Parasites Like Us

by Adam Johnson

  “I’ve seen these barbs driven into a badger,” I told them. “When they were jerked out, braids of intestines looped from the holes.”

  That’s when everybody’s handcuffs came out, and they started closing on me.

  Gerry advanced, shifting his cuffs from hand to hand like a switchblade, shaking them here and there to get me to strike.

  “This one’s for Spark,” he said, and faked a charge.

  Instead of flinching, I flashed that rodent stick, whistle-quick, near his face.

  “I’m the dog killer, huh?” I told him. “I’m the bad guy? You’re the one who butchered a little girl’s hog. You, chief, are the one running a puppy mill. Breeding them in that school bus of yours. Shipping them in unheated containers.”

  I saw Gerry wince and glance fearfully at Sheriff Dan, whose jaw tightened in determination, as if right then and there he’d put Gerry on the roll of ex-deputies.

  In my peripheral vision, a man shrugged off his yellow parka. He began waving it to distract me while his partner slipped to my rear.

  “Son,” Sheriff Dan said, “come, now, son.” With both hands, he cautioned me to drop the stick, though he could have been asking me to lie down, lie at the feet of what was to come. Nothing could have tempted me more.

  This is what my life had come to. There were tears in my eyes.

  “My students had nothing to do with this,” I yelled, then threw the stick and started running. I hadn’t gone ten steps before I felt something spring onto my back, little legs clamping my sides. A hand slipped round my throat, ending in a scissor-lock choke. Then my face hit the snow. The lights dimmed, and my vision went sparkly, as if a snowstorm were dropping layers of powder that covered everything—burying cars and hydrants, erasing hovels and headstones alike.

  A voice, a disembodied whisper, reached me through the muffled cold, through my prickling, snow-filled ears. “Maybe you haven’t heard,” it said, “but I don’t live in a school bus anymore.”

  * * *

  By noon, the state of South Dakota had charged me with attempted assault of one of its officers, and a Seventh Circuit prosecutor from Omaha had phoned in a federal charge of grave-robbing—which had local “cult implications” that Sheriff Dan was looking into. The sheriff’s station was no larger than the Dairy Queen next door, and it was filled with several small booking desks, most of them empty. The deputies were out patrolling town in the pathological loop called law enforcement.

  Only one young deputy was there to book me in, a flat-topped kid who wore, beneath his uniform, an oversized bulletproof vest. He was familiar in an awkward way that made me suspect he was a former student. He took a little too much pleasure in smashing my fingers into the inkpad, and he smiled a private little smile as he plucked out hair samples for the evidence kit. All the while, I could see Sheriff Dan, recumbent in a big chair as he phoned other agencies to consult about rarely enforced statutes like “ritualistic dismemberment” and “crimes against nature.” On the corner of his desk was a little pile of dog collars.

  I had to fill out a gang-affiliation card and submit to a tattoo search, and I was being digitally photographed and logged into Gangbank, the national archive of street affiliation, when Sheriff Dan raised his office window and called to the Dairy Queen drive-through across the way.

  “Three double specials,” he yelled, and while the burgers were being fried and the malts were being mixed next door, Sheriff Dan fielded calls that, judging by the expectant look on his face, meant he was hoping for grand charges against me. I could hear him pronounce words like “mutilation” and “conspiracy” to parties unknown, but by the time the food arrived, he looked a little pissed. There was no chitchat with the delivery boy about Parkton High football. Sheriff Dan simply grabbed the grease-stained Dairy Queen bags and sauntered to the bench where I was shackled. He dropped a bag on my lap.

  He said, “The County of Parkton, South Dakota, hereby charges you with trapping out of season and two counts of class-three cruelty to animals.”

  He held the chocolate malt near my lips and took some pleasure in watching me strain for the straw. I sucked for all I was worth, but the malt was too thick, and I got nothing. Sheriff Dan grunted once, as if this confirmed his suspicions of me.

  “Let’s go, son,” he said, removing my cuffs, leading me to a large, insulated door at the rear of the station. From behind its reinforced surface came volley after volley of low, gargly cries.

  When Sheriff Dan put his key in the lock, I saw him wince in anticipation, and as the door swung wide I nearly gagged from the smell. Before us were three cells, constructed of bars painted mint-green with epoxy. The walls and floors were slick with an industrial sealant designed for easy hose-down.

  The cell on the right contained nothing but a few children’s toys scattered across the floor; the walls were covered with doodly crayon drawings.

  The middle cell was completely empty.

  And the cell on the left contained a pack of dogs, a dozen at least, circling with frenzy, leaping on each other’s backs with scat-covered paws.

  Sheriff Dan pushed me through the middle door. As soon as it swung shut, a great Dane in the next cell stood tall, rising a full head above me, his paws hooking in the upper bars so he could show me his big red one. Steam rose from it.

  I grabbed the bars. “This isn’t funny,” I said. “This is no kind of joke.”

  “The dogs are temporary,” Sheriff Dan answered. “It’s just till they finish the new wing at the dog pound. Wait till you see it,” he added. “The Humane Society’s going to double its capacity.”

  “This is intolerable,” I told him. “I’ve got dander issues. I can barely breathe.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” he said. “It’s just till morning. They’ll be gone by morning.”

  I rattled the steel door. “This is my life,” I said. “I’ve got some serious thinking to do. I can’t have some parade of puppy adopters coming through here. I won’t tolerate big-eyed girls staring at me as they shop for poodles.”

  Sheriff Dan gave me a knowing nod. “Nobody’s getting adopted around here,” he said. “You know what really happens to all these strays. A deputy will be in here to take care of them in the morning. The whole thing is over in five minutes, and then—hello, peace and quiet.”

  This shut me up. When Roamy disappeared, it was a while before Janis finally found him on the roadside, and I have to admit that, in those couple days, I imagined Roamy had worked his way into another family’s heart, that he’d found a nice white farmhouse with lots of children, a swing in the tree, and someone always around to push you. Now I saw that sad dream for what it was. That pickup or semi did Roamy a favor, because he’d have really ended up in the hands of a human like Sheriff Dan, in a place like this.

  Sheriff Dan leaned in close, shoulder against the bars, looking as if he had something serious to say. He jutted his chin, thoughtfully.

  “Henry—you spent any time with the Good Book?” he asked.

  I, too, leaned close. “It’s Dr. Hannah,” I said. “And don’t I get a phone call?”

  Sheriff Dan shook his head. “Think you know it all, don’t you? You think you’re above justice.” Here he tapped his boot against the bars, as if to remind me which side of the iron I was on. “The second you waved that little spear at us, I knew you were the one who killed the McGeachie girl’s hog. Two hundred years of prize hogstock, wasted, and for what, some twisted thrill?”

  “You mean McGeachie, as in ‘The Farmers’ Farmer,’ the founder of Parkton?”

  “Don’t play the fool with me, Doctor. The boys are going through your office right now, and the word over the radio is it’s full of bones. Piles and piles of bones. And Gerry’s been keeping us posted on what you’ve been doing to the small animals of this town. You think these squirrel disappearances have gone unnoticed?”

  “Gerry’s the real criminal here,” I said. “He’s the one who—”

  Sheriff Dan li
fted a hand. “Gerry’s got his own mistakes to answer for. And he will, believe me. You worry about yours.” Here he stared deep into my eyes and then rumpled his nose. “Innocent squirrels? Lapdogs? What makes people like you tick?”

  I said, “I’m an anthropologist.”

  His smile said I was the saddest thing he’d ever seen.

  “Allow me to get your precious phone,” Sheriff Dan said, then turned and left, clanging the heavy door.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose to help me breathe and took a seat on a metal bench welded to the bars that separated me from the dogs. I tore open my Dairy Queen bag and spread out the food, placing my double burger, napkins, and salt and pepper packets all in a neat row. I went for the fries first, squirting them with ketchup.

  I had to figure a way out of this mess. I needed to do some serious thinking, but right away one of the filthy little buggers next door stuck his snout through the bars and grabbed my hamburger. The burger was then stolen from him, and a melee followed that sent bits of wax paper floating above a frenzy of wild-eyed dogs who—teeth flashing, ears folded—clawed up flanks and popped each other’s tails. When a dog’s hackles went up, you could see its nits lift.

  Once the burger was gone, the dogs returned for more, licking the bench, nosing through napkins. They all sat in a row, like a wet-eyed boys’ choir, watching me eat my fries, following my hand with their noses as it traversed from the greasy container to my mouth and back.

  I turned from them to the other cell. On the floor were various toys: a red rocket ship, an assortment of plastic zoo animals, and a laminated chart of the solar system. I walked over and slipped a foot through the bars. With it, I was able to scoot a coloring book close enough to grab. I pulled it through the bars. It was called Impossible Journey, and its pages were filled with roughly colored images of circus dogs, interspersed with scenes of an evil French fur-trapper.

  Suddenly I realized that this cell had been used as some kind of day care for Gerry’s kids, and it was the saddest thing I’d ever seen. My mind flooded with memories of all those days I sat alone, mother gone, father off on insurance junkets, days I spent inventing yarns in which I was part of a great tribe of people. I was usually the medicine man or the priest, a person the village couldn’t live without. I’d climb the temple steps and spread messages of love and family; to help them sink in, sometimes I performed a few sacrifices. From time to time, in an empty living room, my ten-year-old voice announced the will of the gods. “Burn the crops,” I demanded. “Fill my room with gold.”

  I turned to the dogs. Their ears lifted in anticipation. What sad, abandoned beasts. Unwanted, unloved. I showered them with the last of my French fries. They went mad, lunging and snapping, obviously making Sheriff Dan nervous as he returned with the cordless phone.

  I glared at him. Putting an anthropologist in prison is one thing, likewise crating up all the strays in town, but how could this man allow his deputy to put his own children in here?

  “You make me sick,” I said.

  He gave me a fake little smile that suggested he didn’t know what the heck I was talking about. Then he passed the phone through the bars, along with a tiny rice-paper edition of the New Testament.

  I took his phone and shook my head.

  “Being a child is prison enough,” I said, “without people like you in the world.”

  Then I tossed his silly Bible on the bench, where it landed in some ketchup.

  Instantly, some cur stuck his snout through the bars and nabbed it. Now the whole murderous lot erupted, raising a cloud of tissue paper—gospel-white and ketchupy.

  Sheriff Dan couldn’t quite hide his shock. He tried to act cool.

  He said, “Looks like you and the hounds found some common ground after all.”

  I pressed against the bars. I could feel cold metal on both cheeks. Then I beckoned him close with my finger. “You want to know about common ground?” I asked him.

  I planned on really zinging Sheriff Dan with a good comeback, a put-down that would smart for the rest of the day.

  With a cocky sidestep he neared me. Closer, I motioned to him. Closer.

  When he was near enough that I could smell the burger of his breath, I decided to really zap him with a one-liner, but all that came to me was Sit and spin, a line I used to use in high school. My brain was totally crapping out on me. Where was my Ph.D. when I needed it?

  Then something unexpected happened: a single flea hopped from my scalp, and without Sheriff Dan’s even noticing, it landed on his cheek. The black speck whirled, vibrating in a little dance, then disappeared into the man’s silvery hairline.

  A large smile crossed my face, a look that totally unnerved Sheriff Dan.

  “What?” he asked, but I just smiled bigger.

  That’s when he glared at me and stalked out.

  When he was gone I clasped the phone. I needed to call Farley to get me out of there. I needed to contact my father, so he could post bail, but, for reasons I can’t explain, my finger dialed Directory Assistance for the state of North Dakota. I asked for the number for one Yulia Terrasova Nivitski, paleobotanist, resident of the city of Croix. The line was faint and staticky, as if I was calling through a snowstorm, but right away, before the first ring was over, a boy answered.

  “Da,” he said. The voice couldn’t have been older than eleven.

  A Russian greeting, of course, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d addressed me as a father. I cleared my throat. “Dr. Nivitski, please.”

  “Who is telephoning?”

  “Tell her Hank is on the line. Hank Hannah.”

  There was quiet.

  I said, “Just tell her it’s Hank. She’ll know.”

  Again, quiet. Was he covering the phone while he spoke to her?

  “Hannah,” I said. “Dr. Hannah from Parkton. Parkton, South Dakota.”

  Nothing.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  Then the boy spoke again. “Do you have many canines?”

  I looked up and suddenly became aware of all the dogs, snarling and yapping around me. I guess I’d gotten used to them.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m calling for Dr. Nivitski. Is she there or not? Who is this?”

  “This is Vadim,” he said, pronouncing his name Vah-deem. “I greatly dislike canines. They used to chase me on the way to school. They would hide in the woods and wait for me.”

  “Is Julie there?” I asked. “Are you alone?”

  “No,” he said, “I have many friends over. We are working on a grand project.”

  “Seriously,” I said. “Is anyone else home?”

  “Yes, there are many of us. My friends and I will one day be scientists. Our project could be a tool for peace or a weapon of mass destruction, depending on whether or not the world appreciates us.”

  Now I was the one who was quiet. A shiver went through me, and I experienced this strange illusion that I was calling back in time, that a blizzard had messed up the phone lines and I was talking to myself, twenty-five years ago. I didn’t like it.

  Vadim asked, “Do you work your science on canines?”

  “No,” I said, “they’re just pets. I’m sort of dog-sitting. Look, will you just tell Julie I called? Can you write that down, that Hank Hannah called?”

  “In Russia, my father works his science on rabbits. He is very famous.”

  A sickness was coming over me. I had to get off the line.

  “Just tell Julie,” I said.

  “I will write a sticky note,” Vadim said.

  “Goodbye,” I said.

  “What sort of science do you work?” Vadim asked.

  I hung up.

  * * *

  Toward afternoon, the heavy door burst open and in walked Gerry, a cardboard box under his arm, anger and determination on his face. He walked past a height chart painted on the wall—five one in boots, I noted—and headed for the cell with the toys.

  Without looking at me, he unlocked the cell door,
then dropped to his knees and crawled this way and that as he picked up toys and tossed them into the cardboard box. He scooped up balls and brightly colored zoo animals. He chased down crayons that had rolled to all quarters. I neared the bars so I could peer inside the box—also there were his own possessions, from his desk and locker, from his old police cruiser.

  Finally, he stood and looked around, registering not me but the book in my cell.

  “Give me the dang coloring book,” he said.

  I grabbed the Impossible Journey book, a bright-eyed Pomeranian on the cover, and passed it through the bars. “Hey,” I said, “no hard feelings.”

  “Hard feelings?” Gerry asked. “They’re going to feed you shit pizza in prison, and I only wish I was there to put the cherry on top.”

  “You’re angry,” I said. “I understand. I was out of line with the school-bus remark.”

  “The school bus. You guys’d never leave that alone, would you? You’d never let that go. Well, my parents happen to be dead now, so the school-bus chapter of my life is over.” With two fingers, Gerry pinched some air. “I was this close to getting back with my ex–old lady. She gets out of the hospital next week, and we had this big party planned. We’re talking helium tanks, Bundt cakes. I’ve had those kids eating out of my hand all week.”

  I nodded toward his cardboard box.

  “I know you think this was my fault,” I said. “But it wasn’t. You break the law, you take the consequences, right?”

  “Don’t you sad-sack me,” Gerry said. “I got some serious side projects going on, real entrepreneur stuff. You think I give a turd about being fired? I work nights at the prison. I work weekends at the casino. I’m a survivor, Hanky. I’ll have a new day job by tomorrow, my friend. I’ve worked every day of my life. But you wouldn’t know anything about work, would you?” Gerry hefted the box, tucked it under his arm. “By the end of the day, tomorrow,” he repeated, then took a long look at those dogs, as if this was all he’d miss about the Parkton County Sheriff’s Station.

  * * *

  Evening came. My breath turned white. Darkness blued the corners of the room. The dogs huddled in the center of their cell, sleeping as one, their nit-lined coats rising and falling in a patchwork of snores and dream-whimpers that kept the cold at bay. It seemed those dogs knew something we humans had forgotten. In the next cell, all that remained of Gerry’s ex–old lady’s kids were crayon drawings on the walls. In the muted light, they resembled ancient cave paintings. Across the cement was depicted an arcing dog team, purple and brown in the near dark, towing a great sled that seemed to lift and take to the sky. It was like some mythic story, or an interpreted constellation, an arm of the Milky Way tamed by humans, man and animal jumping the hoop of the North Star.