Just Life

by Neil Abramson

  “It is just a temporary solution.”

  “Really? And who was the genius who thought it was a good idea to literally draw a line in the concrete between those who are safe and those who aren’t? That line is going to be a physical flash point. Tell me I’m wrong, Sergeant Kendall.”

  This wasn’t good. Ellen called him that only when she was good and pissed. But he knew he had made the right decision. Ellen needed to make some effort to at least try to understand that. “No,” he said. “You’re not wrong and that is precisely why I asked for perimeter duty, so I can—”

  “You what?”

  “I asked to be assigned to supervise the perimeter. I need to be there.”

  Kendall heard Ellen blow out a lungful of disappointment. “You win, Jim. I give up. You go do your knight thing. I need to get Deb settled. You can call her later.”

  “Don’t hang—”

  Kendall heard the line click dead and resisted the urge to throw the phone.

  Of course he had requested perimeter duty. If someone was going to tell his people that they couldn’t take their dogs with them when they went out into the city at large, he wanted to be that someone. Judgment was critical because words were the only tool he had in his arsenal. The precinct captain had been very clear about their instructions at the emergency meeting: those on perimeter patrol were to advise and, if absolutely necessary, detain and call for backup. “No firearm will leave the holster and no baton will leave the belt,” the captain had said. “Any use of force in the absence of a direct and serious threat to your physical person will result in charges.”

  A few of the knuckleheads in the room had barked and howled in the usual attempt to bring levity to an uncertain situation. But then the captain stepped off the podium and walked among them—something that had never happened during Kendall’s time in the precinct. “I can’t begin to tell you how much this situation frightens me,” he said quietly, so that everyone in the room had to strain to hear him.

  Thinking about it now, Kendall realized the captain had sounded a lot like Ellen.

  “We’ve all done perimeter duty before, Cap. What’s the big deal?” one cop said.

  “This isn’t like keeping a bunch of drunken New Year’s Eve revelers from pissing on the sidewalk, or moving people away from the mayor’s car,” he said. “You’re going to be telling people who want to leave the area for an hour or a day or even a week that they can’t take their animals with them. You ever done that before, Wilson?”

  The cop looked at the ground. “No, sir, I haven’t.”

  “And you’re going to be telling people who want to cross the barrier into the quarantine area with their dogs that it is a one-way trip because some piss-head politico or scientist said so.”

  “But everyone is gonna understand. They’ve seen the news,” Wilson said hopefully.

  “Three more kids hospitalized in the last hour,” the captain answered. “Two more moved to ICU and not expected to make it through the day. No answers about what this thing is or why it hit here. If I was living in Riverside and had kids, I wouldn’t trust anything I hear at this point. And guess what?” the captain continued. “You’ve got nothing better to tell them other than ‘go/no go.’ I hate that I’ve got to put you all in that situation. But that’s all I’ve got to work with today. And all you’ve got to work with today is your training, experience, and professionalism.”

  “Captain?” Kendall raised his hand. “Why is the governor bringing over the Guard?”

  “I don’t have an answer for you that is explainable by anything other than one word,” the captain replied. “Politics.” He spit out the word like it was pus from a tooth infection.

  After the meeting, the morning had compressed into a blur of kinetic energy. With a speed learned from numerous anti-terrorism exercises, the NYPD used its familiar blue-and-white sawhorses to establish a perimeter around the city blocks that comprised the Riverside neighborhood. The eastern perimeter ran on Broadway between 103rd and 108th, and Riverside Drive was the western border. Central Park lay four blocks east of the perimeter—an inviting but for now off-limits 843-acre playground of woods, bike paths, and hidden places. Kendall thought that the whole setup looked like a bizarre Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade route except that the pattern was roughly square, there were no floats or ginormous balloons, and no one was laughing.

  All vehicular traffic out of the perimeter was funneled through a barricade at 106th street and Broadway. The police searched all cars and trucks crossing the perimeter to ensure that no one was trying to take a Riverside dog out of the area.

  Kendall and his men had explained, joked, smiled, and nodded, and in the end, no one traveling on foot or by auto had made a serious challenge. That was the value of experience and familiarity. His shoulders had even begun to unknot.

  Then the National Guard had arrived, and the tenor of the exercise changed. The lieutenant in charge of the Guard unit, a career pro named McGreary, seemed competent and friendly enough, but most of his “men” were just kids in their early twenties. They had little or no history dealing with real New Yorkers, and the automatic weapons these soldiers carried, while intimidating, were a poor substitute for judgment. Kendall felt as if he had been holding his breath since the Guard arrived. He had thought talking to Ellen might make him feel better. Hopefully, that was his one bad idea for the day.

  Kendall put his phone in his pocket and watched a heavyset man in his fifties exit a BMW sedan waiting in line for clearance at 106th. Although Kendall didn’t recognize the man, he could tell from the way he held himself that an attitude was coming. Kendall wasn’t wrong.

  The big man reached the front of the line, where two of Kendall’s cops waited. “I’ve been waiting for twenty-five minutes,” he told them. “I need to get to my office.”

  “We understand, sir,” a young cop named Tully answered respectfully. “We apologize for the inconvenience, but we need to search the cars. We will get you out as soon as we can.”

  “That’s not good enough,” BMW shot back.

  Kendall’s cops were prepared to ignore him under the heading of typical NYC self-important bullshit. Kendall’s standing advice to his cops about blowhards, even before the quarantine, was to let them blow. But one of the soldiers, a big kid—no more than twenty-one or -two—with “OWENS” stenciled on his uniform, walked over to the man. “Please return to your vehicle, sir.”

  “Look,” BMW said, “I don’t even own a fucking dog. This is bullshit.”

  “Return to your car,” Owens ordered in clipped speech.

  “Who the hell do you think you guys are?” BMW challenged. “You don’t tell me what to do. This is the United fucking States of America! My taxes gave you a job, you ungrateful, unemployable bastard.”

  Owens adjusted the shoulder strap on his M4. “Sir,” Owens said, straightening to his full six feet three inches, “this is your last warning. Return to your car.”

  Kendall looked for Lieutenant McGreary but couldn’t find him. Crap. He didn’t want to get into a turf war with the Guards, but he couldn’t let this escalate either.

  BMW took a step back, apparently suddenly aware of the gravity of his situation; he turned and walked to his car as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. Owens followed and leaned into the passenger side window until he was directly in the driver’s face. “You’re going to insult me for doing my duty? You really have no idea what a bad idea that is, sir. No idea.”

  “OK, I think that’s enough,” Kendall said from a step behind.

  “Just a friendly conversation, that’s all, Officer,” Owens said.

  “Let it go,” Kendall answered. “We don’t need that shit here.”

  Owens stepped away from the car smiling while the terrified man quickly rolled up the window and moved up the line.

  Breathe, Kendall reminded himself. Just breathe.

  10

  Gabriel slowly made his way back toward the Ninety-Second Stree
t shelter with 36-A. The priest was in no rush; he knew what awaited his return. Besides, the dog insisted on showing the toy turtle he still carried in his mouth to almost everyone they passed.

  Lost within his thoughts, Gabriel was not surprised to find Channa suddenly walking beside him.

  “I see you’re no longer playing hard to get,” Gabriel said bitterly.

  “I didn’t go anywhere. You were the one who got a bit distracted. Now you feel bad about putting the poor boy through those memories and you’re taking it out on me.”

  “You have a point,” Gabriel answered. “I’m also not looking forward to bringing the dog back.”

  “That’s a choice, you know? You don’t have to do that. You could give him many more days.”

  “But then who would be there for the others?”

  “Ah, I see,” Channa said, her hands folded behind her back in a professorial pose. Gabriel got the sense she was making fun of him. “So you are of the view that the Lord God, Ruler of the Universe, would rather you take a thousand different dogs and give them one good day instead of offering one dog a thousand good days?”

  “Yes, I am. And stop being so condescending.”

  “What makes you believe this? Is this a New Testament or an Old Testament thing?”

  “Stop.”

  “Isn’t it better to offer a loving home to one than a glimpse of love to many? Don’t you think that by raising them up for only a few hours, you make their return to the cage all the more cruel?”

  “I want as many of them as possible to feel kindness—just simple damn kindness—before the end.”

  “And is that to feed their souls? Or yours?”

  “Why are you doing this to me, Channa? Why now?”

  “You don’t really believe this is coming from me, do you? You know exactly what I am, so stop your whining.”

  “We could have had this oh-so-meaningful discussion five years ago when I still had a thousand good days to offer a dog like this… when you were still alive. But now? They don’t take dogs at the home for demented priests. He appears to have made the choice for me. Let Him grant me a few more years with my mind intact and then we can talk about such niceties as personal philosophy and redemption.”

  Channa shrugged. “Perhaps He will provide a ram.”

  Gabriel and 36-A arrived at the Ninety-Second Street shelter entrance. When he took in his reflection in the glass door, he saw only himself and the dog. “Coward,” he said, and pushed the door open.

  The dog Gabriel brought into the shelter was an entirely different dog from the one he had lured out of a cage that morning. After only a moment’s hesitation, this dog pranced from person to person in the waiting room, tail in full wag, the stuffed turtle secure in his mouth. The dog barked playfully at a few of the familiar staff.

  36-A obviously had no idea why he was back at the shelter or what was coming, but Gabriel could tell that the staff knew. No one would meet Gabriel’s eye. They probably had held out hope that the priest would keep the dog. Now they looked upon his return as just one more confirmation that even the best people—those who are supposed to be the most virtuous—would disappoint them. Gabriel felt their judgment. He wanted to explain his motives, but realized that they probably didn’t care at this point; a dead dog was still a dead dog, regardless of the justification.

  Steve, the tech, greeted Gabriel with a perfunctory handshake and quickly escorted the priest and 36-A to an exam room where an elderly male veterinarian waited. “You’ll stay through it?” Steve asked.

  Gabriel nodded. Steve started to close the door. “One moment, please,” Gabriel said. He walked 36-A back into the waiting area and scanned the large space, searching. He saw nothing out of the ordinary… nothing that offered any hope.

  They returned to the exam room and, without further comment, Gabriel lifted the dog onto the bare metal table. 36-A didn’t struggle and instead rubbed his stuffed turtle against the priest’s hand. Gabriel knew then that he had earned the dog’s trust and he hated himself for it.

  The vet produced a small vial of clear liquid and a syringe. He filled the syringe and inserted the needle in 36-A’s hindquarters. “It’s going to be all right,” the vet told the dog kindly. To Gabriel he said, “The shot is just to keep him calm while we insert the IV.”

  “I know,” Gabriel said.

  “Father Gabriel has been through this before,” Steve explained.

  “I’m sorry,” the vet said. “It never gets easier. I wish we could keep them all.”

  Gabriel just wanted it to be over. This one made him feel particularly shameful. He wondered if feeling this bad could actually be the result of doing something righteous. Perhaps it was the progression of his own disease, but Gabriel suddenly felt the weight of every soul he had witnessed in transition pressing on his chest. He made the mistake of glancing into the face of 36-A. The dog looked at him with such open affection that Gabriel’s stomach contorted into an excruciating cramp. Then the sedative hit. The priest thought he saw doubt cloud the dog’s eyes for the first time. Gabriel placed his hands on the dog’s muzzle. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. 36-A’s eyes slowly closed against the world. The turtle dropped from the dog’s mouth and landed on the floor with a soft bump.

  Gabriel leaned over and kissed the dog’s head. He felt his clerical collar bite into his neck so hard that he gasped.

  Steve took out an IV pack. “Are you ready?” he asked Gabriel.

  How many times had he been asked that question? How many dogs had passed under his hands on this or a similar cold metal table?

  Gabriel willed the exam room door to open, hoping for someone or something to interrupt this sacrifice. Nothing came forward. Rage-fueled tears blurred his vision. Gabriel swayed unsteadily, the memory of prior euthanasias forming a stinging afterimage on his retinas. He recalled other dog toys—pink tennis balls, plush footballs, plastic chewing rings—dropping lifeless and abandoned onto other floors. “Where is Your ram?” he whispered.

  The vet inserted the needle into 36-A’s forepaw.

  “No!” Gabriel shouted. Steve and the vet froze in shocked surprise.

  “What is it?” Steve asked.

  “There’s been a change in plans,” the priest said, wiping his eyes. “This one is coming home with me… if that’s OK.”

  Steve grinned, his face filled with relief. “Is it OK? That’s the best damn news I’ve had all week.”

  The vet removed the needle and wrapped bandage tape around the dot of blood already forming on 36-A’s forepaw. “He’ll be a bit groggy for a little while.” When the vet turned to him, Gabriel could see that he was crying. “Thank you for sparing me this one, Father,” the vet said, and quickly left the room.

  “Each one hurts,” Steve offered by way of explanation. “Let me get the adoption forms.”

  Steve returned a few minutes later and Gabriel completed the paperwork. By that time 36-A was on his feet, although a bit unsteady.

  “What are you going to call him?” Steve asked.

  Gabriel and the dog exchanged a glance. “Eliot,” Gabriel answered. “After my favorite poet.”

  “I think that suits him,” Steve said. The tech escorted the priest and his new dog to the entrance. “So I guess we won’t be seeing you anymore for the others?”

  Gabriel had been trying to answer that very question himself. There were still so many faces behind cages looking for a single instance of kindness. Should they all die alone? How could that possibly be His purpose when the priest still had days of breath left?

  “I’ll be back next week,” Gabriel said. “For as long as I can still find this place, I’ll be back.”

  11

  Kendall had phoned Sam to let her know that he was stationed at the 106th Street vehicle bottleneck if she needed him. At her first break, she picked up an extra cup of coffee and looked for him there.

  In the post-9/11 world of New York City, soldiers were not an alien presence. They usually stood silen
t guard at the main commutation areas: Grand Central Terminal, the Port Authority, and Penn Station. But, except in the immediate aftermath of the Towers and a handful of other situations, the military never actually patrolled the streets; that was Kendall’s job. So seeing them at the perimeter was not just odd; it was dissonant and, for Sam at least, frightening.

  A line of cars waited for inspection at traffic cones marking the perimeter. Two National Guardsmen in army fatigues and carrying M4s watched as a pair of city cops in street blues searched cars under a large white sign with red lettering that commanded, “No Canines Beyond This Point Under Any Circumstances. No Exceptions.”

  No one appeared happy to be working together. Kendall had warned her that there was a jurisdictional tug-of-war in play between the cops, under the authority of the mayor, and the Guard, under the authority of the governor. “When the elephants fight,” he had said, “the mice get crushed.”

  She found Kendall standing nearby and offered him the coffee.

  “So are we at war?” she asked.

  The somber and vexed look on Kendall’s face told Sam more about the situation than she really wanted to know. “Define war.” He took a sip from the cup. “Thanks for this, but you probably shouldn’t be here right now. I’m not loving some of these kids.” He indicated the Guard with a lift of his head.

  “Please tell me they trained for this.”

  “As much as you can train a twenty-one-year-old boy. Their CO, McGreary, is pretty solid, but he can’t be everywhere and I think these other guys have seen too many movies.”

  A horn blared. The line of cars waiting to exit across the perimeter remained dead still behind the head car as the cops argued with the driver.