Velocities

by Kathe Koja

  No, harsh, fighting it, fighting herself; the hand with the cigarette trembled, its light like a firefly trapped in a jar until: The doctor, he said at last, when she had finally calmed. He called me . . . I’m still the emergency contact, you know?

  She did not answer.

  He said—

  I know what he said. She took a last drag on the cigarette, let it drop and roll down the porch steps to the grass, dying red in a sea of silent green. We had a nice long talk.

  There are things you can do. There are still things that you—

  I’m not doing anything, she said. While you were in Cairo I was doing things, and what the fuck good did any of them do me? I’m sick of all that. She reached for the pack of cigarettes, but her grasp was unsteady, and in her lurching motion her right side, right arm, struck the black iron rail and she cried out, a brief excruciating cry; and he moaned, low and helpless, a noise unwilled as he tried to right her, but No, she said through her teeth, no don’t touch me, don’t.

  Silence: night sounds; when her gaze had cleared, she saw that he was weeping, and Don’t, she said, unsteady, and put her left hand on his arm, just above the elbow, the way she always had. It’s OK, it’s all right—but still he wept, face up toward the night, the wet fierce glottals of a child, until Don’t make it worse, she said, to make him stop, and he did, slowly, sucking in his breath and Get us another beer, she said, to help him.

  When he had gone into the house again, she laboriously lit another cigarette, sat smoking in the faint noises from inside: water running, the glass clink of bottles. The fireflies were back, as if her pain and his had scattered them like the shadow of some dark beast, but now in the beast’s departure they were free again, to play, to go about their amatory errands, and It’s the males who light up, he said, back on the porch stoop, handing her a fresh beer. They do it for the girls? To get them to notice?

  It must work, she said, or there wouldn’t be fireflies.

  Wonder if it’s the same up there? pointing with his own beer into the starlit sky. Light matter and dark matter, you said? Like blinking on and off?

  No, she said.

  And the, the vacuum, it’s what keeps them going, right? Keeps everything going?

  Expanding, she said. It increases the rate of expansion.

  Like this? he said, and touched not the bandage but the skin above it, so lightly it was almost no touch at all: and she stared at him through the dark, breath gathered in astounded and furious hurt, but before she could speak You’re expanding, he said, aren’t you? Getting . . . more diffuse. Like a plant does, with seeds? Like these trees right here, poplars—when their pods split open and all the seeds float away everywhere? That’s you. With your work, and your articles, and, and who you are . . . It just goes on. You go on. Resisting the pull, right? But—but like poplars out there, pointing at the darkness. With the big fireflies?

  She said nothing. Her throat felt full and tight, like a seed pod, ready to burst.

  Big poplars, he said. Big seeds.

  Neither spoke; her left hand took his right; their fingers linked. Finally: Read my paper, she said. When it comes out. OK? Read it for me.

  He squeezed her hand, squeezed it slow and twice, and Yes, he said, I will. But I won’t understand it.

  You understand plenty, she said.

  A breeze touched the leaves of the poplars. Past them, past the porch the fireflies moved, in the stars and the breathing night.

  COYOTE PASS

  I’d like to buy one of your dogs, she said.

  • • •

  In the empty nights she could hear them, the sharp cough of fox terriers, barking. She had never been close enough to actually see the dogs, but on her daily drive—dry cutline road from ranch to town (“town:” a post office, a diner/grocery, a dollar store and two desolate bars)—she always marked the sign: KAITLAND KENNELS, black letters above the woodcut dog, ears up, alert, alive. Woodcut—is that what that kind of thing was called? that burned-in campfire style? Her mother would have known. Medium: fire on plywood board. Her mother the famous art collector; every wall, dining room, living room, all three of the bedrooms, the bathroom even, stacked up in the hallway: paintings, sculpture, fabric weavings all meant for others, for no one who lived in the house.

  It had taken her mother almost two full years to die; amazing, that the mind could hold on so long past the body’s will to leave. Amazing too to find herself still here, the last daughter, like some figure out of a fairy tale: While the other sisters were out dancing with the handsome princes, Last Daughter was in the castle with the queen. Dealing with the hospice workers, the insurance company, the sound of the house at night, that nothing sound so loud she had to go outside to drown it out: into the creosote wind, the smell of sage, the darkness, the faraway barking of the dogs.

  • • •

  What kind of dogs are they? she asked the young woman. Terriers?

  The young woman looked not at her but pointedly over her shoulder, at the scrub, the dry mouth of the desert, the road, crushed soda cans shining like fallen jewelry. She had long black hair, a hard plastic-looking black, no highlights at all. She wore sunglasses, a T-shirt printed with fading brown Kokopellis, high-top sneakers stained red. You want to buy one, the young woman said, you ought to know.

  • • •

  At the post office the clerk was always sympathetic. How’s your mom doing today? or How’s it going out there? now that “mom” was gone and the mail had slowed to a trickle, now that there was no reason, really, for her to stay on anymore. It must be getting lonely, the clerk said sympathetically. He was a young man, or young-looking, anyway, why would a young man stay in a place like this, with nothing to do, nothing to see but dirt and desert and sky. Her sisters had come back twice, once for the funeral, once for the will. Carol, the oldest, had stood in the carport in her spike heels and cried: That she lived like this, like a hermit. Poor Mother. Poor Mother! Lindsay in the middle had shrugged, sat at the kitchen table smoking and drinking Coke. Poor you, she had said, grinding out one cigarette, lighting another. Smoke drifted past the empty spots on the walls where the paintings had hung, the paint beneath a different, darker color. Anne, seriously, how can you stand this haunted house? You did what you had to do, when are you leaving?

  Soon, she had said. Her coffee was cold now, the microwave was gone. In its space on the counter was a chrome toaster oven as old as she was, resurrected from under the sink; all the old stuff, all still there. Just as soon as everything’s done.

  • • •

  What’s your name? the young woman asked her. Up close like this, talking, Anne could see that she was really just a girl, sixteen maybe, her cheeks rounded under the black sunglasses, her arms brown and strong. It was because she was so tall that she seemed older, tall and quiet. Watchful.

  Anne Clay. What’s yours?

  A pickup truck shot by, Bondo and chrome in a flume of dust. Unseen, past the L-turn of the outbuildings, the battered-looking ranch house, the dogs barked on cue, as if they had been watching the road from their kennels. Watchdogs.

  The girl didn’t answer. Finally Anne saw that she would not. Never mind. May I see the dogs? Or are there any puppies? I’d really rather have a puppy—

  The girl coughed, a sharp sound. You have to make an appointment first. With my dad.

  Well, all right then, can I make—

  He’s not here now. The girl took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were so pale, so wintry blue, that she looked blind. White eyes, black hair, a startling combination, not attractive. You live around here?

  I—no, not really. Well for now I do, I guess. It’s my mother’s house, she was an art collector, actually kind of famous: Susan Lynn Clay, maybe you’ve heard of her? Anyway she, she passed away, so I’m the caretaker now. And it gets so quiet out there, at night especially, I always wanted—I want a dog.r />
  Why was she telling this to this girl who obviously did not care, this girl sliding her sunglasses back on as if to indicate that they were done talking or that she anyway was done, why was Anne saying anything at all, so Please tell your father, trying to sound brisk as she pushed on her own sunglasses, crooked and green, that I want to make an appointment. I want to get a dog as soon as possible. A puppy if you have one.

  His name is Joshua, the girl said, and turned away, walking towards the outbuildings, the beige cinderblock of the kennels. Sage in the wind. On the drive back, Anne imagined herself walking a puppy, a female puppy, active, happy, alive. She would name it Sassy. It would be her dog.

  • • •

  Dogs shed. Dogs piddle. Dogs make a mess, Annie, I can’t have a mess like that here.

  But Daddy said—

  I said no. No means no.

  But Daddy—

  Annie, stop.

  • • •

  There was no website, no listing with the Kennel Club, no number for Kaitland Kennels, but the young post office clerk was helpful as usual. Flipping through a spiral notebook as Anne leaned against the counter, next to change-of-address cards, a stack of ExMail forms, a display of neatly framed stamps. He knew Kate a little, the clerk said, he didn’t think there would be any harm in sharing the number—

  Kate?

  Kait. She’s the old man’s granddaughter, Kait-Land, see? The clerk smiled. His teeth were stained a pale beige, from coffee, maybe. It used to be called Coyote Pass, before she came. They sold some real champions, I guess, to dog show people, breeders, that kind of thing. Expensive . . . You know, if all’s you want is a pup, I’d drive on up to Stovepipe. There’s a Humane Society shelter there, real nice place, nice people. I got my Callie there—

  You have a dog?

  A cat. Calico, “Callie,” see? The clerk smiled again. I’m allergic to dogs. Not them, but their dander, right? When they shed. Dogs shed. Dogs piddle. Dogs bark. The edge of the counter bit into the skin of her arms. Want me to give you the number of the shelter in Stovepipe, too?

  I really want a terrier, she said.

  • • •

  She called the kennel number from the clerk: no one answered, no voicemail, nothing. She called again. And again as the sun went down, surely someone would be there by now, the girl had to come home from school, the dogs had to be fed or walked or something. And the father—or grandfather, Joshua? he had to come back sometime, didn’t he?

  The phone rang and rang. The wind rose, fell, rose higher again, dry words whispered from a dry throat. At ten o’clock she stopped trying and went to bed. All night she heard, she dreamed she heard, the dogs.

  • • •

  You prefer art to people, Susan, you always have. Why don’t you just admit it?

  The sound of the cigarette lighter, like something hard snapped in two. Don’t start, Ed, all right? I have to be up early.

  Annie pulls the covers up over her head, breathes through her mouth the taste of stale blanket-air. Against her chest the stiff warmth of the stuffed poodle, white fur, red plastic collar. Kids at school say their parents fight, too, scream and yell at each other, swear. Bobby Reddings said his mother once threw a whole plate of food at his dad, mashed potatoes and gravy, it ran down the wall and then they both laughed. Annie knows that this kind of fighting is different. No one is going to laugh after this. She hugs the stuffed dog tighter, so hard she can feel its button eyes against her skin.

  We have to tell the girls, her father says. Are you going to tell the girls?

  Why don’t you? her mother says. You’re the one with all the heart.

  • • •

  Kait, she called, her voice a reedy echo. Kait!

  The girl’s gait never changed. If she heard Anne, or Anne’s car, she gave no sign, just kept walking on the endless lunar blacktop. White jeans today, relatively clean, the same scuffed sneakers. A backpack with a graphic of the sun, cartoon yellow smile, white fangs in the curve of the smile when you got up close enough to see. By now the car was crawling, Anne’s foot on the brake, and Kait, she said again. Are you—do you need a ride?

  She assumed the girl would say no, expected anything, but Sure, Kait said, and hopped into the passenger seat as if they were old friends, as if Anne gave her a ride home every day, a ride from where? School? The air conditioning was on, a cold and necessary stream, but Kait rolled down the window, let in the baking desert air. For a minute Anne expected her to hang her head out, the way a dog would.

  Are you on your way home from school?

  Kait smiled, as if she were really amused; a smile like the sun’s. The wind blew her hair around her face, obscuring her eyes. You still want that puppy?

  Yes! I called, I called several times. But no one ever answered.

  We’ve been busy, Kait said. You want the pup, you can have him now.

  At the kennels, Anne waited outside the building, sweating in the sun; Kait did not allow her to go inside. When Kait came out, she was leading a puppy, cocked brown ears and a blunt stare; he sniffed Anne’s fingertips, did not wag his tail.

  Oh, what a cutie! And it’s a girl? A female?

  Male.

  Oh. Oh he’s adorable, but I really wanted a—

  Only pup we have right now.

  Oh.

  The puppy sniffed her shoes, trotted around to sniff the back of her shoes, sat down to scratch vigorously at his ear, and promptly fell over. Anne laughed. What difference did it make, really, if the dog was male or female? He was here, he was cute. And he was hers.

  You need the papers right away? Kait said. It took Anne a moment to realize she meant the pedigree, the proof of bloodline, but No, she said, smiling, reaching to pick up the puppy. He eluded her, darting sideways; she tried again. Finally Kait snatched the puppy by his scruff and handed him, wriggling, to Anne.

  What about—the puppy struggled in her arms. I need to pay—

  When you get the papers, Kait said. You got a leash? When Anne shook her head, Kait disappeared into the kennel building, returning with a mostly threadbare blue cord. He’ll bust that, she said, looping it lightly around his neck. Don’t leave him tied out with it.

  I’m not going to put him outside, for goodness sake. He’ll sleep in the house, with me.

  • • •

  But he did not sleep. Eat, yes, even though she had no Puppy Chow—no food, no leash, she had not been prepared, Kait had utterly surprised her—but he ate the ground beef from the canned chili, then promptly crapped on the kitchen floor. Housebreaking, of course she would have to train him to go outside, but not with a leash like that, he’ll bust it, yes, run into the desert, and then what? Anything could happen out there, there were wild animals, coyotes every night.

  She tried to play with him, but he was more interested in investigating the house, every room, every corner, he peed a couple of times then finally curled up on the bathmat, eyes open, watching her as she fussed over a bowl of water, some cereal and milk, did dogs like milk? or was that just cats? If she had had a pet in childhood, she would have known these things. Do you like milk? she asked the puppy. What should I name you? Sassy was a girl’s name. Maybe Spike. Is your name Spike? The puppy stared at her.

  Finally she went to bed, closing the bathroom door tightly behind: not good to let him wander, his first night in a strange house. She resolved to sleep lightly, so she could hear him, deciding that if he whined she would take him into her bed. Not a good precedent to set, maybe, but still, if he was crying, if he was lonely . . .

  The first time, it jolted her awake, the terrible painful keening noise, Oh my God she’s dying! as she stumbled down the hall, two thoughts at once—No she’s already dead and It’s the puppy—to turn her from the old, empty bedroom to the bathroom, hand on the knob, the puppy inside not harmed in any way, or any way that she cou
ld see, just sitting there on the bathmat screaming his head off. When she squatted down, hands shaking—What’s the matter, what’s wrong?—he quieted, and edged away from her, off the bathmat onto the floor. He drank some water. He resumed his seat on the mat. She tried to pet him, but he edged away again. Finally she clicked off the overhead light, clicked on the nightlight, slowly closed the door.

  She had not even fallen back to sleep before he started screaming again; it was amazing that something so small could create such a huge sound. She tried everything she could think of: petting him, turning the fan on and off, leaving the lights on, scraping more chili beef into a bowl. Nothing stopped him. He was relentless.

  Finally she went outside, coat wrapped tight over her nightgown no match for the cold, the dark, the echo of his cries amplified—was it? Or was it, yes, the dogs from the kennel, of course! It had to be, he had to hear them, was screaming for them. For his mother . . . Eventually the cold became more unbearable than the noise; she turned reluctantly inside.

  When at last he stopped, abruptly, like a slammed door, she lifted the pillow from her head, eyes dry and wide. Already it was getting light, a little, that faint white diffusion of earliest dawn. She thought, It’s too late now, I won’t sleep, but immediately she did.

  • • •

  When she woke, late, almost eleven o’clock, the first thing she did was check on the puppy. The bathroom was empty. Bowl, bathmat, a fresh puddle of pee behind the toilet, but no puppy. No puppy? Where in God’s name—? She checked the AC vent, but it was intact, bolted to the wall. The window was too high and did not open anyway. There was no way the puppy could have escaped. But he was gone.

  The only other way—had she left the door open, somehow? careless in her sleepless state, and he escaped into the house somewhere? or even outside? I’m not going to let him outside, for goodness sake, but had she? Had he somehow gotten out, into the yard, the desert, and—The coyotes, or a hunting cat might kill a puppy. She walked all the way to the road and back, squinting in the sun, calling Spike! Spike! At last she sat on a rock and cried. It was no use, he didn’t know Spike was his name, didn’t know her, would not come to her voice . . . Then she remembered the kennels, the all-night barking of the dogs.