Carl wondered whether it was fair to have an escape route. Yes, he decided. The purpose of the pit was to allow a test of courage, not to make a death inevitable. It looked as though it would serve its purpose. They would know soon . . . as soon as an opponent could be forced or enticed into the pit with Baxter. Tonight, perhaps.
Thunder sounded in the distance. Carl had seen no lightning, but a black, vertical cloud had appeared beyond the town. The air was moist and still. The boy started home, Baxter following him.
By the time they reached Hawley Street a strong, erratic wind was penetrating the densely packed leaves of the elms. Lightning struck, close enough for its flash and the sizzling crack of thunder to be simultaneous. Carl ran to the shelter of the nearest porch. It was the still empty Prescott house. Baxter hesitated, and then joined the boy. The rain hissed and splashed along the dark street. Carl sat on the glider and watched as lights appeared in some of the houses.
Dimly, through the rain, he saw Nancy Grafton standing in her doorway. She was beautiful. He had been strongly aware of that when she and her husband delivered Baxter, and now in the strange light he thought she was the most attractive person he had ever seen. She seemed to be made of light. Yet he remembered how substantial her breasts had been under her blouse that day.
How old was she? In her early twenties, probably. Not old enough to have forgotten what it was like to be his age, yet old enough to have outgrown the self-concern of someone like Veronica Bartnik. She left the doorway. The rain continued.
Baxter moved nervously about the porch.
Carl got up and looked behind him at the dirt-greyed windows of the old house. One of them was open slightly. He raised it and peered inside. The house was still furnished.
‘Shall we go in?’ he said to Baxter.
The dog had moved away from him, to the edge of the steps. Carl looked at the houses across the street. No one seemed to be looking out of windows; no one would see him go into the house. He picked up Baxter and carried him to the window. The dog resisted and jumped out of his arms, back to the porch.
‘All right. Stay there.’
Dust rose from the sofa as Carl climbed over it into the musty gloom of the parlor. Lightning struck again, and the room was harshly illuminated for an instant, as by a photographer’s flashgun. In that instant Carl was frightened, but his fear immediately turned to a pleasureful excitement. He had often wondered what the interiors of these old houses were like. So different from his own house. The space and the shadows.
He began to feel some of the ill-defined satisfaction he always felt in the isolation of the bunker. He walked slowly across the room, and then stopped as he saw movement at the landing of the staircase. Lightning flashed once more, and a gust of cool, damp air moved past him. He saw the movement again; something pale. His fear returned. This is where the woman had died. He remembered now. She had fallen.
He forced himself to move to the foot of the stairway. And then he realized what he saw was the dusty white curtain at the landing window moving in the draft. He continued up the stairs, the boards creaking beneath his feet.
He felt his way along the dark hall, opening doors as he came to them. The bathroom: a wide-edged, marble washbasin; an enormous claw-footed tub; an overhead toilet tank with a chain. He felt an urge to urinate. He moved to the toilet and pulled down the zipper on his jeans. But as he put his hand into his shorts he discovered that the urge he felt was sexual. He stood for a moment, feeling the stiffness grow beneath his hand.
‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘Not now. Not this time.’ He left the room.
He found three bedrooms. In two of them the closets were empty, the beds without linen. In the third he found some of Mrs. Prescott’s clothes and several sheets in a dresser drawer. He put a sheet on the bed and lay down. The rain was slackening. After a few minutes he got up and went to the window. Across the street, on the second floor of the Grafton house, Nancy was turning her bedroom light out. Just before the room went dark he saw the indistinct but unmistakable outline of her nude body.
And then Baxter began to bark.
‘Damn,’ Carl said.
The barking became continuous, mingling with the rumble of distant thunder. Carl ran downstairs to the open window, where Baxter stood on his hind legs, looking into the house.
‘Be quiet,’ Carl said. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’
He closed the window and started towards the back of the house. As he passed the fireplace he paused. There was one framed photograph on the mantel: a photograph of Mrs. Prescott and what could only have been Baxter. Carl put the picture into his pocket and went through the kitchen to the back door. There was a key in the lock. Carl left the house, locking the door behind him and putting the key in his pocket. He called Baxter, and they went through the back yard and started home through the alley.
As they walked Carl took out the photograph. Baxter had belonged to the old woman. No one had told him that. The woman had died.
The boy looked at the picture. Baxter standing; his forelegs pushing against the old woman’s frail thigh. The dog was obviously the stronger of the two.
Raindrops splashed against the glass that covered the photograph, diffusing and distorting the image.
Carl looked up and saw Baxter running ahead of him sniffing at trash cans.
‘My God,’ the boy said. ‘You did it.’
And what about the death of the Graftons’ child? Baxter had been responsible for that too. That’s why they wanted to get rid of him. And now he’s mine. He does my bidding. Carl was smiling.
4
Mary Cuzzo listened regretfully to the receding thunder. She had always enjoyed storms. One of her most vivid early memories was of being in a car with her father and watching the dark, unstable funnel of a tornado move across the horizon. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Minutes later they had driven along the path the storm had taken; past uprooted trees and shattered houses. She hadn’t understood why everyone spoke of it as a tragedy; to her it was a miracle. People spoke solemnly of the death and suffering the storm brought, but Mary suspected they were as pleased as she was. Death and suffering were familiar to them; drama was not.
Every time the sky darkened as it had done today, Mary hoped the miracle would return. She looked at her father, who had hardly seemed to notice the storm. He’s dying in the same way the town is dying, she thought. Without dignity; without drama.
A dog began to bark nearby. The dog had noticed the storm, she was certain. It had been aware of nothing else; frightened, perhaps, but not absorbed in its own vague regrets. Maybe that’s why we keep animals around us: to admire the simplicity of their reactions; to remind us of something we have lost. An innocence.
Seven
Despite what happened on the day of the storm, I still think of myself as a courageous animal. I now realize, though, that courage is a more complex matter than it once seemed to me. Not that I ever thought of it as simple.
In the beginning I imagined that to be courageous one had to be without fear. I chased automobiles; I pretended fearlessness. Then one day I saw one of my kind struck by an automobile. I watched the animal bleeding and twitching; I heard it whine. And I knew that some things should be feared. There was no point in challenging a machine. It was as futile as barking at thunder.
But some fears and threats had to be challenged or one could have no pride. Where was the line to be drawn? The answer became obvious when I was challenged to my first fight. I was frightened, but I didn’t hesitate to accept the challenge. And after my victory I realized that one must never succumb to fear of another creature. It was honorable to flee from lightning, but not from an animal.
So as I stood on the porch during the storm, I felt no shame in wanting to follow the boy into the house to escape from the wind-driven rain and the hideous sound of the thunder. Yet I could not go into the house. Each time I moved towards the window I thought of the old woman, and I felt an emotion I had never
known before. It resembled fear, but it must have been something else. One can fear a storm or another creature, but can one fear a quiet house or a memory? No. I was feeling something stronger than fear. And so I stayed on the porch, squinting against the wind and waiting for the next bolt of lightning to strike.
Does the boy understand why I wouldn’t enter the house? I must be sure he realizes it had nothing to do with cowardice.
He must never doubt my courage.
2
Carl watched the small black mongrel walk along the edge of the pit. It moved nervously, staring at the piece of liver that lay below.
Not much of an opponent, the boy thought. But it was hard to be sure. The dogs that had come closest to testing Baxter had been small and seemingly timid.
What was it that made some fight and others not? Was it a matter of simple courage? Whatever the quality was, Carl suspected he didn’t have it. He couldn’t remember ever having been in a fight. He had seldom given anyone a reason to fight him. But there were always people who had been willing to fight for him. Not friends, necessarily, but those who were looking for someone to protect. Carl had sensed very early that some people were more willing to fight for others than for themselves. He made himself available to them. And now he was available to Baxter, who was next to him, straining against his leash.
The black dog dropped into the pit and picked up the liver. It looked up for a moment, as if seeking a way out, but then gave its attention to the meat. Carl released Baxter and watched him run to the pit, leap in, and take up his position. He had learned, after two dogs had escaped from the pit, to stand in front of the boxes that gave them a way out.
It was evident immediately that the black dog would not fight. It dropped the meat and moved abjectly away from Baxter, wagging its tail. When Baxter moved towards it the dog lay down. It didn’t respond even when Baxter charged and began nipping at its muzzle and ears. It wouldn’t be provoked.
Baxter stood aside, leaving the escape path open. The other dog moved towards escape instantly, with an energy it had been carefully concealing. Baxter was ready for the move. He caught his victim’s right hind leg in his jaws, forcing the dog quickly to its back. Then he stood aside and watched as it scrambled awkwardly up the boxes and limped away.
It was Baxter’s sixth fight in the pit . . . or the sixth time he had faced another dog there. Two of the encounters had involved some resistance; some contact. But no opponent had chosen to fight, and Baxter was unmarked except for a few small scratches inflicted by the nails of retreating paws. Few strong dogs were to be seen near the junk-yard now, and Carl had begun to look closely at the town’s pets, judging their strength, looking for eyes that had the same expression as Baxter’s.
Carl could not define the expression, and he saw it only occasionally; not in the eyes of pets, but in those of their owners.
3
It’s the best moment of the evening, thought Sara Fine. But we won’t remember it tomorrow. We’ll remember that the beef was overdone; that there were silences while glances met briefly and shifted to rug or lap; that we drank too much.
She looked at Nancy and John Grafton. They were smiling expectantly at Jason, knowing that in a moment his silly, intricate story would end. They were his allies, hoping he would find the right final words; hoping to be delighted.
Even Carl seemed pleased. Sara had been surprised at how well he took her announcement of the dinner. No groans, no petulance. And now he was sitting willingly among them, clean and interested. He was staring at Nancy.
I’ve seen her body, Carl thought. He put his fingers into his back pocket and touched the key to the Prescott house. Each afternoon since the storm he had entered the empty house and stood in the front bedroom, staring across at the Graftons’ second-floor windows, waiting for Nancy to appear for her nap. He knew how the sun glinted on the brass bed. He knew how she pulled her t-shirt over her head; how she stepped out of her jeans. He knew the outlines of her body, but not its details. He studied her now, learning the color of her eyes, the texture of her skin.
Nancy turned, laughing, to glance at Carl. He blushed and looked at his plate. He’s still a child, she thought. Then she remembered Baxter, and her smile faded. Fortunately, the dog was avoiding them. They had heard it bark as they rang the doorbell, and they saw its squat white form retreat into the kitchen as they entered the house. It had not returned, but Nancy seldom forgot its presence.
John Grafton swallowed the last of his cognac. I’ve drunk too much, he thought. He looked around the dining-room, testing the focus of his eyes. He found himself looking at a photograph on the wall. It was an unframed enlargement, carefully exposed and printed, but it was strangely composed. John had no idea what its subject was. Something architectural, perhaps.
Sara noticed John’s puzzled stare. She thought she had better say something in case he was about to make a critical remark. ‘That’s Carl’s work,’ she said.
John looked at the boy. It was a respectful look, Sara was relieved to see.
‘I like it,’ John said. He had always liked photographs. Whenever he went to a museum and saw a painting he had previously known from a photograph he invariably found he preferred the photograph to the original. He was disturbed by the largeness of paintings; by their texture and their traces of brush-strokes. Reproductions seemed more precise and less artificial to him. ‘Was it taken here in town?’ he asked.
‘In the junk-yard,’ Carl said.
‘Do you have more of them?’
Carl’s father answered for him: ‘He does indeed. That was last summer’s passion.’
John ignored Jason and continued to look at the boy. He sees things differently from the way we do, he thought. He wondered what Carl’s passion was this summer. ‘I’d like to see some of the others,’ he said.
‘They’re pretty much all the same,’ Carl said. Was the man really interested? No one else had ever been interested. The boy had spent hours in the basement darkroom the previous year. He hadn’t used his camera often, but he was fascinated by the process of printing negatives. He remembered the excitement of standing in the yellow glow of the safe-light, watching the images slowly build up on the white paper.
He would print one negative again and again, changing the cropping or exposure slightly each time. One roll of film would last him for weeks. It was the manipulation of the images that absorbed him, not the images themselves. He had never photographed a person.
‘Why don’t you show Mr. Grafton some of the others, Carl?’ his mother asked.
‘Better yet,’ John said, ‘why don’t you show us how you print them? I’ve never seen it done.’
‘I don’t do it any more. The chemicals aren’t fresh. They wouldn’t work.’
John looked at his wife. ‘Wouldn’t you like to see Carl print a picture?’
‘Only if he wants to,’ she said.
Carl thought of what it would be like to be in the darkroom with Mrs. Grafton. ‘I guess I could try,’ he said.
Minutes later he was in the basement with the Graftons. Were they just being polite? he wondered. Wouldn’t they rather be upstairs with his parents? Maybe not. Maybe they were different.
The darkroom was a small, unventilated storage room. The acidic smell of his chemicals mingled with the scent of cognac and perfume. Carl filled the developing trays and put a negative in the enlarger. He talked softly, explaining the procedure. He exposed a sheet of paper and slid it into the developing fluid. He warned them not to expect too much; the fluid was old, and its temperature was not right. The three of them watched in silence as a vague grey shape began to appear on the submerged paper. Carl rocked the tray, and beneath the undulating liquid an image clarified: a small, featureless torso, staring eyes and twisted limbs. It was a broken, discarded doll.
Nancy shuddered, and John took her hand, both of them remembering the pool and the lifeless, submerged body of their child.
Carl was aware only of Nancy’s body, whi
ch had been touching his as she looked over his shoulder.
Upstairs Jason Fine was helping Sara clear the dinner table.
‘They seem to like Carl,’ he said.
‘It’s easy to like other people’s children,’ Sara said. ‘You can treat them as though they were adults. You don’t have to try to understand them.’
‘Have we tried to understand Carl?’
‘Of course.’
‘But we haven’t been very successful at it.’
‘No. Not at all, I suspect.’
But we understand each other, Jason thought. He felt the familiar but puzzling wave of affection growing in him. He took Sara into his arms. As they stood quietly holding each other it occurred to him that it had been years since he had embraced his son. It was an unthinkable act now.
‘Do you ever embrace Carl?’ he asked his wife.
‘Oh, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘For the same reason you don’t.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He wouldn’t allow it.’
‘You don’t think it’s our fault then?’
‘There’s no fault involved. We embrace. Carl doesn’t. It’s not in his nature.’
Jason wondered what the boy’s nature was . . . what he was becoming in these warm months of solitude. He opened his eyes and saw Baxter staring at him from the doorway to the kitchen.
‘You’re wrong,’ he said to Sara. ‘Carl does embrace. He embraces Baxter.’
4
At first Joseph Bartnik didn’t understand the reason for his elation. He had left work and was driving home through the familiar streets of the town. It was a time of day when he usually felt little pleasure. Suddenly he understood. It was the first time since spring that the sun had not been visible above the elms as he approached Hawley Street. He looked at the leaves of the trees. They were losing their gloss. Soon, in a week perhaps, some leaves would begin to yellow, and the first one would drop to the ground.
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