Cheryl screamed a warning to him, but her voice was drowned out by the blaring of horns, the squealing of tires, and the howling of the dogs.
The minivan hit the old man head-on, crumpling him against its grille and dragging him several yards before whatever forces govern such human catastrophes saw fit to release his destroyed frame and spin-roll it several feet, scattering small and not-so-small pieces along the way before it stopped with a sudden, silent, wet finality.
The dogs stared at the old man’s mangled form, backed away, looked at each other, ceased their snarling, and sat down.
Staring at him.
Looking contented.
In the car, Cheryl was crying. I couldn’t blame her. I felt like crying, as well.
Hello, Gil …
I honestly don’t remember retrieving the bowler, but the next thing I knew I was standing over the old man—
—who was somehow still alive.
I knelt down and offered the hat to him—I couldn’t think of what else to do.
He reached out and touched my shirt with a bloody, demolished hand. My heart tried to squirt through my rib cage, and then something else happened but even as it was happening I felt removed, distant, an observer watching this from miles away.
The old man spit up blood, getting a lot of it on my shirt.
The dogs watched us; God, how they watched us.
Magritte-Man tried to speak, almost made it happen, but in the end settled for thick, wet whisper.
“… eepers … are … ming …”
I leaned down toward his shredded, pulped lips and said, “What?”
He gripped my shirt as a wave of pain hit.
“Do you know me?” I whispered to him.
Something flashed across his eyes. Recognition? Acknowledgment?
By now other witnesses were pulling over and getting out of their cars.
I looked at the old man. “What did you say?”
Across the road, the dogs’ ears pricked up.
“… the Keepers are coming,” said Magritte-Man.
Then: “… you’ll remember …”
He released his grip on my shirt.
And died.
The Keepers are coming.
I lowered my head and looked away. I didn’t want anyone to see me crying.
TWO
Cheryl and I waited. We answered questions. I was looked over by EMTs, told my story to at least four police officers, gave them my contact information, and was finally allowed to go.
Cheryl and I were climbing back into the car when I noticed the dogs were gone.
… and realized that I was still holding Magritte-Man’s bowler hat.
Replaying the almost-comic dance the old man had done in time with the bowler’s elegant pirouettes as he’d pursued it to the death, I couldn’t help but think that if he had gotten away safe and sound it would have made a funny, slightly absurd story to tell at work, or to my nephew Carson; but there are punch lines, and then there’s the punch line.
I approached one of the officers and handed him the bowler. “He was chasing this,” I said, as if it explained everything in excruciating detail.
“Hey, we were wondering what happened to that thing,” she said, taking the bowler and dropping it into a large, clear plastic bag that contained what appeared to be the contents of the old man’s impeccably tailored pockets.
“Who was he?” I asked.
The officer didn’t even make eye contact: “We can’t release that information until we’ve contacted the next of kin.”
“But I was with him when he …” My voice trailed off as I watched two men load the black-bagged body into the coroner’s wagon. “He grabbed my shirt and looked at me. He tried … tried to speak to me. I’ve got his blood on my clothes. I was the last thing he saw before he died, and you won’t even tell me his name?”
The officer shrugged. “Policy. Sorry, sir.”
And left me there.
THREE
Cheryl didn’t speak until we pulled up in front of her house.
“I’ve never seen anyone get killed before.”
“Are you going to be okay? You want me to wait with you until Larry gets home?”
She tried to smile, couldn’t, and so just shook her head. “That’s all right. I’ll go in and just call the kitties. They always know when something’s wrong, and they always come to snuggle and make me feel better.” She looked down at the binocular case. “Larry’ll be home soon enough. Besides, aren’t you supposed to pick up Carson?”
I looked at the time. “I might make it if I hurry.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, bud—but not in those clothes, you won’t.”
I looked down at my blood-smeared shirt. “Jesus, Cheryl …”
She reached over and placed a warm hand against my cheek. “I know.”
We looked at each other, then both of us started crying again at the same time, and she put her arms around me and I put mine around her and for a few minutes we stayed like that, crying into each other’s necks, and it must have looked pitiful to any passersby, these two people blubbering against each other, but I didn’t care, I just needed to get it out of me, Cheryl needed to get it out of her, and if you can’t lose it in front of a friend in a parked car on a typical middle-class street then what good is it even having friends?
“That poor old man,” Cheryl spluttered.
“I know.”
“To die like that …”
“I know …”
“What did he say to you? It looked like … like he tried to say something.”
The Keepers are coming.
“Nothing, really. It didn’t make a lot of sense. I don’t remember. All of the above.”
Then our splutterfest continued.
Eventually we pulled apart, Cheryl digging some tissues from her purse, handing some to me, both of us trying to make ourselves presentable again and failing miserably.
“Well,” she said, “that was … just so special I can’t tell you.”
“I think the word you’re trying to avoid is ‘embarrassing.’ ”
She looked at me, flush-cheeked, eyes glistening. “This may sound corny, Gil, but when you went over to him, when you offered his hat to him, I was proud to know you. I’m still proud to know you. Most people wouldn’t’ve done that.”
“Please, don’t—”
“Oh, shut the hell up and take a compliment for once in your life, will you? What you did took nerve, Gil, it took compassion and courage, whether you want to cop to it or not. God, I’ve worked with you for five years, you’ve come to the house for dinner, gone to movies with Larry and me, and today, today for the first time, I feel like I’ve gotten my first glimpse of the real Gil Stewart. And I admire him.”
“Gilbert James Stewart,” I said, offering my hand. “Named after half of Gilbert and Sullivan, my mother being the opera fan; my middle name after James Stewart, the actor, my dad being the movie fan.”
Cheryl took hold of my hand and shook it. “Pleased to know you. At last.”
I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for saying that.”
“I rarely speak anything but the truth. And I’m fixing you up with my friend Laura on Saturday night, so don’t make other plans. Ah-ah—I won’t hear any arguments, understand?” She opened the door and began getting out. “You’ll double with me and Larry.” A grin. “You’re a good man, Gil. So why is it that I have the impression you don’t see it yourself?”
I didn’t have the heart at that moment to remind her that Carson was staying with me this weekend. She’d remember soon enough.
I watched her until she was safely inside her house, then pictured her calling for the kitties and their snuggling together on the sofa until Larry got home. It was a nice image. A safe image. An image that did not bring with it any echoes of something way back there that was trying to make me remember.
Then I thought of my nephew’s missing cat, and the feeling passed.
I drove to the end of her street, waited at the stop sign, and out of habit glanced in the rearview mirror.
A dark, hunched four-legged figure disappeared behind a bush a few yards behind me.
Staring, I thought: No. It couldn’t be.
I opened my door and got out of the car, looking at the bush.
The branches rustled.
Softly.
The street was oddly silent; no birds singing, no dogs barking, no cats yowling.
The branches of the bush rustled again.
Then silence.
I waited a few seconds more, then decided that I didn’t want to know. It was probably just the stress and shock wearing off.
I got back in the car and drove toward home. I needed to change my clothes and take a quick shower. I’d call the group home and tell them why I was going to be late. They’d understand. Gil Stewart was never late, not when it came to his nephew, so it must be something drastic.
Everything was okay.
I was fine. I was fine. I was fine.
Still, I kept glancing in the rearview mirror all the way home, looking for black shapes.
FOUR
The dismal bitch lay on her side in the dry gray October twilight in my front yard, her black wrinkled teats lumped beside her like a cancer growth far too large and malformed for her body to hold inside. Her sides shivered as she labored to pull in air, and the sound of her breathing—wet, thick, ripped-raw painful—was too close to another sound I’d already heard once today and did not want to hear again.
I climbed out of my car and slowly approached her, all the while looking over my shoulder, halfexpecting to see the black mastiffs from the highway.
It appeared this was my day to deal with dogs.
Her coat was patchy with mange, her eyes bloodshot and mad; when I came closer, they narrowed into slits and a low growl came from her throat. I could smell her from ten feet away, a ripe, sick, sweetrotten smell. Underscoring the smell was a moist kneading sound, soft but persistent; as I reached out toward her she jerked to the side and a flap of flesh held in place by the thinnest thread of tissue fell back. Beneath it, maggots teemed in an open wound whose too-bright blood seeped outward into her fur like the ever-expanding strands of a spider’s web, some of it dribbling onto the lawn and trickling toward my feet, forming rivulets in the grass.
I couldn’t help but think of the old man on the highway, and it almost cut me in half.
“It’s okay, girl,” I said in what I hoped was a tender voice. “It’s okay, shhhh, there, there, just let me take a look so we can make it all better, okay?” I continued on like this for what seemed like an hour but was probably less than a minute. Once I thought she might let me touch her long enough to see if there was a tag on her collar but she made a snap for my hand at the last moment, startling both of us.
I’ve never done well when it comes to ministering to sick or wounded animals. I guess it stems from an incident that occurred when I was a high-school sophomore, one of those “It Happens” incidents that you think you’ll eventually get over but never really do, even though admitting to it some three decades later feels embarrassing … but the sight of this pathetic animal on my lawn caused this particular instance of “It Happens” to happen across my memory once again.
(See there, pal? You can remember things if you want to. If you’ll just go a little further back …)
Go away, please.
After school I had a part-time evening job at Beckman’s Market, a local neighborhood grocery store, one of those mom-and-pop operations that had been in the area for as long as anyone could remember. I was cleaning the beer cooler one afternoon—it had been defrosted the night before or something—and there was this big puddle in front of the side entrance door. It was the first thing that the customers saw when they used that entrance, which a lot of them did, so the boss wanted it to look nice.
One customer came in and accidentally pulled the door’s spring off its hinge and the thing slammed shut like a vice grip. I started messing around with it but the boss told me to leave it alone, he’d fix it himself in a little while.
A few minutes later another customer came in, followed by this little gray cat. Cutest thing you ever saw, all furry and friendly … and evidently hungry; it kept darting over to the produce section, trying to get at the apples and oranges. I thought whoever owned it must keep it on one hell of a diet.
My boss told me to get rid of it. I picked it up, kicked open the door, and threw it out. I threw it quite hard, on purpose, so maybe it’d get the hint and go back home.
No such luck.
The door started to slam shut just as the cat was making the feline version of a mad dash to safety back inside.
It never had a chance.
The door slammed right on its neck. I was only a foot away and heard something crack. Then another customer came in and the cat did not so much fall back out as … spasm.
I opened the door and saw the cat choking to death. It just kept kicking and coughing and spitting, making horrible, heart-sickening sounds … and it never once closed its eyes, just kept staring at me the whole time like it was my fault. It spewed blood and vomit from its mouth while its other end evacuated all manner of pained foulness.
It had to have been a horrible, agonizing death. And all I could do was stand there and watch it happen.
My boss made me toss it into the trash out back. God, I was sick about the whole thing: I didn’t mean for it to die, but now here I was, scooping this dead cat into a shovel and dumping it in the trash. It should have been on its way home to a bowl of milk or a can of tuna. It should have been rubbing up against strangers’ legs, purring in that warm, please-love-me way that almost no one can resist. But it wasn’t lapping milk or rubbing someone’s leg; it was lying on top of a trash pile, flies already swarming over its still-warm body, and I was the one who’d put it there.
I dropped the shovel and picked up the cat’s body, my thumb brushing blood from the silver tag on its collar, whispering “I’m sorry, kitty,” over and over as if the thing were suddenly going to rally and whisper its forgiveness. For some reason, I wanted to wipe all the blood from its tag, I wanted to know its name; it seemed to me, at that moment, that something should be done to make its body more presentable—but to whom or what I couldn’t have said. I just wanted to give this poor thing some kind of dignity, I guess, before I tossed it in among the empty egg crates and tin cans. I knew how silly this would look to anyone passing by but I didn’t care, I just kept apologizing again and again, wiping away at the tag (which refused to come clean) until its ass began leaking something dark and thick down the front of my shirt and apron.
I spent the rest of the day crying. My boss sent me home early. I was depressing the customers.
(Let’s hear it for Mr. Recall, folks. One memory down, one to go …)
Are you still here?
(Three guesses, and the first two don’t count …)
I shook my head. I would not stand here and watch this dog suffer. I didn’t need that on my conscience.
I went inside to call the pound, who instructed me to contact Animal Control, who told me to get in touch with the nearest emergency veterinarian service, who in turn told me they had no one available to come and collect the dog, could I possibly get her into my car and bring her over? They would have someone waiting to take her right away.
Your Cedar Hill tax dollars at work.
I said I’d call them before I left, hung up, and went to look for something in which to wrap her. It seemed the right thing to do, the decent gesture, a last act of kindness before we parted ways.
I didn’t bother changing my clothes; my pants and shirt were already ruined with blood and the fetor of fresh death was still all over me.
I dialed the number of the group home and got one of the on-site habilitation specialists who works there, told her that I was running late, it was unavoidable, and to please tell Carson not to worry, that
“UncGil” (his nickname for me) would be there in time for us to make the next showing of the movie.
Standing now in the supposed safety of my home, I realized the blanket I’d selected from the linen closet was far too big for the dog in my yard … but just the right size for wrapping an old man’s broken body. I put it back at once and selected one of more appropriate size, all the while knowing that something in the back of my memory was trying to wake up and get my attention, but I was moving now, moving right along, and it was important that I keep moving at all costs and not stop to think about anything for too long, so I shut the closet door and made my way outside.
The dog had disappeared.
I didn’t panic. It had obviously been in a great deal of pain so it couldn’t have gotten very far. Altogether I’d been inside no more than five minutes.
I was just starting around back to look for her when a delivery van pulled into the driveway. It was from neither UPS nor FedEx. I didn’t think I’d ever heard of this company—Hicks Worldwide—before, but I wasn’t certain. I went to meet the driver, who handed me a parcel the size of a carry-on shoulder bag and asked me to sign for it as he scanned the shipping label.
If he was wondering why there was blood on my clothes, he gave no indication.
“Did you happen to see a dog wandering nearby as you drove up here?” I described the dog and her condition, hoping that would satisfy any curiosity he might have about the state of my clothes. The driver adjusted his wool cap, wiped some sweat from his face, and shook his head.
“Nope, I’d’ve noticed a dog in that kind of shape. You call the pound?”
“Of course,” I said. When it became clear to him that no further details would be forthcoming, the driver thanked me, returned to his van, and left. I carried the package inside and dropped it on the kitchen table and probably would have let it go at that if it hadn’t been for the way it was addressed.
The package had been overnighted to me, had a tracking number, and required a signature on delivery. It had my name and home address in order, nothing odd there, but the return address was also mine.
Keepers Page 2
