by John Vigna
The old man took the mic from Brian. “It happens to all of us. You’ll get over it, and you’ll try again and you’ll do a great job.”
Like hell he would. Brian hurried through the bar, his eyes down.
“Nice work, partner,” Jasmine said.
The waitress offered him a shooter, but Brian kicked the door open and was greeted by a slap of cold air.
As the door closed, Jasmine said, “I’ll drop by in the morning, pick up my pups.”
Brian drove fast, hit the gravel corners hard, slid out of them with soft swerves, fishtailed to right the car, mesmerized by the ease with which the car floated over the rutted straightaways of the road. The sky greyed to the colour of ash, faded fast to charcoal. He pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition, and sat listening. A few dog barks from behind the trailer. Whiskey Jacks and magpies chattered in the aspens. On the Hump, the studio’s light glowed soft from the windows, music floated down, carrying Sean and Tracy’s laughter. Junior sat on Sean’s shoulders, and they chased Tracy around inside the studio. Brian reached in the glove box for a builder’s pencil. He tore the lid off his cigarette package and scribbled, “I’m costing you too much. Sorry.” He leaned over the back seat for a jute sack, clicked the door handle open, cold metal against his palm, and stepped out into the cool evening.
The air became silent, and the grass seemed to cower at his gaze. He slipped the note against the screen of the porch door. When he reached Penny, she stared warily. The puppies slept against one another, squirmed against her side. Brian stroked her head, whispered her name. She licked his hand, her ears relaxed. One of the Whiskey Jacks blurted out, bursting the silence with a long sorrowful cry that rose above the trailer.
Penny stood and snapped her jaws when he reached into the pen and scooped up two puppies, dropped them in the sack. When she snapped at him again, he slapped her face hard, knocked her back, stunned. He snatched another puppy by its velvety neck and dumped it in the sack. He couldn’t stop himself; the puppies were finished no matter what, forced into a life where they’d fight and lose, and never measure up. Penny lunged at him, bit his arm, tore the flannel cuff. He slugged her, fished out the last two pups, warm and soft, their legs peddling the air, urine dribbling down one of them. Penny clawed at him and clamped on his arm again, opened a gash. Blood seeped through his shirt.
“You’ll get another chance.”
He slung the puppies over his shoulder and hurried to his car, tied the top of the sack in a simple knot, and dropped it on the ground. The sack jostled with cries; dime-sized paws and doughy limbs pushed against the rough burlap. He climbed inside the car. His eyes stung. Listening to the murmuring cries of the puppies, he sobbed deep in his throat. On the Hump, the studio seemed to pitch back and forth, an electric air that vibrated through him. He started the car, put it in reverse, and stepped on the gas. The crunch of cartilage rose from the ground, beneath the tires, travelled violently up into his stomach. He retched and shouted out, slipped it into drive, and lurched forward. Reverse. Drive. Reverse. Drive. He felt crazier with each thump of the gearshift until he stopped, slammed it into park, and cut the ignition. Penny howled from the porch, her tail erect, a hoarse rasping wail piercing the air.
Brian got out of the car. The sack lay motionless, soaked with blood; the thick smell reminded him of rancid milk. He snapped open the trunk, dropped the sack inside, banged it shut. He tried to wipe his hands on his pants, fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, inhaled, and coughed heavily, held a finger to one side of his nose and blew. Then the other. His sobs doubled him over. He shook the string of mucous off his finger. Can’t get it right. One disaster after another. The studio loomed above. They were up there, living their lives, going about their business like all families do. It seemed impossible that he shared the same world as them. When he stood up straight, his heart was lighter, but his head throbbed and his eyes burned. He got into the car and started it.
The night bled in around him. He drove to the gravel turnoff where the main artery led toward the dull lights of town. In his rearview, brake lights blazed a trail behind him. He took his foot off the brake, turned in the opposite direction, and accelerated, keeping his eyes on the road as it unfurled a few yards ahead in the white wash of the headlights. The wilderness rushed toward him in the glow, trees flashing past like an ancient chorus in a cold cathedral. The car swerved, gravel peppered the undercarriage, dust obliterated the road behind. He crushed the gas pedal to the floor; the cruel rush of night air stung his face like a slap. Brian turned off the headlights and sped faster, the wind screaming in his ears as he lifted his hands off the steering wheel, and hurtled through the darkness.
Acknowledgments
There’s no one I’m more grateful for than my wife, Nancy Lee, for believing in me and for blessing me with her strength, beauty, and grace. Hot on her heels, of course, is our puritanical office manager and little funny buddy, Jaine.
A special thanks to my family, especially Annie Vigna, and Mark and Peter Vigna. Daniel Sarunic, Nancy Chen, and Dave and Monica Ilett. And to the Lyin’ Bastards: Judy McFarlane, Sally Breen, Dina Del Bucchia, Keri Korteling, Carol Shaben, and Denise Ryan for their guidance, bottles of wine, celebrity gossip, and numerous pieces of cake.
I’ve been fortunate to have generous, perceptive readers who have seen some or all of these stories at various stages, in particular Keith Maillard who encouraged me from the beginning. Much gratitude towards Calvin Wharton, Steven Galloway, Charlotte Gill, Chris Offutt, Todd Craver, Adam Honsinger, and Andreas Schroeder. A shout-out to my peers from UBC and Iowa.
Anne McDermid for her unflagging support. Francis Geffard for being the first to jump on board. Peter Oliva, Kevin Chong, and Cathleen With for their sage advice. The Banff Literary Journalism Program, particularly Moira Farr, Ian Pearson, and Rosemary Sullivan. Shirley Dunn and the Dave Greber Freelance Writers Award.
I’m appreciative of my colleagues at Douglas College and the University of the Fraser Valley.
And I’m deeply grateful to Brian Lam and the rest of the enthusiastic team at Arsenal Pulp Press.
JOHN VIGNA’S fiction and non-fiction has appeared in numerous newspapers, magazines, and anthologies including Cabin Fever: The Best New Canadian Non-Fiction, The Dalhousie Review, Grain, Event, subTerrain, and The Antigonish Review. He is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of British Columbia and alumnus of the Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa. John lives in Vancouver with his wife, the writer Nancy Lee.
