Canis Major
Page 64
* * *
Contrary to popular belief, music plays no part in soothing the savage beast. It’s sleep alone that does that. Sleep converts lions into lambs and revved-up bulls into cuddly teddy bears. Granted, these former beasts unfailingly revert to their ferocious, natal selves soon after waking, but there is a brief moment in time—milliseconds, as unconsciousness becomes consciousness—when they are truly innocent and angelic. If these peaceful slivers could somehow be stretched out like taffy, and if we all could learn the secrets to crawling inside them like into warm, fuzzy caves, then that would be the closest thing to heaven on earth. But we can’t. These moments are fleeting, They plummet away from our grasps before we realize we have the ability to grasp them at all.
Every once in a while, though, via some miraculous drop in atmospheric pressure or fortuitous astrological alignment, that feeling of peace and perfection does last. And it lasts all day.
Russell (who was neither beast nor angel) awoke with just such an intoxicating euphoria pumping through the chambers of his heart. From the instant he opened his eyes, he knew the day was going to be sublime. It just had that feeling, an obscure, muted, rose-like blush on and in everything he saw, smelled, and heard: a freshness that hadn’t been there before but was now ubiquitous in his environs. How he yearned to bite into the bright, new day like into a crisp, Washington apple and savor its sweet nectar and gaze upon its alpine white innards, so like February snow, so dazzling and gleaming in the subdued amber sunlight of his third story bedroom loft, that it became almost too bright to look at, too much for his eyes to take in at once.
"Hey, boy!" Russell said.
Apollo’s glistening nostrils dilated and contracted less than a foot away from Russell’s smiling face. The human had no idea how long the dog had been staring at him. Could have been hours; could have been minutes. He didn’t know and he didn’t care. All that mattered was he was there. Russell didn’t realize how good he had it. While so many other dogs were running away, Apollo had never once attempted escape.
Moving to his knees, Russell grabbed the Great Dane’s head and tugged it to his bare chest.
"Good morning," he said, wrestling the dog into a headlock. "Who’s gotcha now? Who’s gotcha now?!"
Apollo widened his stance and reared back. Russell slid off the bed and hit the floor with a loud clonk. Laughing boisterously, he squeezed the dog’s head tighter into the crook of his arm. Entwined together, the dog and the human squirmed on the hardwood floor for a good five minutes before Apollo, realizing he was beat, rolled over and went limp. Russell planted his hands on the Dane’s shoulders.
"Onetwothree—I win!!"
Russell stood and flexed his biceps. Strutting around the hot, sunny room, he blew kisses to imaginary fans.
Apollo watched from a crouched position next to the bed, still unsure of what had just happened and why it had happened so suddenly.
"Don’t feel bad, boy," Russell said cordially, pulling a shirt over his back. "Every dog has his day." He paused, then added, "It’s just that today ain’t yours. It’s mine."
Apollo got up and walked out the room.
"Hey! Come back here! Don’t leave me hangin’."
Russell caught up with the Dane in the kitchen, where the dog, whining softly, stood facing the back door.
"Okay, I hear ya," Russell said, turning the deadbolt. As Apollo rocketed outside, a cicada’s scream entered the house. Russell slammed the door, but the bug’s raucous buzz penetrated wood and glass. What could he do, though? Even if spent his whole life trying, he could never kill all the cicadas in the world. They were way the hell up at the tops of trees, feeding on sap, or molting, or doing whatever it was they did during their short, noisy lives. What he could do, what he would do, however, is ignore the effects their drumming had on him today. Today was going to be a good day. He had decided that the instant he’d opened his eyes.
Watching Apollo squat and defecate in the shriveled, yellow grass, errant phrases of Pete’s rant—his last rant—sought to creep into his conscious and violate his optimism. But he repelled their reentry. He suppressed; he repressed; he diverted the sacrileges "facts" Pete had so effortlessly uttered three nights ago. They had been about dogs, Russell allowed himself to recall that much, but the picture they painted was blocked from reforming in his mind.
Apollo strolled back to the door, and Russell let him in. Again, the inane, insectival screech pierced Russell’s ear drums for a measly two seconds before the door’s breadth shut out the higher frequencies.
God, I hate that noise.
Then he corrected himself, adding:
But not today. Today, I love it!! Today, that noise is the most beautiful, mellow sound in the whole world. Not at all grating and shrill, but pleasant and melodic—like a sonata. Or a capriccio.
"Okay," he said to Apollo. "I’m gonna eat breakfast real quick, then we’re going to go for a walk."
Apollo stared at Russell, not understanding the words he spoke as much as the excitement being conveyed through his voice. Cautiously, he wagged his tail.
"Yep, that’s right. We’re going for a walk. I know it’s been a while, but you know how things have been around here lately. But today…today’s different. Today we’re doing whatever the fuck we want."
After scarfing down a bowl of Cheerios, Russell hurried upstairs (Apollo trailing, of course) and found his shoes in two different corners of his bedroom. He ran back downstairs, to the hall closet, where he retrieved Apollo’s leash from a hook on the inside panel of the door. While he was attaching the leash to the Dane’s collar, Apollo began barking clamorously in the direction of the front door. Five seconds later, they were moving through it, past it, outside.
They walked the snaking brick path to the towering oaks and sidewalk. From there, they crossed the street and veered toward Pete’s house, but since he had turned his mind off upon venturing outside, Russell was unaware they were heading in that direction—at first. Gradually, it dawned on him where they were going. At any time, he could have pulled on the leash and said "No." But he didn’t. He allowed Apollo to tug him where he may. He guessed even his dog missed Pete.
Or he’s doing this to bring me down, to make me cry over my dead friend. But I won’t! Not today. Today is a good day. Besides, Apollo would never try to trick me into feeling bad.
[You tried to trick Pete into killing O’Brien. Maybe he’s just following in his master’s footsteps.]
Whoa…Who are you? Just who the fuck are you? You’re not my regular traitor voice. You sound inhuman. Monotonic. You don’t sound like me at all. You sound—
[Like a cicada. You hate cicadas.]
You’re not a cicada and you need to shut up, because today is the best day the world has ever seen. Look, me and Apollo are outside and we’re not even afraid of being attacked.
The weird insect voice tried to speak again, but Russell drowned it out with a loud piano flourish.
Suck on that!
Russell walked the curb like a tightrope, while Apollo walked in the street like a normal person. Then, unexpectedly, the Dane veered left, leading his master away from Pete’s house. Together, they faced the open stretch of shady road with optimism and purpose. There were places to go and people to see, as the cliché goes. Unfortunately, they had already been to those places a million times and seen the same people the same number.
But it was something to do. Russell grinned as they strolled toward the end of the long street. As long as there were huge oaks to walk under and fresh, cool air to breathe, he’d be content to walk for hours, if that was what Apollo wanted. It was just that kind of day.
He even took the time to visualize Pete floating around in the clouds somewhere. Russell wasn’t too jaded yet to dismiss heaven as a fairytale, an afterlife Disney Land concocted for the sole purpose of keeping humanity in line, for giving the obedient and well-behaved a place to romp around in like…
…like dogs in a huge grassy field.<
br />
Russell shook his head in order to expunge the thought, but he was glad his inner voice had spoken and not the cicada’s. That voice, at least, was his.
If there was a heaven, Pete had to be in it. It shouldn’t matter that the kid had been an avowed atheist, always seeking the scientific answers to life’s riddles when the emotional ones were almost always correct, because he had been a good person, and good people go to heaven. Right? At least that’s what Russell was taught. Then again, Russell hadn’t seen the inside of a church in over a decade, so his knowledge of the subject was more than a little hazy. Even though he was sure his best friend was safe and happy wherever the hell he happened to be, he still wished Pete were alive and with him now, because today was one helluva fine day, the type of day you wanted to share.
"Whatchu got there, boy," he said when the dog stopped to sniff a small, maroon object butted up against the side of the curb.
Kneeling down, Russell picked up the rusted chunk of metal and hefted it in his hand. "It’s a sparkplug," he said, stroking the Dane’s back. "Do you like the way it smells? Is that it?"
Almost imperceptibly, Apollo nodded.
Not noticing the dog’s assent, Russell went on: "It’s a piece of junk." He tossed the plug over his shoulder, where it clinked against a fire hydrant before disappearing in a tuft of St. Augustine.
Apollo whimpered, turned about, and headed for the hydrant. Thinking he needed to piss, Russell let out slack on the leash. But when the dog got there, instead of lifting his leg, he dug his nose into the grass and mewled plaintively at the corroded sparkplug buried deep in the limp blades.
Russell sighed, then went and plucked the object from the miniature thicket. "Fine," he said, dropping the plug in the front pocket of his shorts, "I’ll keep it if it means that much to you. But I’m telling you, it’s junk."
Apollo nudged Russell’s hip, his way of saying “I’m ready to go now,” then stepped in front of his master. Russell followed the dog’s lead, studying his neighbors’ oversized houses and trimmed lawns as he passed them. Some of the driveways were gated, but most weren’t. There really wasn’t much need for that sort of precaution in a town like Riley, where everybody knew everybody in some way, shape, or form.
So what was with the gated driveways? Russell would wonder about that every so often, usually while driving home from school or work and seeing black prison bars make cartoons out of mansions. And he mused upon it now as he walked past one such barred entrance. No crimes had ever been committed on Deer Street, and even if one were to be committed, it wasn’t as if any robber/hooligan Riley could produce would be wily enough not to leave a billion clues—fingerprints, shoe prints, hair, fibers—for the cops to find. And the neighbors would hear or see something. Because they would have to. In a town like Riley, if one person hears a rumor as to who broke into such-and-such’s Porche or Audi, then the whole town knows about it inside of an hour, and someone is arrested—unless that person is an outsider and has already skipped town.
It was bullshit, plain and simple. People chose to lock themselves in and others out because people bought into the illusion of metal and wrought iron. They assume that if it works for animals in a zoo, it will work for humans, too. True, some people are wealthy and have much to protect, but when you get right down to it, so does everybody else in the world. It all boils down to what you attribute value to. A plastic Snoopy piggy bank filled with $3.77 in loose change or a priceless Civil War musket: Which one is more valuable? Which one hangs forgotten on a wall in some unused room, and which one contains a whole soul’s life savings?
Besides, the odds of an intruder breaking in and stealing Aunt Ruby’s antique pearl necklace are so small it might as well be an impossibility. Russell loathed certain neighbors of his for being so paranoid. All of their precautions and for what? The oogolie-boogolies? The scary, masked stranger that doesn’t even exist?
But hadn’t Russell acted the same way by keeping Apollo inside all week? Were scores of horrendous rabid dogs and trigger-happy rednecks still out there seeking to slaughter his innocent, disease-free dog? Or had they all vanished, like dreams upon waking, when Pete fell from his roof and went splat? Should Russell be terrified of kids with two-by-fours and kitchen knives? Or had they all skipped town? Fled into the forest? Was the fervor over? If he were to take a left when he reached the end of the street, continue straight for a hundred yards, then takes another left, would those garishly-colored flyers still be there, stapled and taped to street lamps and utility poles, beckoning motorists and pedestrians to stop everything they’re doing and help the flyer-maker find poor, lost Fluffy and the ever so dignified Mr. Humphrey?
Russell couldn’t fathom the lengths he’d go to if Apollo ran away. He’d do a lot more than put up a few signs and hope for the best. He’d bust his ass until he found him or—God forbid—his body. He’d scream his dog’s name until his voice gave out; then once that happened, he’d pay someone to scream it for him. He tried to imagine the scenarios that would lead to Apollo’s running away, but he couldn’t conceive of them.
Apollo was so loyal, so trustworthy. He would never leave Russell’s side.
Plus, he’s attached to me—literally. I’ve got a leash clasped to his collar and twice wrapped around my right hand. Apollo’s not going anywhere unless I go there with him. But he’d never abandon me. He’s always been there for me in the past, and until his dying day, he’ll be by my side. But I can’t think of those things today, because today is a good day. Things are changing; things are healing. I can feel it, and my feelings are never wrong.
He sensed the odd, insect voice trying to say something, so he squashed it with a sonic stomp of distorted guitar chords.
"Take that!" he said triumphantly to a voice that hadn’t spoken and wasn’t there.
Apollo turned his head slightly to the sound of his owner’s voice but continued his forward stroll.
Good boy. Keep walking. Don’t look at me like I’m crazy, because I’m not.
When they reached the end of the street, the Dane turned right and Russell unconsciously sighed. If there was one road he wanted to avoid, it was now to his back, sliding further and further away with each forward step.
They walked on the sidewalk, rather than in the street, even though the street was void of traffic and the sidewalk was broken and craggy and looked ready to twist his and Apollo’s ankles.
But twisting his ankle never crossed Russell’s mind. He agilely climbed the mini-mountain peaks and descended the shallow valleys. He did, for a minute or two, worry about Apollo’s ankles, but the dog, like his master, handled the terrain with ease. Usually, they didn’t take this route for their walks. Most of the time, they strolled down Main Street, crossed to Lewis Boulevard, and did a couple of loops through the park, where kids (and adults) would marvel at Apollo’s immense size. Apollo always accepted their adoration in stride, playing it cool. Russell knew he enjoyed the attention. He could see it in his face, especially his eyes. Apollo had much to be proud of. He was quite the specimen, as some of the elderly park-goers liked to say. From time to time, Russell would catch himself wondering who was more popular: him or his dog? Then he’d scoff at the idea, dismissing the question as the ultimate manifestation of vanity. To be jealous of a dog is to be insane.
Apollo plodded along, and Russell followed, indifferent to where the Dane led him. The road, which at first had curved, gradually straightened out, and they entered the part of Riley laid out in a grid. Looking up at one of the street signs, Russell’s heart fluttered: Magnolia Drive, Michelle’s street. He peered down the stretch of pavement, searching for her house. It was somewhere on the right—he knew that much—but the street was too long and the angle from which he took it too sharp.
Before he knew it, Apollo was dragging him up the incline to the next sidewalk. Russell pulled on the leash, halting the dog.
"Easy, boy," he said. "I wanna see something."
A vehicle ap
proached from the far end of Magnolia, its crimson features growing and coalescing into a squat, pug nose frame: first, the black canvas rag top, then the tubular grill, and finally, the hideous behemoth behind the steering wheel.
"Go Apollo," Russell urged, pushing the dog’s butt. "Keep walking. Go!"
But Apollo wouldn’t budge.
The Jeep came to a stop at the intersection. Russell stood dumbfounded at the corner while Hector leaned over and unzipped the passenger side window. He had lost his opportunity to flee and was regretting every ounce of his stupid curiosity.
Hector lifted a meaty fist to his forehead and saluted. "Hey, Rusty."
"Hey."
Hector took in a deep breath, let out a long sigh. "Listen, I’m sorry about Pete—really, I am. I know he was your friend a lot longer than he was mine, but you gotta believe me—I liked the kid…a lot…and now he’s fuckin’ dead!"
Hector’s face reddened, then purpled and blotched. With dismay, Russell watched as Hector’s enormous paw moved to his face, mashed against it, and stayed there. Russell saw everything the Jeep’s driver tried to hide. But he didn’t know what to do about it. In the end, he had to place a hand on Apollo’s head to steady himself. It was as if the world was sliding underneath his feet again and he needed something stable to hold on to.
He thought it was vertigo, but it wasn’t that. He was still moving—walking, actually—toward the Jeep, even though he swore he’d made no conscious decision to head in that direction—or in any direction, for that matter. He felt both dizzy and nauseous as he looked down at his legs moving under someone else’s charge. It was as if the same entity from Rhoda Baker’s house had gained control of his motor centers and was using his body as a puppet.
When he lifted his head, he was standing next to the Jeep, his forearms resting on top of the passenger door.
"What?" Russell asked in reaction to Hector’s surprised mug.
"How didja get here so quick?" Hector’s eyes scanned Russell’s, as if to peer inside of him.
"What do you mean?"
"You were ten feet away a second ago. Now you’re here. I must be losing my fucking mind." Hector rubbed his temples and grinned unhappily. "But I don’t care. Really, I don’t. It’s not like I ever used it much."
Staring at his feet now, Russell repeated, "What do you mean?"
"Seriously, Rusty, you don’t want to know."
If it were any other day, Russell would have ended the conversation and slunk away. But today wasn’t like any other day. Today was special. It was the greatest day in the history of the world. So he pressed. "Sure I do," he said, smiling magnanimously.
Hector smiled back, this time genuinely. "I have rabies."
Russell pushed away from the Jeep. "What?"
Hector snorted and said, "Nah, it’s nothing to be scared ‘bout. I’m getting treatment shots. A raccoon bit me while I was passed out in some field." He said it like it was no big deal, as if everybody at some point gets bitten by a raccoon while they’re unconscious.
"Well, that’s good," Russell said. "I mean, it’s good you’re getting treated, not good that you got bit."
Hector smiled wanly and shook his head. "You’ve always had a way with words, Rusty. I bet you don’t even realize how funny you are when you’re not even trying to be."
"Somebody told me that once, actually."
Pete. Pete told me that. And Michelle.
"I wish I had talents," Hector said, looking at the empty road before him, "but I guess you gotta be born with ‘em."
Russell wanted to disagree, but he couldn’t. Hector had hit the bullseye on that one. Instead, he changed the subject. He could sense the conversation spiraling into a black hole of self-pity on Hector’s part, and he didn’t want the big asshole feeling sorry for himself. Not today. Today was about building up what had previously been torn down. A day of rebirth.
"So," Russell began casually, "what brings you to Magnolia Drive?
Stupid, stupid, stupid. You know exactly why he’s here, and you know exactly who he came to see. And by the looks of it, Michelle told him to shove something mighty pointy up his you-know-what. So why would you ask such a stupid question? It’s only going to make him feel worse and you jealous. You can’t help yourself, can you?
"I came to see my girl."
Russell nodded and smiled, but it stung. It stung deep.
"But," Hector continued, "she’s acting weird for some reason."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Get this: She just got through telling me that I’m too thick-headed to recognize beauty when I see it. Apparently, she thinks she’s an artist now. She’ll grow out of it, though. She always does. She has phases, you know."
"No, I didn’t." He desperately wanted to reach in there, grab Hector’s big head, and shake it until whatever was loose fell into place.
"My mom has ‘em, too. I think it’s tied to the moon or something. They can be real bitches sometimes, Rusty, let me tell you. The more you try to understand them—"
"The harder it is. I know."
"Fucking mysteries."
"Maybe," Russell began at the risk of throwing Hector into one of his famous rages but not caring if he did. "Maybe it’s not about understanding them. Maybe the mystery behind what they are—how they are—is better than the reality. Maybe the mystery is the reality. All I know for certain is that I don’t know a whole lot when it comes to the way the world works. But at least I examine things—turn ideas and concepts around in my mind and look at them from different angles. You see, most people don’t do that. And it doesn’t make me smart or special or anything like that. It just makes me, me. Now I know it’s not my place to tell you how to live your life, Hector, but right now, for your own good, I’m going to do it anyway: You gotta wake up, man! You gotta open your eyes and see the world the way it really is. And what’s the world really like, you ask. Well, I’ll tell you: It’s complex and it’s simple. It’s fair and it’s unfair. It’s flat and it’s round. Christ, it’s one gigantic, twisted paradox that defies explanation. To be honest, I don’t have any substantive answers for you. I’ve got plenty of questions, but I sure as hell don’t have any real answers. But at least somewhere amongst all the confusion and chaos, I find the time to escape. I do it through music. Pete did it through science. And Mike finds solace in that sick, fat bulldog of his. My point is everybody’s got something. Except you. You have nothing. You ramble. You serve no purpose. You just don’t do anything. So when you go and call your mom and Michelle ‘bitches’ for no real good reason, it tends to piss me off, not because the word offends me, but because it shows how incapable you are of seeing the expression of their souls in what they do. Do they confuse you? Is that it? Do they confuse you when they get so absorbed in their creations that they ignore you?"
Stunned, Hector muttered, "No—"
Russell felt tall. He thought the euphoria of the day might be playing some part in it, but he knew some of it was coming from him as well.
And somewhere in his thick skull, he is getting this. He’s finally understanding.
"You say no, but I’m willing to bet that they do confuse you. It’s almost as if they’ve disappeared, isn’t it? When they become still and calm and bleed into the background. Did you know that some animals aren’t capable of seeing other animals unless those other animals happen to be moving? I’m not saying you’re an animal, but I am saying you have some animal characteristics. Your vision, for example. I bet that a lot of the time you fail to see what’s right in front of your nose."
Hector’s face drained of color. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. Russell braced for tears and sobs. It was like O’Brien all over again. Russell always knew he had the ability—the gall—to make people feel terrible about themselves, but he never knew why he chose to exercise that gift. What was the point in making Hector feel lousy? Revenge for punching Pete in the stomach over a week ago? Should he also expect his dead friend to float down from the heavens
and give him an ethereal thumbs up from the grave?
Why do I do this? What’s to be gained from being so cruel?
But Hector didn’t cry. He just stared through the windshield, dry swallowing. After a while, when he was ready, he spoke. Though his voice shook at first, it grew steadier as he went on. "I’ve been trying…" He swallowed. "I’ve been trying to make myself better, but I don’t know how."
He brought his fist up to his mouth, cleared his throat, and forged ahead. "It’s like this: I go to Pete’s funeral, and I see you there, but…but you act like you don’t see me. Then when I try to find you, you’re gone. And today, I drive over here to see Michelle, and she tells me to fuck off and get a life. All I did was ask her where Freddy was, since he’s always barking when I stop by. Then as I go to leave, she tells me that Freddy ran away. So I say, ‘I’m sorry to hear that. If you want, I can help you find him.’ And then she goes ape shit—screaming at me about how I wouldn’t know where to go or what to do. But when I explain that we could make some flyers, she yells at me even louder, saying, ‘Where have you been the past week, in a fuckin’ cave?’ Then I tell her, ‘No, I’ve been hangin’ out at my house, ‘cause I’m not supposed to go out.’ And then I say, ‘I know how you feel. Lola ran away, too, but she’ll find her way back because she always does.’ Then—get this—she starts crying. So I try to calm her down, but I only end up making it worse. Then she starts going on and on about art and how I have no concept of what beauty is—that’s when she called me thick-headed. The only reason I came by was to see if she wanted to grab a bite to eat, and this is how she treats me. Yelling and crying. It’s my first time outta my house in days, and I’m tellin’ ya, Rusty, I’m trying to do good, but the people I’m tryin’ to do good for ain’t too goddamn thankful for the good I’m tryin’ to do ‘em."
"I know how you feel."
"You do?" Hector asked incredulously.
"Believe it or not, I do. It’s just about impossible to do the right thing, not have people clap you on the shoulder every time you do it, and not go a little bit insane as a result. Trust me, you don’t want people depending on you. You’ll only let them down in the end."
"Really?"
"Yeah, look at me: I should have talked to you yesterday at Pete’s funeral, but I didn’t. You were paying your respects and I was rude to you. I shouldn’t have shut you out like that. I’m sorry."
Hector shrugged, "Man, if I have to say sorry to everyone I’ve ever let down—"
Russell cut him off. "It’s not even about that. It’s about trying. You’ve got to try to keep an even keel about things, Hector. You can’t lose your temper every time something goes wrong. You’ve got to find a hobby or a calling that consumes you. That way you won’t go crazy when the universe starts raining shit on you—oh, and believe me, that does happen. Everybody has a purpose. I said earlier that you didn’t have one, but I think I may have jumped the gun. You gotta own up to who you really are. It’s the only way you’ll stay sane in this fucked-up world."
"But I don’t know who I am or what kind of purpose I’m supposed to have."
Russell leaned into the Jeep and playfully punched Hector’s beefy shoulder, noticing for the first time the acrid smell of vomit in the cab. "Don’t worry about it, man. It’ll come to you."
"I wish I had some talents."
"Don’t think about your talents," Russell said. "They’ll make themselves known."
"Well, I guess I can cook pretty good."
"See. There you go. You can cook."
Russell had no idea why he was putting so much effort into boosting Hector’s self-esteem, but for some reason he felt it was time Hector saw himself as he really was. Hector had kept his eyes shut for too long. In a way, he was a lot like O’Brien: selfish, juvenile, oblivious to the vastness of the world around him, and even more oblivious to the vastness of the world inside him. But at least Hector was trying to better himself. He was trying to change.
Good for Hector.
Why all of a sudden, Rusty? What prompted this? People don’t change overnight—or in this case, over a week. You’re not seeing the whole picture. If you think your week’s been bad, try imagining how bad Hector’s must have been to change him this drastically. He was crying. He never cries. And he is being nice to you. A little over a week ago, he was poking you in the chest with a meat fork.
But he’s changed. He’s better now.
If you truly believe that, then you’re dumber than Mike O’Brien. People don’t change. It just doesn’t happen.
"Okay," Russell said, not in a way to continue the conversation but in a way to end it. "We’ve gotta go now. It’s hotter than a mother out and I’ve got Apollo here…"
Hector glanced at Apollo’s large, erect ears, the only part of the dog visible over the Jeep’s hood. "Yeah."
Russell picked up the sorrowful tone in that one syllable and replied encouragingly. "Don’t worry. Lola will turn up."
And that was the fattest lie Russell Whitford ever told.
"She always does. It’s my own fault for not fixin’ the gate. Say, you don’t suppose the rumors are true, that people have been shootin’ dogs because of some rabies scare."
As if on musical cue, Russell replied, "You know how rumors are in these parts."
"I wish I knew what was goin’ on. I’ve been holed up in my house for so long, I’m losing touch. It’s probably a bunch of bullshit anyway."
"Ain’t it always?"
"Yep. But just the same, I’d like to have Lola back home as soon as possible. She ain’t exactly young anymore."
Or alive.
"I know how you feel. If Apollo ran away, I’d probably just about lose it."
Russell was itching to ask how in God’s name Hector had managed to stay out of the loop for so long. Did he have sand in his ears? Had he not watched TV or read a newspaper in seven days? And while we’re at it, why had he been confined to his house all week?
There were stories there, Russell knew, he would never get to hear. His microcosm and Hector’s microcosm were as separate as galaxies, yet as inextricably linked as atoms by the invisible threads of fate. It was futile to disown this knowledge now that Pete was dead and O’Brien was off on his own path somewhere. For better or for worse, Hector was Russell’s last remaining human friend.
And the conveyer belt keeps rolling, end over end, ever closer to the black void that awaits us all.
Russell thrust his hand into the cabin and beamed a smile as bright as Jupiter. Hector grabbed it with his huge paw and shook.
"I’m glad you’re changing," Russell said. "The fact that you’re even trying makes me wish I could be as brave."
"Keep an eye out for Lola, will ya?"
Russell nodded. "Of course."
They broke off, and the Jeep hooked a right onto Johnson Avenue.
"Hector," Russell said with a smirk as the vehicle receded down the road. Then to Apollo: "Let’s head back, boy. It’s getting way too hot out here for you.”
They made the trek back to Deer Street over the same busted-up sidewalk. Russell’s mind wandered off on tangents he couldn’t control. Too many thoughts trying to cram their way to the front of his brain at once. None of them arriving there in one piece. Audio clips of deranged gibberish and snapshots of Pete’s falling body forcing their way to the surface and then him pushing them back under, drowning them, by shaking his head and kicking bits of loose concrete off the sidewalk, into the street. With each passing moment, the veil separating actual memories from those of imagination growing more and more diaphanous.
It was Hector’s fault. Hector had almost ruined his day. Today was supposed to be a good day. Russell felt he was due for one. And it had been one until Hector showed up acting like a little nance, throwing Russell’s whole rhythm off. All he had wanted was to go for a walk with Apollo, not get into a philosophical discussion with a person he didn’t even like.
He cried, too. Don’t forget that. He cried and
you made it worse. You poured jalapeño juice in his eyes when you called him an animal. You tried to dissolve him away like a hard water stain. Then you tried to build him back up again. Turns out you’re only good at the first part. You have no idea what he’s been through, and you don’t want to know. Just leave him alone.
By the time they rounded the corner to Deer Street, Russell’s wet shirt clung heavily to his shoulders and back. The sultry breeze sifting through the corridor offered no succor from Helios’s remorseless fury. Neither did the shady oaks. Sunlight shone through the thin, waxy leaves as if through tiny magnifying glasses, focusing the star’s rays onto Russell’s head, neck, shoulders, and back. He had never fainted before, but he felt like he was about to faint now. Apollo dragged his stumbling anchor of a master forward, not permitting the vessel to stop.
Passing a gated driveway, Russell grew dimly aware of a person behind the cage waving at him. He peered through the vertical black bars at a man washing a red sports car. He glimpsed the white foam on the driveway and heard the guy’s voice ring out from far away.
"How ‘bout this heat, Rusty?"
To which Russell mumbled over a thick tongue, "It’s not the heat, it’s the insanity," while strumming the moving bars with his right hand.
"What?" the man asked, but Russell was already on to the next gate, the next prison.
Then they were back at the house. How they had gotten there so quickly, Russell didn’t know. On the porch he collapsed to his knees and stared up at the giant red door. Never before had he noticed the immensity of the thing. The obscenity. Way too big.
And so far away.
The world softened and blurred, and Russell tilted helplessly backwards. Going…going…gone. His head conked Apollo’s before landing on the backs of the dog’s felt-covered paws. The last image he took in before the pall of sleep covered him was the Dane’s black flews descending to greet his slumber half-way.
Behind him, Apollo stayed in the bowing position— front paws out, head down, butt high in the air—and barked loudly and repeatedly for aid. No one came to help (they never do), so he decided to do the next best thing. He lolled out his long tongue and lapped Russell’s pale nose and mouth. When the human’s eyes began to flutter open, he barked some more, then returned to licking his face.
Groaning, Russell rolled off Apollo’s paws, crawled to the edge of the porch, and retched into the wilting azalea bushes. His stomach voided, he attempted to prop himself onto his knees. When that didn’t work, he leaned against his dog’s body and looked around dazedly at the empty street. The moment the ground stopped spinning, he chanced standing up. His legs trembled like loosely strung guitar strings as he lurched for the door.
He twisted the knob, but it didn’t turn. Then, reaching into his right front pocket for his keys, he pulled out the rusted sparkplug instead, which he automatically dropped back into his pocket before searching the other one.
With his left hand, he took out the keys, found the one for the house, unlocked the door, and went inside. The instant he crossed the threshold, he took off his shirt, his albatross, and flung it to the floor. In the hallway, he turned the thermostat down to sixty. Apollo followed him into the kitchen, his long leash dragging behind him like a black umbilicus.
"Here, boy. Let me get that off you." Russell undid the clasp and patted the Dane’s back.
"What happened out there?" he said, filling a glass under the tap, downing its contents, then filling it again. After drinking that glass, the next glass he poured over his naked back and chest, letting out a shiver as the liquid splattered prismatically on the tiled floor.
"Don’t worry. I’ll clean it up later," he said, reading the dog’s puzzled expression.
Apollo lapped at one of the puddles. He managed to get his tongue wet, but the puddle was too shallow to get a good sip. After a few futile attempts, he gave up and sat next to the kitchen window.
Russell rushed around the table, skidded through the water, dropped to his knees, and scooped up Apollo’s narrow head in his hands. "I’m sorry, boy. I forgot all about you. You gotta be thirsty, too."
Apollo stared at Russell.
"Of course you are," he went on. "Let me get you a bowl."
It was actually a pot that Russell filled and brought to his dog. Apollo drank with long dips of his agile tongue. Watching him, Russell laughed. Something about the way the Dane’s tongue flashed in and out of his mouth, dipping into the water and splashing it on his nose and chin, tickled Russell in a primal way.
"You’re silly," he said.
Upon hearing what he said and how he’d said it, his body seized. Nausea rippled through his shivering body, but somehow he kept the upchucks at bay.
I sounded just like O’Brien there.
Not only that, but the look on his face while saying those two words had been an exact facsimile of O’Brien’s mock-surprise expression: one part insanity and five parts Look how crazy I am, just look at me, please!!!
"Oh who cares?" he said, his catatonia quickly dissipating. "Today is the best day in the world, Apollo. We didn’t run into any rabid animals on our walk, and you know why? Because they’re all gone." Russell splayed his fingers to illustrate. "Poof! All gone!"
Apollo lay on his belly and rested his chin on his paws. He looked up at Russell with disinterested eyes.
"Where they went, I don’t know. They’re gone—and that’s all that matters."
Apollo yawned.
Russell sat down at the kitchen table and patted the dog’s head.
"Tired, boy?"
No answer.
"I bet you are. Hey, what happened out there on the porch? Did I faint or something?"
Apollo looked at Russell but didn’t answer his question.
"I bet I did," Russell said. "It wasn’t from the heat, though—at least not entirely. I think that huge door played a part in it. It’s too big, boy. And I’m too small. I think it was the insanity, too. When the heat and the insanity get all mixed up like that…"
Russell swooned and grabbed the edge of the table. Swirling pinwheels of light raked his vision. The world began to fade.
Apollo barked, and Russell’s head snapped up.
"Whaa?"
He looked down at Apollo, who looked up at him. "I don’t feel so good."
Russell stood, fumbled into the living room, where he passed out the instant his body sunk into the deep sofa cushions.
A few minutes later, Apollo walked into the living room and plopped down between the coffee table and the sofa. He took a nap too, but—unlike his master—his dreams didn’t cause him to cry out in his sleep.