Moonlight Sonata

by Vincent Zandri

  She found the phone book and sat cross-legged on the plastic floor and read by the flame of her cigarette lighter: Blood Banks, Garbage Collection, Lumber, Optical, Oil Change, Ready Mixed Concrete, Tire Dealers, Tool Repair. Then back a few pages to Taxi Companies When she stood again the dial tone sounded like a woman humming a love gospel, a woman in a barn or an empty church. She almost sang along and a point of light in the center of her head shone through her voice, her whisper like passionate orgasm and the taxi lady on the other end said, “I’m sorry?”

  “For what?” she breathed back. “Wait, wait,” she said. “I mean four twenty-six Cajalco Road. Cajalco Road in Hufford.”

  “No, sweetie, I got that already. I need to know where you’re headed.”

  “Where I’m headed?”

  “Where do you want the cab to take you when the driver arrives?”

  “When’s he coming? When’s he going to get here?”

  Now she was nervous that speaking through split lips made her sound stupid. When she blinked fast the swell in her eyes tightened and stung. She couldn’t stop herself from touching the stitches, still tender and a little damp. And it wasn’t until the taxi lady said, “You still there, dear?” that she remembered she was even on the phone at all.

  “Is he here yet?” she whispered. “Is he here yet, the taxi?”

  “Hufford’s way out. Probably take him twenty, maybe thirty more minutes.”

  Then she thought about staying, putting the money back into his wallet instead of sneaking off like an ingrate shit snake skanky little barn garbage Okie.

  “Honey, I’ve got to know where you want the driver to take you when he gets there. Where it is you’re headed. The driver needs to know that when he picks you up.”

  “The beach.”

  “The beach? You know how much a cab ride is from Hufford all the way out to the beach? That’s about eighty miles. Good lord, sweetie, do you really know where you’re going?”

  The last dose had disappeared entirely and every cell in her face turned into a shard of glass and sliced. Her father coughed and tossed. He cleared his throat.

  “Anywhere,” she said. “I got a hundred bucks, honest to God. A hundred bucks. Wherever that will get me. Just send him. I’ll show him the money as soon as he gets here. Please. Just send him. Please. Just send him. I’ll go wherever he can take me. But I don’t have much time. I have to go now. Now. You know what I mean?”

  After a week he finally admitted that his missing dog King was dead. He sat in his truck out front of his house, sweating through the hazy sun hot through the windshield, the motor off and the windows up. A brushfire had started over in Wild Horse Canyon earlier that day and the whole truck shook against the violence of the winds storming down from the high desert and down through the Cajon Pass and battering the glass with splintered twigs and grit. Distant hillsides burned with rivers of flames that blew tumbleweeds into feedlots and stables and barns like wheels of wrath sent down from a mountain of punishing judgement.

  For the last six nights he had called for King over the back fence and had beamed a Maglite below only to find a vicious snarl of mesquite and scrub oak and buckbrush growing in aimless arrangement along a stretch of dried-out riverbed dense with a flora of spines. One night he stood calling for three hours straight, his voice finally falling to a rasping reverberation that returned an extra man crawling aged up the bluff until neither his strained gullet nor ringing ears could tell the difference between what was hollered and what was heard, King, King, King, King, King, an aftersound that played in his brain a lunatic preoccupation long after he left the fence and lay awake slack with defeat. He lived alone and had no neighbors to disturb. Next to his house was a wasted space of overgrown mustard brush that spread to another squat house that looked a lot like his. Bare white stucco with a door and a few little windows and beyond that some property a few acres away with a fifth-wheeler and two rusted sheds. Then down the road where it ended at a rise of malformed boulders a house that some nights hosted a ragged traffic of slurring beer drunk laughter in the driveway where black shapes of men swayed and drank in the yellow light that glowed from the garage.

  There was still an hour before sunset. He loaded up two blankets and a carton of black plastic bags into the flatbed and drove to a spot east of the interstate and parked behind a stand of smoke trees and carried the blankets to a rocky switchback that angled down into the riverbed. When he got to the bottom he wavered in the hot gusts. He stood for a while under the shade of a cottonwood and wiped his forehead. Sand blew up into his eyes and when he closed his mouth, he tasted smoke and dirt and ash.

  The walk west was even hotter against the hovering sun through sand and clusters of dead scrub. He trudged as though through a low flood and eyed the larger spaces of shade where King would have been dragged by the coyotes or pack dogs that had killed him. He crouched to rest then walked back into the bare torch of sunlight and the dirty wind of ash and sand and smoke. Another hour passed before he noticed he was no longer sweating. Just burning.

  When he finally found King, he only recognized him by the shape of his body.

  The animal lay in a patch of charred sand, hairless with blackened flesh that glistened as though greased. His snout and both pairs of legs had been bound with wires. Weldon moved though the blowing smoke and dust, squinting, and urged himself to stand over King’s remains. He had his work gloves in his back pocket and he struggled in his trembling to pull them on. The sunset was stained with a haze of motionless brown gas and strings of skinny crows squalled in gradual escalation and vanished into the dimming sky.

  He crouched and took King by his front legs and turned him over and saw that his head had been crushed in at his ear. He stood up and yelled, “Hey!” He pivoted in every direction, stomping, and yelled, “Hey!” But he was yelling at nothing but hot, vacant nature.

  He wrapped King’s front end into one of the garbage bags and his back end into the other and carried him to the blankets and rolled and tucked them over the bags on all sides and hoisted him over his shoulder. The stink of gasoline and bad meat stung right through the bags and blankets. He winced at the odor as he dragged himself through the sand.

  By the time he reached the top of the switchback, he was gasping. He put the bundle of blankets on the seat beside him and kept one hand on it the whole way home and once he got there hung a mechanic’s lamp from the fence and got a shovel from the garage and forced the edge into the soil with the weight of his boot and hoisted out clumps and tossed them aside, the bundle of blankets lit with the chipped and rusted vigil hanging from the fence.

  It was nine when he finished filling the hole and after he did, he carried the shovel for a few steps then dragged it across the yard and slouched back into the house with his arms hanging. His telephone was ringing.

  A girl’s voice on the other end. “This Weldon Holt?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Your daughter. Your daughter Tammy.”

  He gunned his truck to the San Bernardino Greyhound station, which had the only Western Union window open at that hour. Tammy had called him from a bus station payphone in El Paso, Texas. She needed to get to California and asked if she could stay with him for a while. He asked her what kind of trouble she was in and she said she had to hang up. A whole line of people waiting the use the phone.

  He wired her the money and when she got it, she called him back on the pay phone just like he’d told her to.

  “What time does your bus come in?”

  “Tomorrow some time. Maybe twenty-four hours they said.”

  “What time is it in El Paso?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have a watch.”

  “Look for a clock on one of the walls.”

  “It’s eleven.”

  “Ten here in California. Now I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t talk long.”

  “How long do you hav
e?”

  “Five minutes. Three.”

  “Five or three?”

  “Five.”

  “All right. Then tell me.”

  “Mom strangled me with a radio cord.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “She strangled me with the electric cord on the radio.”

  Weldon squinted and squeezed the back of his neck. “You call the police?”

  “No, no. I was listening to the rock station in my room. I wasn’t supposed to be listening to the radio anyhow.”

  Weldon switched the phone from one side of his face to the other. A bus pulled out of the terminal and headlights like two moons crossed the window.

  “It’s because of church,” she said. “I’m only supposed to listen to the radio when Mom’s around, and only to the gospel station.”

  “When did all this happen, Tammy?”

  “Two days ago. She’s crazy. She found all my makeup and took it out to the driveway and broke it all. Just stomped on it. I have to go.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I have to go.”

  “Call me as soon as you get in. Doesn’t matter what time. Middle of the night, I don’t care.”

  He watched the fires in the hills that night from his kitchen window drinking coffee at the sink. The flames twisted like banners that roared into orbs of yellow light. Out back underneath a patch of brown earth lay King. How many days had it been since he’d taken his last breath? Maybe he didn’t feel anything. Maybe they’d crushed the side of his head in first. He knew it had taken more than one to murder him.

  Click here to learn more about A Place for Snakes to Breed by Patrick Michael Finn.

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