Punishment

by Linden MacIntyre

  “Did you call him Bitch?” Neil asked, pretending innocence.

  “You’re an asshole, Neil,” Mary said. And everybody laughed in what I took to be unanimous agreement.

  It was pleasant returning to the house with someone in the car, even if that someone was a dog. I left the papers where I dropped them, on the kitchen table. Told myself: you’re wasting money, buying papers that end up mostly unread in the blue recycling sack at the end of the lane with all the cans and bottles. Buying papers was mostly a habit from Ontario—a public servant had to keep on top of things. What am I now, private servant, self-servant? The dog sat by the door and whimpered, looking at me, head atilt. Ah. Dog-servant.

  “Let’s take a hike, Birch.” He stood and smiled at me, nodding. “You’ll soon be talking back to me,” I said.

  The trail through the trees was once a railway track-bed. Birch dashed ahead of me, chasing creatures that I suspect were figments of a rich imagination, activating killing instincts from the wild. He always came back for reassurance, trotting by my side until another interesting diversion sent him dashing once again. With a pang of sorrow that was tinged with guilt, I remembered another dog and how, for a long time he resented me, the small intruder who threatened to steal his place in the heart of the MacMillan household. I know this from my Ma, who’d laugh remembering how the dog, who was the same age as I was—five when I’d arrived—would slink out of a room if I was in it, looking back at me with frank hostility.

  But he had a kind soul and an instinct for fairness and over time he seemed to realize that the heart of the MacMillan household was large enough to accommodate two needy pets. He lived long for a dog, into my adolescence. And when he vanished I hardly noted it, I was by then so mesmerized by the girl that everybody knew as Caddy.

  It was Christmas Eve. Our excursions on the trail had become the highlight of our mornings. The ditches had a skim of ice and among the trees there were patches of dirty snow but the trail itself was bare. I heard the distant sound of a motor long before the ATV raced into view. I stepped to the side of the trail and shouted for Birch, but he’d already taken refuge in the woods. The machines were a common sight and sound on the trail, usually meandering. This one skidded to a stop beside me, and when the driver removed his helmet it was Neil, face flushed, smiling.

  “How’s the hammer hangin’,” he shouted, high on what for him was physical activity. He turned the machine off and the trees resumed their whispering. Birch was back and sniffing around a wheel, then he lifted his leg and pissed against it. Good dog, I thought.

  “So,” said Neil. “I was thinking after the store the other day. You being by yourself over there for Christmas just doesn’t seem right to me. I was telling the wife and she agrees.”

  “Neil …”

  “No, the wife told me. ‘Call him,’ she said. You never met the wife. Girl I found in Boston. A good American who doesn’t take no for an answer. And she told me to make sure you come to our place for Christmas dinner tomorrow. Come early, say three in the afternoon. We’ll have a couple a cocktails.”

  He started up the machine again and the dog dashed to the woods.

  I shouted: “That’s awfully good of you, but I wouldn’t want to leave the dog …”

  “Bring him with you,” Neil shouted back and spun away from me.

  That night I stood at the kitchen window, drink in hand, sound of people singing on the television in the other room. Outside it was bright from a fattening moon but there was snow falling. I was tempted to walk over to the end of the long meadow and just stare at the sea. In Kingston, I’d often walk to the shore of the lake and stare out, pretending it was the ocean. In the early days Anna would come with me and we’d walk hand in hand, words now unnecessary. But one night she said simply, “It doesn’t work for me.”

  “What doesn’t work?”

  There was a long pause before she said, “You name it.”

  “Okay,” I said. She took her hand away and folded her arms across her chest, a gesture I always associated with distress or anger. But she wasn’t angry, it seemed to me.

  “That, for instance,” she said, nodding toward the lake. It was flat and still and there was a splash of blue from the moon and glitter from the streetlights, the sound of someone laughing somewhere in the darkness. “I don’t know how you can be satisfied with that, pretending it’s the ocean.”

  Anna’s family was from Gdansk, which they’d fled in 1971 because of the disturbances after Gomulka. She remembered the Baltic. “A lake is just a lake,” she said. “It doesn’t matter how big it is.”

  “Depends on how you look at it,” I said

  “I suppose,” she said. “It depends on what you need, how bad you need it.” Then: “If you miss back there so much, why do you stay here?” In retrospect, that was how the end began. Or how I remember it.

  I drained my glass. The drink wasn’t doing a thing for me. It would be nice, I thought, to walk out to where I could stare at the gulf, feel the gentle kiss of snowflakes melting on a cheek. Get the dog out. But the dog was unconscious on Jack’s old coat, on his side, legs stretched out, one twitching, dreaming of the chase, the kill. I couldn’t bring myself to disturb him.

  Then I heard the newscast theme from the other room. I took the whisky bottle with me, sat down to watch. More about Iraq, quiet streets in Baghdad. Commentary about sanctions, poverty, shortages, people sick and dying. Whether or not this was a country we should fear. Someone on a panel was certain there were weapons stockpiles hidden somewhere. Saddam was starving his own people, using petro money to buy weapons to attack his neighbours. I struggled to retain the information, sift the speculation out of it, the politics and posturing. The way I’d learned when I was working. Listen for the facts, draw your own conclusions, act accordingly.

  The phone woke the dog. I could hear him scrambling to his feet. It was Caddy.

  “Just checking in,” she said. “How are you guys doing anyway? Merry Christmas, by the way.”

  “Doing good,” I said. “Everybody happy. How are things there?”

  “Okay,” she said, “all things considered. I just wanted to wish you guys a Merry Christmas.”

  “Same to you and yours,” I said. “No worries here. We’re great.” I held the phone out. “Aren’t we Birch Bark?”

  “Yap,” he said and Caddy laughed.

  “Oh,” I said. “I’ve been asked to go to dinner tomorrow. And I was wondering how my housemate would feel about being by himself.”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem,” she said. “Leave a light on, and water and some munchies. And maybe the TV. You did break down and get a TV?”

  “I did. I’m becoming addicted.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it. So where are you going to dinner?”

  “Neil’s place,” I said. “He asked me earlier today.”

  I wondered for a moment if she was still on the line. “I see,” she said.

  “It wouldn’t be my first choice but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. The hard part will be avoiding arguments. Neil likes to stir things up.”

  “He does that,” she said. “Anyway the dog will be just fine. I often left him by himself.”

  “I hope everything is okay with you, Caddy.”

  “It was the right thing to do, coming here,” she said. “But I’m missing my own place.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’ll only be a few more days.”

  Then she said, “Well, I’d better get back to them. I just thought of you guys there. I’m glad you aren’t alone, Tony. Even if it’s just a little dog.”

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s hard to beat a dog for company. Growing up my best friend was a dog.”

  “Yes, I remember Bingo, and how upset you were when he disappeared.”

  “Jesus. You remember? Even his name?”

  “I remember lots of things, Tony. Lots and lots of things.”

  “I don’t remember being that upset.”

  �
��I remember it,” she said. “I remember you were upset.”

  For a moment, after she was gone, I considered midnight Mass. How long has it been? I poured a drink. An old movie was beginning, It’s a Wonderful Life. Christmas Eves Anna and I would watch it, ironic and sarcastic. Now something about the familiarity brought a kind of peace. The dog hopped up and lay beside me on the couch, head resting on my thigh.

  “Let’s watch this, shall we?”

  He rolled an eye and it seemed to me he winked. I scratched his head.

  “There’ll be more about justice in this story than you’ll ever hear in any church, eh Birch.”

  He yawned.

  “What’s your real name, Tony?”

  “What’s your real name, Caddy?”

  “You know my real name. Catherine Anne Gillis. Now tell me.” She had grasped my hand and was shaking it playfully.

  We were in the red Ford truck, parked near the shore. We had opened the Christmas gifts shyly. Mine was shaving lotion. Old Spice. I dabbed some on my neck. She sighed over the small plastic camera I gave her. “It uses flash cubes,” I said. “There’s some in the package and a roll of film.”

  “I’m going to try it out,” she said.

  “Don’t you dare. And you know my name anyway. It’s MacMillan,” I said.

  “I mean born with. Ma said your real name sounds French.”

  “What’s the difference?” There was a low moon, three-quarters full, off to the left, the sea to the right, swishing in the loose shore gravel.

  “Tell me!”

  And I took the camera from her hands and placed it carefully on the dash, and drew her to me and kissed her deeply and she responded, lips moving gently, arms tight behind my neck. Then she pulled away. “Tell me.”

  “What’ll you give me if I tell you?” I was trying to draw her back, my free hand now between her thighs. “How bad do you want to know?”

  She broke free, slid away to the far door, arms folded. “You make a joke about everything.”

  “Breau,” I said. “B-r-e-a-u. Like beau, with an ‘r.’ ”

  She was looking in my direction again. “Tony Breau. Neat.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, fishing for the cigarette pack.

  “It could be a singer’s name, or an actor.”

  “What’s wrong with MacMillan?” speaking to the stinging smoke, blowing out the match.

  “Everybody here is mac-something. Who ever heard of a famous mac-something?”

  “There’s lots of them I bet. There’s a prime minister of England, isn’t there? Or was. A MacMillan, actually.”

  There were little ragged flurries of snow settling around us. I rolled the window down, flicked the cigarette away into the darkness. I felt a chill, started up the truck to get us warm. Grabbed her hand and drew her back to me. She still seemed far away.

  “Neil MacDonald is home from the States,” she said. “Neil Archie. I saw him this afternoon at Confession.”

  “You went to Confession?” I said. “That explains it.”

  “Stop,” she said. “Don’t be making jokes. You mean you didn’t go to Confession?”

  “Nothing to confess,” I said. “You’ve made sure of that.”

  She gave me the sideways look, mouth twisted in mock disapproval. “You’re hopeless.”

  “What’s the look for?” I said.

  “Christmas Mass and you won’t be able to receive? It’ll be a scandal. They’ll all think you must have committed a mortal sin. And they’ll be after looking at me.”

  “But you’ll be receiving …”

  “Yes, but they’ll be wondering just the same.”

  “Okay, for your sake, I’ll go to Communion anyway. My soul is pure.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Nothing a good act of contrition can’t repair.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “So were you talking to Neil Archie?”

  “Briefly. You should have seen him, in his army uniform. I have to say, he was something to look at. Out of the movies, he was. He was asking about you.”

  “And what was he asking?”

  “What you were up to. I told him you were slaving away at the books.”

  “And that was it?”

  “Well.” And she tilted her head and looked at me with mischief in her face. “He wanted to know if I’ll go out with him while he’s home. He said he’ll probably be ending up in Vietnam soon.”

  “And you said?”

  “I said I’d have to check with you first.”

  I laughed. “You didn’t.”

  “No. But isn’t that what you’d have wanted me to say?”

  I stared out into the night. The snow was thickening. Then a puff of wind scattered it around.

  “There’ll be carols before the midnight Mass,” she said at last. “The choir has been practicing for weeks.”

  I nodded. “So what did you say, really?”

  “Say about what?”

  “About a date with Neil.”

  “A date with Neil Archie? You’re cracked in the head, Tony MacMillan.”

  Then she slid up close beside me, snuggled, grabbed my hand and draped my limp arm over her shoulder, pressed her cheek to mine.

  “I think ‘Tony Breau’ is neat.”

  The wind outside was rising and along the shore white foam was rolling farther up the gravel.

  “Hey,” I said, and pulled her even closer.

  “What?” she said.

  “When did you start saying ‘neat’?”

  When I awoke Christmas morning for once the silence of the house struck me as a measure of my privacy and not a reminder of my exile. When I stretched I felt a weight on the bed near my feet and realized that the dog was there, head up, watching me.

  “Hey,” I said. And he rose unsteadily, moved carefully toward me and licked my face. The sudden emotion that I felt was shocking. Then he jumped to the floor and left the room. I could hear the click of claw on the wooden stairs. The room was awash in a pale light and from what I could see of the meadow through the window the snow had carried on overnight.

  Downstairs the dog barked. I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold as ice. I imagined other houses, people stirring to the sounds of children already mobilized. Christmas trees and wrappings, music, fragrant kitchens noisy. I had considered a tree but there’s something pathetic about a Christmas tree in a silent house.

  Briefly I let myself imagine Sophie with her children. Christmas morning chaos and Sophie’s face transformed by the exclusive ecstasy of family and celebration. Odd how easily I could imagine Sophie there among her darlings even though I’d never seen her in her home, never known her children or her husband except as happy images in plastic picture frames.

  The dog barked again, a bit more urgently. I knelt on the cold floor, looking for socks under the bed. Realized I hadn’t vacuumed in a month. Finally went downstairs in bare feet, opened the door for Birch and felt the cold fresh blast of winter.

  He darted pointlessly around the yard sniffing the ground as if in search of some lost treasure, then stopped by my car, lifted a leg briefly at a wheel, then ran into the field and squatted. No need for little plastic bags and poop-scoop here. Then he dashed up the long driveway until I could no longer see him. There were rubber boots near the door and I slipped my bare feet into them. So clammy I winced. Plucked a hooded jacket from a nail and stepped outside.

  There was a patch of blue above the far end of the meadow and on the horizon the flutter of what might have been the banners of an approaching army, or another blizzard preceded by a cavalry of prancing cloud. Where was the damned dog? I shivered, squinted up the lane and there he was, trotting resolutely back. Amazing that I should feel such affirmation from a dog who isn’t even mine.

  The hardest aspect of disintegration is all the ordinary things we have to relearn in the aftermath. Time and toilet seats and toothpaste, the solitary life. So much becomes insti
nctive when a person lives alone. Reason and reflection become imperatives only when we must accommodate another.

  When we went back inside, he went straight to his water bowl, slurping noisily. I fetched three Oreo cookies from the cupboard, tossed them toward him. “Merry Christmas, fella,” I said. He pounced, gobbled them, then stared at me expectantly. I retrieved the electric coffee pot and plugged it in, half-filled the urn with water. The dog whined.

  “Uh-uh,” I said. “You’ve had your Christmas.”

  I doubt if I’ll ever quite recover the ability to make a decent cup of coffee. In my pre-Anna existence, my coffee would be remarked upon, my bean selection, my technique for grinding, how I frothed the milk so it delivered the texture, taste and visual appeal of cream. I was proud of my coffee. But then Anna usurped the coffee making, as she did so much of my domestic independence, and my skills atrophied. And soon I came to think of coffee the way my former colleague Tommy Steele referred to it: stage-one urine.

  Smell of brewing coffee, smell of life awakening for most. Smell of death to me. Death of a life I knew, a life presumed to be endless. The name hit me like a diagnosis—Pittman—a forgotten lump, now revealed to be malignant. We were in a coffee shop, summoned by the Keeper, Tommy Steele.

  “What the fuck,” Tommy said, slapping down the tabloid paper. “Pittman! No mention about what we put up with. Makin’ him sound like a fuckin martyr.”

  Everybody was silent. Meredith picking at a fingernail. The mindless morning coffee shop around us clinking, chattering.

  “You okay, Tony?”

  “Yeah. What’s this about Pittman?” My stomach churned. “That was last May!”

  “It’s in the papers. Look at the headline: Execution on Upper G. For Chrissake. It makes it sound like we killed him.”

  “Well …” I said. They ignored me.

  We’d only faced routine questions in the immediate aftermath. Another inmate rumble on the range, which had been noticeably quieter since Pittman’s death. Con-on-con violence resulting in another one of scores of inmate deaths that go unremarked in the outside world, barely noticed on the inside except in paperwork that goes unread.