Hell Hound

by Ken Greenhall

  Autumn pleased Mr. Bartnik. Not just because it was the hunting season, but because it ended the excesses of summer. He was tired of seeing things grow; he felt more comfortable when things around him were dying.

  He sounded his horn as he passed the Cuzzo house. The old man and his daughter waved from the porch. Mary was wearing shorts and a halter. She would be back at the school soon, her body covered as it should be at her age. She would prevent the children of the town from doing what they wanted to do. Mr. Bartnik respected teachers.

  Queenie was waiting for him at the door. He lifted her into his arms. She’s gaining weight, he thought. Under his supporting hand her belly was thick, but not flabby. And there was swelling at her nipples.

  ‘God,’ he said, and dropped the dog. He would rather have his daughter pregnant than his spaniel.

  He walked slowly towards the back of the house. When he reached his gun rack he touched the stock of his favorite deer rifle. He could see Veronica in the kitchen. She was standing at the stove, staring into a frying pan and watching grease accumulate around half-cooked hamburgers. He wished she were a deer standing in a clearing.

  He dropped his hand and went upstairs to his bedroom. There were tears in his eyes.

  5

  Someone was in the bunker. Carl could see candlelight behind the partially closed door. What should he do? As the boy tried to decide Baxter trotted to the bunker’s entrance and barked. The doorway opened fully, and Veronica Bartnik appeared.

  ‘Hello, Baxter,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be a father.’

  The dog backed away.

  ‘Veronica?’ Carl said. He was surprised at how young she looked.

  ‘Did you hear my news?’

  ‘About Baxter?’

  ‘Yes. My father’s really pissed off.’

  Carl didn’t like to hear girls talk that way.

  Veronica walked towards him, brushing off her jeans. Her breasts shook beneath her t-shirt. The boy wondered why he was able to watch her with such calmness.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think I should go home tonight. I thought I might stay here. Would you mind?’

  Yes, I would, Carl thought. He was spending little time in the bunker now that he had the key to the Prescott house. But the hideaway was still important to him; it belonged to him. He only borrowed the house.

  ‘I know a better place,’ he said.

  Veronica was impressed with the change that had taken place in Carl. A few weeks ago he would have been delighted to find her in the bunker. He would have begged her to lie there with him. She sensed that he still wanted her, but only on his own terms. It was the kind of relationship that interested her the most; a relationship she had previously formed only with much older boys. She took Carl’s hand and said, ‘I think I’d rather stay here.’

  ‘You can’t,’ he said.

  I’m right, she thought. I no longer control him. ‘Where is the other place?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Carl said. ‘Just a minute.’ He went into the bunker. The contents of his picture box were scattered on the rug. He replaced them, blew out the candle, and put the door back in place. He returned to Veronica and took her hand. He led her back to the town, through quiet alleys, to the back door of the Prescott house.

  Baxter stopped at the foot of the steps and watched the boy and girl enter the house.

  Carl had hardly been aware of Veronica as they walked through the town, but when the door closed behind them he became vividly conscious of her. He wasn’t sure whether he enjoyed the sensation. He released her hand.

  ‘Carl,’ she said. ‘Stay with me. I can’t see anything.’

  Carl moved away from her.

  ‘This is the old woman’s house, isn’t it?’ the girl said. ‘The one who died.’

  Carl didn’t answer.

  ‘Carl, are you trying to scare me? That’s what little boys do.’

  ‘You can leave if you want to.’

  He is still a boy, she thought. But he was not the boy who sat silently across the aisle from her last spring. He had learned something since then. She wanted to find out what.

  Carl waited for her. He heard her moving cautiously toward him. Her groping hand touched his arm. Her fingers rested lightly against his sleeve for a few seconds and then moved inside his shirt and across his hairless chest, coming to rest on a tiny contracted nipple.

  Carl shuddered. A month ago he would have been grateful for the gesture; he would have welcomed her instruction. But he was no longer in awe of sex. Not since the night he watched Baxter and Queenie. Lately, lying in the bunker or on Mrs. Prescott’s bed, he had begun to realize that experience wasn’t necessarily more important than imagination. Veronica had learned her gestures from books or from the older boys at school. Carl had seen the books . . . cynically written and carelessly printed; and he had talked to the boys . . . smug and unimaginative.

  Veronica was experienced, but so was Baxter. Carl didn’t envy either of them their experience. He had something more important; something neither of them could understand.

  The girl moved closer to him. He remembered the closeness of Nancy Grafton in the darkroom. Did Mrs. Grafton understand him? She could learn to, he thought.

  ‘Hold me,’ Veronica said. ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’

  ‘No. You’re afraid.’

  He’s right, she thought. She wanted to think of the darkness as romantic; to find Carl’s reticence exciting. But she was uneasy.

  Carl took her hand and began to lead her out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll show you where you can sleep,’ he said.

  They went haltingly up the stairs. When they reached the landing Carl stopped. Since discovering the house he had asked people about Mrs. Prescott’s death. He knew all the details now, including one no one else seemed to know.

  ‘This is where they found her,’ he whispered.

  ‘I don’t want to know about that,’ Veronica said. I should leave, she thought. She moved to go back down the stairs, but Carl pulled her back and they started up the second flight.

  When they reached the bedroom Veronica began to relax. Through the windows she could see lights in the neighboring houses. She became aware of the arousal that underlay her fear. Carl had gone to a window and was looking across the street. She kicked her shoes off and went to stand behind him, letting her breasts touch his back. She reached quickly around Carl’s body and let her hand rest on his crotch. It was as soft as a child’s.

  Carl pulled her hand away and turned to face her. She was embarrassed for him. How much easier it would be, she thought, if men could pretend sexual excitement. A woman can deceive . . . not only the man, but herself. A man’s failure was undeniable. She began to feel a fondness for the boy. It might have been based on pity, but the emotion was genuine. She wanted him to succeed.

  ‘What is it you want me to do?’ she asked. ‘I’ll do it, but you have to tell me what it is. Tell me the words for it. The short words.’

  ‘I want you to shut up,’ Carl said. His humiliation was sudden and profound. He needed revenge. Baxter knew about revenge.

  He went to the dresser and searched in a drawer until he found one of Mrs. Prescott’s nightgowns. He handed it to Veronica. ‘Put this on,’ he said. ‘And then we’ll play a game.’

  Veronica hesitated. Carl’s face seemed impassive in the dim light. She needed a clue to his mood. Was there tension at the corners of his mouth; a suppressed smile? Were his eyes narrowed slightly in anger? Words are important in the darkness, she thought, and she hadn’t understood Carl’s words. She waited for him to speak again, but the silence was broken only by laughter from a neighbor’s television set; the laughter of an audience. Like the bleating of distant sheep.

  A game. What kind of game? She raised her hand reluctantly and took the nightgown. It smelled old and stale. She walked to the bed, dropped the gown on it, and turned to face Carl, her hands on the zipper of her jeans.

 
; He was leaving the room. ‘We need Baxter,’ he said.

  Carl moved quickly along the corridor. When he reached the head of the stairs he paused. They’ll stand here, he thought; the girl and Baxter. I won’t have to explain the game to Baxter.

  He started down the stairs, wondering why he had not wanted to see Veronica’s body; why he was not aroused. Later, maybe. He opened the back door and whispered Baxter’s name. He looked for the pale figure among the shadows, but saw nothing. He walked through the yard and into the alley. The dog had gone. There could be no game now.

  Carl started slowly back to the house. Baxter had failed him for the first time. The boy was offended and puzzled. Had the dog left because of boredom or because of fear?

  As Carl re-entered the bedroom he heard the back door slam. It was probably Veronica running away. He was relieved. He forgot the girl immediately and lay down on the bed, the nightgown wrinkling beneath him. He thought of Baxter. And it occurred to him for the first time that the dog might not return. He’s free, Carl thought. He can walk away: shit on the street and walk away; get Queenie pregnant and walk away; kill and walk away. Why shouldn’t animals be held responsible for their actions?

  Before Carl left the house to look for Baxter he realized that the emotion he was feeling was not anger but envy.

  Eight

  As I waited for the boy I became aware of the change in the night air. It contained the aroma of decay, and although the breeze that ruffled my fur was not cold, it was subtly pene­trating. The season was changing. Did the boy notice? I doubted it. He would notice only when it became necessary for him to put on more and heavier clothing; when the leaves began to fall.

  Humans are not observant. I know, because I sometimes become careless and adopt their habits. I concern myself with shadows; with the old woman, for example, who no longer exists. But the night air exists, and it is a mistake to forget it. The boy forgets. The girl and the shadows of the old woman’s house absorb him; they restrict his freedom.

  It is obvious that people are not interested in freedom. They restrict themselves in too many ways. It surprises me that they do not put leashes on one another as they do on us. The older people in particular seem obsessed with restraint. It is evident even in the way they move about; never running, but walking slowly, always on the same side of the walk. They pause at corners and cross the streets together, proceeding past their neat rows of buildings. They ignore the people who pass them, stepping aside when necessary, never snarling or sniffing at anyone. Sometimes they pause to look into one another’s eyes and chatter, never showing the anger or attraction I sometimes sense in them.

  The children are different. They move about freely, and I have even seen one of them urinate on the street. But they are controlled by the older people, and eventually they all seem to lose their sense of freedom. I suppose even the boy might eventually become as passive and uninteresting as his parents. But it is difficult to judge the boy. He seeks his freedom in subtle ways, and I must be ready for many possibilities. He knows of my courage, but he must also know that I live by my own rules, and that I will tolerate him only as long as he does not oppose those rules.

  I realized that on the night he was in the house with the girl. I walked away from him to remind him of my independence. I didn’t go far; just to his parents’ house. I waited for him at the front door, knowing that unlike me he must always return to that door.

  2

  Jason Fine switched off the record player and said to his wife, ‘Carl’s later than usual, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose we should talk to him about it.’

  ‘Do you know where he goes?’

  ‘Just out, he says. With the other kids.’

  Jason tried to remember what he had done on summer nights when he was Carl’s age. It seemed to him he had spent most of his time trailing behind older boys, watching them and admiring their audacity and ingenuity. But had they really been older than he? Maybe not. Maybe they had just been more . . . more what? Not more intelligent. No one got better grades than he did. But he had never been a leader away from the classroom.

  He admired the boys that had the courage to cut classes and who seemed to have no fears; those who would steal candy bars from the drugstore; those who played football in the vacant lot and would get up smiling after being thrown to the grassless, stony ground. Jason didn’t play those games, but he watched them carefully. He preferred watching them to sitting quietly, playing and winning a chess game.

  Sara walked to the window and looked out into the night. Carl likes the darkness just as I do, she thought. And he likes to wander through the town as Jason does. Why do we always blame our children for having our own traits? Then she noticed the pallid form lying in the shadows of the porch.

  She turned to her husband. ‘I think Baxter’s out there.’

  Jason went to the door and called the dog’s name.

  Baxter got up and started towards the door. But then he stopped and looked out into the darkness. Carl was coming up the walk.

  ‘He’s here,’ the boy said. ‘I’ve been looking all over town for him. How long has he been here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sara said. ‘We’ve just discovered him.’

  Baxter was standing between Sara and Jason. He was staring at Carl, but there was no sign that he even recognized the boy.

  ‘What happened?’ Jason asked.

  ‘He just ran away from me,’ Carl said.

  Sara looked down at the dog. ‘Maybe he’s sick.’ She knelt down next to him, steadying him with one hand and touching his nose with the other. She had seldom been this close to the dog. She felt his thick muscles move as he turned his head. He’s stronger than any of us, she thought. She was glad he wasn’t her enemy.

  Jason squatted and ran his hand over Baxter’s body, pressing and probing. The dog stood passively while the man examined him. ‘He doesn’t seem to be hurt,’ Jason said. ‘But he’s tense. Maybe something frightened him.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Carl said. He was disturbed to see his parents giving so much attention to Baxter. Was the dog becoming fond of them?

  Carl started towards Baxter, who backed away and trotted into the house.

  ‘Sorry I was late,’ Carl said, and followed the dog upstairs.

  Sara watched them disappear into the boy’s bedroom. ‘A lover’s quarrel,’ she said.

  ‘Something like that, I suppose,’ Jason answered. ‘Do you think he loves the dog?’

  ‘They seem to have a lot in common.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘It’s better than nothing.’

  Jason felt an unpleasant emotion that might have been either guilt or jealousy. He didn’t like to be reminded that Carl might be capable of affection; that the distance between them might not be the boy’s fault.

  ‘What has Baxter got that we haven’t?’ he asked Sara.

  ‘Beastliness?’

  Carl sat on the edge of his bed, and Baxter lay in the corner of the room. They both watched the chain that dangled from the boy’s hand. It was the chain he had used in training Baxter: a noose of sharp-studded metal that looped around the dog’s neck, tightening and biting into muscle when it was pulled. He hasn’t forgotten it, Carl thought. He’ll never forget it. But I’ve been careless in not reminding him.

  The boy walked across the room and put the chain on the dresser, next to several notebooks he had used in school the previous year. He opened one of the books and leafed through pages covered with his precise handwriting; words and numbers that reminded him of nothing but tedious hours in the classroom. Those hours would begin again soon, and there would be less time to spend with Baxter. Their bond must be strengthened before then. How?

  Carl turned out the light and lay on the bed. He heard the faint but urgent sound of his father talking to his mother in their bedroom; he heard the noises of the town diminish. Sounds were more important to him than they had been previously. He wondered whether he could trade his came
ra for a tape recorder. It would be easier to record the town aurally than visually. People are too aware of the way they look; they disguise themselves.

  Miss Cuzzo, for example: she dresses and moves carefully, and her appearance as she stands before the class inspires respect. But there is a weakness in her voice. Even the slight squeak of her breathing reveals her discomfort as she walks through the quiet aisles, watching her students write in their notebooks. Carl wanted to record those sounds and play them back at night as he would have looked at a photograph taken through her bathroom window.

  He listened for the sound of Baxter’s breathing, but could not isolate it from the noise of crickets and wind-rustled leaves. Baxter: what was to be done about him? The dog must do something for me, Carl thought. Something unforgettable. Something unmentionable.

  3

  Jimmy Benson liked people and money. Because of that, and because he was ten years old, he was widely admired in the town. Tired home-owners liked to see him struggling eagerly but inefficiently behind a lawn-mower; they liked the moment when they pressed money into his small hand and watched his undisguised joy at being overtipped.

  Jimmy often did chores for Mary Cuzzo and her father. For a time Mary thought the boy might be one of the rare children without a major flaw in his personality, and then one day she asked him to clean out a storage room in her basement. As she explained the job to him she saw his admiration for the cluttered room. He didn’t understand the need to discard; to bring order. And she realized he never spent the money he earned. He would not become a likable man.

  There were few places in town that Jimmy found more attractive than the junk-yard, but he avoided it when Carl and Baxter were there. Even if Carl had welcomed him, he would have stayed away. He didn’t understand Carl’s interest in the yard; he knew only that it was not the same as his own.