“Let’s go.” But Zeus didn’t scrabble to his feet. He wasn’t by the chair or on the other side of the bed. She checked under the bed. Her mouth soured metallic.
“Zeus.” She said his name calmly, expecting his quizzical head to pop up. The heart monitor beep-beeped and oxygen hissed. The back of her neck flushed hot and her hands chilled. He would lose his clearance if he was caught roaming the halls. He had never left her side before.
The corridor was empty. His dominant turning direction was right. She chose right, but before she took a step, she felt his stillness. He was in the room across the hall, seated near the foot of the bed, calmly watching.
“Zeus,” she whispered. His ears pulled back. “Come.” She used her most neutral voice. He didn’t budge. She entered the room, averting her eyes from the patient. Zeus remained seated, intently staring straight ahead. She grabbed his vest strap and firmly tugged him to a standing position. He had never disobeyed before. She glanced to the bed, hoping Mr. Stroke was asleep, but Mr. Stroke had been replaced by Mr. One Leg.
The man was young, near her age. He was sitting on the edge of the bed staring down at where his leg used to be. He seemed oblivious to their presence. His arm was pockmarked with raw striated wounds, and visible on the leg’s stump was the partial tattoo of a rifle stock and helmet. Kate’s calf muscle seized as she remembered the rash of gravel and shattered bone. He had said she had pretty eyes. She didn’t know his name. She tugged Zeus’s collar sharply and hauled him out and down the hall.
“Bad dog,” she hissed. “Bad, bad dog.” His ears flattened and his tail wagged submissively.
* * *
—
Zeus was panting, standing over her. She must have fallen asleep. It was hot. She had forgotten to turn on the air conditioner. The afternoon sun blazed through the living room window. Wiping drool from her chin, she stumbled up to let him out to pee. He bounded into the duplex’s small fenced yard and lifted his leg on the first fence post. On the shaded side of the house, the heat was almost bearable. The yard next door was choked with weeds and likely hid fleas and ticks. The neighbours were a nightmare. She’d have to consider moving again, but the rent was cheap and it was close to the hospital, dog-friendly, and had a fenced yard. Not an easy find.
Zeus wandered off, sniffing dandelions. He found his blanched bone under the overgrown hydrangea and plopped down for a good chew. She switched on the air conditioner. It rattled awake. She slid the roaster pan over to catch the drips. It was on her list to repair or replace, but not today.
She had only slept four hours. A half bowl of soggy cereal was on the floor beside the couch. She still had on her boots. She plopped down on the ratty, comfy chair that Zeus chewed as a pup and yanked them and her socks off. She sighed the release. The wood floor was salve to her feet. Her instep was bruised, her toenails dull and scuffed, and her heels callused. They were working feet. She wiggled her toes. She liked her feet. They were strong and dependable.
She stripped off her deodorant-stained T-shirt and padded to the bedroom. The rumpled sheets, untouched since Riley’s visit, held the tangle of their imprints. Strewn on the floor were dirty scrubs, a little black dress, and a near-empty whiskey bottle. Enough, she said.
She said it again louder to convince herself. She had to stop living like a student. She had to take care of herself, stop drinking, and eat better. She had to keep strong. She had to stop screwing another woman’s husband. She reached in her back pocket and retrieved the folded topographical map. She smoothed the creases and stuck it on her wall alongside the others, then stepped back to assess the collage of overlapping, concentric circles, tracing the areas of probability. She didn’t sort “live” or “dead.” She classified them all as “found.” Enough.
She stripped the sheets and pillowcases that smelled of adultery. Balled up the dress and scrubs and hauled them to the washing machine. She didn’t bother to separate colours from whites. She crammed it all into the drum and pushed the hot water cycle. The dress would likely be ruined. She scratched at the scab itching her palm. Plucked a thorn from her baby finger. Clouds of dog hair wafted over the floor. The house needed cleaning.
Enough, she said and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge. She switched on the radio loud, not caring if the shouty next-door neighbours who woke her day and night were home. She craved bacon and pancakes. She was out of bacon, but there was just enough instant pancake mix, and she was certain that she could substitute water for milk and one egg for two. Butter sizzled in the pan. Zeus barked once at the door. The neighbours thump-thumped their disapproval and Kate hurled the pan at the wall.
* * *
—
Approaching the two-mile mark of their run, her pace was good. It was cooler beneath the treed canopy. Thankfully, the secondary path was free of people. Most were seeking shelter from the heat closer to the water. It was only her, her breath, Zeus, and the crunch of gravel underfoot. She needed to decompress, and running was the quickest and most effective way to get out of her head and back into her body. She had to regain control.
She adjusted her track to the shift of Zeus’s head warning her of bends ahead. Her feet scuffed gravel and his head whipped back. Satisfied she was okay, he pulled ahead. He was barely breaking a trot. His tongue lolled, its pink wetness catching cooling air. Her own breath was even and controlled and her heart beat steady. She focused on the rhythm of his paws and the song playing in her head. Something about Sunday morning coming down, one of her mother’s favourites. Zeus’s ears pricked forward and his head dropped. There was a crow on the path.
He glanced back to her. “Go,” she said, and he was gone. Outdistancing her in two strides, he widened the gap impossibly in four, reminding her again how much he limited his canine being to be with her. He bore down on his target and pulled up short. His rear end dropped, his front paws stomped, and he snorted a breathy woof reserved for flushing birds. The crow lifted and settled high on a limb, cawing its displeasure. She was breaking training rules allowing him to critter, but she was in a why-the-hell-not mood, let him be a dog. They were approaching the final bend, an uphill stretch. She leaned into the climb, every stone digging into her sneakers’ thin soles.
She burst from the dark bowers into ocean sky. Her lungs sucked in the wide open of salt and seaweed. A surge of reserve energy flooded her body. She rounded the final stretch to the parking lot and Zeus fell apace alongside her. Phlegm clogged her throat. She spat it out. She scanned the cliffs for the praying man she sometimes saw early in the mornings bowing to the sea. But he wasn’t there. The ache of disappointment surprised her. He seemed so vulnerable and brave showing his heart to the world. He was a moment of breathless beauty when there were so few she could still see.
She veered off the path and headed towards the craggy shoreline to survey the praying man’s vantage point. Her legs quivered as she slowed to a walk. Hands on hips, she gulped hot air. All around her, families and lovers dallied in the laze of summer.
She filled Zeus’s drinking pouch with water. He nudged her hand away before she could fully set it down and drank it all. She filled it again before taking a long swig from the bottle for herself, then splashed the remainder over his belly, flanks, and hot black coat. He shook and rolled in the grass. He didn’t like the tingle of wet on his skin. Righting himself, dust and dead grass clinging to him, he looked to her expectantly. One ear was folded down and his head cocked to one side like a goofy puppy. He was ready to play. Her silly boy made her smile.
“Okay. Wait.” She tossed the ball a short distance. He watched it bounce and roll and stop. His muscles flinched in anticipation.
“Release.” His hindquarters kicked up a puff of dust. He pounced on the ball.
The ocean was shimmering white-hot. Far off at the harbour’s mouth, a behemoth cruise ship and its accompanying pilot boats were entering the Narrows. She watched the moving city glide towards the anchor of land. She had enough money. She could step on board and
disappear into the fugue of open bars and everlasting food, cocoon herself in scripted days of massages and salsa dances, wrap herself in Egyptian cotton and float through the stars in a king-sized bed to the ooh and aah of fireworks. Maybe they had dog pools and served biscuits on silver platters.
Zeus dropped his ball at the cliff’s edge and lifted his nose to the south. His nostrils flared. She wondered if he could smell the ship’s three thousand souls. Or if he had caught the scent of the Bahamian winds wafting ahead of the churning storm, carrying the sweetness of hibiscus or the acrid destruction and primordial brine of fifty-foot seas. The ship lumbered into harbour. Beyond, she tried to see what the praying man saw, but was blinded by the sun.
Zeus grabbed his ball and bowed. His tail wagged. The ball dribbled between them. She assumed the steal position. Hands outstretched, she crabbed forward. His backside rocked with anticipation. She tiptoed closer, reaching slowly. He scooped up the ball and spun in circles and stopped. Somewhere a commotion of shouts and a name frantically hollered and hollered. Bearing down on them from the trail, a Rottie mix was rapidly expanding the gap between its pursuing owners. Its head was lowered and its eyes sharp in prey drive.
Zeus turned to face it, his tail high and ears alert. The ball dropped from his mouth. She gave him a hard “Stay” and grabbed the only weapon at hand, a large rock, and braced herself between him and it. Intent on Zeus, the charging dog didn’t slow. Its shoulders were hunkered, hackles up, jaw open, lips curled.
She made herself alpha-large. Screaming her throat raw, she strode directly into its path. The dog startled and slowed. She barked at it to “Sit!”, her arm raised high to pummel it. She roared again, so it would understand she would kill it.
The dog sat. The owners arrived breathless and indignant. “He just wanted to play! Are you crazy?” She could see herself slamming the rock into the side of their heads. Yes, maybe she was. She said other things out loud to them, which confirmed their suspicion. She didn’t drop the rock until the dog was dragged from sight. Zeus hadn’t broken his stay.
“Release,” she said. He looked at her uncertainly, then, abandoning his ball, submissively approached. She clipped on his leash and tried not to touch him with her trembling hands. “Get your ball.” She made her voice light, but had to tell him twice. He set it at her feet.
She sprinted the last leg to the parking lot, pushing hard. She pushed until her lungs constricted and her heart pounded. Pushed until her calf muscles tremored and her stomach lurched. Pushed until she could think of nothing else: not the praying man, not her family, not herself. Only the imaginary line she had to cross.
Zeus adjusted his stride from trot to canter and back to trot again, encouraging her onward.
* * *
—
The smell of barbecues and hoots of children seeped through the buffer of trees and bush encircling Ruth’s home and into the house. Zeus clattered down the stairs. It was a clean search: Matthew wasn’t there and hadn’t returned. Kate was shamefully relieved. This was her last duty of the day. She rewarded Zeus with the raw knucklebone she had picked up on the way. “Stay.”
He nuzzled the bone between his front paws, only his eyes acknowledged her. She wasn’t sure if he remembered the night’s search or the hospital or the near attack. Dogs seemed able to cast off the past. Even those abused possessed an ability to forgive and trust and love again. Maybe they chose to forget. She should be more like her dog. But she wasn’t as noble. As she headed up the stairs, Zeus’s earlier disobedience still gnawed at her. Let it go. She needed sleep. Her emotional fortitude was compromised. If she was in the field, or on the job, she would have herself removed.
The bedroom doors were closed and the upper storey’s heat was oppressive. The overpowering scent of air fresheners and potpourri couldn’t mask the musty, mildewy undertones. She would open the windows and go home. Matthew wasn’t there. There was nothing else she could do. Eventually, he would come back. He always did. She stopped at his bedroom door. She hadn’t been inside for years. Nobody was allowed in his room. She turned the knob and nudged it open.
Heavy curtains and bedsheets shrouded the window, smothering the light. The ceiling fixture was missing its shade and bulb. She took note of the exits, window and door. Gagging, she breathed through her mouth.
She relinquished her mind to her training. She ran her finger down the door in a long diagonal line, marking the disaster site. Stepping in, she kept the wall to her right, so she could retrace her steps back to safety. Cautiously, she found her footing on the uneven terrain. Paper crackled underfoot. The risk of fire was high.
Beneath the window was a partially collapsed bed. The bare mattress was filthy, and on the floor was a balled-up comforter. In the debris, she recognized the flattened husk of a tin robot; the ragged paw of a beloved childhood bear; the crumbled carcass of a record player; jumbled Walkmans, headphones, and spooling cassette tapes. A sock. She had trained for this. This encountering of the unimaginable. Her heart was quiet.
Mounded against the opposite wall were the vinyl shards of Matthew’s treasured record collection. Walls of books had caved. Their soft spines were broken and splayed, their covers wrenched away. The pages had been ripped into smaller and smaller pieces, burying the floor in knee-high paper drifts. She stood in the crush of the eviscerated words. Everything had tumbled in the quake of his life.
Carefully, she retraced her steps. Her hand didn’t leave the security of the wall. She shut the door and drew another diagonal line through the first. Her finger hovered at the bottom of the phantom X. She traced the number 1. Then added D, for dead.
* * *
—
In her respirator mask, her breath was hollow and mechanical, the rubber seal slick with sweat. She tilted her head to widen her peripheral vision as she filled the garbage bag with the corpses of books and the detritus of a lost life. She tore down the layers shrouding the window. Dust motes clouded the room. She hammered the windowsill with her palm and the wood frame groaned open. She would have broken the glass to let in air. The sun was low, casting the world in a golden lie.
She shovelled the paper carcasses into the garbage bag—Atwood, Hemingway, McCarthy, Vonnegut, Murakami, Achebe, Lessing—books he’d wanted her to read when she was ten. She preferred happy endings with no surprises. The bad guy was caught. The girl got the boy. Nothing that tore out her heart. She tied off the bulging bag and dragged it to the hallway, heaved it beside the others. Zeus kept guard outside the door, his ears twitching forward and his eyes studying her. She swiped the hair from her goggled eyes and re-entered the room, navigating the cleared path to the bed.
Sweat and dirt caked her arms. Her hands were wet inside her mother’s dish gloves. She dragged the single bed away from the wall. The mattress, blackened from sweat and body oil and god knows what, held the imperfect impression of a body. The bed legs tore through crumpled pages and dirty clothing. She shook open another bag and crammed the filth inside. She would burn it all.
She was breathing heavily. The respirator was harsh and the lens clouded with condensation. She had to calm down. She swayed in the heat, reached for the wall, and heaved the bag into the hall. One corner remained. The damage here was more pronounced. Flayed pages, shredded in strips, jammed the door from fully opening. She whipped open another bag and waded into the disjointed words. The paper slipped from the clumsy grip of her gloves. She bent down, scooping up the crackling remains, crushing them against her chest to stuff into the swelling bag. She swung the door away to breach the corner. Air caught in her throat.
The mechanical inhale and exhale of the respirator rasped her ears. She read the collage of ragged strips butted together like a ransom note papering the door.
But in the world according to Garp we are all terminal cases. You must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on./ “Like a dog!” he said; it was as if the shame of it must outlive him. It was a fine cry—loud and long—but it had no bottom and it had no to
p, just circles and circles of sorrow./ He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die. That may be, Nora said, but it’s all pretty unsatisfactory./ One bird said to Billy Pilgrim, “Poo-tee-weet?” | Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision.| Then there are more and more endings: the sixth, the 53rd, the 131st, the 9,435th ending, endings going faster and faster, more and more endings, faster and faster until this book is having 186,000 endings per second./ Yes, I said. Isn’t it pretty to think so?
She looked down at the pages at her feet. Each fragment was a story’s ending, only the ending. The last sentences. Each ending was punctuated with a taped yellow pill. Her brother’s medication. She clawed apart the words, shearing through the madness. The words stuck to her skin and she scoured them off. She could barely breathe. Zeus scrambled up, growling.
She stepped into the hall to find Matthew at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes were wide, fixated on her towering over him. He took a step back. A low warning vibrated from Zeus’s throat. “Sit.” For the second time, he hesitated before obeying.
Matthew was trembling, and she remembered she was faceless in the goggled mask. She cloaked her eyes, steadied her breath, and removed the respirator.
“It’s me, Mattie. It’s Kate.”
He studied her face, then tentatively stepped up a tread. Snarling a full-throated growl, Zeus broke his sit-stay. Kate grabbed him by the scruff, marched him to the back of the hall, and yanked him to a sit position. “Stay!” She turned her back on him.
Matthew was almost to the landing. Laceless shoes flopped from his heels. He had on the same pair of crusted running pants, and his grimy shirt was buttoned askew. It was sweltering and he was wearing a water-stained leather coat. The polyester lining hung limp from the soiled cuffs. In his bony hand was another bag of books. He clutched it like a shield between them.
The Waiting Hours Page 19
