rock spun through the air. It hit the dog in the head with a crack!, glanced off it and thumped to the ground. The dog yelped and turned.

  Wallace ran, parallel to the road, across the yard. He stumbled in the grass before sobbing, and righting himself, and for a moment, Rupert thought the dog was going to take off after Wallace. Rupert didn’t care. He turned too, running as fast as he could, heading to town, the school.

  They met up half a mile on, out front of the Baptist church. Even then, the two didn’t speak until they neared the school. Wallace had rolled his shirtsleeve around so the blood didn’t show, at least not much. Rupert jammed his scraped hand into the pocket of his trousers. Both kept their faces still, eyes on the road ahead — and that was all it took for two battered boys to make their way through town unremarked.

  As they sighted the school’s red brick walls at the end of Grissom Road, peeking through the dying leaves of the oak in back, Wallace finally spoke.

  “The Webley,” he said, and Rupert said, “I know. You left it.”

  They walked m
ore slowly now. It was only half-past eight, and they wouldn’t be missed at their desks until five minutes before nine.

  “I left your book bag too,” said Rupert, and Wallace said, “Fool.” It was early, but the school yard was nearly full. A group of younger boys were tossing sticks in the air, watching them whirl and spin. Leaping out of the way as they fell.

  “There was a smell there,” said Wallace. “Did you smell it?” Rupert shrugged; he didn’t know if he had or not.

  “Smelled like a slaughter,” said Wallace. “Like the trenches in France.”

  “Maybe I did smell that,” said Rupert. The smell was all the Captain would talk about, when pressed on how it was to fight the Hun in the trenches. It smelled of slaughter, he’d said. It is a stink you never forget.

  “Did you get a look?” said Wallace.

  “What do you mean?”

  Wallace was quiet a moment.

  “We have to go back,” said Wallace.

  Had they come any nearer to the school, it would have been too late; the teacher on yard duty would have seen them, and attendance would have been unavoidable. As it was, Wallace and Rupert didn’t entirely escape notice as they veered away from the schoolyard, and without another word made for a ditch behind the White Rose filling station, beneath a stretch of pine trees. It was a place where they had hid before and thought to be safe now.

  “Where’s Wallace Gleason going?” said Nancy Waite, as she started the two ends of her jump-ropes twirling and she and her big sister Joan began to skip. “I think I know,” said Joan.

  The lot in back of the filling station smelled of oil and gasoline and privy: this last, because the station’s toilet was an outdoor model, hiding in a cloud of bushes and flies that also hid the ditch from easy view. It was here in the ditch that Wallace and Rupert settled in, to rest up and devise their plan.

  “Dog’s hurt,” said Wallace. “From the rock. That’s going to make him worse. Like a bear.”

  “I just wanted to scare it,” said Rupert.

  “We came to kill it,” said Wallace, glaring as he clutched his arm. As though his injury were Rupert’s fault and not his own.