Keepers ch-2

by Gary A Braunbeck

“May twenty-third.”

  Weis stared at me. “What?”

  “My parents’ anniversary. May twenty-third.” I tapped my head; it still felt hot to me. “I can remember Goldman dialogue and important dates.”

  “The miracles I’ve witnessed in this lifetime. It humbles me. Truly. Or maybe it’s only a hemorrhoid flare-up. Either way, it makes a definite impression.” He rolled over to the bed and pulled a small box from under the blanket covering his legs. “A token of my esteem.” He tossed it up into my lap.

  I was about half afraid of the thing. “You’re giving me a present?”

  “I just paid for the gift-wrapping, but it’s the thought that counts so let’s not get all emotional-however if someone named ‘Rico the Blade’ comes looking for his ‘lid,’ say nothing of this conversation. I am a mule on the run.”

  “The considerate felon.”

  Beth shook her head. “You two ought to take this act on the road.”

  “Oh, my days on the road are long gone, Beautiful Bethany. Unless of course you’re driving, then it’s Easy Rider time.”

  “They both get blown away at the end of that movie.”

  “Yes, but it’s to a Bob Dylan song, so that makes it symbolic and culturally significant. Perhaps Yukon Cornelius here could hum a few bars of ‘Lay Lady, Lay’ and we’ll feel terribly important and meaningful as we pull into the Dairy Queen drive-thru. Lacks the sociological pathos of Fonda and Hopper biting the big one, but I always found that ending depressing, anyway. Ice cream is not depressing. Ice cream is yummy. Shotgun blasts to the chest are not. I hear they leave a slightly metallic aftertaste.”

  “Hey, I got an idea,” said Beth, grabbing my hand and Weis’s. “Let’s do it. Let’s have a road trip. The three of us and Mabel and the Its.”

  “The ‘Its’?” said Weis. “Dare I ask?”

  “No,” I said. “Trust me.”

  “C’mon,” Beth said. “We have to do this by next Thursday. Mabel can sign out Whitey here and he can ride along with us.”

  “I would ask where we’re going,” said Weis, “and what, exactly, the ‘Its’ are, but frankly I don’t care. A road trip! Magnificent. If you’re willing to get me out of that mausoleum for a day, I’ll even go to Toledo-and I wouldn’t wish that on Eichmann.” He slapped his hands against his useless legs, and grinned from ear to ear. “I must go and choose an outfit from my extensive wardrobe. One must always dress properly for a road trip.”

  “Just don’t show up naked,” said Beth.

  “I would be dazzling in my raw manliness.”

  “You’d be an old man with no clothes stranded by the side of the road.”

  Weis considered this for a moment. “Ah, yes-but think of the attention I’d get.” He gave me a thumbs-up. “See you soon, Mr. Freeze. Beware the Green Hornet.”

  “You mean the Caped Crusader,” I said.

  “Just making sure there’s no brain damage. There isn’t. What a tragedy.”

  Six days later all of us piled into Beth’s U-boat of a station wagon along with four of the Its and took a drive. Beth drove and Mabel rode in the front with her, while I got to share the backseat with Mr. Weis and various of the Its who decided from time to time that the cargo area and Weis’s folded-up wheelchair were just too boring. The temperature was well into the upper eighties and the air-conditioning didn’t work so we had to make the drive with all the windows rolled down-much to the chagrin of Mr. Weis, who’d gone to a lot of trouble that morning to ensure his hair looked presentable.

  “Jeez-Louise,” he said, finally giving up trying to hold his white mane in place. “If I’d have known it was going to be like this, I’d’ve just wet my finger and jammed it in a light socket.”

  “It might have improved your disposition, as well,” said Mabel. Yelled, actually. The sound of the wind blowing in through the windows made it impossible to talk at a normal volume; I don’t think a word was said during the drive that wasn’t delivered at three hundred decibels. Thank God I’d thought to bring along some aspirin.

  The drive took forty minutes. The Keepers facility was located outside of Hebron, which meant having to drive through Cedar Hill, then Heath, past the Industrial Park, and making a turnoff near Lakewood High School that took you in a straight line for the better part of fifteen minutes. (By the time we actually arrived, I wasn’t sure we were still in the same county.)

  One of the Its got too excited and vomited on my pant leg. Twice.

  “I see even our four-legged friends aren’t immune to your considerable charms,” said Mr. Weis.

  “Watch out or I’ll put him in your lap.”

  “I’ll have you know that animals happen to adore me. Why, I handled an animal act back in the day-”

  “Here.” I picked up the It and dropped the animal in his lap. The dog licked his face, nuzzled his cheek, and puked on his shoulder.

  “I shall have my revenge, dear boy.”

  “On the bright side, at least we have one clean set of clothes between us.”

  “I brought an extra set of clothes for both of you,” Mabel called over her shoulder. “I had a feeling there might be some redecorating going on.”

  “‘Redecorating,’ ” said Mr. Weis. “What a tasteful way to put it.”

  Beth pulled a hand towel from her bag and handed it to me so I could clean off my shoes. The Its had once again gathered on or around the wheelchair in back and were craning their necks to stick their heads out the back window, which was opened a third of the way.

  We pulled into a gas station and I helped Mr. Weis into his wheelchair so he could go into the restroom and change his shirt. According to the directions, we were only a mile or so away from the facility.

  As I stood outside the restroom door waiting for Mr. Weis, I saw another station wagon drive past, this one heading back toward Hebron. There was a woman of about forty driving, and two young children riding in the backseat. A happy little dog was bouncing between the kids, sticking its head out the window, having a grand time. The children were laughing and the mother was smiling. I wondered if the dog was a new pet, and if they’d just gotten it from Keepers. I caught sight of Beth and Mabel (who’d also seen the children and the dog) and knew they were wondering the same thing. I hoped the children had just gotten their new pet from the same place we were about to deposit four more. Even if that weren’t the case, I hoped Beth and Mabel thought it was; it would make leaving the four Its there easier for them.

  Both of them had cried a little that morning as we loaded the dogs into the station wagon. They might as well have been abandoning newborn babies in trash cans, it hurt that much for them. Mr. Weis planned on treating everyone to an “extra-special” lunch after everything was finished, “… and maybe even a movie, if there’s time.” I thought that was a great idea. We’d all need to do something happy after this was done, regardless of how much Mabel and Beth insisted this wasn’t going to upset them.

  Mr. Weis rolled out in a crisp, clean white shirt, tossing his soiled one at me. “Easy on the starch next time, pal.”

  “Thanks for the Keaton book,” I said. His gift to me had been a copy of Buster Keaton’s autobiography, My Wonderful World of Slapstick .

  “Ah, so you can read as well as launder clothes. Every day in every way, I find you more and more adequate.” He winked at me and grinned. “Glad you liked it. If you want, I got Groucho’s autobiography, as well. Might learn a few pointers about comic timing from it-God knows you could use some.”

  I helped him back into the car, folded up and replaced his wheelchair, then went into the men’s room to change pants and clean myself up.

  Onward.

  The facility came into view about two minutes later.

  It sat on the right side of the road, at the end of a long asphalt drive, directly in the middle of a wide expanse of blacktop like a passenger ship on a flat dark sea; Noah’s Ark, Day 41. It was quite a large one-story building, made of limestone, concrete blocks, and metal.
It could have been a city jail, or a building from an old prison compound suddenly displaced in the center of a field. There was no sign on the road telling you what the place was, if it was open, or why it was even here.

  The asphalt drive branched off in two directions, and at least here there was sign telling you why: VISITOR PARKING TO THE LEFT. The right-side parking lot was for SANCTIONED PERSONNEL ONLY, and was half-filled with about a dozen vans (some of which looked to be converted bread delivery trucks), each a dull tan color with only the word KEEPERS painted on the sides.

  It took us a minute to find a parking space because the lot was quite full. What struck me was not that there were so many cars, but that so many of them were expensive cars, rich-people cars, cars driven by owners who were too important to be bothered performing a distasteful duty like the one we were here to discharge.

  Beth parked, shut off the engine, then looked at Mabel. Neither of them said anything for a few moments which, in this heat, seemed two-and-a-half eternities long.

  “I really don’t mean to sound like I’m trying to take over or assume the role of cantankerous old fart,” said Weis, “but it seems to me that this is the point where one of us should at least pretend we’re going to get out of the car.”

  “In a minute,” said Mabel, very softly, but underlined in steel.

  Farther back, the Its sat still and silent, as if they knew why we were here.

  “Maybe I should go check it out first,” I said.

  “‘Check it out’?” said Weis. “ ‘Check it out’? What are you, Edward G. Robinson in Little Caesar? We casing the joint for a heist? ‘Check it out.’ Lord save us from amateurs.”

  “I think that sounds like a good idea,” Beth said. “We don’t want to be wandering around with the dogs and have no idea where to put them.”

  Mabel nodded. “I don’t think the dogs would like it if we dragged this out for too long.”

  I looked at Weis the same instant he looked at me.

  The dogs. They had said “the dogs.”

  I suppose in a way it must make it easier for a person to do something like this if they can remove their hearts from the event to some degree. Put your father in a nursing home, you suddenly stop referring to him as “Dad” and just as “him” when talking to the admissions nurse; “Dad” gives his identity a too-close proximity to your conscience, but “him,” “him” is safe because it’s nonspecific, “him” is a term applied to a Person You Don’t Really Know, someone removed from you, someone you haven’t spent your entire life around and who has helped determine the kind of person you’ve become. So “Dad” becomes “him,” “Mom” becomes “her,” and “the Its” become “the dogs.”

  Christ, I felt suddenly so sad. I suspected Weis did, too. When our gazes met I could see the signal flares going off behind his eyes: Mayday, Mayday, we’re sinking fast, jettison all unnecessary cargo immediately, Mayday, Mayday…

  I opened the door and started to climb out. “You wanna come along, Mr. Weis?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  I retrieved his wheelchair and got him situated, then leaned down by Beth’s window. “I’ll find out what we’re supposed to do, where we take them and all of that.”

  “Thanks. It’ll give us a couple of minutes to say good-bye.”

  “I figured.”

  She leaned out and kissed me. After all this time, her lips on mine still made my knees melt.

  I grabbed the handles of Weis’s chair and moved toward the building.

  “Alone at last,” he said.

  “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “No one ever does, it’s part of my well-honed mystique.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that so I left it alone. “Any thoughts on what movie you’d like to see later?”

  “So long as it doesn’t have Meryl Streep in it, I don’t care. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great actress and a looker, but she reminds me too much of my daughter. Have I mentioned that I’m a little irked at my daughter right now? I mean, I don’t expect her to fly up here from L.A. every chance she gets, but I have trouble believing that someone can be so busy that they can’t pick up a goddamn phone and call for five minutes once a week. I’m not asking to be the center of her life, you understand, but it gets boring as hell out here on the periphery sometimes. Was I raving there for a moment? Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” And I was. He was actually pretty splendid company, once you got past the bluster and brouhaha.

  The entrance to the building was surprisingly small-I almost couldn’t maneuver the wheelchair through it-but once inside it seemed even larger that it appeared from the parking lot.

  The entry area was probably about twenty feet wide and fifteen deep. To the right was a massive steel door with a single, darkened window at eye-level and a SANCTIONED PERSONNEL ONLY sign. It reminded me of the heavy iron door to that cell in every last Frankenstein movie where they imprison the monster and assure one another that it’s strong enough to prevent the creature from escaping. Whatever lay beyond that door took up exactly half of the building. I figured that’s where they probably kept the animal cages.

  The wall facing us was concrete, about seven feet tall, and held three rows of eight cubbyholes, each big enough to hold a good-sized dog or cat; a fourth row, at knee-level, contained cubbies for the larger dogs-Saint Bernards, German shepherds, Dobermans, etc. Each cubby had a door of heavy iron bars attached to it. For the moment, all the cubbies were empty and their doors open. It looked like an automat after lunch rush; you could even see how the back wall of each swung open so whoever worked behind the scenes could retrieve the animals. A sign above stated that once an animal was placed inside, it became the responsibility of Keepers and would not be returned to the donor; it also warned that the locks were magnetized, so once a door was closed it could not be opened again from our side.

  “Why do you suppose they do it that way?”

  Mr. Weis shrugged. “My guess is it’s a safety precaution. Folks wouldn’t be bringing their animals here unless they absolutely had to. If you love a pet enough not to hand it over to those Nazis gas chambers at the Humane Society, then you love it enough to change your mind at the last minute, and that’s not a good idea for you or the animal. My guess is a lot of folks have second thoughts once they see their pet behind those bars. This way, there’s no going back.”

  “So they really only give you one chance to back out.”

  “Damn straight. Once it’s in that cage, that’s all she wrote.”

  The wall behind us sported a long shelf deep enough for a dog or cat to sit on and be groomed; there were combs, brushes, nail clippers, flea collars, bags of treats, and countless other goodies set out for people to use before leaving their animals. There was also a series of wooden lockboxes where you could leave a monetary donation; a sign over each box read: “Keepers is a privately funded, non-profit animal protection organization. Donations from the public, though not required, are nonetheless welcomed. All money goes toward the feeding and care of the animals. Keepers does not believe in destroying animals. Once they are with us, they are here for life, even if a new home is never found. Here they will remain happy. Here they will remain loved.”

  I read the sign again. “Seems almost too good to be true.”

  “Gift horse. Mouth. Looking into it. Bad idea. Get it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.” Then: “A Danny Kaye fan, as well. There’s hope for you yet.”

  There was no wall to our left; instead, there was a massive and cavernous play area that extended so far back it looked like a study in forced perspective; swing sets for children, sandboxes, rows of folding chairs, picnic tables, music playing from unseen speakers, the smell of hot dogs and hamburgers… if it weren’t for the walls surrounding all of this and the ceiling of skylights, you’d swear you were in Moundbuilders Park on a summer afternoon.

  And the animals were everywhere, dogs, cats, pigs, birds
, rabbits, a couple of horses and cows, each fenced off in its own area (except the birds, who flew freely throughout) so that children and adults alike could pet them, either from outside the barrier or from within.

  “Looks like a goddamn 4H convention,” said Weis.

  I thought it was cool. There were children playing on the swings, mothers sipping icy colas as they relaxed on the chairs or played with the dogs and cats. The animals themselves were clean and healthy and seemed quite happy. I caught glimpses of figures wearing tan jumpsuits with KEEPERS printed across their backs weaving through the pens and people, asking questions, making notes, handing out treats. All of them wore tan wool caps pulled down to cover the tops of their ears. Although it was comfortably cool in here-the air-filtration system must have cost a fortune, because you could barely smell any urine or feces or any other potently animal scents you would have expected-it wasn’t cool enough for a cap of any kind.

  A sign on the farthest wall proclaimed this to be the “Selection Area,” and that we should take our time getting to know the animals before bearing them home with us. That was the actual phrase: “bearing them home.” I don’t know why that stuck in my mind. All of the signs contained odd little phrases like that, as if written by someone to whom English was a second language and so its most formal rules of usage were followed when composing the notices.

  I wondered if the woman in the car and her two children had made a morning of it in here, playing with dozens of puppies and dogs before selecting the one that just seemed to love them so much they couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without it.

  Everywhere I looked there were women-well-dressed women, women who drove expensive cars and wore white gloves for afternoon tea and had a standing appointment with their hair stylist each week and whose children attended private schools-playing with a dog or cat or bunny, smiling as the animal wagged its tail or whiskers and licked a hand or face, and these women would grin from ear to ear saying, “How is Mama’s little baby? Is Mama’s little baby lonesome?” It was sweet.

  “Beth and Mabel need to see this,” I said to Mr. Weis. “I really think they’ll feel a whole lot better knowing how this works.”