The younger boy often went to the junk-yard when the sun was rising. He dug and sorted in the dew-wet trash, retrieving objects that could be sold. He dragged a plastic bag behind him, hearing the clink of scrap metal against soft-drink bottles, wondering at the extravagance of the people of the town. When a bag was filled he stored it temporarily in the strange circular pit that someone had constructed.
He was starting to climb out of the pit one morning when he looked up to see Carl Fine standing above him. The sun was behind Carl, and Jimmy’s eyes began to water as he squinted up, trying to smile at the older boy.
‘Hi, Carl. I’m getting some bottles.’
Carl didn’t answer.
Jimmy continued, ‘I’ve got about a dollar’s worth. I guess. That’s about enough for one day.’ He lifted the bag and started to climb out of the pit, but Carl blocked his way. He was standing above the only part of the wall that could be scaled easily. Then Jimmy saw Baxter, who was standing behind Carl, at the end of a long leash. A metal collar glittered around the dog’s neck.
‘Why don’t you stay there for a minute?’ Carl said. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
Jimmy moved back towards the center of the pit.
Carl leaned over and removed the collar from Baxter. ‘Now you can do something for me,’ he whispered. Then he picked the dog up and dropped him into the pit.
Jimmy backed farther away, watching Baxter carefully. Glass shattered as the boy dropped his bag. Then there was silence as Baxter took his position in front of the pit’s escape route.
The trapped boy had no doubt about the danger of the situation. He knew Carl’s mind. They had sometimes played together in the junk-yard the previous summer. The game was what Carl called ‘World War II’. The setting was always the ruins of Berlin, and the actions never varied. ‘You be an American G.I.,’ Carl would say. ‘I’ll be a German officer. The Russians are at the edge of the city.’ Jimmy would listen in vague embarrassment as Carl explained intensely that the Russians were the true enemy, and that the Allies and the Third Reich must unite against them. Then the boys would fight the imaginary enemy.
Jimmy had not forgotten Carl’s abandonment in those battles: the saliva that gathered at the corners of his mouth as he writhed on the ground in supposed hand-to-hand combat; the tears that sometimes appeared in his eyes at the end of the game as they stood to be decorated by a grateful Führer.
And now, as he stood in the pit, Jimmy understood that he had become the enemy. It was not a time for reasoning or jokes. His safety depended on the reactions of the dog. Without the dog there could have been no danger. Carl didn’t fight real people . . . not even small, weak ones.
The dog was another matter, Jimmy thought, as he looked into Baxter’s small, unpleasant eyes. The dog would fight, but would he fight with no reason except to satisfy Carl’s vicious whims? Jimmy could only put himself at the dog’s mercy. He sat down very slowly. Then he rolled over on his side, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He lowered his head and tried to suppress his fear, but as the cool dampness of the earth penetrated his clothing he began to tremble. He closed his eyes tightly.
‘Baxter. Get him, Baxter.’ It was Carl’s voice. Jimmy waited for the attack, but it didn’t come. In the distance he heard an electric lawn-mower start up, and he longed to be in town, smelling the newly cut grass; smiling at the harmless, generous grown-ups.
Then there was a faint scrabbling sound near him, and he heard Carl call the dog’s name again. But this time there was a strained quality in the voice: desperation or even fear.
‘Come back, Baxter.’
Jimmy opened his eyes. The dog was no longer in the pit with him. Carl still stood above, but his back was turned. The younger boy stood up, his legs trembling. He could see the dog sitting near by on high ground. I’m safe, Jimmy thought. He watched as Carl walked towards Baxter. The dog snarled.
Jimmy climbed carefully out of the pit. There was no need to hurry; they had forgotten him. He walked slowly away, feeling neither anger nor fear, for he understood now that he had never really been in danger. Either Carl or Baxter was in danger. Or maybe they both were.
4
The boy has misjudged me. He doesn’t understand that although I have killed, I have not done so without having reasons . . . my own reasons. I have killed when my situation was intolerable or when I was being threatened. I would not kill for another, particularly not for the boy, whose reasons are so foreign to me. Until I was forced into the pit with the younger boy it had not occurred to me that any creature could be interested in killing for its own sake. But I am sure now that the boy has such an interest.
After I realized what he wanted me to do, I didn’t know whether to fear him or admire him. And for a few moments I wouldn’t allow him to touch me. But I knew he was harmless, and that in his clumsy way he was paying tribute to my strength and courage. The boy was no threat to me, and now he would understand my nature more clearly than ever. We would continue as before.
But there are times when I am near sleep that I recall the obvious eagerness and pleasure the boy felt when he made me face the other boy. I must never forget the treachery of that act.
PART THREE
One
It was the first day of the fall term. Mary Cuzzo’s class sat uncomfortably before her, filling in registration forms.
I’m a doctor, she thought. Her students looked to her as if they had been exposed to a disease. They seemed feverish, their sun-reddened faces frowning over the intricacy of the act she had asked them to perform. Pens were held with the awkwardness reserved for unwanted, unfamiliar objects. Eyes that had become accustomed to open sky were puzzled by the delicate shapes of printed words. The delirium of the young minds was real; there was a sense of mortality in the quiet room. Bright, dead leaves drifted past the windows.
It was Miss Cuzzo’s favorite time of year. Even if she hadn’t been a teacher, she would have thought of the fall as being the most significant season. A season for death, she thought. Even the children understand that.
She thought of her father and the summer she had spent with him in the dark house. The old man conserved his life beyond the point of dignity. His daughter’s presence obviously irritated him. She thought at first that he was envious of her energy, and she began to cultivate lethargy. It was a role she enjoyed. I offer you my languor, she thought, as she lay silently on her bed in the afternoon.
But her father was not interested in her vitality or her lack of it; he was occupied only with conserving his own energy, which he gave up grudgingly. He seldom spoke, and in recent weeks he had, in his concern with conservation, even begun to take a secret pleasure in his frequent periods of constipation. He was happy when classes resumed and he no longer had to give her even the slight attention she required.
Veronica Bartnik concentrated on filling in the forms that lay on her desk. She wrote the information carefully: name, address, age. Why did the simple facts seem so odd; as if they described a stranger? Perhaps because she changed and the facts did not.
She was conscious of the many things that had changed since last spring: Carl, for example. She had hardly been aware of him then. But today, when she entered the classroom, he dominated her thoughts. It had been difficult for her to decide whether to sit behind him or in front of him; whether to see him or be seen by him. She didn’t want either. She didn’t want to be in the same room with him.
It’s better not to know too much about people, she thought. Why had she listened to Carl’s talk about Hitler? She would never forget that. Why hadn’t they just silently coupled the way the dogs had? The dogs had already forgotten . . . even Queenie, who would be having her litter any day.
Veronica envied dogs. Maybe she always had. She remembered that when she first heard the phrase ‘a dog’s life’ she had assumed it referred to a life of ease and comfort; a good life. It still seemed that way to her. Dogs don’t get to know anyone too well; t
hey have no regrets. She sometimes wondered whether she was becoming more dog-like. She had become less interested in her appearance. A year ago she would not have worn the loose, bulky, breast-concealing sweater she was wearing today.
Could a person become a dog? The way you could become a werewolf? Why not?
She’s behind me, Carl thought. I can almost smell her.
He hadn’t talked to Veronica since the night in Mrs. Prescott’s house. He had seen her occasionally on the streets of the town; had watched her turn nervously away from him. It was the first time anyone had ever been afraid of him. He was pleased.
The boy looked up from his desk to see Miss Cuzzo’s eyes turn away from his. She’s too clean, he thought. During the summer when he had passed her house on quiet afternoons and evenings he had heard the sound of running water from her second-floor bathroom; sometimes two and three times on the same day.
Carl no longer enjoyed bathing. When he was younger it had pleased him to stand in the shower, soaping and resoaping his body; breathing the steam-moistened air. He would imagine particles of dirt mingling with the draining water. But now the water seemed to threaten him. The smell of soap offended him. There were nights when he ran the shower only so that his parents would hear it. Instead of entering the shower stall he would stand outside before the mirror, examining the pale hairs that had appeared in his armpits; aware of the new odor about him. He was proud of the odor. He didn’t want to lose it.
When the class was dismissed Carl turned and smiled at Veronica. She pretended not to see him and hurried from the room. Carl caught up with her in the corridor. She heard his voice behind her.
‘Hello, Eva.’
She didn’t answer. She was disconcerted to find that she enjoyed hearing the secret name. Secrecy had always appealed to her. Maybe Carl knew that; maybe it was a weakness he recognized in her and took advantage of.
He was beside her now. ‘I just wanted you to know I’m sorry about that night in the old lady’s house,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. It was just a game.’
A secret game, Veronica thought. He knows more about those things than I do. He’s reminding me that shared secrets create a bond.
She still didn’t respond, but she stopped. They were standing in one of the patches of sunlight that fell from the overhead windows.
‘How’s Queenie?’ Carl asked.
‘All right. She’ll have her puppies soon.’
Veronica looked at the boy. The harsh backlight silhouetted his head, illuminating the thickening down on his jaws and chin. It’s like puppy fur, she thought. It’s time for him to start shaving. One of the rules she used to have was that she would ignore boys who weren’t old enough to shave every day. She shouldn’t have broken the rule. ‘I have to go,’ she said.
‘That’s okay. You don’t have to be friendly with me,’ Carl said. ‘But maybe I can do you a favor some time. I owe you a favor.’
He smiled and walked away.
Veronica frowned. She disliked his pleasant manner. Maybe that’s what she had learned from him: to mistrust charm . . . even her own. She watched him walk out of the sunlight and into the shadows. And she wondered about the secrets he hadn’t shared with her.
2
The woman is not without her virtues. Now that the boy is away so often, I have begun to observe her more carefully. We share the house together through most of the day, never touching; glancing at each other occasionally. She often sits for hours looking at the peculiar little black marks on the pages of her books. She smiles, and I can see her toes curl in her open-fronted slippers. Sometimes, when she puts her book aside and goes into the kitchen or bathroom, I jump on to her chair and lie on the soft cushion while it is still warm from her body and rich with her scent. She does not excite me or interest me in the way the boy does, and she makes no effort to understand me, but I find it comforting to be with her. I would not harm her.
I think she understands the importance of repose. Except when she makes the sounds on her instrument, she does not waste her energy the way most humans do. She does not walk aimlessly about the town or engage in the more meaningless activities the others occupy themselves with. She does not gather and burn the fallen leaves.
We sit together, aware of each other, but feeling neither like nor dislike. She has taught me the value of indifference. It is something the boy has yet to learn. When he returns to the house in the afternoon he brings with him not only energy but passionate attitudes. The woman can remain indifferent even to him, but I immediately share his excitement. I remember the feelings I had towards the old woman, the couple and the child. And I consider the feelings I now have for the boy.
He no longer lets me run freely beside him. He keeps the chain tightened against my throat; guiding me; making sounds of command. I would not tolerate such treatment if I did not sense the respect in his voice. And I wonder if the day will come when the respect will no longer be there. I wonder whether he could ever be so foolish.
3
Joseph Bartnik stood shivering in his sleep-wrinkled underwear. He stared down into the cardboard box, where the four pink-and-white puppies nuzzled against Queenie’s belly.
They’re disgusting, he thought. They could be anything: pigs, rats, even some kind of human abortion. He squatted and looked at the featureless, wrinkled faces; the stunted legs. I should do it now, he thought, while their eyes are closed. He imagined one of the tiny skulls between his thumb and forefinger, yielding to his grip like a hard-boiled egg. He reached into the box.
Queenie snarled.
The man withdrew his hand and stood up. It was the first time the dog had ever threatened him. It’s too late, he thought. She’s no longer mine. She’ll stay in the house, nursing, protecting, not remembering the quiet ponds, the ducks against the dawn sky.
‘Have they been born?’ It was Veronica. ‘Are they all right?’ She came to stand next to her father. She wondered whether she was too late. For the past few nights she had slept fitfully, rising often and walking through the dark house to look in the corner of the kitchen where the dog slept. She hadn’t wanted her father to be the first to find the puppies. She imagined him tightening the top of a plastic bag.
The animals were safe, though; and white, as she knew they would be.
‘They have to go,’ her father said.
‘No.’
‘They’re ugly and useless.’
‘Why don’t you put some clothes on?’
Mr. Bartnik hesitated and then started out of the room. ‘They have to go,’ he said.
The girl knelt beside the box and looked down at the four pale forms. She was not pleased. They are ugly and useless, she thought. She had never seen newborn creatures before. They weren’t the attractive, playful animals she had expected. They were alien to the light and air, like grotesque, beached fish; accustomed to silence and darkness. But aren’t we all like that at birth? We learn to forget the darkness. Most of us do.
Veronica’s father was back in the kitchen. He took the dented percolator from the stove and filled it, measuring water and coffee precisely. ‘It was that boy’s dog, wasn’t it? The one at the junk-yard.’
‘Yes.’ There was no point in denying it.
‘He’s the worst kind of dog there is. He’s worse than useless. He’s a fighter.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I know about dogs. He shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce.’
‘You can’t decide that. You’re not God.’
‘I’m a man.’
The worst kind there is, Veronica thought. She knew she didn’t dare leave the puppies with him. ‘Will you make a deal with me?’ she asked. ‘If you wait until the puppies can leave Queenie I’ll get rid of them for you. Just a few weeks. She can still go hunting with you.’
‘They might ruin her for hunting. They might have done it already.’
‘And she might never forgive you if you take them away from her now.’
Mr. Bar
tnik looked at the dogs and then at his daughter. ‘We can keep them for four weeks,’ he said. ‘That’s all. Duck season opens in five weeks. That gives her a week to forget them.’
Can I trust him? Veronica wondered. The next few days would be crucial. After that the pups would begin to look like dogs. Not even her father could kill them then. He was jealous and unpleasant, but he was not a monster.
‘You promise you won’t harm them?’
‘I’ll give you four weeks,’ her father said. He was looking at Queenie.
He loves the dog, Veronica thought. And he loves my mother. Thank God he doesn’t love me.
4
‘Do they have blue eyes?’ Carl asked.
‘I don’t know. Their eyes aren’t open yet.’
‘But they look like Baxter?’
‘They will, I think. They’re white.’
Why is she telling me this? Carl wondered. And why am I so excited by it?
‘Could I see them?’ he asked. He saw the girl hesitate. ‘I don’t mean could I come to your house. Maybe you could bring them out some time . . . some time when I’m with Baxter. He ought to see them.’
‘They’re too young for that now. But maybe when they’re older . . . before I give them away.’
We’ll meet in the bunker, Carl thought. But he wouldn’t suggest it. He would smile and be patient. She would make the suggestion, just as she had announced the birth.
She would come to the bunker some night, making her way carefully through the rubbish, carrying a cardboard box. She would return the young animals to the place where they were conceived; to the one responsible for their conception. Baxter would be pleased.
Two
They have my scent. It is a weak scent, and impure, but there can be no doubt. They are feeble and unobservant. They have the failings that all young creatures seem to have. They are innocent.
The boy and girl lift the creatures one by one from the box, placing them on the rug of the hideaway. In the dim candlelight we watch their ridiculous attempts to walk. I am not amused, as the boy and girl seem to be. I watch them stroke the tiny white bodies, and I listen as they mumble quietly to each other, to me, and to the young ones.
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