Dog

Malcolm crawled over to the window and peered outside. It was past two o’clock in the morning and this was the fourth time in the last hour he couldn’t resist peaking to see if anyone or anything was outside in front of the house. The lights of the living room were off and the house was silent. Outside, the streetlamps flickered and the cold wind pounded the door.

             He raised his head above the windowsill. He fingered his wedding ring, whispering to himself. Everything will be alright. Yes, everything will be alright.  His vision blurred and his hands trembled. Fog blanketed the window

             Malcolm flicked on the outside lights, wiped the fog from the window, and surveyed the property. Snow fell on the driveway. The wooden fence outlining the yard was broken in several places. His red red mailbox stood on a crooked beam. The door to the shed adjacent to the house swung open and shut, wood beating on wood. A car passed the house, its tires sliding on the thickening snow, and from the tree line on the opposite side of the road, stood a dark silhouette, peaking from behind a tree before disappearing back into the woods.

             The lights in the living room flicked on. Footfalls echoed from the steps, each step signaling anger and disappointment.

             “What are you doing up again? You are a forty-year old man acting like the boogie man is out to get you.”

             “I thought I saw something outside.”

             “We’re back on his again.”

             “You don’t understand.”

             “Because you won’t tell me. You refuse to tell me, and yet whatever happened that night seems to have absolutely destroyed you.”

             “I can’t talk about it.”

             “Well I can’t stay married to a guy who won’t communicate with me.”  

             Maribell walked back upstairs, slamming the door shut. He hated himself for not being able to talk about that summer. The summer, almost fifteen years to the day when everything changed. Despite his cancer diagnosis, his little indiscretion several years ago in Cancun on a work trip, she had stood by him. He didn’t deserve her, and he knew it.

             He took one more peak through the window, and not seeing anything headed toward the stairs. He flicked the lights off, telling himself that perhaps he didn’t see anything a few moments ago. Maybe Maribell was right, all of his fears and insecurities represented something that wasn’t real, even though she didn’t know exactly what he was afraid of. But maybe it was time to tell her. Time to come clean. Might help him sleep.

             Maribell sat with the lights on, scrolling through different color schemes for a children’s room on her phone. He climbed into bed next to her, his shirt covered in sweat.

             “When are you going to tell me what happened?” Maribell said, putting her phone down.

             “I’ve never told anyone what happened that night.”

             “If you don’t want to tell me then I’m going to bed, but you can’t keep coming to me to calm you down every time you have a panic attack.”

             “No, I want to – ”

             “We’ve all been through hell one way or another. You just have to find a way to come out the other side.”

             Malcolm looked in her bright blue eyes, wishing he were a better husband. Wishing he made more money. Wishing that maybe she could just leave him. Then he wouldn’t feel awful if he ever failed her or kid they hoped and prayed for each night.

             “I want to tell you.”

             Maribell took a deep breath, grabbed his head, and then smiled. “I want to know everything. I want to know why that night changed you. Why every night on the same day for fifteen years you stare at that window.

             “It’s not pretty.”

             “Life isn’t pretty.”

                                                                                     II

             15 years ago.

             Malcolm sat at the bar and pushed his last few dollars toward the bartender. Next to him sat a three empty glasses with stale beer suds resting at the bottom. He told himself he’d had enough, that he was only supposed to have one more, but one more turned into two and two and turned into three and now the last of his pay check sat on the wet bar.

             When the bartender didn’t see him, Malcolm waived his money high in the air. He coughed. The old man stared at him, eyes rolling.

             “We are closing soon,” the bartender said, finally walking over to him.

             “This is the last one. I know I shouldn’t but what hell right?”

             “You sure you can handle it?” The bartender said.

             “Just pour the damn beer,” Macolm said.

             “Easy buddy,” the bartender said, grabbing the empty the glasses.

             A few moments later the bartender returned with what Malcolm promised himself would be his last drink. The beer head floating gloriously at the top of the glass. Malcolm stared at, looking at the length of the glass. Telling himself that for however long he made this final beer last, and maybe a bit longer after that, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that Maribell was pregnant and there was no way he’d be able to support both of them. Wouldn’t have to worry about his job at the factory ending in 6 months and given his performance he probably wouldn’t be getting a letter of recommendation anyway. Wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that the economy in this part of Pennsylvania was failing anyway, the steel factories going bust and whole town falling apart. He stared at tv, drinking enjoying his cares slip away.

             When his beer glass was empty, the bartender approached Malcolm. “You have a way home?”

             “I can drive.”

             “You sure you are alright to drive?”

             “I’m fine.”

             Malcolm pushed the money back to him.

             “You’re short,” the bartender said, counting and then re-counting the money.

             “That’s all I got.”

             “I can’t let you leave without paying me.”

             “Look I just want to get home.”

             “That’s all well and good but you are short sixteen dollars.”

             Malcolm put his hands in his pockets, pulled out nothing but a receipt for a carton of cigarettes, a lottery ticket, and a lighter. “I think I’ve got change in my car.”

             “Don’t try to fool me boy,” the bartender said.

             “’I’ll be right back.”

             Malcolm opened the door to the bar, the cold breeze slamming him in the face but bothering him slightly less because of the alcohol swirling in his blood.  He tried to catch his thoughts, tried to remember if he really did have money in the console, but his head ached and his vision blurred.

             He opened the car door. He looked around, pushing away the DVD’s that he’d taken, or stolen, from the library, the books on scriptwriting, reminding himself that he needed to start taking life seriously, the empty sandwich wrappers from his lunch breaks. But no cash. Who was he kidding? There was no cash in the car and barely any cash in the bank account.

             The bartender walked outside, yelling and screaming. Malcolm almost felt bad because he knew that just like him the bartender was just trying to scrape out a living. But Malcolm needed those drinks. Needed those drinks to survive and surely the bartender could survive missing a few dollars here and there. No problem.

             Malcolm pulled himself back into the front seat of the car, placed the key in the ignition, and turned the keys. The engine sputtered. He slammed dash.

The bartender pulled a phone from his pocket. Dialed it. Waved it in the air. The police. He tried the ignition again. And again. And Again. “C’mon you son of a bitch,” he said.

 The car was an old mustang his father left him before he died.  Malcolm promised his father that he would take care of it. Get it washed regularly. Take it for oil changes. Vacuum the inside. But  all these years, this car, the one his father had used to drive him to baseball games and take him to school and football practice and this car where Malcolm’s father, a Vietnam war veteran who could out drink anyone before he was eighteen, was the same one Malcolm used to drive him to the hospital because Malcolm found his drugged up in bathtub with enough pills to poison an entire platoon.  “Please God,” Malcolm said.

             The engine roared. The car tail-spinning as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway, his vision blurry and the beer bullying his body.  The time on the dash read one-am. Malcolm wanted to be home by 12:30am because  Maribell got home from the hospital by 12:45am. She dreamed of being a nurse, Maribell, but for right was an assistant, picking up people’s and vomit, helping them go to the bathroom, wheeling to and from wherever they needed to go. Cleaning up their trays. Malcolm admired her. The way she studied till 3 or 4am before starting another shift. The way she never went out anymore. The way she always talked about helping people.

A roadblock stood in the middle of the road, a half-mile from home. Malcolm’s rubbed his eyes, as if doing so would rid him of the headache. If he back-tracked now he’d have to drive by the bar again and God knows if police are circling the area. He’d be late getting home, then having to Maribell what happened. But if he went past the roadblock, he might have to turn around anyway given what was further ahead beyond the bend in the road.

             Fog descended from the tall trees draped over the highway  Malcolm hated himself for how much he’d had tonight. He pressed hard on the gas, knowing he shouldn’t but doing it anyway because he wanted to be home and in his bed, next to Maribell, telling her from now on things would be different.

Malcolm swerved to his right, past a large tree that must have fallen onto the road from the night before, and as he passed the tree, returning to his lane on the highway, a dark silhouette backed away from the car, and green eyes, barely visible beneath the low stars glared back at him.

He slammed on the breaks. The car slid. A loud cry echoed through the night, and Malcolm felt the tires thumb before quickly leveling out. Malcom stopped the car.

Outside, The animal’s chest rose and fell slowly in an ever-expanding pool of blood. It’s eyes, a glorious green, moved to the left and right,  in pain but also looking for an explanation. It’s organs had risen to its mouth, he cough filling releasing its organs into the cold.

“Christ, Almighty,” Malcolm said to no one. “What have I done.”

Malcolm fell to his knees. Tears dripping from his eyes because he wanted to do something for this dog that still looked majestic with its beautiful fur and proud gaze even if the face of death.

He sat on the empty road next to the dog, waiting. Waiting for it to takes it last breath. Waiting for it to go from this world to the next.  But the dog kept moaning. Kept aching. Kept looking at him in that pool of blood with a look of betrayal, as if to say how could you let this happen to me?

The barking and the aching got louder, each progressive bark bouncing off the trees in the forest, ringing in his ears. And then the barks seemed to turn into screams. The screams so loud that it Malcolm had to cover his ears. But still, that didn’t help. Nothing helped. Still, the screamed filled his ears and filled the woods and filled his world. “Maie it stop, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Malcolm said.

But the eyes wouldn’t let him. Those rotten and yellow eyes staring at him at him is the dogs organs fell out it’s mouth. The eyes that pierced Malcolm’s heart. The eyes that had no room for mercy or forgiveness.

Malcolm stood up, returned to his car, and grabbed the baseball that he’d used for hitting practice. It was one his father had given him just before he passed. He had always told himself he’d buy a new one so that he could cherish it. But it was too late for that now.

He crossed himself like he used to do at church every Sunday, and asked God for forgiveness. Prayed that tonight would be a turning point in his life but he figured it wouldn’t be, at least not in the long term. But still, he hoped.

The bat sat neatly in his hands, raised over his head. He couldn’t bear to look in the eyes. Instead, he focused on the blood-soaked sur. The right hind leg bent out of place. At the last moment, just before the bat made contact, he bought the wood down hard on the head. The rotten eyer staring at him one last time.

             When he was done, he placed the bat back in the cab of his truck, picked up dog’s body, and placed it in the woods. But before he could bury it, he laid down next to it, tears dripping from his eyes, petting the fur with dried blood and staring into the lifeless eyes. “I’m so sorry,” Malcolm said. Just before the sun rose, he covered the dog with leaves, and then drove home, promising to himself that he never wanted to think about that night ever again.

                                                                                     III

             Malcolm wept in Sophie’s arms.

             “But what are you so worried about now?” She said.

             “It’ll be fifteen years to the day tomorrow,” Malcolm said.

             “You are a different person now,” Sophie said.

             “I still did it. It doesn’t matter. I’m still that weak man who made someone else suffer for my mistakes,” Malcolm said.

             “You’ve brought a lot of joy to people.”

             Malcolm stood up from the bed, eyed the window, and then kissed Sohpia. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps there was no reason to worry. Surely spending the last fifteen years of worrying and trapped in his guilt and shame wasn’t the way to go. Maybe the only person he needed to forgive was actually someone who didn’t exist anymore.

             Still, for all those years he couldn’t help but wake and hear the sound of that dog barking. The barking that had turned into a scream. And the scream that wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t help that most nights when he closed his eyes the first thing he was the blood stained snout and blood dripping out of mouth. And he could still taste the alcohol that he had that night and he could still feel the cold air against his skin. No, there was no escaping that night, even if it did change him.

             “Where are you going?” Emma said.

             “I’ll be right back.”

             Malcolm walked back downstairs. The lights in the living room were off and he held onto the banister as he walked. He felt a moment of freedom as he walked down the stairs, feeling relieved that he’d finally gotten that night off his chest, even though he hated the idea of ever talking about it.

             He walked past the window where he’d sat earlier in the night, waiting. He opened the door, walked onto the highway. Ahead of him, perhaps two miles down, was the forest where he’d hit and then buried that damn dog. That was before they had renovated the house. Before they could afford the SUVs that were sitting in the driveway. Before they had the manicured lawn.

             The air was cold, just like it had been that night. He looked toward the sky, and then back at the house. Lord, please watch over Emma, he thought to himself. At the bend on the road, he saw a pack of dogs with rotten yellow eyes just like he had seen that night. They walked together in unison toward Malcolm. When they were about twenty feet away, another dog joined them. It’s head was deformed. It’s bark was loud, its eyes unforgiving. It its mouth, it carried a baseball bat.