The Secret Life of Souls

by Jack Ketchum

  She’d never get that done to her. Not in a billion years.

  But they talk all through makeup—makeup again, though just touch-ups for Delia—and she seems very nice. She knows how to talk to kids. In fact she talks to Delia like she’s just any old other actress. Which is perfect. Delia’s relaxed and she’s ready.

  She’s going to nail this.

  There’s something in the bushes beyond the strong wire fence. Her nose twitches. Her tail beats a one-two, one-two-three rhythm for just a few seconds, then stops. She braces, calculates, and from her perch atop the slide nimbly vaults the fence. Lands on all fours on the old downed lightning-struck oak tree trunk which smells of rot and burn and mildew. Hops from there to the woodland floor.

  A rustling sound. There, amid the berries.

  She has tasted the berries long ago. They turned her stomach. She trots over.

  She’s identified the scent now. Rather, she’s eliminated what it isn’t. Not dog, not rabbit, not cat. Not squirrel or mole or chipmunk. Her scent memory counts down like the hands of a clock, its seconds fast approaching twelve.

  Fox. The scent is fox.

  She needs to be careful now.

  She leans into the bushes, nose sniffing rapidly but head inclined downward slightly and to the side. Nonthreatening. Pokes deep and then relaxes. Her sight has confirmed what her nose has already told her. A small gray head with tiny black eyes appears. A kit. Not an adult. Not some wary mother armed with vicious bite and claw. A kit.

  Two of them!

  She’ll stay alert. Their female will be near.

  But meantime . . .

  Three noses touch and sniff, pull back away and touch again. The one nearest her, the male, marks her with his scent-gland, sliding his small wet cheek across her own and tentatively paws her muzzle. Then rolls over on his back, exposing his red-and-white-patched belly. His sister pounces immediately. And then she’s forgotten momentarily as they tussle.

  She butts them with her snout.

  They break apart, stare at her as though they’ve only just seen her there. They blink. Who is this creature? She knows she’s impressive. Her head’s nearly as big as both of them put together. But they’re not dissuaded. They venture out from beneath the bushes, hopping like toads. And next second they’re all over her, play-biting at her neck, pawing at the thick fur there, climbing on her shoulders, falling off and climbing back again. She rolls and they sprawl across her belly. The female swipes a teat.

  Fun!

  Delia’s nailed it all right, just as she knew she would. Between today and the commercial yesterday she figures she’s having one heck of a good run. At the end of the scene she and Veronica Smalls are supposed to exchange this great big hug. Kind of teary, but kind of smiley too. A kind of awwwww moment for the audience. All sitcom as hell.

  But when they actually do it, it feels natural, absolutely real, like real life. As though they really were mother and daughter having this sweet moment together. So that when the director smiles and quietly says cut Veronica Smalls plants a kiss on her forehead that isn’t in the script at all.

  The kiss says thank you.

  The kiss also says, hey kid, you’re in.

  She was going to be in a sitcom. A network sitcom. The pilot for one at least. With a real-life movie and TV star. Who likes her work well enough for an affectionate kiss.

  The second female lead for god’s sake!

  She crosses the studio floor and gives her real mom a big hug.

  Robbie and daddy are going to be proud of her. She wishes for a moment that there were somebody else to tell. A whole school-full of other kids. Then dismisses the thought.

  She can’t wait to hug Caity. Caity’ll do.

  The tree stump is a springboard from which she clears the fence without the slightest hesitation once she hears the SUV pull into the driveway. She’s done this many times before, though never with an audience of fox kits watching.

  She waits in front of the sliding glass doors. Sees them enter the house, her butt wriggling back and forth against the floor. Her butt can’t wait to express her excitement.

  Delia comes straight over, slides open the doors, lets her inside. She leans into the girl’s embrace.

  “You’ll never believe the day I had, Caits,” Delia says to her.

  Caity’s tail-language says the same.

  After dinner she and Caity sit outside on the roof together. It’s a little overcast so there aren’t too many stars. She can make out the Big Dipper and Betelgeuse in Orion’s right shoulder but Rigel below and to the left is obscured by puffy clouds.

  She sighs. “I’m tired, girl,” she says.

  Caity cocks her head as though trying to puzzle out what she’s saying. Delia strokes her shoulder.

  “It’s a good tired, though, y’know?”

  She gazes down into the faux-gaslit streets below. Sees the distinctive super-bright headlights pulling out of a driveway two cul-de-sacs away.

  “Mr. K’s coming over. See there?”

  She points. Caity just looks at her raised hand. She points again.

  “No. Look.”

  This time she gets it. They watch the car turn onto the road and wind its way slowly in their direction.

  “We better get down. You be nice now, you hear?”

  She isn’t always. Something about Mr. K.—Roman—seems to get under her skin. She’ll sulk or move away. Delia can never figure out why. She thinks he’s nice enough.

  Maybe it’s his cologne or something. Or that Oklahoma drawl.

  She stands and sighs again and gazes a final time into the quarter-moon night sky. Caity follows her example.

  “We’ll see one,” she says. “Just you wait.”

  They make their way back through the window.

  She checks herself out in her bedroom mirror. Her hair needs brushing so she does that, then has to pee so she uses the bathroom. Caity waits patiently outside the bathroom door.

  The doorbell rings as they bound down the stairs.

  Mom’s on the couch watching CNN. Robbie sits beside her playing some game on his PSP, tapping away.

  “Want to get that, Deal?” mom says.

  She opens the door and there’s Roman, smiling that thousand-watt smile. He’s carrying a small box under his arm, wrapped in brown paper.

  “Hey there, pretty girl.”

  He ruffles her hair. She’s just finished brushing it!

  “Hi, Mr. K.”

  “I hear you were terrific today.”

  “I was,” she says, laughing.

  She steps aside for him to enter and out of the corner of her eye sees Caity back away, ears lowered. She emits a low growl. Almost a purr.

  Not quite.

  “Caits,” she says. “Cut that out. Be good.”

  “Bad dog!” says mom. She’s on her feet, crossing to Roman. Reaching out to touch his arm and kissing him on the cheek, guiding him into the living room.

  “I was going to call,” he says, “but then I thought, some things you got to do in person.”

  “Like what?” mom says.

  “Like this.” He hands her the box. “Hey there, Rob,” he says. “How you doin’, pardner?”

  Robbie smiles and waves and continues tapping. Delia motions to the spot mom’s vacated on the couch and Caity hops up to sit beside him. Robbie barely notices her. He’s into his game.

  “What is it, mom?” she says.

  Mom’s got the wrapping off and opens the box. Her smile just gets bigger and bigger.

  “My god! The deal memo! Roman!”

  “Congratulations, Delia Ann Cross,” he says. “You’re a series regular. Fittings start first thing tomorrow.”

  “That fast? Oh my god. You really did it, honey.”

  It’s official, then. She’s aware that in some way or other, her life has just changed. She wonders exactly how. Mom hugs her tight.

  “Cool,” she says.

  Even to her ears that sounds pretty lame. Cool
. But what else can you say? Mom doesn’t seem to notice though.

  “This is amazing! Robbie? Think you can handle living with a TV star?”

  “I can manage.” He smiles and shrugs and goes back to his game.

  “Well, aren’t we all just a great big heap of rapture!” mom says.

  “Congratulations, sis,” he says.

  “Where’s the head of business affairs?” says Roman.

  “With his other woman. The garage.”

  “I need his John Hancock on this. You want to read it over?”

  “Not my department. Go right on out. He’ll be delighted. Can I pour you a drink?”

  “Sure can.”

  Roman has never given a whole lot of thought to Bart Cross. Not nearly as much thought as he does to the missus. Bart strikes him as an easygoing kind of fella who maybe drinks a bit too much but not so’s you’d worry about him or be offended, who doesn’t have much truck with ambition or more ambitious types like Roman himself but who doesn’t make big a point of it either, who likes the money well enough though. And who sure does like his toys.

  Right here’s the latest. A nice new Firebird. Pretty as you please.

  Bart has the hood up, dipstick in one hand and rag in the other.

  Roman runs his hand over the gleaming front fender. Not a speck of dust.

  “You stud enough to ride this here mare, ol’ buddy?”

  Bart smiles. “To a lather,” he says.

  Roman waves the papers at him. Bart looks puzzled, sets the dipstick down on his work table and wipes his hands with the rag. Then it dawns on him.

  “You kidding me? She got it?”

  “Awaiting your signature, my friend.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Roman points to the transmission.

  “You know you’re supposed to check that with the engine runnin’, right?”

  “’Course I do.”

  But he didn’t. Roman can read him easy. He hands him the papers and a pen.

  “Hell, yes!” Bart says. “Let’s sign these puppies and get ourselves a drink. We need to celebrate! Girls doin’ their dance yet?”

  “There’s a dance?”

  Bart laughs. “You’ll see.” He signs.

  Inside the music’s blaring. Donna Summer, “Love to Love You, Baby.” They’d barely heard it in out the garage. Nice insulation.

  “Well ain’t that sweet,” Roman says.

  Pat and Delia are in the middle of the living room floor. Good lord, he thinks. Disco moves. Four-on-the-floor. He hasn’t seen that since the baby boomers quit booming. Robbie’s watching his mom and sister like some wise indulgent old uncle. Caity circles around their feet like a spotter in a gym, looking for somebody to fall and possibly bust their damn fool neck.

  Patricia’s seen them come in and points to a drink waiting for him on the counter. His scotch. Bart pours one for himself. Pat’s glass, he notices, is half empty.

  “Who’s the star?” Pat shouts above the music.

  “You are!” shouts Delia.

  “No, you are. Who’s the star?”

  “I am!”

  “You are!”

  Then together, “You’re the star!”

  Roman clears his throat. “They, uh, do this all the time, do they?” he asks.

  “Ritual,” Bart laughs. “Every big job, each and every one . . .”

  The dog was looking at him.

  The damn dog has stopped dancing around the dancers and is looking at him. Then the dog is walking toward him, ears flattened.

  He feels a shiver race down his backbone. He doesn’t much care for dogs. Not dogs of any size, at least. No reason that he could think of for that. No childhood trauma or anything. He just doesn’t. Dogs are other.

  Bart notices his discomfiture.

  “Wow, Roman. She likes you about as much as I do.”

  “Why thank you so very much, Bartholomew. Would you . . . ?”

  “Sure.”

  He reaches down to her, ruffles the fur behind her ears.

  “Hey there, Caits,” he says. “Want a treat?”

  She knows the word. Instantly she’s indifferent to him, focused on Bart, her tail a metronome gone berserk. He steps back from her anyway. Bart snaps his fingers.

  “Come on, Caits. Treats!” He calls back over his shoulder. “Hey, Rob, come give me a hand here, will ya? Come throw some snacks together.”

  The boy drops his PSP onto the couch and follows his dad and the mutt into the kitchen.

  Bart watches his son pull a veggie tray out of the fridge. He leans in close. Robbie flinches. Probably he smells the booze. Who cares? He has his son’s attention. He winks. Co-conspirators.

  “Listen,” he says. “Mom’s doing nothing but celebrating tonight. Got that? We take care of her for once.”

  Robbie smiles. Robbie’s a good kid.

  “Sure, dad.”

  Caity’s turning circles on the kitchen floor.

  “Where’s Deal keep the treats?” he says.

  Robbie points to the cabinet over the dishwasher.

  “Caity gets to celebrate too, doncha, girl?”

  Wooof! she says.

  Delia sits back in the overstuffed chair, winded. Her mom plops herself down next to Roman on the couch.

  “So, you think it’ll have a healthy run?” mom says.

  “With Veronica Smalls? They’re already getting heat for season two and they haven’t shot a frame. The pilot is strictly pro forma.”

  He brushes aside a stray strand of hair clinging to her face.

  “You’re frizzing,” he says. “You guys always dance when you book a gig?”

  “We do.”

  Roman runs his hand down the length of her hair to her neck. Delia catches the gesture and frowns. Isn’t that just a little too . . . intimate, maybe . . . for agent and client? She kind of thinks so. It makes her uncomfortable. But hey, she thinks, theatre people. What does she know?

  And then, watching them, her vision blurs.

  She blinks and sees the very same gesture in instant replay. Only close-up this time. Hand running over her hair. The tips of his fingers. The smooth skin of her mother’s neck.

  Then Caity is suddenly in the room. Barking, skidding across the floor, landing with a crash on the coffee table directly in front of Roman, magazines flying, ashtray shuddering, Caity perched there and barking at him as he tries to merge with the couch, nowhere to go but stuck there with what must seem to him a great big angry monster practically in his face.

  “Caity!” Delia yells, shocked.

  Her father appears from the kitchen, a bag of Tempty Bits in his hand.

  “What the fuck . . . she just bolted!”

  “Caity!” Her mom grabs her dog by the collar, and furious, yanks her hard off the table, paws frantically scrabbling for purchase. She yelps once and then just stands there, silent, cowering up at Pat and then runs, tail between her legs. Delia gets up to follow. She’s scared. But Pat shoves her right back down into the chair.

  “Mom! You hurt her! That was so mean!”

  “Mean? Did you see what she just did? She’s crazy! That’s it. She’s sleeping in her pen tonight.”

  “What? No, you can’t do that!”

  “I can’t? You just watch me, young lady.”

  “It’s not fair. She was just being . . . protective!”

  And why that word should come to her she doesn’t know.

  Not then.

  Pat slams down the dregs of her drink. They don’t know it but it’s her third.

  She’s burning.

  Goddamn dog, she thinks. The goddamn dog’s everywhere. Always underfoot. The dog has to follow them everywhere they go. Needs to be around for everything they do. Shoots, auditions. Delia insists. Delia always insists. Sometimes Pat’s sorry she’d ever bought the goddamn thing.

  Well fuck her. Fuck the both of them.

  Protective?

  What the hell does that mean? The dog was dangerous was
what she was.

  And now everybody’s looking at her. Looking at her like she’s some bad guy. Her husband. Robbie standing behind him. Her daughter. And poor Roman, downing the remains of his own drink.

  Everybody.

  She turns to her daughter. Who is now seeing fit to give her lip.

  Jesus!

  “I want you to go brush your teeth and get ready for bed,” she says.

  “At 8:30! Are you kidding?”

  “You heard me. Get to it. You have a fitting at . . . what time, Roman?”

  “Seven.”

  “Seven. And you are going to sleep tonight, you hear me? No more games. You’ve got . . . we’ve all got big responsibilities now. Go. Brush your teeth.”

  Delia sits there. Simply folds her arms across her chest and stares at her.

  Defying her.

  Calm, she thinks. Easy, woman. She takes a deep breath.

  “You boys put the dog in the pen and then have your drinks. Delia and I are going to straighten out a few things. Aren’t we, Delia.”

  “Pat . . . it’s no big thing . . . ,” says Roman.

  “Come on, Delia.” She reaches down and none too gently takes her daughter’s arm. Lifts her off the chair. Practically has to drag her to the stairs. Delia tries to pull away.

  “Ow! I hate you.”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  In the bathroom upstairs she guides her to the sink. Slaps the hairbrush into the palm of her hand.

  “Brush,” she says.

  “Mom, please. Come on. Look, I’m really sorry. Honest. Please don’t put Caity in that cage. She hates it in there!”

  “She should have considered that before she went all Cujo on our guest.”

  “Dogs can’t consider.”

  “Yes, but you can. Consider this. Two minutes, then straight to your room. Brush.”

  Where’s the damn dog and what’s he, Roman, doing looking for her? His papa had always told him to be a good sport but this was maybe pushing it. She isn’t in the kitchen. They’ve checked under the table, in the open walk-in closet. She isn’t in the downstairs bathroom either.

  The pantry. The low growl tells him as much.