The Cage Keeper and Other Stories

by Andre Dubus III

  Back in the field, he hoped the kids wouldn’t wake up until he had breakfast ready. Steak, oatmeal, toast and coffee. Did they drink coffee? The branches were too thick now for him to break at their base without his boots, but with his hands, Rory was able to twist off the tips of some. It was taking a long time and he was beginning to sweat. Then came the thirst again. The Jack Daniel’s Desert. And he had to go to the stream three times before he was finished. When he finally stepped over the rocks, carrying the wood in front of him with both arms, he could see the sun above the trees of the basin. He felt good, almost giddy. He laid the wood down then went back to the stream and pulled on his boots, leaving them unlaced. His T-shirt was still damp so he put on his motorcycle jacket. Truth is, though, he wanted to stay naked. That’d felt good. So new. But what if April crawled out of her sleep and saw him bare-assed? That wasn’t right.

  He ate a candy bar. There were only two left and the marshmallows were gone. That was bad, he thought. Got to cook those steaks. Rory spread candy bar wrappers over the fire’s ashes, then laid the kindling on top. He patted his jeans pocket for his lighter. He remembered giving it to Vinnie last night. He didn’t want to wake the kid up, but he didn’t want them coming out of the tent until he had breakfast ready either. He wanted them to open their eyes and noses, their very lives, to the smells of steaming oatmeal and cooking meat, hot coffee. Maybe he could go through Vinnie’s pockets without waking him up. Rory was just about to go inside the tent when he heard low voices, then saw Vinnie stick his head out the flap. His hair was messed up and he was squinting first at the stream, then at Rory. “Hi.”

  “Mornin’, partner. How ’bout tossing my lighter so I can feed us.”

  Vinnie looked up at Rory like he’d just been told he was pregnant with a salamander. “Don’t you remember? You whipped it into the woods.”

  “When did I whip it into the woods?”

  “When else?” Vinnie walked past the garbage barrel and peed. He had his wool sweater and jeans on, but was barefoot.

  “Dad?” April came out of the tent. She was wearing her sneakers, jeans, and a yellow sweater with pink and blue roses on the shoulders. Her hair was hanging loose, no more braids. She looked older. “I still don’t feel good.”

  “You will after we eat, hon’. Look at this day.”

  April walked around behind the tent. Vinnie was sitting on the rock eating an Almond Joy bar, looking at Rory while he chewed.

  “What?”

  “Nothin’.”

  Rory turned to build the fire again. He remembered what Vinnie’d said about the lighter. He looked at the boy looking at him. The kid had to be right, no doubt about that. Everything in his face said so, said: You’re a fuck-up, Rory, and how you ever got me and my sister out on this camping trip, I’ll never know. You’re bad news nobody wants to hear, mister. So can we go home now or what?

  “What about these steaks?”

  Vinnie shrugged.

  “They cost money, you know.”

  “Don’t look at me. I didn’t do nothin’.”

  Vinnie’s voice sounded high. Rory could hear the hurt in it. April walked back around from behind the tent.

  “Wish we had some toilet paper. We should have brought some.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry, all right? Do I have to do everything on this goddamned—” Rory stopped himself. It was the instant surprise in April’s face. She’d been looking at Vinnie when she said it. She wasn’t blaming anybody for anything. In fact, she looked like she was scolding herself. Now she looked like she might cry.

  “I’m sorry, sweets. I don’t mean to yell. God, I don’t mean to do anything bad. I just wanted to make us a hot breakfast and now I can’t ’cause a my own foolishness.”

  “Yeah,” Vinnie said, “but you were sad ’cause Mom gave you that and now you’re going to jail ’cause she cheated on you.”

  Rory wanted to answer right away but felt he might gush some if he did. April sat on the ground, opened the peanut butter, and stuck her finger inside.

  “Thanks, Vin. I appreciate what you’re saying. It means a lot to me. It does. But I’m not going to prison because of your mom. I’m going because of me.”

  April opened the bread, took out six slices, and started to make sandwiches. Vinnie leaned back against the tree, his eyes on Rory’s.

  “See, a judge makes me go to these meetings every Wednesday night.”

  “We know. AA.”

  “Alcoholics Amonymous.”

  “Right, amonymous. Anyway, these people have a sayin’ for what I did last night. They call it a slip. But I want you two to know somethin’. I didn’t slip, I planned to drink last night. I won’t see you kids for a long time, or if I do, it’ll be in a shitty little visiting room. And I haven’t had a drop since last summer. Almost a whole year. So I gave myself a treat.”

  “Like when you and Mom used to take us to Friendly’s for chocolate banana boats?” April held a peanut butter sandwich out to him.

  “Yeah, like that.” Rory took it. He started to take a bite, but its oily nut smell made him feel queasy. Vinnie was halfway through his when he said with a full mouth: “Doug doesn’t drink at all.”

  “What’s that, Vin? I didn’t hear.”

  Vinnie swallowed and took another bite. “I said, Doug never drinks.”

  “Jesus, one more word about that asshole from you and I swear to Christ I’m gonna smack ya right here.”

  What was happening now seemed to Rory dreamlike, not real, not going on at all. Vinnie threw his sandwich down and ran into the tent. Rory heard first one sleeping bag being zipped, then the other. He cocked his head to the side so that he could hear better. April was quiet and Rory did not look down at her.

  Vinnie came out of the tent on his knees. He had a rolled sleeping bag beneath each arm. His pack was strapped onto him and he had put on his shoes.

  “What’s up?” Rory felt nothing as he said it. The words seemed to come out of him only like something he almost forgot to say. He was breathing real easy, and for a second he saw himself taking a naked nap in the sun.

  Vinnie bent over and grabbed April’s arm. “Come on, we’re thumbin’ home.”

  April jerked away and stood up fast. She looked from her brother to Rory.

  Rory stared back. Her face was pale and completely unmoving. Her lips were parted somewhere between confusion and disbelief. What did she want him to do? Tie Vinnie to a tree? She kept her eyes on Rory and he said nothing. There was nothing to say. Nothing to do. Nothing. You do what you can, then you die. Period.

  “Come on, April. I’m goin’.”

  Vinnie’s words were the rock in the still lake of her face. She was crying. Loud and all at once. Red face. Wet cheeks. Snot in her nose, her eyes still on Rory. He watched her for a second, maybe two, then, whatever had been just not-happening was happening now, was real, and was real goddamned serious. He stepped toward her to hug her, but she backed away shaking her head and crying even louder, looking from Rory to Vinnie and back again. “I hate it. You’re so stupid. You’re both so stupid.”

  She turned and ran up the trail, her blond hair bouncing, the green soles of her pink sneakers showing themselves, then hitting the ground, then showing themselves. Vinnie was walking after her with a sleeping bag beneath each arm, looking straight ahead, his pack secure, his head up.

  Well that’s that, Rory thought. That’s fucking that. Beautiful. Wonderful. A great weekend was had by all. G’bye, Daddy. We love you. We’ll miss you. Hope you don’t get too lonesome in jail. Hope nobody tries to hurt you in there. We’ll write you letters every day and send you pictures we draw and homework we get A’s on and cookies, if you want. There’s nobody like you, Daddy, nobody in the whole world. Really.

  Rory started for the stream, stopped, started for the tent, stopped. He sat on the rock near the garbage barrel and leaned back against the tree. He glanced down at the open Wonder Bread loaf and the peanut butter jar, the oatmeal box, the instant c
offee, the full mustard jar and brick of cheese, April’s untouched sandwich. Vinnie’s strapless canteen. A seven-mile hike under the sun without water. Wonderful. Good work, Rory. Cohen gives him a new canteen and you carve it up. Alene gives you something that should’ve lasted forever, and you whip it into the woods. Little April makes you a sandwich and you don’t eat it. There was something else with her too. Then he remembered her flashlight, throwing it out over the birches wishing for it to land on Vinnie’s head. Nice. Real nice. And there was that too; the boy must have a bump on the back of his head the size of a plumb bob. Rory looked across the clearing at the tree Vinnie’d fallen against. He remembered how young and pudgy, how so scared the boy had looked as he flailed his arms on the way down and got hurt anyway.

  Rory squeezed his eyes shut. He held his breath too. His heart had picked up the tempo in its fast but uneven hungover dance, like it wanted to get the day over with because it was both ashamed and weakened by the quality of blood it was given to pump out to the rest of the body. Rory opened his eyes and saw the other Coors on the ground next to the aluminum pot. He picked up the beer, opened it, and took a long drink. It wasn’t cold, it was cool, and Rory thought it’d be better if it was hot. A hot beer. That would be better punishment. ’Cause that is what I’m doing, he thought. I am punishing myself. Cleanse thyself with poison, somebody said. Who was it? Rory couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. None of these bullshit slogans mattered: One Day at a Time, Live and Let Live, Easy Does It, Let Go and Let God. Well, maybe there was something to that one, he thought. Maybe the Big Guy knows when to put you in the slammer before it’s too late. Rory smiled at this picture in his head of God, looking like Jesus but fatter, with long robes and a beard, his hands cupped to his mouth shouting down to earth, “Hey Enfield! Last call for alcohol! You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”

  And he’s right too, Rory thought as he finished the Coors and tossed it in the direction of the garbage barrel, watched it bounce off the wrapped steaks and hit the ground. I can’t stay here and I’m not gonna let Vinnie and April walk seven miles without cold water either. Forget that one. It won’t happen. Rory Enfield, Jr., may be a lush, but he’s not a ratbastard. And he doesn’t litter either. He picked up the can and dropped it into the barrel. He set the steaks on the ground, carried his empty pack to the food pile, squatted, and put the jar of instant coffee inside, then he stopped and took it out. What am I doing? he thought. This shit’ll weigh a ton; it’s going in the garbage. Then came another voice: Garbage? This ain’t garbage. Mick and Marie drink instant. They like cheese too. And mustard. They won’t touch the oatmeal, but give it to Alene and the kids. And Doug. Yes, him too. Try leaving a trail of goodness, Rory. See what that’s like. And be grateful, man. Yes, he thought. I’ve got to make up a gratitude list right now. He sat back against his calves and closed his eyes. I thank my Higher Power for the following:

  I can walk.

  I can talk.

  My dick still gets hard.

  I can work.

  I can still see the kids.

  I have good friends.

  I could have gotten five years, but I only got two and will only do one.

  And thank you, oh thank you, there were no kids in the car.

  And no women.

  No teenage lovers.

  Just an old guy who must have seen my bike, must have. Who didn’t want to miss it really. Who wanted it to be over fast before it was over slow.

  Thank you, God. Thanks for everything.

  I won’t let you down.

  When he finished loading the food and aluminum pot into the pack, Rory took the canteen to the stream and dipped it in. He watched the air bubbling out of it as it filled. The water felt colder than ever but the air was warmer and the sky was cloudless. When the canteen was full Rory pulled off his belt. His Puma fell to the rocks but he ignored it and worked the leather through the two metal rings, then secured the buckle and hung the canteen over his leather-jacketed shoulder and across his bare chest. He pulled the knife from its sheath, walked to the tent, and cut the canteen strap from where it held the five tent poles together at the top. He burped twice as he rolled up the canvas and aluminum poles, as he tied them into the top section of the pack’s frame.

  He knew he had to hurry. He had seen how fast those kids could move over the trail like fine young mountain animals. They were gonna be real thirsty. Especially April, with her leftover flu. Rory zipped his jacket up three or four inches so the leather wouldn’t flap against his belly on the walk. He squatted in front of the pack and worked his right arm through the strap, then his left. When he stood the frame pushed against the canteen which pinched his skin at the waist. He arched his back and moved his shoulders until the weight of everything settled in the way it was going to. He looked the camp over once to make sure it was like they’d found it. Except for the ashes and the matted spot where they’d set up the tent, everything looked fine. There was a breeze going now, and the green buds of the birches wavered in it. He turned and started for the trail when white caught his eye from the ground. Trash. Nope, the steaks. Damn. He didn’t want to take the time to pack them; there was no time to take. April could get seriously sick today walking hard without water and that’s not the legacy I’m leaving behind, he thought. Forget it. He knelt, almost fell forward, grabbed the steaks and dropped them into the barrel.

  He was thirsty again. The beer had made it worse, but as he headed into the shade of the birch trail, the pack’s straps pulling into his shoulders and the full canteen knocking against his hip, he told himself he wouldn’t touch a drop until the kids drank first. Not one.

  The air was cooler here and he lengthened his stride. His belt was rubbing against his bare chest and he remembered his T-shirt and Puma knife sheath still by the stream. He glanced to his right through the stand of birch trees, but could only see some scattered spruce at the base of Crawford Notch on the other side. He could still hear the water though. And as he moved farther away from it, listening to its steady gush, Rory wished he’d unwrapped the steaks and tossed them into the current. All three had felt soft and warm. Tomorrow, they would start to stink.

  LAST DANCE

  In Memory of Elmer Lamar Lowe

  Reilly stuck his arm out the truck window and let the hot wind catch in his palm and push at his arm. He looked out at the thin pines and cracked red clay moving by, listened to Billy Wayne humming along with the radio; he thought of how bad Billy looked, saw the waxy yellow look of his skin, the gray under his eyes, tried to imagine him down in the parish jail near Leesville with nothing to drink and nobody to mess with.

  “How ’bout another ’Staff, Cap?” Billy Wayne said from behind the wheel.

  Reilly reached into the brown paper bag and pulled another Falstaff out, handed it to Billy Wayne.

  “Thank you, Cap.”

  Merle Haggard came on the radio, his voice sad and whiskey deep. Billy turned him up and looked over at Reilly.

  “Son, that man can sing.”

  “What happened to your teeth, BW?”

  Billy Wayne scrunched up his face like somebody had just pinched him. “Jude, that bitch.”

  Reilly remembered her: dark hair and eyes, her fierce little body chain-smoking Raleighs, making coffee in Billy Wayne’s kitchen, in the old house he won in a game of draw down at Le Mae’s. She was as old as his mother but he felt something happen whenever she looked his way, when she would smile at one of his jokes about Billy Wayne.

  “Cap, what you’re lookin’ at is the by-product of a hot iron skillet full of corn bread. The bitch even suckered me with it.”

  “Jesus.”

  Billy turned to Reilly and pulled his upper lip to his nose. “See for yourself.”

  Reilly looked at his yellow-pink gums, saw that some of the parts looked full with the roots of the teeth still in them, others were sagging and empty where the teeth had been completely torn out, and there was one place in the middle that st
ill had a jagged piece of tooth hanging out of the gum, a broken gray stalactite in Billy Wayne’s mouth. “Shit,” Reilly said.

  Billy Wayne turned his head back to the road and drank from his beer.

  They turned off I-65 just past Mister Ed’s barbecue and drove down a narrow two-lane road with no center dividing line.

  Reilly drained his beer and popped open another.

  “How much daylight you figure we got left?”

  “Couple hours.”

  “You check it this morning?”

  “Son, I’ve checked that net three times today.”

  Reilly watched Billy Wayne finish his beer in one quick drop and rise of his Adam’s apple then toss the can out the window.

  “And I’ll tell ya somethin’ right now, Cap, we’re gonna get her tonight, I can feel it.” Billy Wayne put his hand out to Reilly, his eyes still on the road.

  “We’re out.”

  Billy looked over at him, his eyes opening wide with the panic Reilly could feel, like he’d just been told to swim the width of Dry Patch Lake underwater. “Then you’re going to have to share that one with me ’til we get to Red Willie’s.”

  Reilly shuddered with the thought. “Here,” he said, “you can finish it.”

  Red Willie’s place sat on a small hill by the river, an unpainted one-room shack with wide cracks between its weathered boards, with knotholes rotten all the way through, so that at night the naked light bulb Red drank to lit up the outside as well, shone on the beer cans and rusted metal of his dirt yard. Reilly knew Billy hadn’t seen Red since he got out, and as the truck swayed with the ruts in the road, he hoped Red was home.

  Billy Wayne turned off the radio and they drove the last quarter mile in silence. The road was made of gravel and was so narrow that the driver of an oncoming car or truck had to pull over against the bush and trees to let the other by. Reilly reached his hand out at a thin branch, thought of growing up in Ayer’s Village, Massachusetts, where you put your life in somebody else’s hands at intersections (“They’ve all got a death wish,” his step-father had said). Where people’s faces looked stony and blanched from working inside factories, smoking a lot of cigarettes, and eating too much food out of a can. People who would never stop first on this kind of road, Reilly thought, would keep a tire iron under their seat if they had to drive along it at all.