Water Dogs

by Lewis Robinson

  Gwen slipped a trash bag over Bennie’s cast so he could shower. She was sitting on the toilet seat, wearing Bennie’s Red Sox cap, still looking glamorous in her new glasses, but more and more she was resembling the stubborn athlete Bennie knew, the old Gwen, the tomboy. She told him she’d called the temp agency in New York and postponed her return indefinitely. There were a few auditions in April she was hoping to attend, but she could decide about them later. Bennie thought this was great news.

  After he was done, he wrapped a towel around his waist and Gwen dried the trash bag before taking off the rubber bands. “Littlefield doesn’t answer my questions about the night at the quarry,” she said. “All he says is that he was following LaBrecque, but then he lost him. It’s hard to imagine someone outrunning Littlefield in the snow.”

  “The visibility was shit,” said Bennie. He stepped out of the shower and walked to his bedroom. Gwen stayed in the bathroom.

  “Did they fire any shots?” she shouted.

  “I can hear you fine,” he said, pulling sweatpants on over his cast. “I think he would have told me if he had.”

  “Have you seen him since your first night back?”

  “No,” said Bennie, zipping his sweatshirt. He stepped back into the hall.

  “That’s what I mean. He’s being weird. It’s like he doesn’t want to be around me at all.”

  “I wouldn’t take it personally.”

  “Why would he be hiding things from me?”

  “It’s not about you,” said Bennie, tying his boots. “He gets in these moods.”

  “I think it’s more than that. He’s ashamed about something. There’s something he doesn’t want to talk to me about.”

  “Don’t you think he would have told us if he’d done something wrong?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped.

  This made Bennie furious. “Maybe he wouldn’t tell you. But I was there. He’s not hiding anything.”

  “Don’t act like Mom, Bennie. Don’t be intentionally clueless.”

  It was true that the family often made excuses for Littlefield. It had always been obvious that Littlefield had been Coach’s favorite, and their mother would make it easier on Littlefield by covering up his coarseness or selfishness by saying He is who he is. Gwen, especially, hated this. But in this instance, Bennie knew that Littlefield wasn’t hiding anything from Gwen. Littlefield was just anxious about having visitors, and having Bennie in the hospital for a few days had been hard on him, too.

  Bennie wanted to yell at Gwen—he was that angry—but he knew how tough on her Littlefield could be and he didn’t want it to seem that everyone in the house was against her. He breathed deeply and then said, “I’ll keep talking to him about it, and I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  When Bennie had started the job at Esker Cove, he didn’t realize it was going to involve so much animal carnage. His main duties were these: cleaning cages, expressing anal glands, and helping to put dogs and cats to sleep. Just a few days after he’d started the job, he’d wanted to quit, but knowing that someone else was holding the animals when they got the needle would have made him feel like he was chickening out. So he stuck with it. Also, there was the pay, which was fair, and occasionally he got to do other things, like removing a cat from its cage with cat tongs and putting it in a cat bag so he could prep it for an operation. He was in charge of weighing the animals and helping them calm down.

  Handelmann looked like the host of a public television children’s show. He wouldn’t hesitate to euthanize animals, but he never swore, and he ironed his own shirts. Everyone on the island seemed to appreciate him, but he had no close friends, no family, which was rare for a forty-year-old man in the area. Handelmann maintained an emotionless formality much of the time. Because he was a veterinarian with no friends, Bennie kept looking for clues that the animals provided him with a certain kind of comfort and camaraderie, but he didn’t think they did. It wasn’t as though he disliked the animals, but he showed them no special loyalty.

  When Bennie and Gwen arrived, his boss was washing his hands, his back to them. He was clean-cut, tall and thin, with blond hair, creased trousers, expensive shoes.

  “Bennie,” he said, without turning around. “How’s my old soldier doing?”

  “Much better, actually,” said Bennie.

  “How’s the leg?” Handelmann asked. He shook his hands in the sink, his back still turned to them.

  “Fine.”

  “They found that other young man yet?”

  “No.”

  “You coming back soon?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Good,” he said. “Your brother’s a flake. Things are backing up here.” Handelmann used several paper towels to dry his hands, then turned and was startled to see Gwen standing in front of him. He extended a hand graciously to her and said, “You must be Bennie’s twin.” His grin was careful. “But that’s odd: you’re much too pretty.” He turned to Bennie and said, “Assist me with a dog, would you?”

  It was Ollie, a black Lab and mastiff combo with tumors in his neck. Ollie’s owners had asked that he be put down. Handelmann led the dog into the room, knelt down, took him around the chest, and hefted him up to the lower of the two steel tables. Ollie seemed unusually lethargic. Bennie remembered Ollie as a younger dog, coming in with his owner, Mrs. Samuels, to get heartworm meds. Ollie enjoyed the swamps behind the Samuels house and didn’t mind the swarming mosquitoes. You could tell from Ollie’s shoulders that he was a frequent swimmer. Bennie held on to him so that Handelmann could give him the shot. Gwen stepped back, sitting down to watch. Ollie didn’t have much fat on him but he was at least twice the size of most dogs Handelmann treated. Bennie felt the dog twitch slightly when the needle went in, but his muscles didn’t loosen as they did with most dogs within seconds of getting the shot.

  “Don’t hold on so tightly,” said Handelmann. “See if he’ll drop on his own.”

  Bennie loosened his grip and Ollie remained standing.

  “One more shot,” said Handelmann, so Bennie hugged the dog again, and Handelmann reloaded and stuck the dog a second time. There was no twitch. Ollie stared straight ahead. Again, Bennie stopped hugging to see if Ollie would fall. The dog’s eyelids drooped, but he was stable. Bennie rocked him back and forth a bit but he kept his balance. “Jiminy,” said Handelmann, tossing the needle to the table and turning to his instrument drawer. He pulled out an even bigger syringe. It was like a small jousting lance, and Handelmann looked like he was struggling to hold it with one hand. Bennie looked over his shoulder and saw that Gwen was crying. With the huge needle, Handelmann drew in the pentobarbital and then sunk the needle into the dog’s hindquarters. Ollie made a quiet, low growl. Bennie squeezed him around the neck and shoulders. “It’s okay, Ollie, it’s okay,” Bennie said, which made Handelmann look at him askance. Handelmann said, “Please let go of the dog.” When he did, Ollie sat down, but he didn’t fall over. He blinked, then started panting. Handelmann pushed the dog’s shoulder but the dog didn’t budge. “Heavens,” he said. He drew more pentobarbital into the needle, and this time he jabbed Ollie with it more swiftly, and Ollie didn’t make a sound. Bennie wondered what the dog was feeling, what he was seeing. Handelmann told Bennie, again, to stop hugging the dog. Ollie dropped his head a bit, and as soon as he did, Gwen came to the table and embraced the dog. Handelmann stayed quiet. It was after the third shot with the big needle, the fifth shot overall, that Ollie’s legs finally failed; he surrendered his body to Gwen. She tried to ease him down to the table, but his limp weight must have surprised her. The powerful muscles in Gwen’s arms tensed, but still, Ollie made a loud sound as he hit the steel. Gwen continued hugging Ollie, awkwardly, and Bennie slid himself to the other side of the table and held on to him from there.

  When they were done, Handelmann said, “It might take you a while before you’re ready to come back to this, Bennie. You’re out of practice.”

  “Do you even have
a heart?” asked Gwen. She was still kneeling on the floor, holding the dog.

  “Gwen,” said Bennie. “This is what we do all the time.” He was embarrassed about her comment, but it was true—he’d somehow forgotten what it was like to kill a dog, and Handelmann seemed especially cold.

  “Ollie was in pain,” said Handelmann. He pulled the dead dog by the collar, sliding him off the table and into a sling.

  “I’ll carry him,” said Gwen. “This is just horrible.”

  Managing the crematorium was a big part of Bennie’s job. Handelmann tried to help Gwen as she carried the dead dog, and Bennie mounted his crutches and followed them out back. The door to the crematorium was open and Littlefield was inside. Handelmann said, “Look at this. He showed up.”

  In the middle of the little wooden shed, beside the cinderblock kiln, was a pile of dead animals, and Littlefield was kneeling beside the bodies, waiting to fit the next one into the incinerator. He turned to Gwen. “Just drop that one over there,” he said, pointing to the far side of the pile. Once they unloaded Ollie from the sling, Gwen started holding her nose. She asked if she could go wait in the car. Bennie told her he’d be along in a few minutes.

  After she left, Handelmann asked, “Your sister. Remind me. Is she married?”

  “No,” said Bennie. “Unfortunately, though, she lives in Brooklyn.”

  “Is that right?” said Handelmann, smiling politely. “She’s a beautiful girl.”

  Littlefield said, “You’ve got no chance with her, bub.”

  Handelmann shrugged. “I’ll leave you to your work here, gentlemen.” He closed the door behind him.

  “Why be such an asshole?” Bennie asked.

  “Just stating facts,” his brother said.

  It was always better in the crematorium when the fire was at full power; the burning smell was much better than the fetid stink of rotting organs and congealing dog blood. Littlefield had the fire cranked up and the dogs were burning fast. You’d think it’d smell mostly of burning fur, but what struck Bennie always was how much it smelled like any other fire—a bonfire or barbecue—just earthy smoke.

  Ollie had struck an awkward pose when he tumbled from the sling—his back was twisted around and his legs were angled wrong. Bennie tried straightening him. Littlefield said, “I can’t fit him in yet. He’s too big.”

  “I’m just getting that weird twist out of him.”

  “Leave him right there. Let go of him.”

  “Where have you been?” Bennie asked.

  “Since when?”

  “Since I got out.”

  He seemed bored by Bennie’s concern. “Around.”

  “You’re sleeping in the basement?”

  “Gwen needs a bed. She says her room has that mouse smell. And apparently there’s a big hole in the ceiling of Coach and Mom’s room.” Littlefield picked up a boxer by two of his legs and stuffed him into the incinerator, headfirst. “Besides, the basement is fine. Gwen pisses me off.”

  “She doesn’t try to.”

  “She’s nosy. She wants to talk about everything.” He kept his eyes on the pile. He picked up a small shaggy mutt next.

  Bennie knew it wouldn’t fit in the kiln. “Will you slow down?”

  Littlefield dropped the dog. “I’m doing okay here on my own, Bennie. I’m doing the work you can’t do. Why don’t you hit the road? Gwen’s waiting for you.”

  Bennie said, “Hold on a sec. You need to tell me about Ray LaBrecque.”

  “LaBrecque? Never mind it, Bennie. I chased him, but he lost me. They went looking for him and nothing turned up. That guy has never been in the same place for more than a few days anyway. He probably went back up to Canada.” Littlefield picked up the iron poker from the floor and jabbed it into the fire.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Not really. Some people I know know him, and they don’t like him.”

  “Doesn’t it seem weird—”

  “Goddamn it—put it to rest, Bennie. I have no idea where he went. What do you think happened? I chased him. It was the game we were playing, remember? And he’s good at it—he’s damn good at the game. We both got lost. It took me a while to get out of the storm.”

  When his brother said this, Bennie realized he wasn’t sure what he was after. Littlefield was an obstinate prick sometimes, but he was telling the truth. Bennie decided to let him stew in his bad mood—right now, burning the pile was probably the best thing for him to do. He still didn’t understand how Littlefield had been outrun by LaBrecque. How could Littlefield have lost track of him? Bennie was often reminded, though—especially in the last few years—that his brother didn’t mind being misunderstood.

  “All right. Later,” said Bennie.

  Littlefield poked the fire and didn’t look up. When Bennie left the shack and made his way to the Skylark, it was a relief to be out of the confined space of the crematorium, to see the ocean, a snowy field leading to the seaweed-covered rocks of Esker Cove.

  He climbed in and closed the car door. Gwen said, “Oh, gross. You smell like dead-dog smoke.”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  The car was already warm. She shifted into gear. Bennie told her Handelmann thought she was pretty.

  “That guy is completely inhuman,” she said. “How can he do that day after day? Seriously, he might not have blood in his veins.”

  Bennie had been over to Handelmann’s house only once. He was extremely neat, and regimented about his workout routine, which he did in his garage, regardless of season. He had a cold way of relating to people, but Bennie knew that he ultimately did a lot of good for the animals. “He’s not a bad guy. It’s a hard job,” said Bennie.

  “Man, what a nightmare it was in there,” she said. She drove them toward the island and they didn’t speak the rest of the way. He loved his sister and he felt the ache of wanting her to move back home.

  Just before they got to the causeway, late-afternoon orange light stretched across the snowfields, each long glowing finger distinct against the dark gray shadows. The feeling had been popping up, again and again, since he’d been released from the hospital: everything could have turned out differently. When he’d fallen, he could have easily died. He felt this in his stomach first—a warm glow that spread to his chest and his shoulders and his legs. I’m alive.

  7

  Returning from the animal hospital, Gwen drove on the Weehauk Road, along the Weehauk River, and Bennie asked her if they could stop at the restaurant to say hello. That way she could meet Julian—and Bennie knew they’d like each other. He wanted to find more reasons for her to spend time on the island.

  “Eddie’s son?”

  “Yeah. We’ve become friends.”

  “I remember him, kind of. The tall freak.”

  “He’s got other attributes.”

  “Well, I can’t meet him like this,” she said. “My hair’s been under this hat all day.”

  “Keep the hat on,” he said.

  “No dice,” she said. She kept on driving when they got to the causeway, past the turn for the restaurant. “Oh, you know what? I forgot to tell you. Helen—is that her name? She called.”

  “Yeah, Helen,” said Bennie. Saying her name brought some warmth to his body, and nervousness. He felt his legs go dead when he remembered how startled she’d been by his head bandage and the big cast. It seemed like she was thinking about the possibility of his death, too, and they hadn’t been dating long enough to have to contemplate those kinds of thoughts. He wanted to go to her house, show her he was okay and that it wouldn’t be long before everything would return to normal.

  The rain was so heavy that Bennie and Gwen couldn’t see the harbor, only fog. The water by the road was hammered silver. They saw a bird on the rocks near the far side of the causeway, and Gwen asked, “Is that one?”

  “I think it’s still too early in the season.” Looking for light blue herons was hard without Coach; they didn’t know exactly what they were looking for. They
knew the birds were stocky and quick and they hunted for fish in the shallows, but otherwise it was a process of elimination.

  When they got to the Manse, Gwen parked the Skylark in the snow and helped her brother out the passenger side. For the first time since his return, he thought about all the bills he needed to pay. Littlefield chipped in occasionally to help with the oil bill, but he was always broke. Bennie crutched his way to bed. Plaster from the ceiling above had sprinkled the bedspread. He didn’t even brush it off before climbing in. Before he dozed, Gwen came into the room with a small green envelope. “Looks like Helen was here while we were out. She left this.” Gwen bent down and kissed him on the cheek, handed him the envelope, then turned and left the room.

  Helen had written on a small piece of yellow construction paper, in red ink:

  I’m looking forward to seeing you, Bennie.

  Sorry to give you a hard time about paintball.

  I’m just glad you’re okay! Let me know how

  and when I can help.

  —Helen

  He missed Helen more than he probably should have, considering they’d only met in January. He knew it was wrong to postpone seeing her, but he wasn’t ready. He still didn’t feel quite himself.

  A few days later, the same afternoon a case of oranges and grapefruit arrived from Florida, Gwen took Bennie to Dr. Miner’s office, where he removed the bandage and took out his stitches. As he peeled off his rubber gloves, the doctor said he was glad to see some color in Bennie’s face, and he rested a hand on Bennie’s shoulder and told him he was lucky to be alive. There was something about hearing this out loud that made Bennie wish the doctor had kept it to himself. He liked the guy—he’d treated him well in the hospital—but Bennie knew he’d been lucky, he knew it more and more each day, and he didn’t want someone else telling him so. On his way out of the exam room he glanced in the mirror beside Dr. Miner’s diplomas. They’d shaved his head when they’d put in the stitches. His hair had grown back some, but the scar was plainly visible, a meaty line just above his forehead. The marine cut made him look a little lost. He tried remembering the blood—there must have been a lot of it—but his mind was empty. He thought about his brother, running through the snow, in the opposite direction from where Bennie had fallen. It felt like years had passed since they’d all been at the quarry.