It was Silas.
He stood stiff as a board outside the circle of his frolicking friends, staring at the little girl with his front leg raised as if he’d been frozen mid-gallop. I watched his head tilt to the side before he walked, slowly, toward her. When he arrived at her side he sat down and panted. I went over to the father and daughter and introduced myself. The little girl knelt down and petted Silas, who responded by leaning in and sniffing her before incessantly licking her nose and face. The girl giggled, which soon became a full-on laugh, while her father tossed a stick with their dog, glancing behind him every so often and smiling. I swore I saw tears in his eyes.
For the rest of our time at the park that day, Silas’s eyes were intent on the girl, as if the other dogs didn’t exist. It was a painfully innocent vision, and for the first time I considered how it might feel to watch this dog, my Silas, playing with our children, should Wendy and I ever have any. I sighed at the thought, knowing the idea would surely vanish with the stress of the coming work week. But it felt good to indulge, at least for a moment. I was still aware of it when we left the park an hour later and went home, and I realized that I’d been so lost in my own thoughts that I never asked the little girl’s name. There’s always next time.
Two weeks later I saw the girl’s picture in the morning newspaper, above her obituary. The dedication said her name was Colleen Miller, and that she’d died from complications stemming from a brain tumor. She was an only child.
I mourned for the father, who seemed like such a nice man. How difficult a loss that terrible must have been for both he and his wife. My spirits plummeted. It was strange; I’d only met them once, and yet I felt like I knew them. Little Colleen’s death meant something to me, something more than I wanted it to. My stomach wrenched as my brain recited a laundry list of things she would never again do. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Wendy approached me, cup of coffee in hand, and touched my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
I pointed at little Colleen’s picture and broke down. Wendy held me tight, squeezing my head between her arms, pressing my face to her breasts. It comforted me a little, but I couldn’t stop crying. It kept running through my head how much of a coincidence it had been that I’d seen the little girl alive at all. I wished I hadn’t. My heart, now healed, felt broken, and my momentary desire for children disappeared, floating away like a dandelion seed on a gust of sadness.
From the other room, Silas howled.
9
Days, weeks, and even months can fly by rather quickly when you’re not paying attention, and sometimes it happens even faster when you are.
Before I could blink the leaves had changed colors and we were setting logs in the fireplace at night to fend off the autumn cold. We’d nestle on the couch and watch television while Silas dozed at our feet. We made a game of watching him, anticipating the next time he would start dreaming. His legs thrashed whenever this happened, and we guessed at what he might be fantasizing about. Was he chasing a stick in the backyard? Heading for the woods in search of lost treasure? Playing with his new buddies Max and Fiona at the park, which had become a weekly tradition? There’s no way we could ever know for sure, of course, but we had fun with it. Wendy would whisper, “Mommy, Daddy, look what I found!” and I’d reply, “A stick!” (In the adolescent, somewhat Hispanic accent I gave him, it ended up sounding like aye steek.)
Business at The Spinning Wheel grew exponentially with each passing day. Word of mouth spread like wildfire and before long the demand for Wendy’s pottery forced her to hire a young apprentice to help her around the house. Evenings were filled with the sound of the radio blaring in the basement, usually followed by the rush of gas through the pipes as they fired up the kiln. We didn’t see each other too much, even though we were in the same house. She ran herself ragged, but when she collapsed in bed each night, exhausted beyond belief, there was a twinkle of delight in her eyes. Sure, it was hard work, but she enjoyed doing it. I was proud of her. She’d done the impossible and lived up to her dream.
On Sunday, five days before Christmas, with the store pulling in upwards of four grand a week, Wendy looked me dead in the eye and made a proclamation that rocked my world.
“Kenny,” she said, “I want you to quit your job.”
“Huh?” I replied, flabbergasted.
“I want you to quit your job.”
“Why?”
“I need help at the store. I want you to manage it. It’s too much for me, but I’m not sure how long this surge is gonna last, so I don’t want to hire some stranger that I might not be able to commit to.”
I was floored. I wanted to say yes right away, but the part of my brain ruled by logic told me to ask questions. So I did.
“What about insurance? What happens if we stop making money?”
“We can get private insurance. That’s no problem. There’re tons of plans available for small business owners.” It was so odd hearing how nonchalantly she said this, considering how adamant she’d been about the evils of the single-payer system in her youth. “And as for the money aspect…well, if business falls off, you can always find another job. It’s not like you’re the vice-president of your company or anything.”
That comment stung. “It’s not that easy,” I said, a bit of sadness in my voice.
“Sure it is,” she said.
I nodded. “Fine. Say I do this. What’s my job entail?”
She grinned. “Running the shop. Keeping track of inventory. Obtaining supplies. Dealing with the customers. You know, management stuff. I’ll take care of everything else. And plus, there’s a good amount of down time during the day up front. It’ll give you a chance to start writing again. Not only that, but just think about this – we’re going to be seeing each other every day, all day! That’s something you want, right?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
“You guess?” There was a suggestion of hurt in her eyes.
“It’s all kinda sudden, you know? Believe me, I’m stunned right now – in a good way. But you need to give me a little time to think about this.”
She nodded and said, “I understand. Didn’t want to put you on the spot or anything. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, I just need a little time.”
Silas nudged my knee below the table. I picked a slice of roast beef out of my sandwich and held it beneath the tablecloth. He plucked it from my fingers, swallowing the meat whole, and licked the leftover juice from my fingertips. It tickled. I laughed.
Wendy grinned at my amusement. Her head lolled to the side. “So you’ll think about it?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
She stood up, brought her empty plate to the sink, rinsed it off, stuck it in the dishwasher, and then walked back over to me and planted a kiss on my forehead.
“I love you,” she said.
I kissed her back. “I love you too.”
When she left the room I clicked on the radio and bobbed my head to an old rockabilly tune until the disk jockey came on to tell his audience about a missing young girl from Enfield. I quickly turned it off, not wanting to think about those types of horrors. I didn’t have children, so it didn’t concern me. I preferred to bask in the glory of my newfound hope, for despite what I’d told Wendy, I knew I was going to take her up on her offer. There would be time to worry about the things that went on outside my own head later. There always was.
The next day I quit my job. It was my Christmas present to both of us.
10
Managing The Spinning Wheel proved a much more difficult undertaking than I initially thought. The “down time” Wendy promised wasn’t nearly as ubiquitous as she’d stated, either. Mostly my days consisted of dashing from one side of the shop to the other, taking custom orders for some, going over the catalog with others, and trying to explain the processes by which a piece was created (a subject I knew next to nothing about) with al
most everyone. I also had more annoyingly mundane tasks such as tallying sales numbers, calling about late payments, and daily trips to FedEx.
Wendy was there each day as she promised, of course, mostly working in the rear workshop with her apprentice. She’d said we would see each other more often, but it ended up being me up front and her out back, day in and day out. Just like at home, we rarely laid eyes on each other until quitting time, and even those moments were filled with distractions.
Through all of this, the business continued to grow. Galleries wanted a piece of her new designs. So did the upper-crusties, folks with cash to spend from Greenwich to Stamford. By the time February came around Wendy had to hire five extra hands just to keep the place in shape. We made money by the truckload, enough to buy all new furniture for the house and replace the modest cars that had served us well for years with a new Jaguar for Wendy and a Subaru Forester for me.
This was all nice and all, but the fourteen-hour workdays were starting to wear on me. I felt beaten, and I wasn’t the only one.
Silas was the one who suffered most from our success. I could read it in his movements. His tail wagged like a metronome on crack the minute we walked through the door. He’d linger about by our feet, a constant tripping hazard, following our heels in a pathetically needy manner. I tried my best to give him what he wanted, be that rubbing the nape of his neck or gently kneading the flesh between his hind legs and stomach, but I knew it wasn’t enough. He would hide beneath the kitchen table during our late suppers, awaiting the traditional scraps of food we dropped for him. Finally he ended up curled on the floor in the living room, equidistant between Wendy and me, as if moving too far in either direction would be a show of disrespect. My heart dropped when I noticed how depressed he looked, how lonely. I imagined what he did for the fifteen hours a day we were gone. In these contemplations, I regretted my dad’s outlook that dogs were loveable but inherently stupid creatures. I could see the sadness in his beautiful hazel eyes. He missed us. This was a being that loved and cared for me as much as any human I’d ever met, if not more so. He deserved happiness, too.
Our trips to the dog park became few and far between, as much due to winter’s snow and ice as our schedule. Even as the coldness melted away in March, the one-year anniversary of his arrival at our home, we still didn’t pay as much attention to him as we should have.
We might not have paid attention to his needs, but that didn’t mean I stopped noticing how fast he grew. He’d gotten so big that when he stood on his hind legs he could drape his paws over my shoulders and lick my face. When I brought him to the vet at the end of the month I watched in awe as the scale kept climbing up and up. The number on the LCD display finally stopped at eighty-seven pounds. My jaw dropped open.
No wonder my legs went numb when he slept on them.
“That’s a big boy you got there,” said the vet.
Silas raised one eyebrow and barked. I shook my head and laughed.
* * *
The sun flared bright as we drove home from the veterinarian’s office. It was a crisp, early spring day. While sitting at a traffic light I took a moment to bask in the sun’s warmth. An ancient Oldsmobile town car filled with teenage boys pulled up beside me. The sound of heavy, crunching guitars blared. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel and bobbed my head to the beat, lost in my own world. Then I heard laughter. Turning to face the old car I noticed the boys pointing at me, cracking up. I was about to roll down my window and yell at them, but something caught the corner of my eye before I had the chance to say a word. Craning my neck to the rear I saw Silas sitting there, pressed against the window, his muzzle sticking out the tiny opening I’d left for him. He licked the air outside the car like a serpent and shuffled from side to side. His tail thwacked my seat.
The kid in the passenger seat of the Olds hung out the window and gave me a thumbs-up.
“Hey mister,” he shouted over the music, “you got a cool-ass dog!”
I nodded in agreement, my lips curling into a smile.
The light turned green and the kids took off. I eased the Subaru forward, chuckling to myself at how close I came to overreacting. Silas, his audience now departed, took his usual position – standing with his rear legs on the back seat and his front paws planted on the center console. He licked my cheek in a seemingly hurried manner, as if he didn’t want to disturb me but couldn’t help himself.
“You’re a funky dude,” I told him. “You know that?”
He offered me a sideways eye, and in my mind I could hear him say, do I sense sarcasm in your tone, Mr. Papa? I reached my hand around the bottom of his thick, muscular neck and stroked his ears. A guttural moan came from his throat. At that moment I realized that although my father had been wrong about so many other things when it came to pets, there was one point he’d made that still rang true: This wonderful boy, this bundle of love and energy, wouldn’t live forever. In ten years, give or take, he’d be gone, and I’d be all alone again, once more filled with the litany of coulda’ shoulda’ woulda’s that Cyan constantly reminded me of.
But you know what’s funny? I didn’t really care. My life felt more complete than ever now that he was in it. I wouldn’t give that up for the world.
“Listen to me, boy,” I said. Silas must have recognized the seriousness in my tone, because he stopped panting, tilted his head in my direction, and lifted his ears. Knowing that I had his full attention I made a declaration. “I promise we’ll spend more time together, okay?” I said. “No more sitting alone in the house all the time. We’ll have our fun. We’ll take walks every weekend, no matter the weather. I’ll stop Mom from throwing you off the bed at night. Don’t worry, I’ve got my ways to convince her. You’re not gonna be on your own all the time any more, Silas. We’re gonna have some fun. Just you and me. Us.”
I didn’t know if he could understand my words, but that didn’t matter. It all boiled down to a personal avowal, and as long as I kept my word, to both myself and to him, I knew deep down that we’d all turn out fine.
11
Despite thinking myself an intelligent, somewhat confident man, I was still an individual filled with insecurities. Always have been, always will be, probably even when I reach the great deluxe hotel in the sky. There is nothing that can take away my diffidence. It’s a part of what makes me who I am, and even though I’ve grown to detest those feelings of inadequacy, I can still wear them on my sleeve like a badge of honor if my pride’s sunk to a sufficient low.
Wednesday, May 5th, wasn’t one of these times.
It started like any other day, with me rushing around The Spinning Wheel like a decapitated chicken, placing a batch of orders for Wendy’s new series of ceramic wash basins with the help of a new young employee named Billy Miller. Also on the docket was a requisition from The Radisson Company, who wanted a collection of fifty matching vases for their remodeled hotel in New London. My nerves reached their breaking point and I declared silently that if one more fogy said they wanted a certain piece only in a different color I’d smash the goddamn vase over their head.
The rush eventually died down and I let Billy run the show. It amazed me how much energy the kid had. I was only thirty-three, but I labored through most of my tasks in a state of physical and mental misery, whereas he conquered each chore with ease and eagerness. I envied and was grateful for him at the same time. Having him there gave me a few moments to sit back, relax, and have a cup of coffee.
Unfortunately, there was no respite to be had.
“Ken?” a male voice asked while I sat in the corner reading an old issue of Entertainment Weekly. I glanced up to see the mildly recognizable face of a rather portly man.
“Uh, yeah?” I replied.
“Wow,” the man said. “Didn’t expect to see you here, bud. Color me shocked. It’s been a long time.”
I felt my nose twitch. “Do I know you?”
The stranger held out his hands. “C’mon, Kenny, think about it.”
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br /> “Sorry, bro,” I said after a few minutes of searching my memory banks. “I got nothing.”
“Okay then, here’s a hint. History of Film. Nine in the morning every Tuesday and Thursday. Grant Waiter’s class.”
The answer came to me. “No shit. Ricky Davenport? You gotta be kidding me.”
“Nope. It’s me…in the flesh.”
Ricky had been one of the most unremarkable people I’d ever met. When I knew him he was short and fat, already balding at twenty years old, with an annoying, monotone voice. He sat next to me in that History of Film class and constantly ran his mouth, talking about how he was going to be the next Michael Bay or Jerry Bruckheimer. I humored him but privately scoffed at the notion. I mean, who longs to be those guys? They were directors whose only artistic ambition was seeing how many times they could sell their souls for a few million bucks. I fancied myself more as an ultramodern, where creativity, edginess, and expression were the keys. But I humored Ricky and his rants nonetheless. It was his dream, after all. Who was I to squash it?
To see Ricky now, wearing a nice suit with a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his chubby mug and an LA Dodgers cap atop his bald pate, gave me a moment’s pause. Gone were the pimply cheeks, replaced by a well-manicured goatee. His teeth had been straightened and bleached. He had the look of money, and I started to feel uneasy.
“So, what’ve you been up to?” I asked tentatively.
He grinned. “Oh, not much. It’s my mom’s birthday, so I came over here to see her. Been living out in Los Angeles for six years now. I helped edit a couple screenplays. You might’ve heard of them, Don’t Fear Tomorrow and Candlelight Vigil by Roger Crane. Roger’s been great to me. He’s got me working with him on a new horror/sci-fi film. I guess I impressed him, ‘cause he put me in charge of the second unit!” Ricky’s face turned bright red as he beamed. His voice got even louder. “I’m this close, Ken! This goddamn close! Can you believe it?”
Silas: A Supernatural Thriller Page 4
