Exigencies

by Richard Thomas

  There were many more eggs, and endless self-loathing. But no more time.

  He climbed the bank, and left the packed bowl for Dean.

  His return to school was torturous. When he passed girls in the hall, they scurried from him, gag-laughing. The guys treated him like a minor celebrity, crowding his locker and seeking details of the assault as if he had fingered one of the girls from the JV soccer team. Where once Brett would have been thrilled for this attention, today he was repulsed. He might have told them, he couldn’t exactly recall, that the kingdom of heaven is at hand.

  Dean hadn’t shown. He wasn’t in the corner of the school parking lot where the smokers smoked and compared butterfly knives. Nor was he lifting his baggy jeans over his butt in the back of the football field, where the chain-link fence divided school grounds from the cemetery, the designated spot for fights. On the way home, Brett walked by the Byrne Dairy, then the creek again—but there was no sign. The bowl hadn’t been touched.

  He did, however, see Angela.

  She was at the top of Russell Street, tugging at Cauliflower who was chewing his ass. When Brett saw her, he stopped, considered turning back. But she looked up. He pulled his hood down as far as it could go and tucked it behind his ears. He walked past her—Cauliflower nipping his boot laces—and said, Hey.

  Hey? she said. I save your cockass and all you can say is Hey?

  Brett stopped. The cool gray of her eyes seemed to reflect into her hair, giving it an unnaturally silver tint.

  Want to lick my scar?

  Gross.

  He smiled, and she quickly added, Maybe I’ll French kiss it instead.

  Brett laughed before he could call it back. He didn’t like to laugh.

  Cauliflower saw a squirrel and growled. The dog darted for it, but Angela yanked so hard Cauliflower somersaulted. She crouched down, grabbed his muzzle, and said, I hate you, fucking dog. Cauliflower got hold of the fingertip of her glove and pulled. Goddamn stupid cockbitching . . . and that’s all she had.

  So you’re a dog person.

  He’s Trent’s dog. She put the icy-stiff end of her pigtail in her mouth and sucked. He’s too lazy to take care of him.

  Trent was Angela’s mother’s boyfriend who moved in a year ago. He worked nights tending bar at the Ten Pin. During the day he drank beers in the garage while painting historical murals of the village for the upcoming bicentennial. These were commissioned by none other than Brett’s dad, who—like everyone else in the neighborhood—had noticed Trent’s skill with the brush.

  Why don’t you let me take care of Cauliflower?

  Angela squinted.

  I’ll tie his leash to the bridge and toss him over. It’ll look like a suicide.

  Angela’s eyes got wide—with more light, the gray turned green. She said, We could give him some Tums, see if his stomach explodes.

  Pour honey into his ears, then dump fire ants inside, Brett added. Watch him get eaten inside out.

  Dip his paws in gasoline and set them on fire. See how fast he runs before burning up.

  Brett was in love.

  Cauliflower had his leg up in the air and was licking.

  Well? Brett said.

  Well what?

  Which is it going to be?

  She sucked hard at her pigtail, tired eyes staring at the curb.

  Trent gives me ten bucks a week to look after shit-for-brains, she said. I’m not going to off my only source of income, not in this economy.

  Again, Brett laughed. A twelve-year-old who watched the news? He wanted to make a joke about the stimulus bill or government bailouts, but couldn’t piece one together. What remained was an awkward space to fill. A car drove by and a high school dick leaned out the window. Fuck her in the butt! Cauliflower barked, which, for once, was welcomed.

  I gotta go, Brett said.

  Yeah. Then Angela added when Brett’s back was turned, If you think of other ways to torture a dog, let me know.

  Will do. Brett cringed at his father’s stupid expression.

  Brett woke to his windowsill pillowed with six inches of snow. Heavy flakes fell as though the clouds had exploded into pieces. People would soon be out in this pre-coffee, heavy coats thrown over pajamas, armed with shovels as their cars warmed to escape for work.

  Someone trudged through the street, phantomed by the flakes that whitewashed his form. The cigarette dangling from lips, the long skeleton stride, the hoisting of jeans up over the butt—it was Dean.

  Brett scrambled to get his clothes on. He darted to the front door, jammed his feet into his boots and stumbled outside before they were fully on. The falling snow made a curtain of white and gray, impossible to see a great distance. He high-stepped down the driveway to the street. Dean’s boot tracks were already filling. Brett hurried after them, but the flakes were dizzying. He could no longer tell which direction was which, whether behind him was his house, or if it was ahead. He smelled cigarette smoke. He thought he’d collide into Dean at any moment. He called to him, but the snow muffled his voice as if he had yelled into a pillow. He tried again, and thought he heard a response. He tried to run, but only advanced a few steps and fell. His bare hands were hot with cold. He tried to get up, but felt cemented. In the swirling white ahead, there might have been a figure, and it might have been coming, or going.

  Trent tipped a can of beer into his mouth, and then went into the mini fridge for more. Brett knew it would be empty. He’d been counting on it. Trent set his brush down on the workbench and put on his Bills coat. He checked his pockets for car keys and wallet. Cauliflower lifted his head from his paws. Trent spoke to him, then got into his rusted Crown Victoria and drove off. Brett had also counted on his leaving the garage door open. The Trents of the world were predictable.

  Already in his coat and boots, and with a red duffel bag under his arm, Brett hurried outside and across the street. The neighborhood was quiet, everyone at work. Brett had skipped school for this. When he stepped inside the garage, Trent’s presence smacked immediately, as though he hadn’t left. It felt like Brett was occupying someone else’s body, a creepy sensation that nearly caused him to turn right back around.

  Cauliflower watched as Brett unlatched the door of the cage. He put his hand under the dog’s tender belly, lifted him out, and then placed him inside the duffel bag. Cauliflower seemed to expect this.

  Brett hurried out of the garage. When he was a couple houses away, he quit his half-jog and continued casually toward the creek. He tried to empty his head. He had already convinced himself that this was the right thing. Angela needed to be unburdened, and he knew she wasn’t capable of doing it herself. He could then find a job, give her fifteen dollars a week instead of ten. Hopefully, this would get her to fall for him.

  The snow was wet, slicking his way down the slope. The creek had nearly overcome the ice—it would any day now. When it did, it would flow north. Everyone born here knew that. Which way other water ran in other towns, Brett didn’t know.

  He set the bag down on the stony bank. When he opened it, Cauliflower’s twitching nose emerged, sniffing hard. Brett’s temples thumped as he put his hands around the dog’s muzzle. The bones pricking through the fur felt like a smaller creature’s—a squirrel’s maybe. Cauliflower licked Brett’s palm as he squeezed. The cold gums slimed; the teeth felt like a string of wet pearls. The black, glistening eyes looked at Brett as if to say it understood why it should die, that its existence was torturous.

  What you got there?

  Brett fell over the duffel bag. Cauliflower barked at Dean sitting in the shadows under the bridge. A dense cloud of smoke circled his body like aura. Dean used both hands to get to his feet, then pulled his jeans over his butt. He walked dreamily forward. His eyes under his baseball cap were wide and teary. A dog? he said.

  Brett was soaked from the snow. He got to his knees and held the dog’s collar so he wouldn’t escape. He said, It’s my neighbor’s.

  Dean sat cross-legged in front of the d
uffel bag. He put a chapped, purplish hand on the dog’s head. Cauliflower licked Dean’s wrist and Dean smiled.

  Can I hold it?

  Sure, Brett whispered.

  Dean pulled Cauliflower from the bag and embraced him. He nestled his face into the thick fur of Cauliflower’s neck. A low purr came out of Dean. Brett remained still, mesmerized, as if witnessing a rare natural occurrence. Dean gazed into the blue, cloudless sky—or through it, into another place. His jaw was working something out, as if he was reading to himself. Brett watched carefully as Dean’s eyes began to narrow and harden. His lips clenched into a thin line. He noticed the dog, squeezed him, smirked. He then looked at Brett, who could see Dean was returning from wherever he was.

  The fuck happened to you? said Dean, staring a hole into Brett’s face.

  Brett raised his hood and tucked it behind his ears. He couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. You did this.

  The egg? Dean laughed. That really fucked you up.

  Brett sank deeper into himself.

  Dean held Cauliflower away from him and swung the dog’s legs from side to side as though it were dancing. This is a shit-ugly dog, he said. What’re you doing with it?

  Brett wiggled a stone free from the icy ground and tossed it at the creek. I’m going to kill it.

  Dean’s expression froze, where Brett thought he might have been disturbed. Then, a smile crawled up into his cheeks and his eyes twinkled. He simply said, Yes.

  Things began moving quickly.

  Dean brought Cauliflower to the creek and kicked a hole into the thin ice. He plunged the dog in. The water was only deep enough to submerge Cauliflower’s head and shoulders, while his hind legs fought against Dean’s chest. Dean was unsatisfied with this, and removed him. Cauliflower licked the water from his muzzle.

  Hey dipshit, Dean said, not even looking at Brett. Get me the bowl.

  This wasn’t going how Brett wanted, even though there wasn’t a plan. At the very least, he was the one who needed to decide Cauliflower’s fate—for Angela. If it wasn’t him, it defeated the whole purpose. Still, refusing Dean was nearly impossible.

  He brought the bowl to Dean, whose arms were full with wet, shivering dog.

  Light it for me.

  Brett held the pipe to Dean’s mouth and fired the lighter. Brett watched Dean’s sucking lips. He tried to remain casual, but his belly was flipping at the thought of how far this could go.

  Dean held Cauliflower by the neck, and spit a thick fog of smoke into his face. Cauliflower bared his teeth and growled. Then he whipped his head side to side and barked in high pitches as though badgered by fleas.

  Dean laughed. What else can we do to it?

  Cauliflower was panting, looking in Brett’s general direction, but at nothing really.

  Hey Brett. Dean said his name without irony, as though he’d been saying it for years—longer than they’d known each other. As though they shared a bedroom and parents, and this was how Dean would have always addressed him.

  What else should we do to this dog? asked Dean in earnest.

  Brett scratched at the arm-scabs through his coat.

  Zip him inside the bag, he said darkly. We’ll stone him.

  Dean was giddy. He pressed Cauliflower into Brett’s arms and then searched the ground for rocks. The dog shivered, but was otherwise listless. Brett placed him inside the duffel bag, and felt each zipper tooth clicking in his fingers as Cauliflower disappeared.

  A rock smacked the heel of Brett’s boot.

  Get out of the way. Dean was about to hurl another.

  Brett joined him and watched as Dean missed. He tried again—throwing so hard he fell forward. The rock landed in the creek.

  Dean said from the ground, You were easier to hit than that fucking thing. He smiled. I got you first try.

  As though his head were stuck inside a colossal, clock tower bell at noon, Brett was deafened by a riotous clang. His body knew it, but it took his brain a frantic moment to understand how furious Dean’s statement had made him. He was struck dumb by it, wrenched from the scene and ringing as he watched Dean from a distant place.

  Dean brushed away snow, revealing a rock the size of a cinderblock. This will do it. He stood and bent his knees to lift. He waddled to the bag with the rock knocking between his knees. The bag bulged at one end, and Brett heard—beyond the thrumming adrenaline shaking him—the scraping of claws on nylon. Dean grunted the rock up to his chest, then like an Olympic weight lifter, pushed it over his head. Dean wavered, stepped backward to regain his balance. His boot hit Brett’s, who had come up behind him and grabbed hold of the rock. Brett’s hands overlapped Dean’s; his nose grazed the back of Dean’s neck.

  The fuck? Dean grunted through biting teeth.

  Brett said to the back of his head, Why’d you do it?

  What?

  They both wobbled underneath the rock’s weight.

  Did you want to get rid of me?

  Dean’s elbows rattled. Brett began to relinquish more weight to him.

  Brett.

  Did you want me dead?

  Brett, please.

  He let go, and the rock dropped square on top of Dean’s head. What came from Dean, as if out of his stomach, was a guttural Huhn. He pitched backward into Brett, and both fell to the ground. Dean was face down and contorted like a corpse. Brett was strangely calm. Someone like Dean couldn’t die that easily. He’d been through far worse than this, and maybe his life had already been taken all those years ago.

  Still, Brett turned him and put his ear to Dean’s chest. The heart was strong. It lulled Brett, softened his insides. When else had he been this close to Dean? To any other person for that matter? Brett’s head gravitated towards Dean’s face, the excuse being—if anyone was looking, or if Dean happened to wake—that he was listening for breath. Dean’s cheeks were cool, stubbled with acne and whiskers. He couldn’t smell him, but imagined that it was sharp, tangy sweat and marijuana. He positioned himself onto Dean, shivering so hard he was afraid his clattering teeth would rouse him. Brett shuttered as he grazed Dean’s flaking lips with his. A blossoming in his stomach reached between his legs, into which he was succumbing, losing himself. He pressed his mouth onto Dean’s, pushed his tongue inside. He ventured deeper so that their teeth clinked, so that he could lick the throat. His erection was violent, and he thrust into Dean’s crotch. Not enough, not nearly. He unzipped his jeans, unzipped Dean’s, put his erection into Dean’s zipper, the slit of his boxers. His nudged the moist, deadened pearl-head. His jabbed and bullied it awake. His fought and fought, looking to kill and the thrill that comes from it. By the time he found resistance, he was already coming into the thick coils of pubic hair.

  Brett was heaving into the hot yawn of his mouth. He tasted copper. He looked at Dean’s lips, bloodied teeth marks.

  He expected Dean to be awake, to acknowledge what they’d shared. Dean’s arms, however, remained stretched out on the ground, palms up Christ-style. His jaw slack, eyeball whites peeking like moon slivers.

  Brett draped Dean’s limp arms over his back. He put his legs up on Dean’s so his entire body lay flush on his. He nuzzled his head just under Dean’s chin and tried to allow the slow, deep heartbeat to carry him away. It was then that Brett noticed the rock lying smack in the middle of the duffel bag. He watched it for many heartbeats, but there was no movement.

  The doorbell. Angela stood on the front porch, manically zipping her coat up and down, chewing her pigtail.

  Where’s my dog?

  The fear wetting her eyes, the panic raising her voice—she was still a girl. The world was still a good place. She had a long way to go to thirteen, when things would begin to unravel and the ugliness would be revealed.

  A single look told he’d misinterpreted her, terribly.

  You’re a sick freak. She flung around, pigtails whipping dramatically. She marched down his driveway and across the street to her yard.

  Brett wished he could call out to say he h
ad Cauliflower in the house. He’d invite her in and reveal the dog, wagging its stub of a tail. Angela would give Brett a long, honest hug, then go to Cauliflower. There was a tin of cocoa mix in the cupboard left over from when his mom still lived there. He’d make some for Angela the right way, on the stove with milk, and that would be the beginning of something. It would be their strange story of how they found each other.

  These mornings made long shadows, birdsong and mosquitoes. The moon was a milky stamp in the bluing sky.

  Brett leaned over the rail of the bridge, looking down on the creek. The water had broken through the ice and foamed in its rush. A crowd of birds riddled the bank on Dean’s side of the creek, pecking at the thawed, rocky ground. They fought each other for something, hopping and biting, flinging white chips like confetti. It was the eggs, broken open and runny. Brett could only imagine the terrible smell that brought the swarming fruit flies competing with the birds. On the opposite bank, a single egg was split, spilling its snotty, black innards. Three birds pecked hungrily at this rotten meal.

  Brett had come back for the duffel bag, and its contents. He’d considered leaving it, fearing this return, but decided he didn’t want Angela to stumble on the body of her dog. The bag, however, wasn’t there. In its place was the large rock, which radiated the memory of Dean. He couldn’t look at it. He hoped any evidence of the event, including that which hid inside him, had gone with winter.

  Something spooked the birds on this side of the creek. Dean emerged from under the bridge. He held Cauliflower in his arms like a football. The dog was very much alive, his cottony tail flailing. Brett stepped back so Dean wouldn’t see him. Dean stooped, and Cauliflower leapt from his arms and sniffed the split egg, then sneezed. He spotted the multitude of birds on the opposite bank. Cauliflower darted into the water up to his belly and barked high-pitched and crazed.

  The birds took off into noisy flight. Collectively, they skimmed the water going northward, then darted up above the budding trees. As they ascended high into the atmosphere, their shape accordioned—thinning out, then bunching—as if they were showing Brett how to breathe.