John Lutz - Pulse

“Told her this was super important, and it involved you. She likes you. Then I said I was just going two blocks to pick up Teddy Boylston first. He’s a eighteen and has a license, so I’d be okay with him with my learner’s permit.”

“Will Teddy lie for you?”

“I know where he keeps his stash, so he’ll cooperate.”

“You oughtn’t use that shit,” Sherri said.

“It’s not heroin.”

Rory and Sherri had argued about this before, and both knew where it would end. She wasn’t going to use drugs, and Rory was into moderate use of marijuana and coke. She couldn’t talk him out of it. He couldn’t talk her into it. They lapsed into silence as Rory drove toward the county road.

They’d turned and driven about three miles when they saw the red cones on the road, and a W ORK Z ONE sign. A small Bobcat earthmover was jolting and jerking back and forth while two darkly tanned guys without shirts stood leaning on shovels watching. One of them was Daryl Smith.

When Rory steered the Chevy to the shoulder and parked, Daryl nodded to Sherri and pointed precisely toward the spot where Rory had buried the dog.

Sherri clambered out of the car and ran to it. Rory followed. He looked over at Daryl, who shrugged and walked toward the Bobcat to shovel and smooth a mound of dirt it had left.

Rory stood beside Sherri, and there at her feet was what was left of Duffy. The remains were rotted and unidentifiable as a dog except for the once fluffy black coat, now lackluster and coated with dirt.

“You sure it’s him?” Rory asked.

Sherri sobbed, did a half turn, and dug her forehead into his chest. She began to sob, then quickly gathered herself, straightened up, and swiped her arm across her nose. She nodded. “It’s Duffy. But he had a collar.”

“This dog doesn’t have one. Maybe it’s not-”

“It’s Duffy,” Sherri said firmly. She began to look around. “They’ve moved so much with that little bulldozer.”

But Rory knew they hadn’t moved enough. The Bobcat had gone nowhere near where he’d thrown Duffy’s collar into the brush. If the collar was still there, Sherri was sure to find it. She was moving slowly, head down, playing her lead foot back and forth through the weeds with each step as she advanced toward where the collar must be. Rory knew that if the collar was still there, it would look better if he found it.

He mimicked Sherri’s slow, dragging walk and pretended to search with her, but moving at a different angle. The terrain was unchanged enough that he was pretty sure he knew where the collar had landed when he tossed it the night of Duffy’s death.

Damn! There it was, a touch of faded red in the green-brown undergrowth. He considered leaving it there, but knew it would be found. If not by Sherri, then by someone else. Maybe Daryl. He might be able to bend down and slip the collar into one of his pockets. He also might be seen. And if he did manage to transfer the collar to a pocket, what then? Sherri might be all over him, even if the outline of the collar didn’t show in his tight Levi’s.

He made his decision and thought no more about it. The wisest alternative would be to find the collar.

He went to it, kneeled down with his back toward Sherri, and rubbed the dust-covered metal tags on his pants. Half turning out of his stoop, he held the unbuckled and weathered red collar high. “This it?”

She hurried toward him.

He rubbed the tags with his fingers as if cleaning them so he could read them. Now his would be the only prints on them, only smeared.

“Says Duffy,” he told her sadly.

She took the collar, held it to her with both hands, and started crying again.

“I’m being stupid,” she said after a while.

Rory held her and patted her back. “No, not stupid. You loved your dog, is all.”

Daryl Smith walked over and leaned on his shovel near them. “It yours?”

Rory thought that should be obvious, but he said nothing as Sherri nodded.

“Thanks for calling and letting me know,” she said.

Daryl shrugged, still leaning with both hands on the long wooden shovel handle.

“She’ll be okay,” Rory said.

Sherri stood straighter and moved away from him. “There’s a place in the backyard where I wanted to bury him.”

Daryl glanced at the Chevy. “Maybe I can get you something so the trunk don’t get messed up.”

“I brought a plastic bag in my purse,” Sherri said. “If you can get Duffy into it. I… don’t want to watch.”

“That’s fine,” Daryl said.

Rory waited with him while Sherri went to the car and got the black plastic bag from her purse. She handed it to Daryl and walked back to the car, standing by it and staring down the empty road.

The Bobcat ceased its clanking and roaring, and the other two construction guys watched as Rory held the bag open and Daryl used his shovel to move the dead dog into the bag. Rory fastened the bag tightly with its yellow plastic pull ties.

Daryl stooped and picked up the red collar. “She musta dropped this. You want it?”

Sherri was standing by the open trunk of the Chevy, watching them.

“I better take it,” Rory said, and accepted the collar. “She might wanna save it.”

“Women,” Daryl said.

“Dogs get like kids to them,” Rory said.

Daryl nodded toward the plastic bag. “I’m glad that’s just a dog and it ain’t my kid.”

“Yeah, well… we’ll get him buried, maybe even say a few words.”

“Put up a little marker. Here lies Duffy. Fetch in peace.”

“Don’t let her see you smile,” Rory said, starting with the bag toward Sherri and the car’s open trunk.

Rory dug Duffy’s second grave at the far end of Sherri’s backyard. Her ten-year-old brother, Clyde, watched somberly from a distance.

When the grave was finished, Rory placed the plastic bag containing Duffy in it, as well as the collar and tags. Sherri mumbled a few words that Rory could barely hear, then picked up a handful of dirt and tossed it on the bag. Then she backed away, and Rory went to work again with the shovel.

When he was finished, Clyde came closer. “You gonna put a cross on the grave?”

“No,” Rory said. “That’d just make people curious and they might disturb it. This way Duffy will rest in peace.”

“Do dogs do that?” Clyde asked. “Wouldn’t they rather be running around?”

“Ask your sister.”

“She went on in the house. She was crying.”

“Well, she’s upset.”

“I miss Duffy, too. I don’t cry about it.”

“Girls are different.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Rory put the shovel back in the garage, then went to an outside faucet and began washing off his hands.

Sherri was back outside now, and stood close to him. “Take one of these, why don’t you?”

He saw that she was holding three small white pills in her pink palm.

“I thought you were so against drugs.”

“These are prescription. They’re different.”

“So what are they?”

“Loraza-something or other. My mom takes them to help her sleep. If you take them, they’ll make you feel better. Not so sad.”

“Have you taken any?”

“Yeah. Two. I brought you three because you’re bigger.”

Rory didn’t want to admit he wasn’t terribly broken up about Duffy’s passing, so he accepted the pills and put them in his mouth, then ran faucet water into his hand and scooped water into his mouth and swallowed.

“You got water all over your shirt,” Sherri said. Her dark eyes were red and swollen.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked, turning off the spigot.

“I think so.”

“Your mom home?”

“No, but Clyde is. We can’t mess around.”