Keepers

by Gary A Braunbeck

  A flash of movement as one of the Bowlers darted across the hall. I lifted the shotgun and pulled the trigger; there was only an impotent click!

  So be it.

  I used the dagger to cut away the duct tape and let the shotgun drop to the floor, then removed the pistol from the back of my pants and clicked off the safety before transferring it to my ruined hand and using the remaining duct tape to hold it in place.

  Then I just stood there.

  I could hear them coming in through the back door, through the shattered windows, pounding their way through weak spots in the roof. Two loud thumps from behind the door to the upstairs let me know that at least one of them had made it through the flames and was heading down.

  Still, I just stood there.

  I wanted them to see that I was still on my feet, that I was still fighting, that I was not going to go gently into that empty lonely, miserable, and not-so-good fucking night. They weren’t going to win, and before I died I wanted to make sure they knew it.

  Beneath the porch, the dog’s cry became a high, clear song of triumph.

  I smiled. I had long ago learned the words with which to name my own secret losses and shames, and the old man on the highway had whispered some of them to me as he turned his head so I could see the small plastic blue tag attached to the back of his ear.

  I thought he was dead. No one could have survived being hit and dragged like that, but as I knelt down beside him his eyes opened.

  “This is the way it’s supposed to be,” he’d said to me as his bloodied hand grabbed my shirt. “We can only wait for so long after … after, you know. I’m … I’m sorry. Will you forgive me? I just couldn’t finish it. It doesn’t seem right to do it like this. Can you … you … forgive me?” ”

  “Of course,” I’d whispered, brushing his blue tag with the back of my thumb. “Of course I forgive you.”

  “I just wanted to look like a human being when this time came.”

  I offered him the derby. “I understand.”

  “They know,” he said. “They’ve always known. Be careful.” Then he whispered my name. And died.

  I knew then he’d been following me—had probably been watching me for a long while (isn’t that what they did with a candidate?)—but in the end found some reserve of compassion that stopped him from going through with what he’d been sent to do. Knowing what they’d do to him because of his failure, he’d chosen to die, dressed in his snappy suit with a dapper bowler hat upon his head.

  I’d pulled the tag from his ear before the police arrived, then tossed it out the window as I drove home. By the time I pulled into my driveway his words were white noise in my memory. Then I found a dog on my lawn. A package arrived. Visitors came.

  In the living room I opened the bottle of Johnny Walker I’d taken from its hiding place, lifted it in the air, and toasted the old man on the highway before drinking deeply. The liquor sliding so smoothly down, my throat felt like a dead limb suddenly tingling back to life. I made it a long, slow, deep drink, the only one I would take: I pulled the bottle away, wiped the back of my arm across my mouth, and shouted, “Come join the party. It’s gonna be a real barn-burner, motherfuckers!” I threw the bottle across the room and pulled out the second lighter. End of tough-guy action-film moment.

  A few seconds later Magritte-Man stepped into the hallway, dashing and stylish as ever. The mist was rolling in, covering the floor, creeping up the walls. In a few moments it would engulf the room and he wouldn’t be able to hear me.

  “I appreciate this chance alone with you,” I said.

  He reached up and gave me a respectful tip of his hat; as he did this, the mist began to twist and spread farther across the floor, swirling to our ankles. It felt like lead shackles, weighing down my feet. It was cold, so very cold, yet I could feel something like a damp pulse in its tendrils, one that was firm and strong.

  “You put on a good show.”

  He spread his arms before him and gave a very theatrical bow. At my feet I could hear the reverberating echoes of the screams and gunfire the mist had swallowed, but more than that, I could hear voices, dozens of them, maybe even hundreds, whispering in rapid, anxious tones of course I understand dear I don’t want to be a burden I’ll be fine here Jesus Christ who’s idea was it to have your mother move in my God will you look at that child I wonder what happened to make it look like that did the mother do drugs you suppose Daddy will you play with me I don’t have anyone to play with why does that kid cry all the time don’t you know I need my sleep it’s not our fault he was born looking like that who didn’t feed the fucking dog the litter box hasn’t been changed can’t walk can’t go to the bathroom by himself can’t understand what he says half the time if we had money for the surgery don’t you think we’d I wish I’d miscarried anything’s better than this so why don’t you call me anymore you put me here and say you’ll visit but now the goddamn thing’s barking all night and I’m gonna shoot it I swear to God as the churning carpet of silver rose higher—almost to my knees now—and once again unveiled the bas-relief Magic Zoo: birds, cats, tigers, horses, dogs, sea creatures whose tentacles blossomed from the tendrils, bears, deer, elk, snakes, all of their faces and forms pressing outward, then came the faces of the chimera, the manticora, the gryphon and Minotaur and harpy and other creatures of myth.

  Long-Lost’s children.

  From a world that was supposed to be but got fucked up.

  When God blinked.

  The creatures looked unafraid.

  They seemed to recognize me.

  I stared for a moment at the Minotaur, his hooves and horns—I knew something like this from somewhere—then was snapped back as the coldness of the rising mist touched my elbows; the room was nearly full. “I need to ask you a question.”

  Magritte-Man gestured for me to continue as other forms took shape, hybrids and monstrosities and faces of the malformed whispering I want to, I want to, I want to, please… .

  “We really weren’t supposed to be the dominant species on this planet, were we? That’s why there were more animals than humans on the Ark, right?”

  He pointed toward my feet to where a section of mist was pulling back to reveal something. I didn’t want to look away from him, didn’t want to chance being taken by surprise, but there was a stillness between us that seemed far removed from everything that had happened or was about to happen, as if, just for this moment, I was protected, safe from harm. I stared at him for a second longer, then looked down.

  There at my feet lay a small gray cat, eyes opened wide in anguish and fear, its neck broken, legs kicking out and back as its body twitched and spasmed. It was just as horrible to watch now as it had been that day nearly three decades ago behind Beckman’s Market. The silver tag on its collar was still covered in blood. It jerked to the side, looking at me, accusing me. I felt my legs begin to give out, and knelt down to touch it, whispering now, as I did then, “I’m sorry, kitty, I’m sorry …”

  As soon as my hand touched its side, the cat became still; its body relaxed, the choking stopped, and it rolled its head toward me in that same lazy, easy, sleepy-eyed way that any cat looks at you when your touch wakens it from a nap. We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, and then it leaned its head down against the back of my hand and rubbed its face against my thumb.

  At least you cried, said a voice, but who, where, or what it came from I couldn’t tell.

  The mist crept back in, blanketed the cat, and a moment later my hand touched only cold air.

  At least you cried.

  I rose to my feet and looked at Magritte-Man once more, my unanswered question still hanging between us.

  He shook his head. He seemed genuinely sad about it.

  Looking into the eyes of the creatures surrounding me, I sighed. It sounded like a petulant child’s noise. “That’s what I thought.”

  At least the cat had forgiven me. At least I had that.

  I struck flame to the lighter
’s wick as the rest of the Bowlers came at me.

  I shot at anything that moved as I backed into the guest bedroom. I couldn’t tell if I’d hit Magritte-Man or any of the remaining Bowlers because I couldn’t see a damned thing, couldn’t hear a sound because the mist devoured everything, but I kept shooting until I was in the room, then slammed closed and locked the door. Everything stank of charred wood and melting plastic and burned flesh. I could barely breathe.

  Above me, the ceiling was beginning to sizzle and smoke from the blames burning through from upstairs. I tore the tape away from my hand and shoved the gun into the back of my pants, then pushed the bed up against the door, nearly passing out from the effort.

  Dropping to the floor, coughing and wheezing and choking, I fumbled my hands around until I gripped the handle of the trapdoor; I threw it open and dove down head-first, scrabbled around in the dirt, reached up, and pulled it closed. I looked over to where she lay under the porch, then began crawling toward her.

  Her eyes were open and watching me. She did not bare her teeth or snarl.

  We had maybe a minute, a minute and a half before they came through the trapdoor or found the entrance to the crawlspace.

  I slid down next to her and pulled out the gun. Her gold-flecked eyes looked at me with something like gratitude as she moved closer and nuzzled against my chest. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small blue tag that had fallen from the envelope.

  “Still Mr. Slow-on-the-Uptake, I’m afraid.”

  She made a soft, pained noise in the back of her throat and I heard the echo of her voice from the phone call that night: If I put out, they didn’t treat me like I was some kind of dog—and I’d spent so long being treated that way I started to believe that’s what I was—I still do, sometimes.

  I tossed away the tag and embraced her. “You shouldn’t have left the house that night,” I choked into her fur. “I would’ve made it all right.”

  She rolled her head to the side, licked her lips, then pressed her head against my shoulder: I know.

  I looked at the silver tag hanging from her collar. I wondered if anyone was watching us at this moment. I made a small wave and mouthed the words “Hi, Mom.”

  A loud crack from above shook the floor as they broke through the bedroom door and began shoving the bed out of the way. At the other end of the crawl space, one of them knocked aside the trash cans and knelt down, his goggles casting their eerie light on our faces.

  I looked at the gun. How many shots had I fired? God, please let there be two bullets left.

  I ejected the clip.

  It was empty.

  But one bullet remained in the chamber.

  I looked into her eyes. She shook her head, raised a paw, and batted the gun from my grip.

  I held her close as the trapdoor was wrenched open and the Bowler at the other end began crawling toward us.

  Then I remembered Carson’s question about swans, did I like them and did I know what made them different from other animals? 338

  “Swans,” I muttered to her. “They mate for life, don’t they?”

  Yes. Pressing closer against me. I would never let her go. Never.

  “Then it’ll be swans.”

  I closed my eyes.

  Her breath against my neck was like summer sunlight. I could smell the cooking from inside. Mom and Mabel were preparing dinner. Dad was busy collecting eggs from the henhouse while Whitey butchered a too-loud rendition of “Hello, I Must Be Going” on the out-of-tune piano in the parlor. My sister and Carson were on the front porch. Carson was attempting to draw her picture. One of these days he’d get it right.

  An old man is chasing his hat across the highway in a comic dance. Thank God there’s no traffic at this hour. This will make a great story at dinner. I will tell it with perfect timing and make Whitey proud.

  Beth is there, smiling, holding out her hands. I will take them, and we will dance in the autumn twilight, turning, turning, until we turn round right. I will say something funny, and her laugh will ring like crystal. We will look into one another’s eyes. And her smile will linger; oh, how it will linger.

  I touch her face, revel in the perfect texture of her skin. She moves closer. A moment, a breath, a sigh. Now.

  The world is returned to the way it should have been.

  Her smile and touch tell me all I need to know.

  I kiss her gently in the lilac shadows… .

  Table of Contents

  I: Carson and the Magic Zoo

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  II: Beth, and Everything That Followed

  1970–1983

  III: The Valley of Love and Delight

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five