by Jack Ketchum
Maybe I'm just loyal.
I don't know.
I hear the water turn off and a while later she walks back into the living room in her white terry robe, her hair wrapped in a pink towel. She glances at the clock. Reaches down to the table for a cigarette. Lights it and pulls on it furiously. She's still wobbly but less so. She's scowling. Zoey's watching her carefully. When she gets like this, half-drunk and half-straight, she's dangerous. I know.
"You still here?
"Yes."
She laughs. It's not a nice laugh.
"Sure you are."
"I am."
"Bullshit. You fuckin' drove me crazy while you were alive. Fuckin' driving me crazy now you're dead."
"I'm here to help you, Jill. You and Zoey."
She looks around the room like finally she believes that maybe, maybe I really am here and not some voice in her head. Like she's trying to locate me, pin down the source of me. All she has to do, really, is to look at Zoey, who's staring straight at me.
But she's squinting in a way I've seen before. A way I don't like.
"Well, you don't have to worry about Zoey," she says.
I'm about to ask her what she means by that when the doorbell rings. She stubs out the cigarette, walks over to the door and opens it. There's a man in the hall I've never seen before. A small man, shy and sensitive looking, mid-thirties and balding, in a dark blue windbreaker. His posture says he's uncomfortable.
"Mrs. Hunt?"
"Uh-huh. Come on in," she says. "She's right over there."
The man stoops and picks up something off the floor and I see what it is.
A cat-carrier. Plastic with a grated metal front. Just like ours. The man steps inside.
"Jill, what are you doing? What the hell are you doing, Jill?"
Her hands flutter to her ears as though she's trying to bat away a fly or a mosquito and she blinks rapidly but the man doesn't see that at all. The man is focused on my cat who remains focused on me, when she should be watching the man, when she should be seeing the cat-carrier, she knows damn well what they mean for godsakes, she's going somewhere, somewhere she won't like.
"Zoey! Go! Get out of here! Run!"
I clap my hands. They make no sound. But she hears the alarm in my voice and sees the expression I must be wearing and at the last instant turns toward the man just as he reaches for her, reaches down to the couch and snatches her up and shoves her head-first inside the carrier. Closes it. Engages the double-latches.
He's fast. He's efficient.
My cat is trapped inside.
The man smiles. He doesn't quite pull it off.
"That wasn't too bad," he says.
"No. You're lucky. She bites. She'll put up a hell of a fight sometimes."
"You lying bitch," I tell her.
I've moved up directly behind her by now. I'm saying this into her ear. I can feel her heart pumping with adrenalin and I don't know if it's me who's scaring her or what she's just done or allowed to happen that's scaring her but she's all actress now, she won't acknowledge me at all. I've never felt so angry or useless in my life.
"You sure you want to do this, ma'am?" he says. "We could put her up for adoption for a while. We don't have to euthanize her. 'Course, she's not a kitten anymore. But you never know. Some family..."
"I told you," my wife of six years says. "She bites."
And now she's calm and cold as ice.
Zoey has begun meowing. My heart's begun to break. Dying was easy compared to this.
Our eyes meet. There's a saying that the soul of a cat is seen through its eyes and I believe it. I reach inside the carrier. My hand passes through the carrier. I can't see my hand but she can. She moves her head up to nuzzle it. And the puzzled expression isn't there anymore. It's as though this time she can actually feel me, feel my hand and my touch. I wish I could feel her too. I petted her just this way when she was only a kitten, a street-waif, scared of every horn and siren. And I was all alone. She begins to purr. I find something out. Ghosts can cry.
The man leaves with my cat and I'm here with my wife.
I can't follow. Somehow I know that.
You can't begin to understand how that makes me feel. I'd give anything in the world to follow.
My wife continues to drink and for the next three hours or so I do nothing but scream at her, tear at her. Oh, she can hear me, all right. I'm putting her through every torment as I can muster, reminding her of every evil she's ever done to me or anybody, reminding her over and over of what she's done today and I think, so this is my purpose, this is why I'm back, the reason I'm here is to get this bitch to end herself, end her miserable fucking life and I think of my cat and how Jill never really cared for her, cared for her wine-stained furniture more than my cat and I urge her toward the scissors, I urge her toward the window and the seven-story drop, toward the knives in the kitchen and she's crying, she's screaming, too bad the neighbors are all at work, they'd at least have her arrested. And she's hardly able to walk or even stand and I think, heart attack maybe, maybe stroke and I stalk my wife and urge her to die, die until it's almost one o'clock and something begins to happen.
She's calmer.
Like she's not hearing me as clearly.
I'm losing something.
Some power drifting slowly away like a battery running down.
I begin to panic. I don't understand. I'm not done yet.
Then I feel it. I feel it reach out to me from blocks and blocks away far across the city. I feel the breathing slow. I feel the heart stopping. I feel the quiet end of her. I feel it more clearly than I felt my own end.
I feel it grab my own heart and squeeze.
I look at my wife, pacing, drinking. And I realize something. And suddenly it's not so bad anymore. It still hurts, but in a different way.
I haven't come back to torment Jill. Not to tear her apart or to shame her for what she's done. She's tearing herself apart. She doesn't need me for that. She'd have done this terrible thing anyway, with or without my being here. She'd planned it. It was in motion. My being here didn't stop her. My being here afterwards didn't change things. Zoey was mine. And given who and what Jill was what she'd done was inevitable.
And I think, to hell with Jill. Jill doesn't matter a bit. Not one bit. Jill is zero.
It was Zoey I was here for. Zoey all along. That awful moment.
I was here for my cat.
That last touch of comfort inside the cage. The nuzzle and purr. Reminding us both of all those nights she'd comforted me and I her. The fragile brush of souls.
That was what it was about.
That was what we needed.
The last and the best of me's gone now.
And I begin to fade.
—Brad C. Hodson
A Knoxville native, writer Brad C. Hodson currently resides in Los Angeles. His work includes numerous pieces of short fiction, his upcoming novel Darling, the play and upcoming film about Lord Byron, A Year Without A Summer, and the award-winning cult comedy George: A Zombie Intervention. When not reading or writing, he's usually found dragging heavy weights and throwing sandbags in the park or practicing his Italian while bemoaning the fact that he's still a few decades off from retiring on a farm in Lazio. For articles, reviews, or more info on where to find his work, please visit www.brad-hodson.com
—The Other Patrick
By Brad C. Hodson
"Can we go?"
His wife ignored him. Anna was too intent on finding the graves of old Hollywood stars. They had only been in Los Angeles for a month, David's public relations firm deciding that now would be the perfect time to diversify and dabble in show business. He hated Hollywood, hated the celebrity culture, and especially hated trudging through cemeteries.
Anna, however, loved every minute of it. "I couldn't care less about the current crop of drama queens," she had said as they entered the cemetery, "but 'The Golden Age' is such a thrill." Even though she knew David would hate it, she ins
isted on visiting the final resting places of stars like Rudolph Valentino and Faye Wray.
David had made the mistake of being critical of Douglas Fairbanks Junior's massive Roman tomb, complete with a very Caesar-like bust of himself and a reflecting pool, and thought he'd never hear the end of it.
"He was a legend," Anna had said.
"He was a narcissist. He didn't do anything to change the world for better or worse."
"He entertained people. Sometimes that's all we need."
David sighed. This was what he got for marrying someone with her head in the clouds. He saw her interest in acting as a hobby and she knew that. Every time they argued about ridiculous things like this, they both knew it was just a front for the real tension: she didn't feel her husband respected her.
He respected her. He just didn't see why something as self-serving as acting was considered a lofty goal. Not that he had some higher purpose he served, but at least he didn't pretend he did, either.
They rounded a corner in the path and Anna ran down the hill. David wondered what ridiculous grave she had found.
"David. Come look at this."
He shook his head and walked toward her, expecting to find some golden statue of Larry, Moe, and Curly in togas. When he saw the spectacle that had captivated his wife, ice trickled down his spine.
A long wall of hedges ran the boundary of the cemetery. Small tombstones pressed against their length and long, brown vines scrambled up them. What chilled David and obviously fascinated his wife, who snapped picture after picture, were the toys. Thousands of toys were tangled in the vines, offerings to the graves beneath. The empty glass eyes of molded dolls peeked out from behind green leaves while dirty action figures scaled a wall they would never reach the top of. The faded plastic almost looked like a flower arrangement from a distance. He kneeled in front of one. The boy had only been six when he died. The toys surrounding it were old and discolored. A small porcelain doll, a wooden train, and two GI Joes. Someone had burned the soldiers' faces off.
Other graves were similarly decorated. Faded pink dollhouses and fire trucks rusted brown, soggy stuffed animals and plastic tea sets stained the color of soot. Superheroes fought with ivy that threatened to swallow them and plastic circus animals sunk into the dirt at their feet. The entire memorial ran the length of a small city block.
"Morbid," he said.
"I think it's beautiful." Anna snapped away with her digital camera. The sun reflected from a tear rolling down her cheek and David turned away.
"I think one of the Ramones is buried over here." He walked away from the wall. He didn't want her to bring it up, was afraid of the topic since she mentioned visiting the cemetery. He didn't turn around to see if she was following. He knew she would wait long enough to compose herself and then catch up with him.
"Oh my God," she said and his heart sank. But then she yelled again. "David. Oh my God, look at this." He turned and walked back toward the wall.
She knelt, face streaked with tears, breath heavy.
He placed a hand on her shoulder. "What is it?"
"The name..."
He stared at the engraving. The letters didn't make sense. He shook his head and looked again. His mind couldn't process what was carved into the stone. He could see the letters, but no syllables formed.
Finally he willed himself to read it: Patrick Neil Cunningham, Dec 1st, 2001 — July 18th, 2005.
"Jesus."
"I know." She gripped his hand and squeezed it, squeezed it so hard his fingers lost all sensation. "What does it mean?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. It's just a bizarre coincidence." It had to be a coincidence. It was too strange.
"But the name—"
"Cunningham's a pretty common name," he said.
"But all three names?"
"It happens. I went to high school with another David Neil Cunningham. I even had a college professor named Neil David Cunningham."
"Yeah." She didn't seem convinced. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes with the back of her free hand. "Yeah, you're right. The dates were just so close—"
"But still off by a year and some change on both ends."
They sat in silence for a moment, staring at the grave. David surveyed the toys strung around it. There was a small stuffed dog with a plastic tear in his eye and his arm in a sling. The sling said "Boo-Boo." Above that and to the right was a collection of firemen, soldiers, and police officers that looked like they were part of a Lego set. A big, yellow Tonka dump truck sat on a rock underneath them.
He nearly gasped when he saw the doll.
It was brown, sewn together from a burlap sack. It had black buttons for eyes and its mouth was a straight line of black thread across its face. It wore faded blue overalls that looked like they were cut from an old pair of jeans.
David stood and grabbed Anna's shoulder. "Let's go check out the graves over here." He hoped she hadn't seen the doll.
"Huh? Oh, sure. Yeah." She stood and dusted off her knees. Her hand wrapped around his again, not quite so tight this time, and they walked away. Thank God she didn't see it.
"I'm sorry I was snippy with you earlier," she said.
"I'm sorry I'm such an asshole."
"It's okay. I knew you were an asshole when I married you." She smiled. "It's part of your charm."
He laughed, glad that her mood had changed.
On the drive home they talked about work, Anna's latest audition, and traffic. Anything but Patrick. It was pained and awkward, both of them aware that his name was sitting on the tips of their tongues. He might as well be in the car, David thought. But Anna's laughter, even though it was forced, meant that she was dealing with it.
When they got home, Anna drew a hot bath for herself and David returned a call to an old client back in D.C. They ordered Chinese for dinner, watched a movie, and made love. It was slow and sweet, but not passionate. It was more comforting than anything, like a warm fire on a cold day.
When he was sure she was asleep, he crept into the living room. He sifted through the boxes in the closet until he found the one labeled "Patrick" and pulled it down. To keep Anna from discovering him, he took the box into the bathroom.
He shut the door behind him, careful not to make too much noise. The faucet was dripping and he made a mental note to call the landlord for the third time about repairing it. He lowered himself onto the toilet seat and rested the box on his lap.
He shivered when he opened it. He didn't know if it was because of the cold porcelain pressing against his thighs or the sight of Patrick's clothes folded so neatly inside. He had tried to donate them to Goodwill before they moved, but couldn't. He had even gone so far as packing them in a garbage bag and leaving them on his porch, but had snatched the bag back inside at the last moment. He grabbed the shirt on top and removed it, tenderly, as though it might crumble to dust. It unfolded in his hands. Big Bird's bright blue eyes stared at him. Patrick loved Big Bird. David pulled the shirt to his face, felt the soft cotton against his cheek. He closed his eyes and inhaled. The shirt smelled like grass and orange juice. It smelled like Patrick.
Tears welled up in his eyes. There in the bathroom, alone and shielded from the world, he let himself cry.
When he was done, he placed the shirt on the floor with the same care that he had taking it out of the box. He turned back and pulled out the rest of Patrick's clothes.
He removed a blanket and this time he did gasp.
There was the doll.
It was almost identical to the one at the cemetery. The only difference was the denim dress it wore, a remnant from before Patrick was born. After his birth, David's mother corrected her mistake by making him a boy version. That was the doll he was buried with. Looking at its sister, David was positive it was exactly like the one in the cemetery.
It was just a coincidence, he reminded himself. The one at the graveyard was probably made by that poor kid's grandmother, too. It had to be a popular thing for women from that generation.<
br />
He studied the doll for a few moments, traced his fingers along the stitching that held its cotton ball stuffing in place. Then he wiped his eyes, sealed it back in its box, and returned it to the closet.
He didn't sleep well that night. The dark often brought loneliness and the loneliness brought dreams of his son. Patrick in his playpen with the doll. Patrick's fourth birthday party at the park. Patrick throwing his ball into the neighbor's yard. The dog barking. Patrick wandering over and the dog breaking free of its leash and Anna screaming and—
The alarm clock's buzzing yanked him from the dream. He rolled over, hit snooze, and closed his eyes. He needed another half an hour. But when his eyes shut again, Patrick was there. The boy's blond hair fell into his eyes as he smiled. He held the doll.
David rolled out of bed and showered.
Anna climbed into the shower with him. "Morning," she said.
"Morning." He lathered up his hair.
"Did you call the landlord about that faucet?"
He shook his head. "Can you do it?"
"Sure." She yawned. "How did you sleep?" She maneuvered past him for the shampoo.
"Not very well."
"Bad dreams?"
"Yeah."
"Me too."
That was the closest they came to discussing their son.
His day ground on between paperwork and mind-numbing conference calls. On his lunch break he found himself driving past the cemetery. He thought about the doll, the name on the grave. It was all just a coincidence. Maybe the name was spelled differently, or the doll wasn't quite constructed the same, or—