It’s a good story, but it would only work if he knew the child, if they had time, only if she trusted him. Watching the blue velvet jacket, seeing her uncertain body, Felix realizes you can’t force the kind of intimacy necessary for a good story, certainly not with this sad long-haired little girl. He’ll have to think of something else.
Perhaps a trick of some kind would divert her. Years ago there was a person who could eat light bulbs. Felix thinks he’s in New York now. And once he’d seen a man sterilize the point of a safety pin in the flame of his lighter, grasp some of the loose flesh at his throat, just above the Adam’s apple, and push it through. Kids would love that, he’s sure they would, he’d cheer her up alright, if only he could do something like that . . .
It’s definitely too late to turn away now. She’s so close, the dejection in the fall of her shoulders, the despair, yes it’s almost despair he sees in her face, she’s so obviously in pain that he can’t ignore her. The gravedigger, still standing by the evergreen, must see, must know: so there’s no turning away. She’s less than twenty feet from him when her mother calls, she’s finally noticed, the shrill voice carries clearly, and if she continues in the same way she’ll pass within a couple of yards of him. She doesn’t hear her mother and she doesn’t appear to have noticed Felix, or if at some point she did see him, perhaps for some reason she actually set off in his direction at the beginning, it’s fairly clear she doesn’t see him now. He understands that. Partially concealed by her hair, her eyes are empty. She doesn’t respond to her mother, although the woman is rapidly gaining ground on her. It’s a big woman and obviously very upset, worried about her baby, she runs awkwardly, and although the voice is clear and strong, he can’t make out the words. Felix takes a half step, he says: “Your mother. Little girl your mother.” How best to continue? “Your mommy’s calling you.” The only response, and he’s not sure of this either, is an imperceptible quickening of her pace. Surely she must hear the familiar voice calling her name, surely that’s what she wants? But weeping she continues toward him, so Felix takes another step. “Little girl” he says again. He’s getting involved despite himself: he raises an arm, his right arm, he points at the woman who’s stopped shouting now, is slowing down, has stopped calling the child’s name because she’s out of breath, her face is swollen, red, her eyes harsh with unaccustomed effort. But the child will not be warned. Felix has tried, he’s pointed, he didn’t turn away, he’s even spoken to her. It’s not his fault the woman is closing in, is reaching, it’s not his fault the child reacts too late: she dodges, tries to slip away, to free herself from the hand on her blue velvet shoulder, accusing voice, voice and the sudden blow, in the face, she hits the child with her open hand, she hits again, he hears the dead sound of flesh on flesh.
“It’s always the same, out the side door into the alley, it must be dark, or almost dark, he’s wearing running shoes and goes directly to the park, into the ravine, he walks in the bushes beside the road until he comes to stand under the railway bridge . . .
He’s done this before. Listening at the back door. Nobody’s home, there are lights but nobody’s home, he’s sure of that: listening to the empty house, entering, he’s done it many times. Trembling violently he closes the door, he walks through the kitchen and along the hall to their bedroom, his sneakers make tiny kissing noises on the hardwood. Everything is clean, the rooms are clean, they smell of furniture polish, soap, perfumes and powders, wax, there are fresh-cut flowers by the piano and a bowl of fruit on a stand near the bedroom window.
She’s taller than the average woman and full-bodied, nevertheless he looks absurd; even after choosing the fullest, most shapeless clothes from her cupboard he still looks absurd. Usually he settles for skirts and sweaters, but this evening he tries on the purple and black terrycloth muu-muu. He undresses quickly, exchanges his underwear for hers, padding the brassiere with his socks, one in each cup . . .
Exciting as it is, it frightens him: standing in her brassiere, her pale blue nylon panties, seeing himself grotesquely reflected in her full-length mirror, he knows how vulnerable he is. What if they should come back, how could he possibly escape if they came back? He darts to the window, his body deep into the mirror, then back to the hall, in order to make sure they’re not returning because he knows they’d laugh at him, regardless of their initial shock, maybe even fear, they’d pity him soon, they’d laugh and laugh, they’d tell their friends . . .
Past the fat man, among the monuments, the line of mausoleums, the brow of the hill, scattering earth as he charges into the ravine, Felix struggles up the other side to the road, gasping for breath, sweating but he can’t slow down, there isn’t time; through the gate, blindly on to Yonge Street. Fighting his body, straining for his second wind because it’s come to him, Jesus Christ! he can’t believe he didn’t see it immediately, hasn’t known it all along, he prays he’s not too late. It’s obvious Walters will call the bastard, maybe he already has, perhaps the vivisectionist . . .
Exhausted, his body’s hurting him now, resisting him, but he won’t give in. The dog has been taken, it’s too late but he can’t stop. Too much is happening. He runs through lunchtime crowds and he has no idea of how he’ll save it, what he’ll do tomorrow, whether there’s anything he can do. Even if he put his mind to it, even if he did concentrate fully, examine the problem realistically from all its various points of view, he’d find no answer.
Seized in a red fist, struggling she looked into his eyes.
He trots into the subway station, back through the turnstile, and on to the platform. It’s best not to think at all. The train arrives at the same time as Felix: that’s a sign, an omen, it means he’s being given a chance. Now if there’s a good bus connection at Eglinton, if the same thing happens there, he’ll come to Walters with, not with assurance exactly, not with confidence; with something like grace. Harmony. He hopes so.
Occasionally, not often because he isn’t a stubborn man, not a man of principle, he’ll remain standing on some spot, a particular square, until the doors open directly in front of him, so he can walk right in. Once it took seven trains, but he wasn’t going anywhere, just out to the end of the line, so the time didn’t matter.
It isn’t that he hadn’t wanted to act, certainly he wasn’t indifferent: he’d tried to warn her, he’s sure of that; he’d stepped towards her, he’d spoken, he’d pointed with his right arm, what else could he have done? but she hadn’t noticed him, why don’t people notice him? Perhaps the tears blurred her vision, perhaps she was blind! It makes a difference. That’s why she couldn’t be warned, she was blind. It’s not his fault.
Why didn’t she hear him? He spoke, he said “Little girl”, he’s certain he did. She could have heard him even if she was blind. And she looked at him. There’s no denying that she looked at him. He can’t forget that look.
How could he have known the crazy woman was going to beat her? You don’t expect that kind of thing: Christ no, not a physical attack, who’s prepared for that?
Out of breath from running in the earth, her face admittedly ugly, coarse from exertion, but not brutal, not even angry: distracted, almost automatic, her voice muttering something or other without emphasis, without anger, as she struck the child back and forth across the head.
Stop it! he’d tried, it frightens him to remember stop it! for chrissakes she’s crazy, what if she kills her? But the words wouldn’t come. Trapped inside his body, he stared out through his eyes, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak . . .
… Fiercely lustful, a dog, a wolf, he pauses to sniff and growl at the bedroom door . . . he crawls towards her. He snarls. She understands immediately, she understands! She moans. His small red penis rises like a finger as she moans. He howls, she whimpers. Raising his face in gratitude, his muzzle to the ceiling, he howls; revealing his opening mouth, his soft underbelly, he howls and howls! With burning eyes she watches him pad to the bed
, she whimpers more excitedly, she rises on all fours, she . . .
But first he must undress her, that’s essential: she has to be naked for everything to work. A few drinks somewhere and then back to his place, he’s got it all clear in his mind. Lots of laughs, but they both know he’s just priming the pump. Because she wants it alright, he can see that, Christ the way she looks! she’s horny as a toad, he pours the drinks and joins her on the sofa.
It doesn’t have to be in the bedroom.
The sun is hot on the shop window; women pass by in both directions, some of them cross the street, but Walters doesn’t need them today.
With burning eyes she watches him pad to the bed, she whimpers more excitedly, she rises on all fours, she shudders as he snarls, those full breasts quiver as she lifts her head, her face, exposing her throat, the stretching tendons . . . impatient she strains, rolling her eyes, baring her teeth she waits his approach . . .
Right away, even before tasting the drink, she buries her face where his neck joins the shoulder. Her hair smells of sweat. He puts his right hand on her left breast. They’re bigger than he thought! his hand can’t contain it all, it bulges away like a balloon full of milk, he’s overwhelmed.
Automatically he kisses her eyes, his sucking lips down the length of her nose: her mouth is small, it opens for his tongue, her teeth are pointed. He undoes her dress, slips his hand inside her brassiere and pinches the nipple. Her brown eyes watch him. He kisses them shut.
He’d swear the breast is growing in his hand. It lolls uncontrollably on her chest and the nipple’s like a walnut. Kissing her chin, then her throat, he undoes the remaining buttons down the front of her dress. There are seven in all: they’re not too small and she moves helpfully under his hands and mouth, he doesn’t have too much trouble.
She smells like roast beef.
She lifts her hips so he can remove the dress. She lowers them. Receptive she manipulates him, she’s not impatient like some, not embarrassed, she grabs her tits, he bites her belly. Fantastic!
But his heart isn’t in it, it’s true, he doesn’t know why at first, he tries to concentrate . . . the costume is cunningly designed. A canine mask covers his head . . . dog skins well tailored to fit, his back, the jerking tail, blue-veined at the belly, he’s naked from mouth to thighs.
She does everything he wants.
… fiercely lustful, a dog, a wolf, he pauses to sniff and growl . . .
But she has to be naked, they both have to be naked. It won’t work if he skips the preliminaries, Walters knows that, better than anyone else he knows just how tenuous the scene is. So he re-devotes himself. He tries to slow everything down.
There’s the question of her underwear. A half-slip, what colour? babyblue, the same as her brassiere and a garter belt, that’s inescapable, a bit old-fashioned perhaps, but very nice with rosettes, tiny pink and white rosettes: he sticks his tongue in her belly-button and the slip comes off easily. Intently he nibbles, licks the white flesh of her thighs, down her legs as he slowly removes the left stocking. He does the same for the right one. She seems to like it. She rolls her head from side to side with little sounds and her arms flop about. After the garter belt, he tries to remove her pants with his teeth, but she starts to giggle, that’s fatal, so he stops, pretends it was a joke . . .
It’s almost time!
Naked she reaches. All he has to do is get out of his own clothes as provocatively as possible, she’s watching him, do what’s necessary to maintain, intensify the mood, perhaps take her into the bedroom yes, or should he do that before he undresses? yes.
And then he can . . .
How many times is this? It’s never been so good, the expectation, Christ the longing as if it’s never been done before, this is the first time! he kisses her here and there, squeezes a little, chews on her breast, her mouth, takes a big swallow of his drink, he lifts her from the couch, it’s never been so good, he carries, he can hardly stand it, he’s light on his feet, her mouth is alive in his flesh . . .
Peter Walters on his hands and knees, fiercely lustful, a dog, a wolf, he pauses to sniff and growl at the bedroom door. She stares incredulous. Small hand to her mouth, what’s that! she’s starting to laugh, a spluttering giggle, the laughter exploding, her nude body convulsive on his bed. He growls. She isn’t supposed to do that! Her breasts jiggling with uncontrollable laughter. He raises his mournful face, baring his fangs he rolls his eyes . . . She’s supposed to . . .
Perhaps if he frightened her.
Baring his fangs, his cruel mouth in a snarl, he strains towards her, he desperately snarls from deep in his chest, but it doesn’t work. On the contrary. She collapses again, writhes helplessly, her laughter bounces off the walls. She’s not supposed to do this at all. He howls piteously, cringes and tries to meet her eyes, he rubs himself against the door, he whimpers while she watches him intently. She manages to speak: “A puppy dog” she says, her face suffused, “How sweet, an itsy-bitsy puppy dog.” She stares. “Oh Christ!” she cries and unable to continue, throws herself back on the bed.
He pants and snuffles uncertainly. He’s afraid, he doesn’t understand: perhaps she doesn’t like him after all; he pads towards her, pausing often to watch and listen. Because of the mask, but more because of the terrible shock he can’t see that Mary Anderson is almost hysterical. He’s aware only of her hip, the powerful buttocks as he crawls closer, sniffing, cautiously closer because the laughter’s stopped, she doesn’t seem to be, her body quiet, he hopes she doesn’t start again, she isn’t laughing anymore: she’s not supposed to respond like that, his head is boiling, she shouldn’t have done that. He’s at the edge of the bed and she still doesn’t move. Her white ass looms invitingly large. He feels more secure because her breathing is agitated, she’s clearly excited, she wants it alright, there’s no doubt about that, she wants it! He puts his front paws on the bed and whimpers seductively. The laughter was a mistake, these things happen: he should have prepared her better, given more warning. He’s willing to forgive her.
Fiercely lustful, a dog, a wolf, he pauses to sniff and growl at the bedroom door . . . he crawls towards her. He snarls. She understands immediately, she understands! She moans. His small red penis rises like a finger as she moans. He howls, she whimpers. Raising his face in gratitude, his muzzle to the ceiling, he howls; revealing his opening mouth, his soft underbelly, he howls and howls! With burning eyes she watches him pad to the bed, she whimpers excitedly, she rises on all fours, she shudders as he snarls, those full breasts quiver as she lifts her head, her face, exposing her throat, the stretching tendons . . . impatient she strains, rolling her eyes, baring her teeth, he leaps to the bed, she bounds away. He follows. She snaps playfully at his flank. He growls in his chest: she’s trembling as he circles close, sniffs the gentle flesh of her buttocks, smells the ripe earth, tastes . . .
“FUCK OFF YOU PERVERT!”
Frightened and turning, grabbing the coverlet about her, she’s staring at Peter Walters in his dog suit. His chest and front paws are along the bed; the rest of him still crouches on the floor.
He doesn’t understand. She isn’t supposed to react like this, she mustn’t! she’s supposed to, he was so sure with burning eyes she watched him pad . . . And she laughed! Surging blood inside, this snarl, it twists his mouth and viciously . . .
She screams as he leaps, she tries to escape, he drives for the throat, she twists, she fights, and is helpless.
Soft white victim, her fat legs kick the air: too terrified to cry out now, she groans, she begs forgiveness, mercy from the beast, she promises much . . .
But it’s too late. His paws on her face, he hears nothing but her heart; he forces past her arms and bites deep into her throat, tears flesh, tastes dark blood pumping between his jaws.
Just because the dog, clearly exhausted, drained, just because it’s sleeping in its cage
, relaxed now, secure, it doesn’t mean that Walters hasn’t phoned, Felix knows this: it doesn’t mean that everything hasn’t been arranged. He isn’t fooled for a minute.
Standing in the aisle, the dog completely unaware of him, Felix realizes that he must act. That’s obvious. He can’t ignore it. He doesn’t know what to do.
He can’t just open the cage, the back door, the gate to the lane and shoo it out into the city. He can’t do that because there’s no guarantee the dog would go, and even if it did, even if he chased it out with a broom, a shovel, nothing good would happen to it. It would be hit by a car; or the police would be alerted, somebody would report seeing a great white husky, perhaps mistake him for a wolf and the hunt would be on. They’d recapture him immediately, certainly before he got to the ravine. The dog would have one of its seizures, the police mistaking it for a rabid animal would shoot it to death.
And even if it does, by some unlikely chance, survive the traffic, even if it manages to elude the police, the Humane Society, even if it finds its way to the ravines, what will happen to it then?
Nothing good.
Early in the winter, before Christmas he remembers, a timber wolf came down the Don Valley Parkway right into the city, almost to the Lakeshore before it was recognized and killed. How did it get so far? Did nobody see it, or did they just glance from their cars and mistake it for somebody’s dog? There’s no way of knowing. The newspapers said it was very young, a pup really, that might help to explain it, they said it was starving, you could count the ribs on its skinny carcass. A policeman shot it with his service revolver.
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