Dialogues

by Stephen J. Spignesi

  “Tell me about that interview.”

  “I sat in a chair in front of his desk and looked around. Jake wasn’t there yet. On the walls were posters of animals and stuff about procedures and government stuff. He had that stupid cat poster too.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “The one showing a cat hanging from a tree branch with ‘Hang in there’ written on it?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen that.”

  “Well, I sat there and I notice he’s got a CD player on the cabinet behind his desk. Propped up against it is the Beatles’ White Album. Remember what I told you earlier about that?”

  “Yes, Jake played ‘Helter Skelter’ as the animals were dying.”

  “Right. The sick fuck. As I was debating about whether or not to get up and look through his CDs, the door opened and in walked Jake. In ran Jake, I should say.”

  “How so?”

  “Type A type. Rushing around, always nervous. Made me crazy.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing at first. He just sat down at his desk and picked up my application and started to read it. Then he looks up and says, ‘You’re Victoria Troy.’ It wasn’t even a question, it was a statement. So I nodded, and then said, ‘Tory.’”

  “How were you feeling during this?”

  “A little edgy, I suppose. I got the sense that I was interrupting him, that he didn’t really want to have to spend time with me right then.”

  “Do you think you were projecting somewhat? From what you’ve told me, he didn’t seem to suggest impatience with you, just a sense of being distracted and busy.”

  “I suppose. It’s just that he didn’t even say hello when he walked in the room, and that kind of threw me a little.”

  “I understand. Go on.”

  “Well, after he finished reading my application, he says to me, ‘We don’t have any openings for office staff.’ Just like that. Blunt. Cold. So I got up, figuring the interview was over, and he said, ‘We do have something else, though, if you’re interested.’ I sat back down again and said, ‘I am.’”

  “What was going through your mind?”

  “Actually, I thought he was going to offer me a janitor’s job, or maybe a job cleaning cages.”

  “Were you surprised when he told you what the job actually consisted of?”

  “Surprised is too tame to describe how I felt.”

  “How so?”

  “At first, I didn’t believe him. I didn’t really have much knowledge about the whole animal shelter mojo, you know? I thought he was making stuff up to goof on me.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “He wouldn’t. Which is why I’m a bit of an idiot.”

  “Tell me what he said and what happened after that.”

  “He started right off. ‘The job is animal euthanasia technician.’ I was speechless.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I immediately understood what he was talking about. He was talking about a job putting animals to death.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know what I felt like? I felt like I did when I realized how intrusive the Animal World crew was in the African veld. Thoughts started rushing through my mind, and the loudest one was a sense of horror.”

  “You said you were horrified when watching the documentary. How did the feelings you experienced sitting across from Jake compare with the ones you had when watching the documentary?”

  “They were actually very similar. It was surreal. Here I was, a grown human person, sitting across from another grown human person who had his own desk, and papers, and clipboards, and pens … and we were talking about a job as a killer. I would get paid for killing living creatures.”

  “It does sound like you had a very strong visceral reaction to the title euthanasia technician and that you were quite repulsed.”

  “You got it, Doc.”

  “Well, then, Tory, I must ask the question. Why didn’t you simply get up, say ‘no thanks,’ and walk out the door?”

  “Because I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I had to know.”

  “What the job entailed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do people like to read about atrocities? Why do we say ‘Ooh, that’s terrible’ when we look at pictures of concentration camp torture victims, but we don’t look away?”

  “You had to know?”

  “Yes. I had to know.”

  “Very well. Go on.”

  “So after I sat there for a minute or so without saying anything, Jake finally says to me, ‘Did you understand what I said?’ I nodded and said, ‘You’re talking about killing the animals.’ He said, ‘We use the term euthanize, but yes.’”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He asked me if I was interested and I nodded.”

  “How did he respond?”

  “He said, ‘Good,’ and then he stood up and said, ‘Come with me.’”

  “What was going through your mind?”

  “I was wondering if he was going to make me kill an animal. You know—like a test?”

  “Now, Tory. Obviously that would never be legally allowed. Did you really think he was going to ask you to euthanize an animal?”

  “No, I guess not. Deep down I knew he couldn’t make me do that, and I also knew that I would have refused if he had asked me to.”

  “And yet you went through the training and took the job.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “So where did Jake take you?”

  “To the death chamber.”

  5

  Dr. Baraku Bexley

  Gabriel Mundàne

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Mundane.”

  “It’s Mun-daah-ne—there’s an accent grave over the a.”

  “My sincerest apologies.”

  “Oh, no problem. I’m simply correcting you.”

  “Thank you. People are sensitive about the pronunciation of their name.”

  “I suppose. But with me, it’s more of a technical thing … a literary thing, rather than a matter of family pride.”

  “Can you tell me how long you taught Tory Troy?”

  “I had her for a course in her senior year—a two-semester course. Creative Writing. It lasted the full school year.”

  “I see. What do you remember about her?”

  “Oh, I remember quite a lot about her, Doctor. She was an excellent student, and we got to know each other fairly well.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Mainly because she always turned in far more work than was required for the course. I always left the door open for my students to write more than I asked for if they felt so inspired. I promised to read whatever they wrote and comment on it too. Not very many students, I’m sorry to say, took me up on the offer. But Tory was different. She seemed to write constantly, and she kept me busy.”

  “Do you know why I am here?”

  “Yes. Tory is in trouble. I’ve seen the papers.”

  “She has been charged with six counts of premeditated murder, and I have been assigned the task of determining if she is mentally fit to stand trial.”

  “You’re going to decide if she’s crazy or not?”

  “No. I am going to decide if she is mentally competent to understand the charges against her and participate in her own defense. If I say she is fit, then it will be up to a jury to decide if she was insane at the time of the alleged murders.”

  “I see. Seems like a no-brainer, though.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, wouldn’t you have to be crazy to kill six people the way she is supposed to have done it?”

  “That remains to be seen. Can you tell me if there was anything in Tory’s behavior, or in her writing, that had to do with animals, or euthanasia?”

  “Both.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Both. She wrote a short story for my class about an animal—a pigeon
—being euthanized.”

  “Would you happen to have a copy of that story?”

  “Yes, I do. I never throw away my students’ work. You never know who will be the next Salinger—or the next Stephen King. And when Tory made the news, I looked up her record.”

  “Indeed. The story?”

  “Of course. It’s in this file cabinet. Please bear with me while I look for it.”

  “Take your time.”

  “No … nope … no … ah, here it is. ‘Skyline Pigeon.’”

  “May I make a copy for my files?”

  “Of course. There are some other works in here you are free to copy as well. There’s a novella titled The Baby’s Room that I especially like.”

  “Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Mundàne.”

  “You are very welcome. And please give Tory my best wishes and tell her she will be in my prayers. I always liked Tory. In fact, we spent a few lunch hours together talking about books and writing.”

  “I will do so. And thanks again.”

  6

  Dr. Baraku Bexley

  Medical Log: Tory Troy

  I include here in my files the complete text of a short story written by Tory Troy titled “Skyline Pigeon.” It is my belief that the subject matter of the story may prove relevant to my final determination in this case.

  “Skyline Pigeon”

  by Victoria Troy

  Turn me loose from your hands

  Let me fly to distant lands.

  “SKYLINE PIGEON”

  ELTON JOHN

  It had been a bad week for Caleb. In fact, it had been a bad year up until now, and the forthcoming Labor Day weekend did not look to be much better.

  Caleb locked the back door of his mother’s house and trudged slowly down the walk leading to his car parked in the driveway. It had rained last night, the grass was wet, and the sidewalk had that stained look it gets when it’s been soaked and the sun hasn’t dried it yet.

  Mom was still asleep and Caleb wanted to get an early start on his errands before she woke up. He had prepared the fixings for her breakfast and left everything ready to go, but he knew that she would be upset that he wasn’t there to make her breakfast and serve it to her when she got out of bed. Too bad, Mom, Caleb thought. If he waited till she got up and finished eating before heading out (“No dirty dishes in the sink in my house,” Mom whispered in his head), he’d be in the car most of the day, and he really wanted to get to bed early tonight. Caleb was physically exhausted and looked it.

  Caleb’s mother had been sick since Christmas with acute leukemia, and none of the treatments had done much good. Mom had gotten weaker and weaker through the spring and summer, and the doctors were now saying that she probably wouldn’t make it to see another Christmas.

  Since Caleb was the oldest of three brothers, and the only one of them not married, the bulk of Mom’s care had become his responsibility.

  Caleb didn’t work and lived quite comfortably off the enormous Internet profits he had banked before the dot-com crash in early 2000. This fact served to make his brothers perfectly comfortable letting him know quite clearly that they were busy, and that they expected him to take care of Mom, because, after all, you’re home, and what are we supposed to do, leave work? Some of us have to earn a living, you know. And who will take care of our kids if we’re taking care of Mom? Sorry, Caleb, you’re the only one for the job.

  Caleb didn’t argue with them and even went so far as to move back into his old room at the house so he could be there for his mother, take her to her appointments, cook for her, and generally do whatever else she needed him to do.

  Caleb was wealthy enough to afford round-the-clock care for his mother, but his siblings wouldn’t hear of it. Let strangers take care of Mom when you’re home all day? No way, Jose. Out of the question.

  So Caleb packed up some clothes, his CDs and CD player, his computer, a few books, a portable color TV, his VCR, and he moved back home—a forty-two-year-old pilgrim returning to the village where he had been born. He stopped by his apartment every day to get the mail, but he slept at his mother’s house and spent most of his day taking care of Mom.

  Mom was still functional and mobile and had all her wits about her and Caleb didn’t really have to worry about leaving her alone, but the chemo and the radiation and the painkillers and the emphysema all made her very weak. She couldn’t go shopping, she couldn’t climb the stairs to do the laundry, and she definitely couldn’t mow the lawn anymore or even take out the trash. She could still get to the bathroom on her own, thank God, and she could still bathe herself (even if it took eons to do it), but Caleb did almost everything else.

  This past week had been exceptionally trying. Here it was, Friday morning, and Caleb was utterly drained.

  He ran through the week in his mind.

  Monday had been Mom’s oncologist appointment, and then he had gone grocery shopping, come home, vacuumed the whole house, and then paid his mother’s bills.

  Tuesday morning had been a three-hour bone-strengthening IV treatment at the clinic in Guilford, followed that afternoon by trips to the bank, the dry cleaner, and Wal-Mart.

  Wednesday was a chemo treatment, which did not go so well. Mom threw up in the car on the way home and, after getting her settled in bed with some ginger ale, matzo crackers, and her remote, Caleb had to wash the front seat upholstery of his brand-new Accord, and then go through the car wash.

  After that was a trip to, first, Rite Aid, because they were the only ones who carried the Kleen-Rite lint-remover rolls Mom liked, and then a stop at CVS to pick up Mom’s blood-pressure pills and pain medication, because CVS was cheaper and Mom liked the pharmacist better.

  Thursday Mom felt better enough to make her weekly trip to the beauty parlor (Caleb drove her and picked her up) and then he made an afternoon trip to Stop & Shop and the hardware store for an air conditioner filter and some weed killer.

  In addition to all these duties, Caleb also had to make Mom’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. Was breakfast a simple bagel and a cup of coffee? Of course not. Mom insisted on half a grapefruit, two poached eggs, two slices of whole-wheat toast—with real butter only—and two cups of Sanka every morning. Caleb had to be sure he always had four fresh grapefruits in the refrigerator for the week, and he had to time his purchases so that the seventh half a grapefruit wasn’t spoiled or too ripe. Oh, Mom would eat it if it was a little overripe, but she would be pissed about it and Caleb would eventually pay for it.

  Lunch, which had to be eaten precisely at noon every day during the twelve o’clock news, was always either a boiled ham or bologna sandwich on white bread, or a small dish of tuna salad, made fresh, or an American cheese–egg-white omelet with diced tomatoes. No matter what her lunch “main course” was, it always had to be accompanied by a handful of Wise’s lightly salted potato chips and a glass of Canada Dry ginger ale.

  Dinner was a nightmare for Caleb, since Mom would not eat anything from a restaurant (except pizza) and insisted on everything being fresh. Caleb had often mused over the irony of someone who refused to eat processed foods because the chemicals might cause blood cancer.

  Monday Mom had wanted pasta. Tuesday was baked chicken. Wednesday was stuffed peppers. Thursday was broiled scrod.

  And now here we were on Friday and Caleb was already fretting over what kind of fish he would buy for tonight, considering that Mom had insisted on scrod last night and would be especially picky about what kind of fish they would have tonight. Caleb’s family were all practicing Catholics, and even though the Church had eliminated the “no meat on Fridays” rule decades ago, Mom still ate only fish on Fridays, out of respect for Jesus. “If Jesus could die on the cross for us and sacrifice His own life, not to mention a wife and kids too,” Mom would proclaim to anyone who would listen (and even to some who wouldn’t), “then I think I can skip eating meat one lousy day a week out of gratitude to the son of God.”

  Caleb remembered once sarcas
tically wisecracking to his mother that he was sure Jesus was delighted that she ate one of His fish instead of one of His cows on Fridays. For this witticism, he had been rewarded by getting a whole glass of Canada Dry ginger ale thrown at him from across the kitchen. After that, Caleb kept his theological musings to himself. Although Mom was weak and somewhat frail, he’d bet she could still throw a glass of Canada Dry ginger ale across the kitchen if she wanted to.

  Caleb stuck his key in the car door lock and paused a moment. He looked around the neighborhood where he had grown up and saw that, except for cosmetic changes, everything had pretty much stayed the same.

  Caleb turned the key and opened the door. What would happen when Mom died? he wondered. There had not been any new people in the neighborhood for as long as Caleb could remember. Would his brothers want to sell the house? Would they expect him to buy it and live in it? Would they consider leasing the house to a family?

  Caleb didn’t want to think about the future. If it were up to him, they could give the house away. He certainly did not want to live in it, and he was sure his siblings would think about the money they could get if they sold it.

  Caleb got in the Accord and closed the door quietly so as not to wake Mom, whose bedroom window was only a few feet away from the driveway. Just as he was getting ready to turn the ignition, he suddenly realized he had forgotten The List.

  The List was the piece of long, lined yellow paper on which Mom wrote down all the things she needed and all the errands she wanted Caleb to do. Mom made a new List every day of the week.

  Shaking his head in frustration, yet not really surprised that he would be forgetful, Caleb removed the key from the ignition, got out of the car, and began walking into the backyard.

  The path he had to walk led him past the west side of the garage. Perhaps it was because he had to look to the right of the gate to work the latch that he now noticed the gray ball in the grass next to the garage. This gray ball had to have been there when he left the house, but it had completely eluded his gaze.

  Caleb stopped. He bent down a little and saw that the gray ball was a pigeon. He bent a little closer and saw that the bird had a gaping wound in its side and he could see its chest heaving rapidly as it panted in a feeble effort to get air into lungs that were probably crushed. The bird was obviously in a great deal of pain and was also in shock. To Caleb it looked as if the bird had either fallen from a great height and gouged itself on a gutter or a fence, or it had been bitten by some kind of animal. Caleb was betting on the latter and was even fairly certain it was a dog that had done the damage to this poor creature. Specifically, a husky with one brown eye and one blue eye named Kilo that belonged to the Beahms three houses over. Caleb had often seen the dog chasing pigeons all over the neighborhood, and it looked like Kilo finally caught one—at least long enough to inflict this terrible wound before the bird escaped and flew off as far as it could before tumbling to the ground and landing here, next to Caleb’s mother’s garage.