Christian Kiefer - The Animals

Can’t I stay up just a little while longer?

Show’s over and it’s already past your bedtime, she said.

OK, Jude said, his voice falling.

The boy disappeared into the hall with his mother and after a time Bill clicked off the television and wandered out into the kitchen. The black-covered paperback of The Tibetan Book of the Dead rested on

the counter and he lifted it and stood flipping through its pages until he found the image he had looked at before. The Great Mandala of the Peaceful Deities. It made no more sense to him this time than it had the first.

Catching up on your research? Grace said, coming into the room from the hall.

The book was still in his hand. He closed it and returned it to the counter now. It doesn’t make any sense.

Just ways to get through.

Through what?

Through to the other side.

The other side of what?

Of anything. I don’t know. I’ve only read like fifty pages. It’s pretty far out. Lamas and rituals and stuff like that.

Just don’t start making altars or burning incense or anything, all right?

I’m just trying to get far enough into it so that I can tell Fran I read it.

Fran’s that important?

She shrugged. Isn’t everyone?

No, he said.

She looked up at him. I was the one who put down her dog. It just seemed like her whole soul kind of leaked out of her when that animal died. She doesn’t need me to read the book. She just needs to be able to talk to someone.

You’re the best person I know, Bill said.

She smiled at him. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. She went to the kitchen counter and lifted a manila envelope from its surface. He had dropped it off at the veterinary office a few days earlier: a sheaf of forms from Idaho Fish and Game, some of which seemed impossible to complete. You wanna talk about this tonight?

Not tonight, he said.

It’s not just gonna go away.

He looked at her, saying nothing, only staring into her wide, beautiful eyes. He felt as if his body had filled with snow, as if dry and frozen powder shifted and blew and swirled everywhere through him. I just can’t do it tonight, he said.

OK, she said. I know it’s hard.

He nodded. That’s one word for it.

Maybe I can come up this week and you and me and Bess can all talk it out.

He nodded again. Think Jude’s still awake in there?

If you hurry.

He entered the boy’s room and sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him in the softly lit darkness.

What? the boy said.

Look, pal, about that guy. He’s not really a friend of mine, all right?

What do you mean?

He’s someone you should keep away from.

But he knows about the animals. And he knows your mom.

I know.

How does he?

I knew him a long time ago.

How long?

We can talk about that some other time, Bill said. Point is, if you see him again, I need to know about it.

OK.

I’m serious.

I know. The boy looked for a moment like he might cry.

You don’t have to be scared. Just don’t talk to him again. And if you see him and he tries to talk to you, just walk away. And tell me. Tell me if you see him somewhere, OK?

OK, Jude said. His eyes were tearing up.

Bill leaned in close and kissed his forehead. You don’t have to be afraid, he said. I’ll take care of it. I just wanted you to know because you’re a big boy and you should know what’s happening.

OK, Jude said.

I love you, pal, Bill said.

I love you too, pal, Jude said.

Bear hug?

The boy threw his arms around him and Bill squeezed him hard against his chest.

He swung the door partially closed, said good night one last time, and then clicked off the hall light and returned to the front of the house. Grace was seated on the sofa, a blanket pulled around her, watching television.

I need to talk to you about something, he said.

She did not turn toward him at first, instead laughing quietly at something on the screen. Murphy Brown. Candice Bergen turning to look at her co-anchor before deadpanning a joke about his toupee.

Grace, he said.

His hands went into his pockets and he could feel the velvet box that contained the engagement ring there and the thought of it made him crumble as if everything inside him had become a tower of ash.

Baby, what’s wrong? she said.

She was up now and he did not even know that his eyes had filled with tears until her arms came around him and he stood there watching the television warp and wobble, the laugh track rising in volume now, a scattering of applause mixed in with that curved wave of laughter.

What’s wrong? she said again.

I need to talk to you about something.

She pulled back and looked at him. You didn’t cheat on me, did you?

What? he said. No. And despite of everything he smiled. Why would I do that?

Well, then it can’t be that bad, she said.

He stood there looking at her and again the tears came.

What is it, baby? she said. What’s wrong?

Ah god, Grace, he said. It was all he could think of to say. Ah god.

THE PAIN WAS A WHITE LINE. HIS EYES WERE CLENCHED against it but still it came, running up the length of his arm and radiating into the cold flat light of the apartment bathroom. Susan was kneeling over him, her face throbbing with his pulse, and for a moment he could not remember where he was. Then it came back. Behind her, Rick stood in the open doorway. At Susan’s feet and knees: a pile of unspooled toilet paper. Try to keep still or I’m gonna mess it up, she said.

I’m trying, he said, and with it that white line seemed to burn through the center of him. Fuck, he said through his teeth.

That motherfucker, Rick said from the doorway. I’ll kick his fucking ass.

That’s not helping, Susan said.

You can’t just break a man’s finger, he said. You can’t do that.

Rick, Nat said weakly.

What, buddy? What do you need?

A drink.

Sure, man, he said. Anything you want.

Something strong.

You got it, Rick said, already disappearing from the doorway.

It was silent then, Susan wrapping his broken finger in toilet paper, leaning over him so that the neck of her T-shirt hung low before his eyes.

You’re staring down my shirt, she said.

He might have been embarrassed, would have been under normal circumstances, but there was too much pain and all he could do was grit his teeth as she brought the toilet paper up around the break again. He just reached out and broke it, he said.

I know.

There was nothing I could do. It was so fast. And he could see it all again in his mind. He had expected to be beaten, expected the cocaine rush to hold him steady while they punched at his body, at his face, but then Johnny had said simply, Hold up your hand, and Nat had looked at his own hand for a moment, as if expecting to see something there, and Mike had reached out and grasped his index finger and, in one quick movement, broke it sideways. For a brief instant he had stood with his hand out before him, that single finger askew, the tiny bone broken just after the knuckle. Even in his memory it seemed impossible.

Next time you miss a payment and I’ll break your arm or your leg, Mike told him. After that I bust in your skull.

Are we clear? Johnny had said.

And Nat had only been able to say one word: Fuck. Mike had been holding his arm but he released it now and Nat fell to his knees on the cold hard asphalt.

Good, Johnny had said. So we’re all clear. Let’s give it a week and we’ll try this again.

He had come stumbling into the casino after that and had been lucky only in that Rick and Susan were just turning out of the coffee shop and saw him there near the door. He told them only that he could not go to the hospital, that there was no money for it, that there was no money for anything.