Russell Banks - Lost Memory of Skin

Einstein’s gone mute and has a nasty habit of plucking out his own breast feathers. The Professor claims that all the parrot needs is a larger cage and regular interaction with humans. He’ll soon open up. African grays are like chimpanzees, highly social creatures that become depressed and self-mutilating when not sufficiently stimulated, the Professor explains as they return to the van lugging Einstein’s new cage, which is nearly as large as the Kid’s tent, and bags of dog food and parrot food. The Kid didn’t have a clue as to the cause of Annie’s crusted sores and bald patches, but back at the Causeway the Professor had diagnosed it immediately by stroking the poor animal behind one ear, invoking an involuntary scratching motion of the hind leg on that side. Then the other ear, and her other hind leg automatically tried to scratch her loose belly.

The Pedal-Pinna reflex, he pronounced.

How’d you know that?

It’s the most common disease afflicting dogs in the Third World. For all practical purposes, Annie is a Third World dog.

Still, the Kid is having second thoughts about Einstein and Annie. He’s wondering if he should have liberated them from Benbow’s in the first place. He says, I got a dog with skin cancer and a parrot who needs to fucking party. How’m I gonna take care of them when I can’t even barely take care of myself?

The Professor flips open the rear door of the van, and together they lift the cage, the bags of food, the dog, and the parrot in his new cage and place them carefully inside the vehicle. The Professor wipes his brow with a handkerchief and says, Believe me, you’ll take better care of yourself if you have to take care of Annie and Einstein. I’ve studied the relationship between homeless people and their companion animals. Trust me.

I can’t afford shit like cages and humungous bags of food. And vets and medicine for scabies. It’s only ’cause you’re shelling out for it that we got it now. But what about two or three weeks from now? You still gonna be covering costs? I don’t think so, man.

Two or three weeks from now you’ll be able to pay for it yourself. You’re not going to let them starve or die for lack of medicine or attention.

So your theory says.

Right. Now get in. We’re going to visit the veterinarian.

ALL’S WELL UNDER THE CAUSEWAY. NIGHT IS coming on. Cook fires are burning, tents pitched, shanties up and tightened against the damp breeze off the Bay. A pair of men fish for their supper with bamboo poles; another pair puts the finishing touches on the latrine. Rabbit hobbles over to the Kid’s tent and holds on to Annie’s rope while the Kid applies salve to the dog’s scabs and raw running sores. The two men talk in low voices to the dog, comforting her. Inside his cage on the ground nearby, Einstein watches and listens. The Professor silently stands over the Kid and Rabbit. Suddenly Einstein speaks. The words are the Kid’s, but the voice is Trinidad Bob’s: Good dog. Good dog. Good dog. This’ll hurt but it’ll make you feel better soon. Good dog. Good dog.

The Kid smiles and looks up at the Professor who smiles back, all teeth and red lips and facial hair. He tells the Kid he’ll check in on him tomorrow and turns and leaves. The Kid and Rabbit go back to applying salve to Annie’s sores. Good dog. Good dog. Good dog.

THE PROFESSOR STANDS BEFORE THE OPEN refrigerator like a conductor at the podium in front of his orchestra ready to begin the evening’s opening performance. Gloria enters the kitchen behind him and leans against the door jamb with her arms folded across her chest. Except for the refrigerator light, the room is dark. The Professor likes eating in the near dark. The pale glow from the refrigerator reflects off Gloria’s spectacles, a pair of orange disks.

She says in a low, flattened voice that she received two disturbing pieces of information today.

The Professor seems not to have heard her. He reaches with one hand for a jug of sweetened iced tea and with the other for a plastic container of macaroni and cheese and carries them to the table. He returns to the refrigerator for a meat loaf wrapped in aluminum foil and places it on the table. Methodically he carves off half the meat loaf and slides it onto a dinner plate and ladles the macaroni and cheese onto the plate, covers both with plastic wrap and puts the plate into the microwave and sets it for seven minutes’ cooking time. Gloria remains silent throughout. The Professor fills a tall glass with iced tea, takes a sip, turns to his wife and says, Really? “Two disturbing pieces of information”?

Yes. From a phone call this morning. And from a visitor this afternoon.

The Professor’s alarm system has been triggered: his wife sounds not angry or hurt, as usual, but confused. Really? A phone call and a visitor?

A phone call from a man claiming to be your father. And a visitor claiming to be a detective in the Calusa police department.

Really?

Yes. He showed me his badge and ID.

And what did you tell the man claiming to be my father?

At first I thought he was some kind of con artist. I told him what you have always told me. That your father and mother were killed years ago in a car crash in Alabama.

But he convinced you otherwise. Thus your disturbance.

Yes.

May I ask you how he convinced you that he was my father?

He didn’t want anything from me or you. Money or credit card numbers. And he knew things.

Such as?

About us. Me. And the twins. Their names. And your childhood and college years. Things he didn’t need to lie about.

And I do?

I didn’t think so. Until the detective came to say that he wanted to speak with you. There were two of them. Your father, the man who said he was your father, he said the same thing on the phone. About the detectives. They asked him questions about you.

Did the men claiming to be detectives say what it was they wished to discuss with me?

No. They wouldn’t tell me anything.

What sort of questions did they ask the man claiming to be my father?

He didn’t say.

They are both silent for a moment. The microwave timer dings, and the Professor removes the plate of food and carries it to the table and sits down before it. He removes the plastic wrap carefully and picks up a fork and begins to eat rapidly, voluminously, one heaping forkful after another, washed down with great gulps of iced tea, as if he is alone in the room eating in the near dark.

Who are you? She has a stricken look on her face and stands stock-still, as if she dare not move or the room and all it contains will fly apart and suddenly reveal itself to have been only a stage set, replaced by another stage set that is about to be replaced by a third and a fourth and so on. Really, who are you? Who am I married to? Who is the father of my children?

I am entirely whom I appear to be. Glory-Glory-Hallelujah.

But your father, your parents…

Yes, I said they were dead. And it’s as if they are dead. As if they were killed in a car accident years ago. As if I were a Jew and cut off my hair and sat shiva seven days for them. The Professor lowers his head and resumes eating.

I don’t understand. He said, your father said, the police were asking him questions about you. And then they were here, a pair of them. Detectives. She lays a business card next to his plate and returns to the doorway. They left that card and said for you to call them or come to police headquarters downtown.