I moved restlessly about the yard, stopping occasionally to listen for sounds from the house. There were barely audible mumblings interspersed with the woman’s sharp gasps and moans. And then I heard the new voice. Its sound was piercing and shapeless; a declaration of helplessness. It was a voice I came to despise.
Several days passed before I was allowed to see the child. They were days of neglect. The woman in the white shoes fed me and kept me from the bedroom. I could smell her fear of me. The child’s squealing became the dominant sound in the house, waking us in the middle of the night, never letting us forget its presence.
Then one day the man carried me into the bedroom. The woman, slender again and smiling, stood beside us. There, in a small, cage-like bed was the tiny creature; toothless and almost hairless. I had never seen anything that looked more weak or less intelligent. I looked at the man and woman. They had an appearance of pride rather than shame, and I realized that my life with them would be unbearable as long as the child was with us.
And so I lie in the garage and endlessly consider my new situation. Snow is deep in the yard, concealing the odors of life. The chilling wind that sweeps over me is not as disturbing as the mewling of the child.
There are two courses open to me. I can leave the couple or I can rid them of the child. The risks of leaving are great. I do not want a new, unpredictable life. I want to restore our old happiness. But they guard the child carefully. That might not always be so, however. I think if I am amiable and patient an opportunity will come.
2
Nancy Grafton unbuttoned her blouse and bared her left breast. Her son, Charles, took the nipple eagerly into his small, wet mouth. Both mother and child closed their eyes in contentment.
John watched them intently. He remembered the first time Nancy had unbuttoned her blouse for him. They had been sitting across the dinner table in her apartment, talking and sipping cognac. She had moved deliberately and seriously, exposing her breasts for just a moment, not as provocation, but as a sign. He had never fully understood the gesture, and the sight of her breasts had always brought him a complex pleasure that was more interesting than simple eroticism.
But now, seeing her with the child, he realized that that particular pleasure was gone and would not return.
‘Poor Baxter,’ Nancy said, her eyes still closed.
‘He’ll be okay. I think he’s starting to get used to things.’
‘I hadn’t realized he was so sensitive.’
‘He likes you, that’s all,’ John said. ‘I’m a little jealous myself, and I had a few months to get used to the idea.’
‘You’re not going to start sleeping in the garage, though?’
‘Not unless you are.’
Despite her husband’s assurances about the dog, Nancy was frightened by the strength of Baxter’s jealousy. There’s no subtlety in the animal’s emotions, she thought. And without the tempering of subtleties, the dog’s emotions could be stronger than hers or John’s. She hoped the emotion the dog felt was love for her and not hatred for the child.
Nancy looked at Baxter. He was lying in a corner of the room, pale in the shadows, his deep-set eyes staring at either her or the baby.
‘Baxter,’ she said.
His ears moved and his tail wagged hesitantly, yet he made no move to come to her. But that night he slept in the house for the first time since the birth of the child.
The next morning the dog was waiting for Nancy outside the bedroom. Smiling, she knelt next to him and stroked his muscular body. ‘You’ve made your decision, haven’t you?’ she said.
3
Winter altered the neighborhood. Life became more secretive; dormancy and patience flourished. The flaws in houses and bodies became more apparent in the harsh light that was reflected from snow rather than filtered by leaves.
Mr. Cuzzo abandoned his walks. He sat at his window, tapping the glass with his cane when an acquaintance passed.
Mr. Best, with ruler and carefully sharpened pencil, drew diagrams of his garden area; looked again and again at the garish pages of seed catalogs.
The infant Charles Grafton slept, sucked, cried, and gradually began to distinguish the things that surrounded him. Among those things was the white creature, which was so different from the man and woman, and which watched him so attentively.
Seven
The child is not normal. I think that explains why the man and woman lavish such attention on it. They do not love it, they pity it; they feel guilt for having produced it. The snow has gone, the earth is once more soft and fragrant, and still the child is helpless. Surely such a condition cannot be normal, even among men and women.
My life has been difficult, but there have been rewards. I have learned, for example, that I can be patient; not as patient as the man and woman, but their kind of patience is no virtue.
I believe the moment I have waited for is near. The woman has begun to leave the child alone with me. I think she even imagines I will help her to protect it. There are more and more opportunities for me to do what must be done.
What I have to consider carefully is the method. The choice of means seemed unlimited at first. The child has no cunning and no strength. In its mindlessness it would soon destroy itself if it were not watched and tended constantly. But then I realized the event should meet two requirements: it should be unobserved, and it should appear to be the result of one of the child’s many stupidities.
The answer came to me this morning, I believe. I was lying in the warm grass of the back yard, listening to sounds that have been absent: the whine of insects, the pleasing, high-pitched song of certain birds. I was thinking about the strangeness of birds. Even though they have always been respectful of me, there is something about them that makes me uneasy. I wondered whether I would kill one if I had the opportunity.
I heard the woman coming into the yard, and I opened my eyes. She spread a blanket on the grass, and then she brought the child out and sat down on the blanket with it. The child flailed its arms and legs in its aimless way, making the gurgling sounds that seem to indicate pleasure. It has teeth now; only a few and hardly worthy of the name, but I was relieved when they appeared.
Within the house, the telephone rang. The woman stood up. She leaned over to pick up the child, hesitated, then straightened up and went into the house. I watched the child. In the background the sun sparkled on the water of the pool. The baby was lying on its stomach. Then it did something I had never seen it do before: it raised itself on to its hands and knees and moved forward. It collapsed after a moment, but it was enough to show me a moment in the future: the moment when the child would be found in the pool. I would be at the edge of the water, having summoned help too late.
2
‘He’s begun to crawl,’ Nancy said.
‘That’s good,’ John said. He meant it. In recent weeks he had begun to wonder whether his son might be abnormally slow in developing. The growth that seemed so obvious in the beginning was hardly noticeable now. He sometimes remembered the phrase Mrs. Rapp had used about Baxter: a genetic shadow. Had there been something unnatural lurking within himself or his wife? Something that had been passed on unseen for generations, infinitely patient, inexorable, that would now be given form? Something to be regretted or even dreaded?
‘We’ll need a playpen for him soon,’ Nancy said.
‘One of those cages?’
‘Something like that.’
A little animal, John thought. Caged from the start. ‘We’ve got plenty of spare rooms,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I fix one up? Fill it with soft things. We could at least give him a cell, instead of a cage.’
‘You could. But I want him to get outside, too. I don’t think he’s ready for swimming yet.’
John was silent. Nancy knew he didn’t like to be reminded of the pool. It was evidence of the fear her pregnancy had produced in him. They both had been brought up to believe that such evidence had to be lived with, and so they lived with the
pool, ignoring the uneasiness it brought them.
3
Mr. Best approved of the pool. To him it was evidence of industry and humanity. He believed people should grow things or make things. The selling of insurance had few satisfactions for him. He envied the people who had made the older houses in the town; who had shaped the banisters and fitted the parquet floors.
It was a Saturday morning, and his pleasure was intense. Meticulously he placed new plants into the dark earth, dampness seeping through the knees of his trousers, his nostrils tingling to the scent of nearby lilac blossoms.
Through the fence he saw the stocky white body of the dog; beyond that the child lay on a blue blanket. Bees hummed, and the water splashed over rocks. He heard the laughter of the couple, who had gone inside a few minutes earlier. They were upstairs.
Breeding, thought Mr. Best. He had no children; he wanted none. He had cross-bred plants and had seen the effects: occasionally admirable, but more often ridiculous or self-destructive. Now he left such matters to others. He would never have a rose named for him, but neither would he produce a monster.
As he got to his feet and started for his garage to mix some fertilizer, he noticed the dog get up and move towards the baby.
4
There had been a moment when it occurred to Nancy that they should not leave the child unprotected. But only a moment. She and John had been sitting on the blanket with the baby. Nancy was leaning back slightly, supporting herself on her hands, her left leg flat on the ground, and her right knee raised. John was facing her. As they sat, speaking sporadically, she noticed him glancing at her legs. Then she realized that her skirt had fallen back, and it was not only her legs he was looking at. During her pregnancy she had gotten out of the habit of wearing underwear.
Since the birth of the baby, John’s lovemaking had been infrequent and calculated: only at night, only in bed, and with a leisurely quality that made it seem an act of duty rather than one of desire. And now, in the morning light, with the sounds of life about them, John’s examination of her body was an exotic, instantly arousing act for Nancy.
When John stood up he was visibly aroused. He lifted her to her feet and held her body to his. Then there was the moment of concern for her son. ‘We must be quick,’ she said.
Minutes later, when the child cried out briefly, neither she nor John heard it. They heard only the short, nasty words they were repeating to each other as they approached the most self-absorbing of experiences.
When awareness of the world returned to them the sound they heard was an inhuman baying they had heard once before.
‘Oh, my God,’ John said, and looked at Nancy. They felt the beginnings of a guilt that would never leave them; a guilt that would later be reinforced by a suspicion too dreadful for either of them ever to mention.
5
I have misjudged the man and woman; there’s no doubt of it now. They avoid me, and the smell of fear is always about them.
At first I thought they knew the truth, but that is impossible. I am certain they did not see me. I know what they were doing, and I know they see or hear nothing at those times.
The child was even weaker than I thought, and I acted quickly. I was careful not to touch its delicate skin with my teeth. It was a simple matter to grasp its clothing and drag it to the water. It cried out only briefly before I forced it under. It quickly went limp, and I stood back and watched until I knew its feeble hold on life was broken.
I knew that the man and woman would be distressed for a time, but I expected that after a few days they would begin to stroke me and would look at me with a new interest and respect. But I know now that that will never happen.
They are like the old woman. They no longer live in the present. They are obsessed with the past; not with past pleasures, but with past unpleasantness. Their love has been replaced by fear. It is possible that all humans are that way, but I cannot believe it. There must be some who see the world as I do; who know neither love nor fear. I think I can find such a person.
I sometimes wonder why I am not content to live a solitary life. It is not a matter of comfort, for it would not distress me to sleep in alleys and eat rats. There is another reason; one that I don’t quite understand. It is as if there were a bond I must establish; a knowledge that I must share or give.
PART TWO
One
Carl Fine walked quickly along the quiet streets. It was dusk. In the houses he passed he could see families seated at dining-room tables, as he had been seated with his parents five minutes earlier. Carl was not interested in food, and he was not interested in his parents. Dinner, like so many other things in his life, was something he tolerated in silence and discomfort.
He noticed the change in light as he turned off Hawley Street. There were fewer trees now; smaller houses. Soon he was passing vacant lots, the city limits, and a scattering of factory buildings, most of them abandoned. And then he was entering the junk-yard. He felt comfortable for the first time that day.
He had discovered the junk-yard the previous summer, when he was twelve. He had sensed its importance immediately. Actually it was not a junk-yard. No one owned it, and nothing was bought or sold there. And it wasn’t an official dumping ground. It was one of the inexplicable products of a civilized community: an unofficial, uncommercial place to discard things and to discover things.
To Carl it was the heart of the town; a place where the secrets of others were revealed and where his own could be kept. On the weekends and during the day other people came to the junk-yard to deposit something or to search. But in the evenings Carl was alone there except for an occasional stray dog or cat that moved quietly in the shadows.
Tonight, as always, there was the early touch of anxiety mingled with his pleasure. Had anyone discovered his secret? He made his way awkwardly among the mounds of metal, glass, wood and plastics. Occasionally he would step on something yielding and organic. He wouldn’t stop to look down.
He could see his goal now. It seemed to be undisturbed: an apparently random heap of materials arranged around the shells of two smashed automobiles. He pushed aside a sheet of galvanized metal, revealing a large, dark chamber. He crawled inside the chamber, lit a candle and pulled the metal sheet back over the opening.
Stretching out on the musty rugs that lined the bottom of the chamber, Carl uncovered a metal box and searched through it in the flickering candlelight. He took from the box a bundle of photographs that had been clipped from magazines and books. He studied the clippings carefully, one after another. The same two people appeared in each of the photographs: a vapidly attractive blonde woman and a dark-haired, strange-eyed man. Eva Braun and Adolf Hitler.
Carl chose one of the photographs: Eva wearing a bathing suit and seated on a low stone wall, the Austrian Alps in the background. He rolled over on to his back and held the picture before him in his left hand. With his right hand he unbuckled his belt.
‘Don’t worry, Eva,’ he said. ‘We’ll be safe here in the bunker.’
2
‘Maybe we should get him a dog.’
‘A dog?’
‘You’re worried because he doesn’t have any friends. We can get him man’s best.’
Jason and Sara Fine were seated at the dinner table, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, and talking about their son, Carl, who had just excused himself and hurried out of the house, leaving his dinner half eaten as he did almost every night.
Except for the hours she spent with her music, this was Sara’s favorite time of day; the time when she most nearly shared her husband’s patient, good-humored acceptance of existence. Sara had never quite enjoyed, or seen the point of, being alive. She preferred books and music to life. She was puzzled by most of the things people did, even in this little town. The futile energy; the persistence. The obese old man with the cane she saw on Hawley Street occasionally. Struggling. Why?
Jason liked to tell her about the people of the town. It was not gossip, e
xactly, because no matter how bizarre or ignoble the behavior he described, he would smile understandingly. Sara would try to smile with him, but she was never quite able to understand. Still, she enjoyed talking to her husband; enjoyed it more than anything else they did together.
But now there was Carl. Last year the boy had not been any trouble. They had bought him a camera and had equipped a darkroom for him in the basement. He spent hours there, producing remarkably few and decidedly odd prints. But the process gave him a discipline that he seemed to lack now.
‘It’s more than his not having friends,’ Sara said. ‘He’s so unpredictable: charming sometimes, withdrawn at others. Lately he thinks he’s a Nazi.’
Jason smiled. ‘He is a Nazi,’ he said. ‘All thirteen-year-old boys are Nazis.’
‘Were you one?’
‘Of course. I saw the same war movies he’s seeing on television now.’ Jason’s eyes narrowed, and the right side of his face began to twitch. ‘Zo you von’t talk, eh, Fräulein? Vee shall zee. Vee haff our vays.’
Sara was not amused.
Jason was not amused either. He suspected she was right about the boy. Carl had formed no bonds; not with them, not with anyone. It was not a tragedy, though. People live without bonds; or they find them late, in unexpected places. ‘The point is,’ he said, ‘that Carl is a lot of things. He’s a bright kid, he gets good grades and stays out of trouble. He gets along with people. His only problem is that he’s an adolescent.’
‘Were you serious about getting him a dog?’
‘I’m not sure. I know where we can get one. John Grafton—the one whose little boy drowned—wants to get rid of his. It reminds his wife of the accident, he says.’
Hell Hound Page 4