Gringo

by Cass J. McMain

  To hell with this. “You aren’t real,” Daniel growled. Steeling himself, he stepped forward and stomped his foot again, yelling. When that brought no response, he reached for the dog’s collar and yanked on it. He half-expected his hand to go right through, but the collar was solid and the neck was, too. Warm and solid as though it belonged to a real dog. He tugged on the collar and half-led, half-dragged the dog through the house to the front door, which stood open in the cold November air. He wondered how long he had been in the kitchen.

  He pulled Gringo closer to the door. But the dog balked at the doorway and would not go through. He set his paws firmly and twisted his neck in resistance. The collar slipped over his head and he made a motion to dodge around Daniel’s legs.

  “No, you don’t. You are going out.” Daniel grabbed the scruff of his neck and hauled him around furiously. “Out-out-out. You fucking not-real dog.” He shoved Gringo through the door and threw the collar out after him.

  Daniel slammed the door and leaned on it, near tears. The dog wasn’t there. He couldn’t be. Ellie said so herself, Herb had shot Gringo, the only one there was. There had never been another dog. Never been…

  He opened the door a crack and looked out. The dog was gone, but the collar was still there, the silver nametag lying flat on the concrete. It says Gringo, you know. Daniel jumped at his own thought. It says Gringo, because that was his name when he lived. But he doesn’t live now, does he?

  Daniel let out a low, growling groan. He went to the kitchen and picked the spoon up off the floor. Then he grabbed the whiskey bottle and went to the living room to sit and think. To try and make sense of what was going on. But he couldn’t, of course.

  You can’t make sense of it because it doesn’t make sense. He put the drink to his lips and watched the liquor splash in waves against the sides of the bottle. What was true? He knew they had been real, Ellie and her dog. He was sure of it. And he was sure he also knew they were not.

  It has to be one or the other. Pick one. It can’t be both. Daniel swigged from the bottle again and laughed as the warmth spread in his belly. Ghosts would be easier to believe. Ghosts with their ghostly transparent floatiness, with their essential not-thereness, would make perfect sense. He could write a book: The Year I Saw The Ghost of Ellie Neal. But Ellie wasn’t dead, so she couldn’t be a ghost.

  He went to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. She’s alive, for sure. I know she’s alive… I saw her today. I met her today. The man in the mirror looked back, a shocked look on his face. “You met her a year ago. She just met you today.” He choked out a spate of hysterical laughter and watched himself drain the remaining whiskey from the bottle.

  Chapter 76

  There was another bottle in the kitchen, so he opened it and took it to the couch, wondering how much of it he could drink before he passed out. Clive could down at least eight shots without even starting to slur. How many for me? How many before I drown? How many before I die? But he lost count before he lost consciousness.

  He came to at midnight. He had been dreaming of wolves. As he sat, muzzily trying to make sense of his thoughts, he became aware of a clicking sound in the hallway. Tacka, tacka, tacka, tack. Pause. Tacka-tacka-tacka-tack. Pause.

  Toenails.

  Gringo was inside again, pacing in the hall. Daniel went to the drawer and got his gun, prepared to shoot the dog. He cocked it, aimed it… No point, Danny. You tried that before.

  He slumped on the couch and traded the gun for the whiskey bottle. After a few swigs, he told himself he wouldn’t even notice the tacktacktack of the pacing dog, but it wasn’t true. It got louder.

  It’s a trick, Dan. He’s trying to make you crazy enough to shoot him again. Daniel reached out and pushed the gun away. But a few minutes later he reached for it and drew it close. Then he picked it up and cradled it against his chest. Shooting the dog would do no good, he knew. The dog would just come right back, like he did last time and the time before that. Collar, nametag and all. But maybe he’d get out of this another way. Maybe it was time to give up. On impulse, he checked the chamber – fully loaded. He was sure he hadn’t reloaded it, after. One, two, three shots, he’d fired… lucky shot, Amazing Grace. Even that hadn’t been real. He caressed the gun and stared at the wall, listening.

  Pick one, Strawberry.

  He drank again and drifted off. When he woke up, it was daylight. Gringo was on the couch with him. Panting and watching him with his dark dog eyes.

  May as well get there. May as well. Daniel reached for the gun.

  About the author

  Cass McMain was born in Albuquerque and raised in the far North Valley, among the cottonwoods. She now lives in Albuquerque’s South Valley, where she writes large stories about small things. Her publisher considers her relentless in this endeavor. She hopes he will continue to appreciate this quality.

  Cass’s previous novels are:

  Sunflower (Holland House Books 2013)

  A story about a man having a bad day and making one bad choice. But underneath that, it is also about him coming to terms with himself: who he is - and who he is not. Ultimately, Sunflower is about how we define ourselves as people, and how we seek to be what we are not.

  An extraordinary and beautiful novel.

  Watch (Holland House Books 2014)

  Before he knew about the bruises, he knew about the cheating. And before he knew about the cheating, he knew about the blood. He’d seen Edgar with blood on his handsbefore, after all. But there had been more and more of it – and Edgar had seemed less and less concerned about hiding it…

  A scintillatingl novel about difference, suspicion, and acceptance of one’s own nature.