While she talked, her fierce, violet cat eyes blazed. She was a force, a presence, a tree on fire. Tall, broad, curved. Dr. Stuckhowsen liked her, trusted her. Her smile reminded him of Ty’s. He hadn’t mentioned Tyson, as his friend had cautioned him that it might do more harm than good. But in this woman, despite her fortitude or perhaps because of it, he sensed a similar benign permanence. All this struck him like a hidden thing discovered, lent him a strange lightness in his belly.
He carried this lightness with him. Three buses, three hours. Back in his neighborhood, twilight darkened the streets, made them blue and cool and eerie, and dogs yelped and howled in The Doctor’s wake. But the black monstrosity that he discovered following him remained silent.
He’d noticed it as he stepped off the bus; a large, living shadow hunkered down beside the scratched, graffitied plastic of the bus shelter. It didn’t growl or bark and The Doctor thought little of it until he heard its feet padding against the street in his wake. It spooked him, this dog the size of a large sheep, the color of asphalt, except for his brown feet, padding along behind him like a friendly, hellish companion.
The Doctor ducked inside a coffee shop. The sugary smell inside reminded him that he was famished, and he wasted five dollars on an espresso and a slice of cake… then tasted it and no longer considered the spent money a waste.
He sat in the front window. People trotted past weighed down by laundry, by children, by internal woes. Outside, two men in rags shared a drink from a bag wrapped in brown paper while they played dominoes.
The Doctor noticed, on one of the rag-men’s hats, a metallic silver S, enclosed in a metallic diamond—Survivanoia’s logo. After he’d researched the company in preparation for his interview, Dr. Stuckhowsen had found this little silver S a ubiquitous presence in Los Angeles.
“Armageddon is over,” one of their slogans proclaimed. “We lost.” Another said, “The revolution was yesterday.”
The Doctor had spent a good bit of time on the Survivanoia website. Among the items available for purchase were lead-lined baseball caps, “For safe and happy gun-firing holidays! What goes up must come down! Don’t let your New Year be wrecked by Jokey’s stray celebratory bullet! Don’t have this Fourth be your last! Good protection for up to .38 caliber.”
The Doctor also found the sofa-coffins Ty had mentioned. He thought perhaps he’d misunderstood his friend, but there they were. Like a sofa-bed, but folding nearly inside-out, into a plaid-lined, wooden, vaguely coffin-shaped thing. “Serves you in both life and in death! Inexpensive! Prevents the need for your loved ones to cover you in newspapers and stomp you into the ground upon your expiration. Why waste money on a beautiful wooden box you’ll never even get to enjoy? Think practical. Think Survivanoia Sofa-Coffins!”
The Doctor was unsure where his invention, his little pretentiometer, would fit with these self-proclaimed post-apocalyptic products. But the woman, the Baroness, had seemed excited and promised him a response within a few weeks.
The Doctor stared through his own reflection, out at the dark street. Nobody looked up at him, though he knew he was quite visible now that evening had faded to night; nobody slowed his pace to even glance in the window, and even the rag-men’s attention stayed glued to themselves and their too-loud laughter and their game.
But, the dog. The dog sat by a lamppost, head cocked, ears pointing. Everything was pointy—pointy ears, pointy snout, pointy tail. The Doctor guessed him mostly German shepherd. Crossbred with something to make him bigger and darker, though, and to take the signature shepherd curve out of his back. His brown eyes gazed velvety from his dark face. The Doctor remembered how hungry he’d been. He ordered another piece of cake and filled his coffee cup with water.
The dog gobbled the cake, drank the water and tried to eat the cup. Dr. Stuckhowsen headed up the street and the behemoth followed, keeping pace beside him, looking now left, now right. At the end of the street, the dog gracefully jumped the guardrail, then waited for The Doctor to lumber his way over the corrugated metal band. The two of them picked their respective ways down the embankment at an equal pace, and by the time they’d reached the bottom, seemed to have struck a deal. The dog would guard Encludsmo, and Encludsmo would feed the dog.
He held open the door to the house, but the dog lay down on what would have been a porch if The Doctor had had a porch instead of an uneven stack of concrete blocks at the entry to his house.
Inside, that familiar feeling overtook him: that someone had been here. He’d mentioned it to his friend Ty, but Ty thought him paranoid.
“How could someone know when to come?” he’d asked. “Outside of your visits to the restaurant, you’re always home.”
Encludsmo had protested that his visits to the restaurant were fairly regular, that a person could watch him and know; it wouldn’t be so difficult, really. Tyson didn’t concede. What did the Doctor have that anyone would know to want? Standing in the center of his living room, he now puzzled this same question.
The dog made Doctor Stuckhowsen feel protected. So he left the front door open while he prowled through his dark house, snapping on lights in his wake. Nothing seemed out of place. No books askew on the coffee table, nothing missing from the kitchen, no imprints on the couch from someone sitting to peruse his magazines.
In the lab, everything seemed to be where he’d left it. He’d left it a mess. He’d spent the week dredging through all his notes and compiling a comprehensive presentation. He could simply have discussed the little device, but Tyson suspected they would want something written, something he could leave behind with them. And he had been right.
He stooped to retrieve a page of notes from the floor by his desk and spotted it: A smashed beaker. Clean, no chemical hazard, but shattered on the floor. The Doctor’s eyes hooded. Had there been an earthquake? Never could rule that out. And he’d been far enough away today that he might not have felt it. He swept up the glass with the lab broom and wandered back to the living room, brooding.
--Feels bad, he said to himself. --Like a warning. Like doom.
The dog stood, barked, once and deep. The Doctor blinked at it, made his way to the porch.
--Doom?
The monstrous animal barked again.
Doctor Stuckhowsen perched next to it on the concrete, stretched out a hand and tentatively patted its head.
--Then I really am in trouble.
* * *
Being responsible for a belly other than his own had The Doctor shopping less sporadically, doing everything with more intention. As the hills crisped from green to brown and temperatures crept from double to triple digits, The Doctor’s life began to assume that of a person who in fact cares for something.
Doom loved canned fish as much as he did. He also enjoyed the cheese and sausages at the Romanian restaurant, where, until an incident, the dog would lie on his feet, while The Doctor played chess against the Hungarian.
Watching the dark animal’s overt contentment one evening made The Doctor consider something. That night, he was up until the day broke new, back working on his contention serum. He’d been at a standstill with the project, but this time he felt confident he’d done it, found a way to make people feel satisfied. Without giving them cancer. Or rickets.
After he woke the next afternoon, as he fixed himself some coffee, a commotion sounded from outside; the grating of tires on his gravel lot, the rumble of a car engine, a loud curse, and, finally, “Jesus Christmas! Look at the size of that thing! Encludsmo! You’ve got a demon on your porch!”
Encludsmo checked his pocket watch; it was two in the afternoon. A peer through the boards out the front window revealed Tyson at the bottom of his concrete blocks. Encludsmo undid his three locks and opened his door.
--What is wrong?
Ty gestured, slowly, at Doom, who stood sentry, with his head cocked, making no sound.
--No, he is fine. Doom! This is my friend.
The dog relaxed, and Encludsmo coaxed his friend past the animal and into the house. Tyson took off his jacket, plopped onto the couch and stretched his long legs across it.
--That’s quite a watchdog you got yourself!
--Not much of a watchdog. He never makes any noise.
--Protection trained, Tyson said. --They don’t bother to bark, they just eat your head.
“More than the dog is wrong with you. What are you doing here at such an hour as this? A working hour.”
“Working hours are for working people. As of one this afternoon, I no longer belong in that category.”
Encludsmo raised an eyebrow.
--They fired me, Ty explained
--Why?
--You won’t believe why! Doesn’t matter anyway. I came mostly to double check that you didn’t mention my name, you know, at your interview.
Encludsmo dropped into his recliner, tossed his hands in the air. --I will not take their money! I will keep my machine.
“No! No, you take all that they give. You ask for twice what they offer! I mean it. And get royalties, too, don’t get screwed, like at the University. Have you heard anything from the Baroness yet?”
Encludsmo suddenly found the floor very interesting.
“You forgot? How could you?”
--I did not forget. At first I checked each week. But the phone mail confuses me. When American numbers are spoken, what numeral the name corresponds to is lost on me. I seem to always push the wrong ones.
And there was an incident at the restaurant with some strangers and the dog some weeks ago that cost the proprietors some money, so that I felt bad asking to use their phone.
Tyson sat upright. --Let’s go check now. My cell phone is in the car.
--You’re avoiding your wife.
Ty slumped again. --No. I’m avoiding an empty house. Annie’s out of town until Friday.
--Have you been drinking?
--No.
--Maybe you should start.
--Got any vodka?
Encludsmo shook his head, smiling. --We could get some, if you’d like.
Tyson sighed. --I guess not.
He eased from the couch. --Thanks for the invite, though. I should go. I don’t mean to encroach. Bring me some paper and I’ll write down how to check your voicemail.
Encludsmo happily obliged. --Tonight is when I usually go, you know, on Tuesdays. I’ll check tonight.
--I’ll come tomorrow.
Tyson gave his friend a hug, and Encludsmo patted Doom on the head while Ty slipped past the beast. He headed back to the lab, where he kept himself busy until nightfall. Then he put on his tweed jacket and claimed his umbrella from its hook on the wall by the door. He closed the door and locked its locks. Doom stood and stretched and waited for The Doctor to lead the way. But Dr. Stuckhowsen waved a finger.
--I can’t take you along and then ask to use the phone. Not after what you did.
Doom stared at him, made a whiney sound.
--I’ll bring something back for you.
When he stepped off the makeshift porch, the dog followed him. Twice more he led the animal back inside the yard, reasoned with him, and tried to leave. Finally, he unlocked all the locks again, and went inside. “C’mon. Come!”
Doom didn’t come; instead he fell back on his haunches and whined again, like he knew he was being duped. But The Doctor called him again and he obeyed. As The Doctor closed the door, he saw the dog settling down behind it, looking as sad and lonely as Tyson had.
The Doctor had the restaurant to himself for nearly half an hour, and only the English speaking girl was present. He ate hurriedly, still feeling anxious about asking to use the phone. He felt a wash of relief when Emil the Hungarian arrived, just before The Doctor’s dessert.
“Where is your monster?”
“Guarding the house.”
“Good. Then the only bloodshed tonight shall be on the chessboard.”
Emil ordered a plate of sausages for himself and a bottle of wine for them to split. Three bottles later they stale-mated their second match, while the proprietor’s daughter fell asleep on a stool behind the counter.
“I think we must both find other partners, learn new strategies,” Emil said, pulling on his llama wool sweater. He dug a paperback from a tattered messenger bag and retreated to a corner table, bidding The Doctor goodnight.
Dr. Stuckhowsen packed the carved wooden chess pieces into their box. The daughter came, yawning while she wiped the table, asked, “Did you need to use the phone?”
The Good Doctor felt himself blush. “Yes, very much please.”
“You’re still waiting for an answer, then?”
“Yes.”
The girl shrugged, gestured to the black phone by the counter. “Good luck.”
Dr. Stuckhowsen followed the instructions Tyson had written for him, entering his password and mailbox number, and finally pressing 1 to listen to his message.
A man’s voice identified himself as Sydney Scaliamogna from Survivanoia. “We’ve reviewed your instrument and, unfortunately, decided to go with a similar product offered by another engineering team.” The steady, almost sing-song voice told The Doctor that Mr. Scaliamogna was dictating, reading his reply into the phone.
He said something about this other design being more easily reproduced, apologized and wished The Doctor the best of luck in placing his invention elsewhere. “Any notes, calculations, or similar material you left in our possession will be mailed out to you before the end of this week. If you would like to discuss this further, call me at….”
The Doctor hung up. He didn’t bother to note the phone number. He left his usual hefty tip, collected the bag of spare meats for Doom, called out a farewell, and slipped out into the night.
Outside, the air held a sharp chill, a steep contrast with the eighty-plus temperatures the day had offered. It reminded The Doctor that he did, indeed, live in a desert.
He made his way through the cold, dark streets. Blue street lights caught him, then let him go again, leaving him to be enveloped by the moonless night’s inky blackness. Occasionally a dog’s startled bark sounded. The closer he got to his house, the fewer the streetlights. The Doctor found the darkness comforting. In darkness, everyone is equal.
He walked the long street to the embankment at its dead end, at the bottom of which sat his house. He didn’t head down the dusty hillside, though. Instead he stood, gazing up at the freeway. Even at this late hour, it hummed with cars, buzzed with lights. He squinted at two small figures balanced among the barbed wire shrouding the freeway signs, spraying wide swatches of color onto the State-mandated green. What had Tyson called them? Taggers?
The Doctor had inspected his house after Tyson had pointed the painting out to him. He hadn’t minded; it added some character to what Encludsmo felt was a sepia world. He sighed, wishing the taggers would climb the cheese sign.
--What is this about? He muttered to himself. --This unhappiness?
The very concept eluded him. He pondered the odd feeling he found in himself, the lump in his stomach, the sadness tangled with the dull anger that seemed to go through his body leaving him electric. Over what? Why?
But an odd sound pulled him from his ruminating. A snarling and…yes a man yelling. Well, no, screaming. Horrific sounds, though soft and distant as memories through the roar of the freeway.
Dr. Stuckhowsen clutched his umbrella and marched down the hill. Outside his house, he found an automobile—a shiny, neat vehicle, from what he could tell in the dim light. The door to his house gaped open. From it shone a single beam, a line of illumination, as from a flashlight.
He raised his umbrella, cleared his throat, and approache
d the door. “Here is the living place for Doctor Encludsmo Stuckhowsen! I am asking you that you at one time leave or I am telephoning the….”
Doom came to the door. The light beam trapped him and displayed to The Doctor his crimson-stained jowls and chest and paws. The Doctor slowly eased past the animal, snapped on the light switch next to the door. And gasped in alarm.
The coffee table lay upside down. A man lay across it, sprawled at a most disturbing angle, with a terrible red chasm where his throat should have been. The Doctor took a single step closer. The man’s throat had been ripped out, chewed. His glassy eyes stared off toward the kitchen, and his dark hair fell across his cheek. The dead man clutched a spiral bound notebook in his hand, its pages covered with unintelligible scribbles of non-English notes and impossible calculations.
Dr. Stuckhowsen pried his notebook from the slaughtered man’s hand. He shivered, swallowed back a wave of nausea, took a deep breath. Behind him he heard his dog panting. He spun round, faced the animal.
--Doom! You’ve eaten my landlord!
The animal cocked his head at The Doctor.
--Good dog!
He patted his pet’s head, thumped him on the back, as he’d seen other dog owners do.
--But they will come for you. Put you in jail. This we cannot have.
The Doctor’s gaze found the flashlight. He switched off the overhead lamp, and made his way through the house with the help of the inconspicuous, battery-driven beam. While the dog busied himself with the bag of leftovers from the restaurant, The Doctor moved swiftly from room to room, jamming a suitcase with clothes, filling a cardboard box with notes—some in books, some on napkins—and collecting the bag of mail. Didn’t need the authorities finding out about his rabid sister. They might blame her for the mess on the floor.
Baroness Von Smith Page 2
