Humans seem to be fascinated by any kind of infancy. I see them stop in the streets of the town to lean over baby carriages. The women in particular gaze at the infants with obvious devotion, as though they see a great virtue in helplessness. I suppose it is easy to love a creature that is totally dependent on you and to imagine that it loves you in return. But I do not see the point of such emotions.
I wonder whether I would try to protect even these four pitiful animals. Perhaps. But would I be protecting them or my own scent, which they somehow share?
2
Veronica was aroused and frightened. There were too many of them in the bunker: Carl, Baxter, the puppies. The shelter was too cold and too dark. Even the puppies looked sinister in the deep shadows. And yet she knew she would remember this night as she often remembered the night in the Prescott house: she would recall it as she lay with other boys, and she would find the memory of Carl’s dangerous immaturity more exciting than the presence and conventional passion of the others.
I must talk, she thought. ‘Do you think Baxter knows they’re his?’
‘He knows. But he doesn’t care.’
‘How do you know what he thinks?’
‘I understand him.’
The girl looked at Carl and then at Baxter. They do understand each other, she thought. Too well.
Carl began to put the puppies back in their box. ‘I suppose you’d better take them back,’ he said. ‘They might catch cold or something.’
‘I can’t take them back.’
‘Why not?’
‘My father doesn’t want them to be with Queenie any more.’
‘What are you going to do with them?’
‘I was going to give them away, but nobody wants them.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She was sure now, but she could not admit it to Carl. Baxter was not admired in the town. People were interested in her offer until they found out that the puppies were his; that they looked like him.
‘Then what happens to them?’
‘You said you’d do me a favor, Carl. Take the dogs.’
‘All of them?’
‘They’re yours in a way.’
The boy looked at the puppies. He picked one up and began to pet it. ‘I guess they are,’ he said. ‘Sure, I’ll take them. Why not?’
Veronica leaned over and kissed him. ‘Thank you,’ she said. He hardly seemed to notice her.
It was not until Veronica lay in her bed that night that she recalled the story Carl had told her about Hitler’s dog and the killing of its puppies during the last days in the Berlin bunker. And she knew she had made an unforgivable mistake.
She did not sleep that night. She listened to Queenie, who wandered through the house, whimpering and searching.
3
After the girl had gone Carl chained Baxter outside the bunker and lay down alone inside with the puppies. There’s so little life in them, he thought; such undefined life. They’re like weeds that could be stepped on unnoticed in the darkness. I could walk away, just as Baxter walked away from the old woman, from the child, and from the stray mongrel that challenged him.
Four lives. Powerless and unthreatening creatures, but with the form of Baxter, whose power and courage the boy coveted. Four lives that had and could have no meaning. But four deaths could have a meaning.
Carl picked up one of the puppies, enclosing its body in his left hand, feeling the faint, rapid heartbeat within its warm softness. He took its head in his right hand. ‘Old lady Prescott,’ he said, and he twisted his hands, slowly and relentlessly, until there was a snap; until he no longer felt the heartbeat.
Then the second puppy. ‘The Grafton baby.’
The third. ‘The mongrel.’
He picked up the last puppy in wet, trembling hands. ‘And one more, Baxter. One more.’
Carl blew out the candle and lay back, suddenly aware of the coldness of the air. He felt an emotion that had become familiar to him in recent months: the sudden depression that followed masturbation. The moment of incredible contrast, when the ecstasy vanished and he was left with the mess and the guilt.
But that feeling would pass. Clean up the mess, recall the pleasure. He groped for the box and dragged it to the exit. Moving quickly out of Baxter’s sight, he carried the box a few yards away and covered it with trash. He felt the delicate graininess of frost on the objects he was moving. His hands felt cleansed. Things were better now.
He returned to Baxter. As he led the dog towards the town he felt a strength he had not felt before. It was the first time he had not known a vague fear of the power that was transmitted to his hand through the leash. He pulled hard, tightening the chain around the dog’s neck.
‘Heel, Baxter. Heel.’
4
Nancy Grafton paused on her front steps. Carl and Baxter were coming towards her. She wouldn’t have recognized the boy in the darkness, but the dog was unmistakable. Should she wait and say hello? She hadn’t spoken to the boy since the night of the dinner. She remembered his politeness and his occasional interested glances. He was fond of her. She waited.
As the boy and the dog neared her Baxter began to pull away towards the street. She no longer feared the dog, but it still repelled her. It was panting heavily, its condensing breath obscuring its features.
‘Hello, Mrs. Grafton.’
‘Hello, Carl.’ The boy seemed agitated; elated. Nancy wondered whether he had been with a girl.
The front door opened behind her. It was John. ‘It’s too cold to be gossiping on the street,’ he said. ‘Why doesn’t everyone come in?’
No, Nancy thought, not the dog.
‘Maybe for a minute,’ Carl said. ‘But I’ll tie Baxter out here. He might track up your floor.’
Nancy was surprised at the boy’s self-assurance. A few weeks ago he wouldn’t have accepted the invitation; he wouldn’t have realized that Baxter wasn’t wanted. The boy looked stronger and less attractive than she had remembered. But he still looked at her with interest. She preferred an admiring person to an attractive one.
The house was warm. Nancy sat quietly as John talked to Carl, who looked intently around the room. Did the boy admire the house? She doubted it. Young people aren’t interested in formal shelter. But something intrigued him.
‘You haven’t seen the house before, have you, Carl?’ Nancy asked.
The boy started to reply, but shook his head instead.
‘We’ll give you a tour,’ John said. ‘It’s one of the more boring rituals adults inflict on one another. We’ll initiate you.’
As they walked through the house Nancy became aware of a sureness in Carl’s movements; a lack of surprise. It’s as if he knew what to expect, she thought.
They were at the door to the couple’s bedroom. Nancy started past it, but Carl paused.
‘It’s messy, I’m afraid,’ she said. She walked into the room and picked up a nightgown from the floor. Carl followed her. He went slowly to the brass bed and put his hand on it.
Nancy watched uncomfortably as he stared at the rumpled bedspread and the pushed-aside woolen throw. What is he thinking? she wondered. She remembered having the same thought about Baxter when the dog first came to live with them. Then it occurred to her that Carl and Baxter were alike in many ways: silent, observant, attentive. And dangerous, perhaps?
John apparently didn’t think so. He led the way back to the parlor, and talked enthusiastically to Carl about the attractions of junk-yards. They’re like brothers, Nancy thought. Her husband would make a better brother than a father. There was too much responsibility in fatherhood; too many occasions to be unlikable. He would want Carl to visit them again.
As the boy left John said, ‘Stop by again some time. Or maybe you can show me around the junk-yard.’
Carl looked pleased. As Nancy shook hands with him she noticed how strong his grip was. There were short white hairs on the front of his jacket. The hairs of a small animal.
&n
bsp; Three
The boy must die.
This morning, after he left the house, and the woman let me into the yard, I could think only of the four helpless animals the boy had shown me in the hideaway. I knew they could not survive long on their own. And even though I realized no creature is another’s responsibility, I could not forget that they had my scent; they were my kind. I went to them.
It was good to be free in the town. There was no chain at my neck, and the boy was not nearby making his sounds of command. As I moved through the streets people moved aside, sensing my determination; knowing that without the boy I was more to be respected than ever. I moved quickly along the familiar route, not allowing myself to be distracted by odors or sounds.
But despite my eagerness to get to the edge of town, it was difficult for me not to stop. It occurred to me how fond I had become of the streets; how well I knew them. Was I beginning to understand the way the people felt about the town? They didn’t own the town; they shared it. Maybe the important thing was that the town gave them something to be mutually familiar with. The old woman had known the streets as I now knew them; as the four small white creatures would know them.
I located the animals immediately, although it took me some time to uncover their limp, twisted bodies. There could be no doubt about what had been done or who had done it. Mingled with the scent of death was that of the boy.
I knew at once that he must die. He had crossed the line between the willing of death and the causing of it. He had challenged me.
And so I wait among the discarded objects, which glitter with the moisture of sun-melted frost. When the sun is lower in the sky the boy will come for me. He will find me in the center of the circle he built; the circle in which he has so often urged me to kill. I will need no urging today.
2
‘Where’s Baxter?’ Carl asked his mother.
‘Isn’t he in the yard?’
‘No. He’s gone.’
‘He’ll be back.’
She doesn’t care about the dog, Carl thought. She doesn’t care about me. ‘You left the gate open.’
‘I didn’t leave it open. I left it unlocked. It’s always unlocked.’
‘He could get hurt. He could get hit by a car.’
‘Baxter can take care of himself, Carl. There’s no need to panic.’
She doesn’t understand panic, Carl thought. He tried to remember if he had ever seen his mother truly upset. No. He could only think of her sitting placidly with her books or her ridiculous cello. She had never lost anything she cared for.
Nancy Grafton would understand. She remembers her dead child. She would offer to drive me around the town. There would be tension in her features.
‘I should start dinner now,’ Sara said. ‘Why don’t you look around the neighborhood . . . or at the junk-yard. Baxter doesn’t get there as often now that you’re at school.’ She went into the kitchen.
Carl walked to the corner where his mother’s cello stood. He raised his right leg and kicked his foot out suddenly. The cello snapped in two at the neck, filling the house with the alarming sound of cracking wood and discordantly resonating strings.
As the boy left the house he looked over his shoulder and saw his mother standing in the center of the room, staring at the shattered instrument. She had a look of panic and loss.
Carl slammed the door and headed for the junk-yard.
The afternoon sun cast deep shadows across the jagged piles of wreckage. For the first time the familiar landscape of the yard seemed unappealing to Carl. I’ve outgrown it, he thought. I won’t return to it again.
As he expected, he found the bodies of the puppies uncovered. He looked at them hesitantly, wondering whether he would feel regret. But he felt only the excitement and pride he had felt each time he had thought of them during the day. He couldn’t see Baxter, but he knew he was near. He wondered what the dog felt. Fear, he hoped.
The bunker was empty. It seemed small and unpleasant. The boy began to dismantle it, removing supports and climbing on top of it, feeling it collapse beneath his weight. It took only a few minutes to return it to its original, formless state. He sat and rested and wondered why he had been so concerned about Baxter’s disappearance. He no longer needed the dog.
The boy got up and started to go back towards town. Then he remembered the pit. He wanted to see it once more. It had been important to him; more important than it had been to the dog.
As he walked Carl felt his perspiration evaporating under the cold wind. And when he saw Baxter standing below in the shadows of the pit he began to shiver. The dog stood motionless; staring; waiting.
‘Baxter?’
The dog did not react.
‘Baxter! Come!’
Carl watched the dog carefully. Its muscles tightened reflexively, but it did not change its position. I’ve lost control of him, the boy thought. I’m being challenged. But that was Baxter’s mistake; a mistake the dog hadn’t made with Mrs. Prescott or the Grafton baby. He had been successful with them because he had used deceit and surprise. But he was presenting an honorable challenge now. It was not always wise to be honorable.
Carl backed away from the pit, looking around for a weapon. He picked up a heavy steel rod and then sat down to consider the situation. It would be dark before long. If Baxter didn’t make his move soon, it would be necessary to force him to act. Darkness would give him too much of an advantage.
The boy wondered whether he should enter the pit. No. Even with the proper weapons that would be foolish. But Baxter had to remain in the pit. He would have too much room to maneuver in if he were free. The solution was simple. If the escape stairs were removed the pit would become a grave. The dog could not escape. It could be left to starve, or it could become a target.
Carl got up and went to the area above the boxes that formed the escape steps. He pushed the steel rod between the wall of the pit and the boxes and pried them loose in one quick motion. Baxter dodged the boxes as they fell. He was trapped.
Carl turned away and began to look for something he could throw into the pit; something that would break bones and tear flesh.
3
Jason Fine examined the shattered cello. He had never looked closely at it before. It had been his wife’s secret. Now he realized how delicate the instrument was; how deceptive its ungainly size and sturdy sound were. It’s like a person, he thought: vulnerable, misleading.
‘I think it can be fixed,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Sara said.
She seemed remarkably calm to Jason. He hoped she was disguising her feelings. If not—if the incident really didn’t matter to her—then Carl had done something unforgivable. He had weakened Sara’s ability to care. She couldn’t afford that.
‘It does matter,’ Jason said. ‘And I want Carl to understand that. Do you know where he is?’
‘At the junk-yard, I suppose. Or wherever the dog is.’
‘I’ll go get him.’
‘Are you going to hurt him?’
‘I’m going to try.’
Sara blinked rapidly. She’s trying to weep, Jason thought. But she won’t; no more than I will. We’re not used to being part of a drama. We’re trained as spectators: she with her books and I with my gossip. Carl’s becoming one of the performers and forcing us to join him. We don’t know our lines; our gestures are wrong. We’ll punish him for it.
Jason took the cello to the hall closet, put it on the floor among the overshoes, and closed it into the darkness. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ he said.
Sara came to the door with him. ‘Don’t hurt Carl,’ she said. ‘He did it because I neglected the dog. He loves the dog.’
As Jason drove through the twilight he wondered whether people could really love animals. No, he thought. What they love is themselves; a part of themselves they see reflected in the animal. There was nothing admirable about that kind of relationship. It was too one-sided. Jason tried to remember if he had ever heard of a person g
iving up his or her life to save a dog. No. It didn’t work that way.
God help the dog that is loved.
4
There is no way out. I realize now that my life became endangered the first time I entered the circle. The threat was not from my opponents, but from myself. I was performing an act of submission and trust. I submitted myself to the boy’s will. I trusted him . . . the way the old woman and the child trusted me.
Trust is the ultimate weakness and a kind of madness. I could only have been insane to think the boy would face me openly in the circle. He knows the importance of deceit and betrayal. It is something he learned from me; something he made me forget.
Strangely, I do not regret my error. It may be inevitable that anyone who lives in the town—even I—must become afflicted with moments of trust. It is something one must accept. I have become vulnerable, but I still have my courage and my physical strength to rely on, and the boy knows that. I have no fear of him.
Yet I am disturbed. What disturbs me is not that I might die, but that I might live. What would become of me in that case? There could be no doubt of my responsibility for the boy’s death. Would the people of the town accept me after that? No. I would have to leave them.
Are there other towns? Are there other people living together in uneasy trust, fearing that their trust will fail them as mine has failed me? Could it be that there is a kind of courage in trust? Do the people know that there are those like the boy and me among them? Do they knowingly risk being betrayed by us? They might be more courageous than I thought. I would like to stay among them.
If I could stay, would I seek out another like the boy? Not at first, certainly. I would live quietly with his parents. I would lie in darkened corners, listening to them murmur, wondering what knowledge they were concealing from me.
Hell Hound Page 11
