She
wandered around the open house, singing an old Rod Stewart song. "I didn't
know, what day it was, when you walked in, to the room."Her voice rang
high and clear, pausing in all of the right places, even though there was
no chance of her being confused with Stewart's gravel.
That
song, that sound, had been running through her head all day. Just that
one lyric, really. Not the rest of the song. In fact, she didn't even like
Rod Stewart all that much. He had too much hair. She ran her finger up
and down the balustrade in the front room, twirling around, the cool, slick
wood squeaking under her finger. Empty. The whole house was empty, just
her and the dog and the furniture and all this big, open space. All of
the people had evaporated to another plane of existence, and it was just
her and the dumb dog.
Scruffy
ran up to her leg and sniffed as if he had never seen her before. She watched
the Cairn terrier for a moment, then casually drew her leg back and kicked
it. Hard. The dog squealed as it skittered off balance across the hardwood
floor, then caught itself, stared at her blankly, and ran in the other
direction.
She
stove her fists deep in her pockets and smiled.
"How
I do hate dogs," she said to the emptiness.
Karen
was the oldest. It was Karen's job, and Karen's responsibility, and Karen
was seven. As she slipped the blue canvas loop around her wrist and took
the lead between her fingers like her daddy had shown her, the family dog
pulled hard and yanked her small wrist. She pulled back, but just a bit,
because you had to be careful, if the dog got loose she knew she could
not run fast enough to catch it.
"Are
you ready?" she cooed, knowing of course that the dog was more than ready,
since hearing the chain rattle in the shoebox from the closet the dog had
been in hysterics, its small, thick behind waddling just as fast as the
tail it was attached to. Sometimes, when there was more time, she and Todd
would ask the dog to request to go out. They would stand in front of the
closet suggestively, asking pointedly vague questions like "Do you want
to do something? What do you want to do? Speak up?" until the dog would
be so overwhelmed it would bark, a high screeching yelp.
Mom
would yell down from upstairs, "Don't torment the dog!" And even though
at seven and five they didn't know what 'torment' meant, they liked the
sound of the word.
And
then the chain would come down, and Karen would slide the handle around
her arm like a bracelet, and out they would go, running with the dog, stopping
as the dog did her business against trees, bicycles, grassy spots, rocks,
weeds, cars, and whatever other object took her fancy, just like a boy
dog would. Karen once heard Daddy say after a particularly long spate of
stop-and-start dog walking, "Whiz number 47,938b," and she thought that
was hilarious.
Todd
was too young to walk the dog. As long as there was Karen, he would always
be too young. In the same way she would tease him years later about being
constantly shorter than she was, because up until age 19 he still stood
two inches below her, she would tease him about holding the leash. But
Karen took care not to tease too much, or he might tell Daddy, and then
Daddy might make sure they took turns. Instead, Karen sometimes let him
hold the chain itself, without ever letting go of her bracelet.
She
liked walking the dog. They would emerge from their townhouse on the corner,
atop a steep hill that led flatly in one direction to the main road and
in another down to the house across, the house of Buffy the cat, and they
would stop for a moment and survey the land. Then she and the dog would
race downhill at top speed, thrilling in the descent. The dog would usually
need to make a pit stop at the base of the hill, and then they would move
on to the sidewalk, take a quick walk down along the road that ran past
her tomboy friend Tory's house, up to Andrea's house at the end of the
next block, and back again.
Karen
liked the dog walking, but she also liked the being alone with the dog
part. Todd was so often in her face, wanting to do, do, do, play with me,
do with me, see with me, get for me, that to be away from his incessant
neediness, she tried to get out of the house and down the hill before anyone
in the house even knew she had gone. Then was the block long walk, all
to herself, no one else around.
Scruffy
peeked his lion's head around the corner of the hallway, probably torn
between wanting human company and wanting this human's company. She smiled
down at him benevolently, thinking that dogs were truly stupid. Just like
little kids.
But
something was bothering her. At the moment she just could not remember
what the name of her childhood dog had been.
Scruffy
cocked his head at her whistling, and took a few steps forward.
Yes,
she thought. Dogs really are gullible.
Karen
rose earlier than the rest of the house on purpose. She would read for
a little while, then go eat her breakfast of cold cereal, since the toaster
was off-limits, all by herself. She liked doing things for herself, she
liked being able to handle everything. The dog yearned up at her for some
food, and she offered it a Lucky Charm, but the blue diamond sugar-hard
marshmallow just made a soft click on the floor when it was ignored. She
put her bowl in the sink, careful to not wake anyone up before their alarms
went off, and looked at the clock. Still twenty minutes before she had
to catch her bus.
Slipping
the canvas and chain from the shoebox, she almost had it entirely down
before even the dog heard. But then there she was, wiggling and emoting
silently on the floor, dying to get out. Karen clicked the chain on the
dog's collar, slid her bracelet on, and stepped outside.
It
was a gray day, overcast and not all that warm. One of those days where
the clouds were so thick and the day so anonymous it might have been two
in the afternoon, instead of 7:45 in the morning. Karen pulled her coat
tighter and watched Buffy glide carelessly across the base of the hill.
The dog strained at her leash, not so much wanting to get at the cat as
to investigate all movement in this very quiet morning neighborhood.
Tory,
as was her nature, startled Karen by popping up suddenly behind her. Tory
was one of Karen's favorite people, but she didn't see her much because
she was considered a bit wild by Karen's mother, and besides, she lived
across the street and that was like a no-fly zone for Karen. But occasionally,
Tory, who was nine, appeared on Karen's side, and they would run around
and play soldiers, or castaways, or something like that. Tory was the only
girl Karen knew of who had gray hair. There was something dangerous about
her. And Karen liked that.
"Hey,"
said Tory. "You're up early."
"How
come you're not getting ready for the bus?" Karen asked her.
Tory
shrugged. "Holiday today for us."
Karen
had forgotten that Tory went to a private school. Not a ritzy one, like
it might seem, but one that had bars on the windows, in a bad section of
town. Once, she had heard, a teacher got beat up by a student there, but
that was something Karen could not comprehend, and it sat like a dark empty
spot in her mind.
"That
your dog?" Tory asked.
Karen
nodded, taking a certain amount of pleasure in Tory's attention to her
pet. Since Tory wasn't allowed in their house, she had never seen Karen's
room, Karen's Perfection game, or Karen's dog. In fact, Tory hadn't even
met Todd before.
Tory
leaned down and patted the dog on the head.
Karen
heard a soft thump and looked behind her as Todd peered out the glassed-in
winter screen door, his nose mashed up against the pane. He was still too
small to go out without permission, so Karen knew he would leave them more
or less alone. She smirked at him, and he stuck his tongue out at her,
where it lay flat against the glass. She giggled.
"Can
I hold the leash?" Tory asked.
Karen
almost said no. She wasn't supposed to let go of the leash for any reason,
because the dog could get away. But in a short flash, she couldn't see
why not. Tory was older, so Tory would know how to hold a dog leash instinctively,
and if for some very bad reason the dog got away, Tory was big and fast
and could catch her. It all made sense. "Sure," she said, and slipped off
the bracelet.
But
Tory's attention had been diverted and she was a fraction late in taking
control of the leash. With no one taking a firm grip on the canvas strap,
the dog saw her chance and broke free, racing down the hill to where Buffy
sat licking her paw. At the appearance of a twenty-pound dog flinging itself
at her, the cat froze for a half second, then darted off towards Tory's
house, across the street.
Deep
trouble transfixed Karen, and Tory cried, "Don't worry, I'll get it!" and
raced off after the dog, which was now in hot pursuit of the cat, its chain
dragging noisily behind. Karen could not move.
The
cat made it. The dog would have, too, except that sometimes a school bus
runs early, and the big orange monster lumbered at approximately fifteen
miles an hour down their main road just about two and a half minutes early.
Tory, alert, stopped before the road, but the dog, stupid and instinctive,
continued after Buffy. There was a harsh smack as Karen watched the dog
literally bounce off of the bus's bumper and suddenly lie deathly still
on the pavement.
Tory
disappeared. And when Karen turned to look at the house, all she could
see was Todd screaming and screaming behind a spit-wet glass-paned door.
Sitting
on the hallway steps in the empty house she rested her elbows on her thighs
and her chin in her upturned palms, tapping and tapping on her temples.
She would not focus on what was going to happen. Better to think of what
had already happened.
Scruffy
jumped up the steps to sit by her and she reached out one hand to push
the dog down the staircase and found she didn't have the strength. Stupid,
stupid dog, she thought. I hate this dog. But she could not at all remember
the name of the one she had killed.
Had
she been allowed to forget it she could not have, and if she had been able
to forget it, they would not have let her. It was like a huge stain over
her heart, that she had killed her family's dog. Todd was the one who carried
the grudge the best, but it was her parents who reinforced it. No, she
was not allowed to walk the new dog, no she was not allowed to feed the
new dog, the new dog was Todd's now, and when he was big enough, he would
be the one to walk it. Until then, her mother rose a half hour earlier
and walked the new dog. Karen was not allowed to help in any way. They
did not trust her.
Todd
found his calling in life. Every chance he got he would remind her of how
she had killed their beloved pet. He lorded it over her that she had just
let go, and the dog had just walked away, and she had not even tried to
catch it. For fun he started putting the new dog's rawhide bone in her
bed, where she would find it still damp and jagged and hard. She would
make a small yelp every time, as if one of their first dog's real bones
was in her bed, and then remove it with two pinched fingers.
As
time went on, the overt tormenting stopped, but at odd, strange times Todd
would bring his story out of the closet and tell it to her friends, to
their relatives, to her when she had her mind open enough to hear it. He
would somehow work it into nearly every conversation, making sure every
new friend she brought over heard of the dastardly tale, of Karen's lapse.
"You
remember," he would say, "how we used to have a little dog once, right?"
Karen would feel a blank spot spread in her mind, and for a moment she
almost did not remember at all, but then she would and it was as if it
had just happened. She would turn to her new friend and say "The dog. She
died."
"She
got hit by a bus!" Todd would crow. And then he would explain.
So
Karen began to withdraw, to pull away from anyone who had heard the story
or who she might care too much about in the future to hear the story told
to. Karen closed her mind.
But
since you can't hate your own brother -- can you? -- Karen took it out
on whatever other dogs she could find. She fed them nasty things, plants
and pills that made them sick, she tied things to their legs, she threw
them into the lake behind their new house over and over again until they
no longer were fresh enough to swim back to shore. Karen found endless
diversions. And while they all made her feel alive and happy at the time,
later her mind would close and the guilt would suck her in more deeply.
And there was always Todd to reinforce that she was a bad person, that
no one with any goodness inside them could let their own dog die.
But
Todd grew older, and tired of his easy torments, soon finding other pursuits.
At age thirteen he noticed girls would talk to him if he was out walking
his dog Bruce, now an enormous black Labrador. They would make cooing noises
at the dog, pat him, and Todd found if he liked he could strike up a conversation
easily. And Karen stopped her torments around the same time, too, leaving
stray dogs alone, still noting how even ones she had never seen before
walked a wide circle around her, as if all canines had a collective unconscious.
They steered from her, and eventually she just blanked them out, as if
they did not exist. The world no longer had dogs in it for Karen. It all
seemed to just fade away.
Todd
was married now, and the entire clan had come together for the christening
of his second child. Three years earlier they had done the same for his
first baby, Evan. No one was surprised that Todd had married first; it
had long ago been presumed Karen would remain alone most of her life. She
had been, in a sense, written off by the family, her strangeness consistent
enough to put her beyond the pale of their understanding, so every movement
of Todd's was like the last the family would experience and was duly celebrated
as a momentous occasion.
For
the event, immediate family stayed in Todd's large home near Lake Whetstone,
and that included Karen. Todd appeared to have gotten over his sadistic
need to poke and prod her about dog deaths, and said nothing about the
past to her for the entire weekend. He had other things to think about,
including the big trip downtown to the Air and Space museum. Only three,
and his elder son Evan had a passion for planes and spaceships. His room
had been painted with a space mural, complete with stars and planets, and
according to Wendy, Todd's wife, Evan would stare and stare at that big
empty sky for hours on end.
Karen
kept it to herself that she thought Evan was a bit simple.
Scruffy
was the other new addition to the family. They had not had Scruffy when
Karen had come for Evan's christening, but she was informed they had gotten
the Cairn for Evan's first birthday, and were pretending that it was his
dog. "There's something very right about a boy and his dog," said Todd
to Karen moments after she had settled her suitcase in the spare bedroom.
"Don't you think?"
A
curtain fell over her mind, and by the time Karen came out of her blankness,
Todd had already left the room, and she felt her hands grow numb, thinking
He's
at it again, he's going to try and get to me this weekend. And a great
panic stole down her spine at the very thought.
That
night, she stole downstairs and, without even wondering why, went to the
hall closet. On the first shelf sat a shoebox, and in that shoebox, underneath
the mittens and watchman's cap, she felt a chain. Bringing it down, she
dangled the long silver links in front of her eyes, and wondered if this
was the same leash they had used for the dog she had killed. She had started
to put it away when her hand brushed more canvas, and she brought down
a second leash, but attached to this one was a blue woven harness designed,
apparently, for a very large dog. Since Todd had not wanted another big
dog once Bruce had to be put down a year or so ago, Karen wasn't sure what
the harness could be for. She put it back and headed upstairs for bed,
and did not dream.
The
next day had been the christening, and afterwards the whole family had
gone down to the lake to feed the ducks. Evan darted forward inquisitively,
wanting to pat the ducks that scattered in front of his pudgy hand, or
he squealed at a particularly brave duck who darted forward to pluck the
strip of bread the toddler held out for him. Karen had watched as Todd
kept an eye on his child for almost an hour before she noticed something:
the large harness she had come across last night was in fact a kiddie restraint,
a leash for small children, and as her eyes traveled up the long lead to
the loop, she saw Todd's hand resting gently in his lap, relaxed and loose.
Evan would dart forward, the leash would catch, and moments later he would
dart forward again. But Todd never tightened his grip.
And
she stared hard at her brother's head, hard enough to make him look at
her, and then she smiled. Caught off guard, Todd smiled, too. But there
was no warmth there.
The
next day she was very very tired and feigned illness to escape that day's
family outing. Instead, she lay in bed, half sleeping most of the morning,
listening to the house empty out, her relatives rushing out to a parade
downtown, and when they were all gone, she closed her eyes and really rested
for the first time in a long time. She imagined the parade, the trucks
and cars, the bands, the circus animals stomping along, and had not felt
sorry she stayed home. She curled her arms under her head, trying to fall
back asleep. Staying up all night had a tendency to make a body tired,
especially when that body is occupied with the long, tedious process of
unraveling a weave just to the point of breaking, but not entirely.
Around
noon, after her shower, Rod Stewart had come in her head, and around four
she had idly begun to kick the dog. At eight o'clock the phone rang and
rang and rang and she just watched it ring from the hallway stairs, humming
and smiling. And by ten o'clock that night, when none of the family had
returned from the parade she sat in the middle of the living room and smiled
into space, thinking of a small body bouncing endlessly off of a metal
bumper.
Pepper,
she thought. The dog's name had been Pepper.
