by L. L. Soares
As I ate my yummy steak and onions with mushrooms and a side of creamy mashed potatoes, I heard the tap, tap, tap of Sybil's toenails on the linoleum. She approached the table shyly, with jerky stop and start movements. It made me feel bad to see how easily her confidence was shaken.
I made little kissy noises at her so she wouldn't feel so nervous and sad. When she stuck out her flat pink tongue, it reminded me of those ginger slices they serve with sushi. Syb looked almost like she was smiling.
I cut off a piece of steak and held it out to her. Her tail was low to the ground, but it started wagging like crazy and she ran across the floor to me like a little pull toy. She opened her mouth and her teeth were like miniature ivory horns; they were about to close down on the meat but, at the last minute, I pulled it out of her reach. Her mouth made a loud snapping sound.
Sybil's head was in my lap. I pushed her away. Then I showed her the piece of meat again and she snapped at the air, but I held it beyond her reach. She started getting pissy the third or fourth time I did this and began growling, which was exactly the reaction I was looking for.
Nancy called after dinner and wanted to come over, but I told her I was busy for the next few weeks. It was very important that Sybil's training not be interrupted or she'd never progress to the level of ferociousness I wanted from her.
Nancy sounded disappointed and I was, too, but discipline and willpower were what I needed right now more than anything.
* * *
I went to a pet store that was far away from the animal shelter Nancy volunteered at, and I got a baby white rabbit.
The guy at the pet shop, he looked like a young and sleepy hippie who'd just come to the 21st Century in a time machine and was trying to get over jetlag as he unsuccessfully digested marijuana brownies.
He ran his fingers over the bunny's ears, which reminded me of when I was a kid, separating the stalks of palm in the church basement; a pleasant, Zen-like activity, quite a contrast to the frenzied grab for palms at mass, which had nothing of the spirituality of separating leaves. Why are Christians so damn greedy?
"You know how to take care of a baby rabbit?" Hippie Boy asked, eyeing me distrustfully.
"Yeah, I know how to take care of it. Trust me."
What followed Palm Sunday? Torture, crucifixion, death...resurrection.
I took the Easter Bunny home to a half-starved puppy.
* * *
Puppy with blood on its muzzle. I like the way fur absorbs blood. It looks like its natural color, yet something about it is a little off. Hey, let's face it, blood on a carnivore is natural. A lot more natural than those moist brown clumps that come in a can. Sybil realized this as well and came to appreciate a fresh kill.
Nancy couldn't believe how much Sybil'd grown.
"She looks so big and healthy," Nancy said, petting her. "Her eyes are bright and her fur has a nice sheen. You've been taking real good care of her, Veronica."
I took Nancy's hand in mine. It was cold. She didn't pull away, but looked nervously at me.
"Who's taking care of you?" I asked.
"I take care of myself, Veronica."
"Do you?" I asked, unclasping my hand from hers and moving it up along her arm slowly, touching her lightly with my fingers, like a cool, cool breeze, up, up, up to her shoulder.
Nancy didn't move, barely breathed. She was frozen.
How do you make something melt? You put it in your mouth.
She melted quick, like an ice pop in the park, dissolving into a sticky liquid which ran down my skin.
* * *
Nancy was a sensible girl and conservative, but there's something about being in the first throes of love that knocks that out of you.
"N-N-N-Nancy, beautiful Nancy..."
"It's K-K-K-Katie, actually."
"Katie, all this time, I've been calling you 'Nancy.'"
Nancy giggled and kissed me.
"You're so crazy," she said.
"No, you so crazy. I tol' you, you one crazy chick."
Nancy looked at me seriously.
"Veronica, please don't talk like that."
"Like what, N? What cha sayin' N?"
"This isn't about political correctness, Veronica. This is about racism."
"Baby, when I calls you 'N,' the 'N' stands for Nancy. That's the only N-word I know."
Nancy's face got red. This was me flaunting table scraps at her. Would she snap at me? Would she growl?
"For God's sake, Veronica! That is not funny!"
"Why are you yelling?"
"Veronica, I'm not yelling."
She took a deep breath and calmed herself down. She was a tough cookie, reminded me of a nun. You know those "PC" girls with their scrubbed skin, unpainted faces and conservative clothes, they are so so much like the nuns I knew as a kid that, sometimes, they scared me. Both types are righteous. One type is devoted to Christ and the other to veganism, to the rainbow coalition, and to the environment, and both are devoted to what a book tells them is right. And both types denying the natural impulses, denying their humanity, denying lust: lust of blood and lust of sex. Don't they know these are the two most powerful forces on Earth?
* * *
I think too many things, especially when I sit at the kitchen table in the mornings, drinking coffee and looking out the window at the trees. When the wind moves the leaves, it fills me with peace. Especially when the window's open and I can hear them rustling.
There's something mystical about leaves as they flutter in the breeze. I remember, sitting in the dentist's chair so many years ago, a tiny child in a big chair, having my teeth drilled without Novocaine or anything else to numb the pain, per my mother's request. The trees outside the window made me forget the pain. Looking at the trees gave me courage. Trees have power. If you're mad or in pain, look at trees and they will calm you.
That's what I do. Thinking about the pup. Thinking about Nancy.
* * *
"Oh gosh," said Nancy, walking into the kitchen in her navy blue terry cloth robe.
She stared at the can of coffee on the counter.
"Have you thought about shade grown coffee?"
"Who hasn't?"
Nancy rolled her eyes. "I don't know why I bother."
"I, too, am perplexed. What the hell is that weird brown stuff you eat every morning?"
Nancy sat across from me with a bowl of the weird brown stuff. It was spongy and looked like it was...alive.
"That's classified information."
I shuddered as she spooned the vibrating mass into her mouth.
"So, the rumors are true. You do have a sense of humor."
"Occasionally, but it's not as corny as yours."
"Corny? I was hoping you'd say I was cruel."
"That too."
"But you love me anyway."
Nancy put down her spoon and smiled at me.
"I don't know why, but I do."
"I told you, you one crazy chick."
"When I start thinking like you - that's when I'll be crazy."
"It's coming, baby."
* * *
I fell asleep in the rocking chair after dinner. The room was dim, the summer sun about to set, when I woke up with a cramp on my right side and a bloated, distended feeling in my stomach. The television flickered like a strobe light in the dark. A news anchor's monotone buzzed in the background. Disoriented, wobbly, I stood up, feeling like I was one long, gassy belly. That's what I got for letting Nancy make dinner.
I was in the bathroom, silently cursing her and her organic method of torture, when I heard the shouting outside. I don't know why, but the long agonized screech made me think of that Robert Frost poem where the kid's hand was cut off by a buzz saw. That poem really disturbed me when I read it in school. Not so much for the image of the boy's life pouring out with the blood as from the matter-of-factness of the tone.
Sitting on the bowl, I felt matter-of-fact as well. I didn't hurry to finish, even as I recognized Nancy's v
oice, as distended as my stomach with fear, calling out my name.
She continued calling to me while I pumped liquid soap into my hands. I thought: I'd be outside already if your meal didn't give me the runs.
The screen door slammed behind me. I stood on the top step and looked at the setting sun, a perfect round orange at the bottom of the sky. Nancy saw me and cried out.
She was by the hedge, pointing down at the ground. The pup, nearly full grown now, had something orange at its feet. I thought Syb'd caught the sun for a sec. Then I noticed the orange was fur and I came down the steps, into the backyard, stepped off the red brick path and onto the grass. I saw the blood on the orange fur, the blood on the neck and mouth of the cat.
I recognized the animal as Pumpkin, our next-door neighbor's pet. The way its body laid on the grass, like a wet facecloth on a bathroom sink, made me realize immediately the cat was dead. Its upper lip was pulled back, exposing oddly black gums and tiny white pointed teeth that seemed pathetic in repose. I stared in fascination at its white paw, curled up like a baby's hand, and I thought how the spots of mud would never be cleaned off by its black tongue.
Nancy was crying.
"Is she dead?" she asked.
I bent down, glad for an excuse to touch the thing. My finger was on the cat's neck wound. It was still warm. I touched the soft black callous of its toe pad. Its green eyes were like eyes painted on a doll, flat and vapid, but still somehow touching. Inanimate, alive as a memory, an image, but no more a vessel than a paper cup.
Sybil wagged her tail, proudly presenting me with her kill. She let out a high-pitched bark and put her snout in my palm. I brushed away her cold wet nose. Syb sniffed the dead Pumpkin. Her mouth parted, her teeth came out like cat's claws as she chewed on its meat.
Nancy screeched and pushed the dog's head away.
"It's already dead, Nance. Why not let Syb have it?"
She stared down at me in horror.
"That is disgusting, Veronica. It's offensive. Nazism."
"Don't you remember that Roald Dahl story? The Leg of Lamb? You eat the evidence."
"And give Syb a taste for blood? She'd be a chicken-killing dog then."
"There's no chickens around here."
"She's a killer, Veronica. You know what they do to dogs who develop the taste for blood? They kill them."
"Nobody will find out. Unless you tell them."
"That's Pumpkin."
"I know."
A fly settled on the cat's mouth. Nancy struggled to hold back the young dog.
"That's a living creature."
Sybil whined, straining her head toward the body of the cat.
"Not anymore."
Tears ran down Nancy's face as Sybil broke free. She didn't try to stop her, just watched meekly, as the pup sunk her face into the cat's stomach. Blood sprayed the dog's face, making it look like she had measles.
"What if Lucy sees?" Nancy cried.
Nancy put her hands over her eyes. She was crying so hard that her chest was convulsing.
Lucy was our next-door neighbor's five-year-old daughter. She was one of those overly precious children with the huge round eyes, a dot for a nose and a mouth that looked exactly like a bunny rabbit's. So cute, she made you puke, and she spoke with a whispery baby lisp. It would be my pleasure to have her see her little pet being devoured.
I liked the idea, but Syb was eating up Pumpkin pretty quick. I had to find Lucy immediately.
Nancy fell to her knees; her face was in her lap, crying with deep rasping breaths.
I hopped the little wooden fence, into our neighbor's yard. Lucy wasn't there. I sat down on her swing set. They'd have eaten dinner already. Lucy might be in the basement. She used that as a playroom.
I got off the swing, got down on my hands and knees and crawled in the grass toward the basement window, pretending I was a wild animal stalking prey.
I looked inside and everything was misty from the dirt on the glass. I saw Lucy through a surreal brown haze, kneeling down by her dollhouse. She was alone.
I tapped on the window. Lucy looked around the room. I tapped again. She looked around some more, then, finally, she looked at the window. The little girl laughed when she saw my face gazing in on her.
She climbed up on the table and pressed her face against the glass. She put her finger on her nose and stuck her tongue out at me.
I motioned for her to open the window. I thought she'd be too stupid to figure it out, but she got it open pretty fast.
"You're stupid," she said.
"Pumpkin's in my yard. You better come and get her."
"Why?"
"Cause if you don't, I'll kill her."
The child's rabbit mouth popped open like a Pez head.
"C'mon, Lucy. Let's go."
The child stared at me wide-eyed.
I stood up.
"That's it then. I'm going to kill Pumpkin."
I walked slowly toward my yard. Lucy's baby lisp shouted "No!" and then I heard her running behind me.
Lucy caught up with me, slapping the backs of my legs. I ran and Lucy took off after me. I started laughing and then Lucy did, too.
I stopped in front of Syb, who was polishing off Pumpkin's corpse.
I could feel the child behind me. Her warm breath on my leg. She put her arm around my leg and rested her head against my thigh.
"Sybil's eating Pumpkin," I told her. "That red stuff is all Pumpkin's guts and Sybil's going, 'yum, yum yum.'"
"Veronica, what are you doing?" Nancy said. She looked as if she was in a daze.
Nancy brushed the tears from her face and went over to the little girl. Lucy's hand was over her mouth and she was shaking. Nancy bent down, about to put her arms around the child, when she stopped and froze. She stared at the laughing little girl.
"You're a crybaby," Lucy told her.
Lucy looked up at me and smiled. She'd already seen countless numbers of Sybil's kills.
The little girl pointed at Nancy, who was still on her knees.
"Kill it, Sybil! Kill it!"
The child squealed with delight as the dog fell upon Nancy and began tearing at her flesh.
Lucy giggled at Nancy's screams.
"She's funny," she said, looking up at me.
I didn't try to stop Sybil, much as it hurt to see her tearing apart Nancy. Nancy, I knew, was a lost cause.
I turned my head away and stared up at the leaves of the maple tree that stood at the end of the garden.
A Crown of Mushrooms
I walk. I walk because I'm constantly coming across articles in newspapers that say regular exercise, three to seven days a week, is expected to extend a person's life by minutes, by days, by months, maybe even years, according to experts.
So instead of dying at quarter of seven in the morning on May 15th of whatever year, I'll kick it at ten past six in the evening. And I'll say, as I lay dying, "Thank God for those brisk walks. It's given me the extra eleven hours I needed to complete my needlepoint of Lincoln's Gettysburg address."
Walking north on South Street, dreaming what I'd do with those extra few hours of life, I saw Rasputin ahead, walking in the opposite direction. You know, Rasputin. He was that Russian who was the guru to the wife of the last tsar. Supposedly, he had mystical powers and was able to control her son's hemophilia, and it took his enemies at least three tries before they finally croaked him. Yeah that was sometime in the early twentieth century, but there he was, dressed in modern day clothes.
I knew all about the Mad Monk. I read a couple books about him and the Russian Revolution. I liked to look at photos of Rasputin, but not because he was good-looking. Rasputin was not a handsome man. There was nothing special about his long thin face, greasy hair and bristly beard, but his eyes were wide and intense. They were the piercing eyes of a mesmerist who stared straight through to my soul, shattering the divide of facsimile and years.
So you could say, "How did you know it was Rasputin?" How could I not kno
w those eyes?
Rasputin pinched my ass as he passed and I yelled at him. He took a knife out of his coat and slashed my elbow.
I ran. I didn't know where I was running to, but I managed to find my way to a clinic where they treated my wound. The cops were called in and they showed me a picture of the historical figure Rasputin, which is pretty weird when you think about it.
"Is he still alive?" I asked.
"We just don't have a pic of the real guy," one of the cops said, "but this photo looks just like him. He's attacked women before."
"Yeah," I said, nodding, "that's him. That's Rasputin."
The cop looked surprised that I knew his name. "Yeah, that's what we call him. Obviously, we don't know his real name."
I walked the streets of downtown without knowing what else to do. Super-imposed over the storefronts and office towers, I saw in my mind's eye giant ladybugs standing upright and chewing on something pink and bland. Human flesh. Most of the time, flesh lies there without vitality and only infrequently gets exciting: in magazine ads; in the summer when certain specimens of humanity wear tank tops; sometimes in supermarkets when I see a particularly lovely arm reaching for a carton of milk or a can of beans.
I was on the edge of a feeling but unsure what that feeling was. Could've been fear or panic, could've been laughter. Sometimes that's how sadness affects me.
Someone grabbed my arm and I was shaken out of my thoughts. I turned to my left and Rasputin was smiling at me. I tried to pull my arm away, but he held it firmly.
"Let go," I said, hoping I didn't sound afraid.
"You will come with me," Rasputin said.
"You hurt me." I pointed to the bandage on my elbow.
