Nearly twelve years old, Apollo was with us when Shelly and I were married. I still remember the day she brought him home from the shelter. I looked into his eyes and it was like he knew the future, Shelly said. He knew I’d come for him, and that he was meant to be with us. I’m going to name him Apollo, after the Greek and Roman god of prophecy. He was five when we divorced.
As Apollo begins to purr, I run my hand along his head and across his back, which he arches as he leans into me, giving me his feline version of a hug. It is then that I realize how skinny he’s gotten. Often with advanced age, cats become quite thin, but I can feel every vertebrae in his spine, little knucklelike bulges against my fingertips. “For Christ’s sake,” I sigh, “when’s the last time she fed you?”
After a quick search, I find two small plastic bowls on the floor next to the stove. Both are empty. I fill one with water from the kitchen sink, set it down, then scour the cupboards until I find a bag of dry cat food. It seems to be okay, so I pour some into the second bowl. Before I’ve finished, Apollo hops from the counter and enthusiastically begins to eat.
There’s something profoundly beautiful about that. Sad, but beautiful, and for the briefest moment, while I watch him eat and remember how much I miss him, I feel connected to something greater than myself. Something benevolent and kind that watches over us both. I think of the young man in my yard, the pain in his eyes and the tears rolling down his face, and I want to cry too.
And then it’s all gone and we’re alone again, Apollo and I.
Like everyone else in this life, we’re on our own.
In a hall closet, I find Apollo’s litter box. It is overflowing with waste and smells horribly. After dumping it into the trash in the kitchen, I wash it in the kitchen sink, then refill and return it to the closet.
Moving down the short hallway into Shelly’s bedroom, I step over the clothes strewn along the floor and draped over the furniture and stand next to the bed where I left her. I expect to find her asleep or unconscious, but she’s awake, her sad blue eyes looking up at me through a haze of drugs and alcohol.
“Hey, baby,” she says pensively.
Somewhere deep inside her, I can still see the woman I once loved. But she’s dying, a flame slowly flickering toward extinction. I pull her leather boots off, drop them on the floor with the rest of the mess, then sit next to her on the side of the bed. Her short blonde hair is mussed, her makeup smudged and her clothes wrinkled and worn.
“I’m going to take Apollo,” I tell her.
Her expression goes from dreamy to confusion, then anger. “No you’re not.”
“He hasn’t eaten in days. You can’t care for him anymore.”
“Yes I can, I—I was just gone for a little while and forgot to put food down.”
“How long have you been partying?”
Her head lolls to the side, cheek against the dingy pillow. “Couple days, I think.”
“Apollo’s an old man,” I remind her. “Do you want him to die?”
Her lips slowly curl into a devilish grin. “Apollo can never die.”
“It’s not a joke, it’s abusive. I’ll take him and give him a good home with us.”
“You’re not taking my fucking cat,” she snarls. “He’s all I have left!”
She tries to sit up, to scratch at me with her hands, but is too weak and fails. I catch her wrists and pin them down by her sides, pushing her deeper into the mattress and holding her there a moment. “Stop it.” She continues to struggle, so I move my hands to her shoulders and give her two strong shakes. “Shell, stop!”
Shelly goes limp, smiling and laughing quietly. “You want to hit me, Zeke?”
Zeke?
“Jesus Christ.” I let her go. “Do you even know who I am?”
“Do you know who you are?”
“You just called me Zeke.”
“Did I? I’m wasted, I…” Her eyes roll around as if she’s lost control of them, then she squirms around a bit and reaches for me again, this time more tenderly. Her hands find my arm and her fingers glide slowly up and down, from my elbow to my wrist, then back again. “Come home, baby. Please come home to me. It’s where you belong.”
“You’ve got to move on, Shell. We’re over, and we have been for years.”
“You think your perfect little life with your perfect little job and your perfect little wife is gonna save you?” She chuckles, but it’s a mean and scornful laugh.
“My life and job are hardly perfect.”
“Oh, but that little cunt you’re with is, huh?”
“Don’t call her that. You don’t even know her.”
“Fuck her. You belong with me and Apollo. Come home, Cam. Come home.”
“This isn’t my home. We never lived here together.”
Shelly narrows her eyes, as if she’s losing sight of me. “Where did we live?”
Much as I despise the way she lives her life, I can’t help but feel sorry for her as well. She’s a mess, and while I’m not to blame for her problems, if I’m honest, I can’t completely excuse myself—or perhaps my absence—from being a partial contributor to her collapse. But even when we were together, Shelly was hardly a pillar of stability. She was always a train wreck. It’s just a matter of degrees. Maybe I thought I could save her. Maybe I thought doing so might save me. It doesn’t much seem to matter anymore either way. I put my hand on her forehead and gently run it back into her hair. Despite the chill in the apartment, she’s covered in perspiration and her skin is clammy and pale, unhealthy-looking. “You should try to get some rest, okay?”
“I don’t look so good anymore, do I?” she asks.
“You’ll be fine, just sleep.”
“The drugs and the booze they…they catch you after awhile, you know? They catch the best of us, baby.”
“That’s why you need to rest.”
“You used to think I was so sexy.” A smile crosses her face like a spasm. There, then gone. “You used to say I was the sexiest woman you’d ever seen. Remember? Remember when you used to say that, baby?”
“Yes,” I answer softly, although my memories of our life together are vague at best. Much of it was so unpleasant that I’ve blocked most of it out. “I do.”
“You used to like me. You used to love your naughty girl.”
“It’s a different life now.”
Her glazed eyes lock on mine. “Are you sure about that?”
“You can’t keep doing this. You need to get some help, Shell. Rehab or…”
“We had so much fun. Didn’t we?”
“Sure.”
Her fingers tighten on my arm. “You don’t look so good either, you know. And you’re burning up, I—I can feel it on your skin. See? We’re no good without each other. Come home.”
“Go to sleep,” I tell her. “You’ll feel better if you just go to sleep.”
She watches me awhile. She knows me too well. “You’re losing it too, aren’t you? Right down the goddamn rabbit hole with the rest of us, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“Fuck you think I mean?” she asks dreamily, her speech still slurred.
At this point Shelly is the last person I want to confide in, yet something feels right about doing just that. Familiarity, perhaps, as there’s a certain unspoken comfort in it, and if nothing else, we still have that between us. Problem is, in her condition, how can I trust anything she says? I risk it anyway. What do I have to lose?
“Do you know what’s going on?” I ask.
“Don’t you?”
I shake my head no.
“It’s all gone to shit, baby. Square pegs don’t fit in round holes, no matter how hard you try to force it. You belong with me.”
In a loud whisper I tell her, “I feel like I’m losing my mind, Shell.”
“You think I’m the only one who knows what you did?”
“You said before you knew what I did. What are you talking about?”
Somewhere in the distance,
a siren sounds, then fades.
“What have I done, Shell?” I press. “What have I done?”
“You ran away. You ran away and left me.”
“Part of me will always love you, but our life wasn’t what I wanted. I’m sorry.”
“You think that matters?” she asks, her anger replaced with sorrow.
I don’t answer. There seems little point. We’re going around in circles. She doesn’t know anything more than I do. She’s a drunk and a drug addict, nothing more, nothing less.
She bends her leg at the knee and rubs her bare foot against my side. “Lay down with me awhile.”
“I can’t.”
“We’ll just snuggle, I promise.” Her hands move up and onto my chest. “Come on,” she whispers. “Come on. You know you want to. You can do anything you want to me, baby. Anything…”
I remove her hands as gently as I can, place them back down at her sides. “I got to go. If I find Apollo in this kind of shape again, I’m taking him, you understand?”
“Take him,” she says, tears filling her eyes. She rolls over, away from me, and tangles herself in a sheet. “Take him home to your perfect little bullshit life. I’m sure Little Miss Fucking Awesome can take better care of him than I will. You took everything else from me, why not Apollo too?”
Just then, as if on cue, the cat hops up onto the bed and lies down against Shelly’s back. I reach down and give him a pat on the head as he settles in for a nap. “I mean it,” I tell her. “If I find him like this again, he comes home with me.”
She lies there with her back to me, says nothing.
“I have to go.” I reach for her, my hand hovering in midair over her shoulder. “I’ll call tomorrow and check in on you, okay?”
“No you won’t.”
I slowly return my hand to my side.
After a moment, Shelly’s breathing grows heavy and steady. She’s drifted off to sleep. I grab the sheet to pull it free of her lower body and cover her properly, but something moves beneath the covers near her leg, tenting the sheet as it slowly slithers toward her waist.
I jump back, horrified but unable to take my eyes from the bed as the long, thick bulge glides beneath the sheet, slowly coiling around her with a sickening wet sound.
Something white and slimy, much like the giant slug from the homeless man’s eye, reaches the very edge of the sheet, twisting slowly back and forth as if searching for purchase.
I slam shut my eyes, tell myself this is not happening. It is not happening because it is not possible. It is not real, goddamn it. It is not real.
When I open my eyes, all I find is Apollo staring at me quizzically.
Shelly is fast asleep. There is nothing else there or moving beneath the sheet.
Are we alone here, Mr. Copeland?
Shaken, I leave the apartment. Once outside, as I hurry down the steps to my car, I realize something else is wrong. At the base of the front stairs, I look to the sky. It has turned a dull gray, and the sunshine from earlier has vanished, replaced with a bank of thick, dark clouds. I look at my watch: 3:33 PM. Half the day is gone, and it’s taken the sunshine with it. Night is coming, and this time of year it will arrive within the next hour or so.
But how is this possible? It should still be late morning—early afternoon at the latest. How long was I in Shelly’s apartment? It seemed like a short while, perhaps half an hour. But if my watch is correct, I’ve been in that apartment for hours. What the hell was I doing in there?
A strange darkness deep within me comes loose just then, crashing over me like a rogue wave. Horrible bursts of unspeakable carnage blink in strobe light flashes across my mind’s eye, and terrifying screams of agony ring in my ears.
I have never been a religious man, but I know what I’m seeing and hearing.
The flames spread closer.
* * *
Rocketing through the dingy streets of Everett, I make my way toward the highway, hoping to leave at least some of these nightmares behind me. My mind races, filled with visions and voices, confusion and terror. Despite the car heater, I am freezing and sweating all at once. Suddenly ravenous, I pull over at the first eatery I see, a little hole-in-the-wall place advertising an array of greasy specials.
A little bell jingles over the door as I enter, and I am greeted by the smell of fried food, an empty dining area and the disinterested glance of a teenage girl working the counter. I stand before the counter, looking up at the massive menu board suspended overhead.
“Welcome to Rickey’s,” the girl sighs in monotone, “how may I take your order?”
“Let me get a double cheeseburger,” I tell her. “Rare.”
I usually like meat cooked medium, but for some reason I want it bloody and hot and running right now. I can almost feel the warm blood smearing my lips and dripping down my throat.
“Make it two double cheeseburgers, very rare, make—make sure they’re really rare, okay? And I’ll take a hot dog too—no—a chili dog with onions and cheese. And fries, I—a large fry and—do you have milk shakes?”
“Yeah,” she says, as if answering requires enormous effort on her part.
“I’ll have a chocolate one then, please. The biggest one you’ve got.”
“That’s to go?”
“I’ll eat it here.”
Her eyes widen, clearly surprised that all the food is for me, but she rings me up, hands a cook at a grill behind her the ticket, then turns back to take my money.
I’m shaking and starving and light-headed, but manage to pay her, then find a seat at the closest table and wait. My mind continues to scream, my leg bouncing up and down like a nervous school kid. I’m freezing, but covered in sweat. My fever must be getting worse. Starve a cold, feed a fever. Isn’t that what they say? Or is it the other way around? I don’t care, I need food and I need it now.
What seems an eternity passes before the girl brings my order on a large plastic tray, places it before me without a word, then returns to her position behind the counter, where she stares at me as if to be certain I’m really going to eat all this.
I attack the tray like a wild dog, stuffing a burger into my mouth and chewing noisily, slurping milk shake and scooping up handfuls of fries at a time. I know what I’m doing, in that I understand and am aware of my actions, but I don’t feel as though I’m in control of them. I never eat or behave this way, but it’s as if I’ve become a marionette controlled by some unseen puppeteer, and although I know damn well I’m making a spectacle of myself, I can’t stop.
Within a few quick moments, the food is gone and I’m finally sated.
I sit there a moment like a blob, feeling like I’ve just eaten a family of four, my stomach gurgling and my chest tight. The sweats grow worse, so I down the rest of the milk shake, hoping it will cool me, and it does, but only temporarily. When I look up from my meal, I see that the cook has joined the girl at the counter. Both stare at me like they’ve never seen anything quite like what they just witnessed.
“You all right, buddy?” the cook asks.
“Yeah,” I lie, forcing myself up out of the chair.
He points to a silver holder on my table. “There’s napkins right there.”
I grab a handful, wipe my mouth and chin clean, thank him under my breath, then hurry back out to my car.
Three blocks later, I pull over, stumble from the car and vomit into the gutter.
* * *
By the time I arrive at home and park in our driveway, dusk is in full bloom and the sky has morphed into a peculiar shade of gray. Could be threatening rain, perhaps even an early snow—can’t be sure—but it’s gotten noticeably colder. I sit in the car a moment, watch the house. Such a nice little colonial, well maintained, the soft glow of lights in the windows warm and inviting. And inside waits Remy, the woman of my dreams, probably worried about where I am and seconds away from texting or calling my cell. I’d never had grandiose desires, never had huge dreams for fame and fortune or an exciting, adve
nture-filled life. All I wanted was a good job—a job that mattered, that helped people and made a difference somehow in the world—a nice home and someone I loved and who truly loved me to share my life with. Unlike most, I actually have everything I set out to find. And now something is conspiring to take it all away, and I’m not about to stand by and let that happen.
Next door, I see the light in Bruce Deacon’s living room, and the faint flicker of a television. I picture him sitting there all alone, probably already drunk like he is every night, staring mindlessly at his TV but seeing only the life he’d once had and the woman he’d once shared it with. Bruce had what I have, but now it’s gone. I’m sure he never saw it coming, never once suspected this would be his life—retired and alone, his wife dead and gone, his lonely days and nights one endless drunken dream—yet there it is.
“I could die tonight,” he’d once told me in one of his drunken stupors. “And the world wouldn’t miss a beat. It’d be like I was never even here.”
With his words still rattling in my head, I leave the car and slip inside.
Remy greets me almost immediately, smiling broadly but with a subtle hint of concern I have come to recognize and love. She’s already changed from her work clothes into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back and up into a ponytail that bounces and sways with each step.
“Hey, sweetie,” she says, closing on me and wrapping me up in a big hug. “Was just about to call you and see—” Holding my shoulders, she leans back so she can look up at me in the eye. “Are you all right? You’re burning up.”
“Think I have a fever,” I tell her as she places a palm flat against my moist forehead. “Not feeling too well.”
“Yeah, you definitely do. Hang your coat up,” she says, padding in her bare feet toward the downstairs bathroom. “I’ll get you a couple aspirin. Going to make soup for dinner, sound good? Little chicken noodle, maybe?”
“Yeah, great,” I say, though my stomach is still upset from my earlier gorging.
Rogue Page 6