Gringo

by Cass J. McMain

  Daniel nodded. He felt a little chill, too, but it had nothing to do with the temperature. He assumed her brother must have had something to do with this, but she could at least have tried to tell him. Left a note, or something. What about her things? Had her brother packed them up? Thrown them out? He looked around the room and saw nothing familiar. Nothing familiar, except for Ellie.

  “That one though. I never did like that one. Take it down.”

  He looked where she was pointing. One of the pictures taped to the wall: a bowl of fruit on a table. He expected she didn’t like it because it wasn’t special, because it was commercial art. It had no meaning. He thought she’d say something like that, something about how it could have been painted by a robot or a man, something about feeling and thought. She’d tell him a still life has to have life, not just stillness. She’d say any idiot can find a bowl of fruit and laugh that someone had felt the need to copy one. But she shook her head and looked away, out the window, and said nothing.

  He sat on the bed and looked at the image, turning it over in his hands, running the conversation through his head: what he would have said, what she would have said; what they would each have said if this was last week. Asking himself what little thing he’d missed about this picture that made it not real for her. On the back, the month of November was laid out in flat lines and boxes, captured forever.

  “It’s the lemons,” she said suddenly, startling him.

  “The lemons?”

  “Who puts lemons in a fruit bowl? See? Apples. Bananas, whatever that thing is, a pear I guess, in the back. Those belong in a fruit bowl. Oranges. But nobody puts lemons. So it’s staged. It’s fake.”

  He considered. She was right. Lemons didn’t fit in. “My aunt had a bowl of plastic grapes, with gold glitter-dusted leaves. They looked really phony. They were too big, for starters.”

  “See? It’s all… posed. Like it’s made of wax. It probably was. It’s not real. It probably has wires holding it in place. If he’d painted the wires, then it would be art.”

  This sounded just like Ellie and Daniel relaxed a little, nodding in agreement. She turned her eye on him, and stared openly. He didn’t know what else to say. Should he offer to bring her some of her things? What about her mail? Was it being forwarded? Should he offer to check it?

  And… what about Gringo?

  He doubted anything had been done on that front. He wondered if the brother even knew there was a dog. “Guess I’m stuck with him after all,” Daniel muttered mostly to himself. He was surprised to realize the idea didn’t bother him.

  “Stuck with what?”

  Daniel smiled and shook his head. “Oh. It’s fine. I’m just thinking about your dog. I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.”

  Ellie frowned. “Dog? I don’t have a dog. Haven’t – not for years and years.”

  He looked up sharply. “Oh, now. Come on.” When she continued to shake her head at him, he added, “Gringo. You remember Gringo.”

  When he said that, she stopped shaking her head and her face froze in shock. “Why… Gringo was shot dead a long time ago.”

  Daniel chewed his lip. He’d almost forgotten that part. And… he hadn’t thought she knew about the shooting. Apparently she did. “That was my fault, Ellie. I didn’t want to tell you.” Tears formed in his eyes. “I really didn’t mean to do it.”

  She smiled at him gently. “Now, dear. How in the world was that your fault? My husband shot him.”

  “No. It was me, Ellie… I’m so sorry. I shot him.”

  “Of course not. I saw the whole thing. My husband hated that dog. He blamed him for our… well, for something that happened. Something bad. He said—” She looked away, out through the door into the hall, and tapped her tongue on her teeth. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t like dogs much.”

  The spider-chill walked down Daniel's back again and his jaw hung slack. If Herb shot the first Gringo, that meant the one Daniel had shot was the second. And the one out there now was the third. All the same, all black Shepherds. All Gringo. Ellie had brought in exact replacements. But why? Why, when she didn't even like dogs?

  He thought he knew why. It was because the dog was the only one she could replace. He might have done the same thing. Maybe.

  “Are you OK?” Ellie said, reaching for her call button again. “You look—”

  “No, don’t.” He held a hand up. “I’m just going crazy, is all.”

  Ellie smiled and folded her hands back together in her lap. “Well, if you’re going crazy, you may as well get there.”

  “Your grandmother always said that.”

  “That’s right! How’d you know?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve known you for a long time.”

  “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Daniel.” No flicker. He got up and crouched by her feet. “Daniel Straub. Remember?”

  “Straub.” She searched his face. “Anyone ever call you Strawberry?”

  “No,” he lied. She really didn’t remember him. She didn’t remember him at all. He wadded the picture up and threw it in the trash.

  Chapter 74

  He drove home, and upset wasn’t the word, it didn’t begin to touch how he felt. He felt misplaced, confused… lost. A little angry. They had talked about wanting to forget, sure. They talked about it, and he’d wanted it for her. Her river, to forget, so she could move on. But… she’d forgotten all the wrong things. She still remembered the bad stuff; she hadn’t forgotten her husband. Or the way he’d shot their dog.

  And then he shot himself, and left her all alone. But she hadn’t forgotten that, no. She had forgotten Daniel, and it wasn’t fair. He’d been a good friend. He’d been her only friend, right? For over a year, she’d had nobody else. Nobody else had ever come to help. At least, he’d never seen anybody.

  He slammed his car door and looked at her house. Sale Pending. Suddenly, he found another word for what he was feeling: lonely.

  Gringo padded up to stand beside him, and Daniel looked at him. His fur was so black it almost looked painted on. “She forgot you and me both.” He watched the dog for a few moments, considering. He’d take care of him, of course. He had to. Well, he should, anyway. Ellie wouldn’t know, would she? “It has to be the meds,” he muttered. Maybe they’d get them sorted out, and she’d be herself again. She was on the wrong meds, or too many of them. Maybe she’d had a stroke or something. No… that wasn’t likely. He’d have seen the ambulance… or he’d have heard about it. She’d be in the hospital, for something like that. Not an old folk’s home. He frowned.

  “Meds,” he mumbled again. “Has to be.”

  Across the street, the grey house sat looking exactly as it had before, only now it felt empty. He wanted to go in for a last look around. See if there was something Ellie might need or want. See if… well, just to see. It was hard to imagine that it was over, just like that. Ellie gone, the house sold. How much of the furniture was gone? How much was left?

  Daniel walked across to it and stood at the door, hesitating. Did he want to see? Would it be too strange? He was aware that Greg was watching him. Again. It made no difference.

  Inside, the smell wasn’t quite as he remembered it. The house smelled… empty. Oily and like mothballs, still. Clean, though. It did smell cleaner than he remembered. Did it? Or was that his imagination? He turned slowly in the entry. There was no mail on the little table. There was no little table. They had taken that, then. He made his way down the hallway to the kitchen. He flipped the switch and looked up. All the lights were lit. One had been out when he was here before. Two days ago. All last week, in fact, and the week before. He’d offered to replace it, but Ellie didn’t have the right bulb. He’d offered to buy one for her but he’d forgotten. It was lit now, though. So she’d found one. Or, no, that wasn’t true was it? Because she hadn’t been here, doing all this. Someone else had brought it. Replaced it. The real estate
agent probably. That was why the floor looked cleaner. That was why the place smelled different. That was why…

  He looked at the wall. The old calendar was gone. He turned again, watching the counter as though it might try to escape. It was clean except for a litter of business cards; real estate agents had left them behind. Seven cards. At least seven people had come. People had been here, looking all over Ellie’s house. Moving her mail. Cleaning her floors.

  Changing her goddamn lightbulbs.

  He’d been here two days ago, and brought her a ham sandwich and some potato chips. They had joked about it being a poor-man’s Monte Carlo and fries. Pomme frites, she had said, crunching one and laughing. They’d talked about art, about the rose painting and how he’d put his hand on it, and how she’d known that without being told, which she still could not tell him. Daniel had admitted he’d done some sketching when he was still in school: charcoal, just like Ellie. She’d wrapped half her sandwich in a paper towel and saved it to eat later. Daniel had polished off the rest of her chips.

  Now he went to the fridge, ran his hands over the slick handle. They’d have thrown out the sandwich of course, the cleaning ladies. He opened the refrigerator, expecting it to be empty.

  But it wasn’t empty, not quite. When he tugged on the handle and the door swung open, he found inside a single egg. He picked it up. Was this the egg he had placed there when they baked the cookies; was it the Good Egg? He couldn’t tell. He swung the door shut again, noting that the ever-present squeak was gone. Someone had oiled the door. And cleaned it, apparently. Daniel wondered why nobody had taken the egg out. Surely it was spoiled by now. There was no smell. How long did eggs last? It had been six months at least since they baked the cookies.

  Daniel took the egg and cracked it into the sink, washed it down the drain. The garbage disposal whirred it into oblivion. He washed his hands with a pump-style soap dispenser that hadn’t been there before. Not there two days ago, when he stood right in this spot and talked to Ellie about art. She’d asked him: Had he worried he might feel thorns when he ran his finger across those roses? Yes, oh yes he had, he had. Of course he had. And the sketches she did, he was going to hang those, have them framed. The sketches that looked so much like self portraits.

  Daniel stood in Ellie’s kitchen and thought about that for a few minutes. Then he thought about the bowl of fruit she had said looked so fake. The bowl of fruit with November on the back of it. That made it the picture for December; a strange choice for the Holidays. He’d expect something more festive, candy canes or something. A winter scene maybe. He frowned. It had been November on the back, he was sure, because he had looked at Thanksgiving. But Thanksgiving was two weeks away, still. They wouldn’t tear a month out to tape it up until it was over, would they? It must have been from an older calendar. It must have been from last year. Last year’s holidays, reduced to trash.

  He went to the bedroom. The mattress was leaning up against the wall and the carpet was lined with vacuum stripes. It smelled clean. He thought about the day they had painted this room, he on the ladder, Ellie doing the parts she could reach, which was not much. Daniel leaned in to look. His part was fine, but hers was pretty sloppy. Oh well. It was good enough, he guessed. It had worked, the place was sold; that was the reason they did it. He walked around the house looking at all the things he had done over the past year. He had made a big difference. And she didn’t remember any of it! Did that matter? Had he done the things he did to be kind or had he done them to be thanked?

  Not exactly either one, he realized. He had done them for her. And yes, it mattered. He was ashamed to admit it, but it did. If she didn’t even remember him, then what the hell was the point of any of it?

  He slammed the door on his way out.

  ***

  Greg stood before him on the porch. “Danny! I was just coming to see how it’s going.” He looked over Daniel’s shoulder. “Closing it up eh? How’d they do? Still a bunch of stuff to get moved?”

  Daniel nodded slowly. “Some. It’s really strange, now.” He looked at Gringo pacing back and forth under the tree. “I can’t get used to this.”

  “Oh?” Greg frowned, then smiled. “Well, I’m sure it’ll work out. It’ll be good to have people there again. Say, you got plans for Thanksgiving? Working as usual?”

  Not likely. People without jobs don’t work, Greg. Or hadn’t you noticed I’m about to get fired? You see everything else. He shook his head. “Probably, yeah.”

  “Well, if not, Mary’s doing up a turkey at her place, said to invite you. You know, if you’re free.” He pinched his nose and rubbed it a little, looking at his feet. “It’s sure a cold day. Think it’ll snow?”

  Thanksgiving again. November again. “It might. It was snowing in the foothills.”

  “Foothills eh? Ah, yeah.” He looked at the mountains. “I bet it is. I hope it snows. It’s not good for my leg, you know…but I still enjoy it. Worth the ache.”

  Daniel thought about Ellie and her mother’s old cold bones, wondering if it was the cold or the shivering that made them ache. He rubbed his elbow distractedly. Winter bones. November bones. Did the pain come from inside, or out?

  “Maybe both,” he mumbled. It didn’t matter, one way or the other. He became aware that Greg was staring at him.

  “Both what?”

  He made a never-mind gesture with his hands. All of a sudden, he didn’t want to talk about it. “Just something Ellie said.”

  “How is Ellie doing these days? You been to see her?”

  Daniel nodded. “She’s… fine,” he said, but he wasn’t thinking about that. He was thinking again about November. November, again. Last November, last year. Last year’s calendar. Or older. His mind chewed on that a little. It’ll be good to have people there…again. He looked up and his mouth dropped open. “Greg... when was the last time you saw Ellie?”

  “Oh…it’s been a while. Let me think… couple years since she moved, almost three now I guess. I talked to her the day they moved her out, you know, to say goodbye. That was June or maybe July of…” He rubbed his nose again, thinking. “It was about six months after you moved in, I think. That was three years ago, wasn’t it? That’s right; three years, right before they came out with that Marshlight movie. I remember because—”

  But Daniel didn’t stay to hear more. He ran.

  Chapter 75

  All in my head.

  It couldn’t be. He stood in his own house now, staring. The painting was where he’d left it. The painting Ellie had given him. It was real. He reached out and ran a finger over the paint, giggling at the sudden notion that he might be damaging the painting. Can’t damage imaginary paint, can you, Danny? Can’t hurt it. He jabbed at the painting with his finger. It felt real. It felt…

  All in my head like everything else.

  Greg was wrong. Greg was lying. Ellie had been there. She had. Just a few days ago. It couldn’t be more than a year since Greg had seen her; he’d been to the garage sale. Bought the pins! He’d talked to her then. Hadn’t he? Daniel struggled to remember anything Greg said directly to Ellie, and could not. Still… she had been there. She had to have been there, or else he was crazy.

  If you’re going to go crazy…

  He had eaten meals with her. He had helped her pack stuff, taken items to Goodwill, to the church. He’d gone to the church with her, by God, with her. They bought cookies (and nobody said a word to her did they) he had fixed her disposal (celery it was celery not bones) he had bandaged her hand when she cut it and she had bandaged his in return (iodine who uses iodine these days)…

  They had painted almost the entire house; he had helped her. Watched her doing it. She had done a sloppy job, he had just said so.

  Not a bad job for a ghost.

  She wasn’t a ghost. He knew her; she was alive. She’d given him gifts. She told him he was a Good Egg. He poked the painting again. Vera. That was her grandmother. How could he know that
if he didn’t know her? She picked the roses herself, she said so, she said…

  He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and ran to the kitchen. The sketches, no wonder they look like no wonder they looktheylook no wondertheylook like self-portraits. No wonder. No wonder. She hadn’t been there. She hadn’t been there the entire time. She’d never been there…at all. Over three years. Greg said Greg said it had been over three years three summers ago he said. Summers ago. Summers.

  Daniel’s stomach turned over and he ran to the sink, spat out a mouthful of bile, and leaned against the counter, weeping. His thoughts twisted miserably as his mind kept insisting she had been there, and then demanding he accept the truth: she had not. He panted with the effort. He was going crazy, then. That was how it was.

  If you’re gonna go crazy…you may as well get there.

  Daniel screamed until he lost his breath and the world tipped over sideways. When he came to his senses, Gringo was standing in the doorway. Watching him.

  ***

  He lurched to his knees and then to his feet. The dog took a step forward and Daniel backed up until his butt thunked into the countertop. Now his thoughts came in Clive’s deep whiskey voice, his third-drink voice: Damn dog isn’t real either, Danny-o, not real. Nothing is. Dan, Dan, Crazy Man. He squinted at the advancing animal. The mind can do anything it wants.

  “You aren’t there,” he whispered, and then he knew it was the truth.

  Gringo stopped an arm’s length from him and sat. His mouth dropped open in a grinning pant, tongue sliding over teeth.

  “Get. Out. Get out. You aren’t real.” Daniel stomped a foot. The animal didn’t flinch. Daniel, afraid to turn his back or to try and walk past the dog, felt around on the counter behind him for something to throw and found a teaspoon. He threw it and hit the dog on the chest.

  Gringo yawned and stood up. For a brief moment, Daniel almost thought he could see right through him to the cornflower-blue wall on the other side. Then he blinked and the illusion dissipated.