Chapter 4
Russell sat crookedly before his grand piano, pounding out the moody chords to Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C# Minor. The polished black Baldwin under his fingertips was in much better condition than the Graham’s baby Steinway, but it lacked the pre-war Steinway’s luster and allure. The Baldwin’s tone was fuller and richer, but it had no personality. Conversely, Debbie’s piano oozed character. With its yellow ivory keys—the result of generations of tap dancing fingers—and bass register that always leaned sharp no matter how carefully tuned, Russell always got the feeling of playing a real instrument whenever he played it, which was as often as he could.
When Prelude ended, he moved on to Trepak. He played from memory, his fingers pistoning with effortless precision. Their innate grace never ceased to amaze him. Hypnotized, Russell stared at his hands while allowing the reins of a daydream to lead him down the shadowy paths of yesteryear. Slowly, he closed his eyes and began to fall.
The doorbell rang, jerking him away from his subconscious wanderings. He still sat at the piano, only now he was playing the second movement to Beethoven’s Sonata Pathetique—a warm, tranquil piece and one of his favorites. Glancing at his hands, he asked his mind: Now how long have I been playing that one? Last thing I remember was starting Trepak.
The doorbell chimed again, and like a church bell in the country, its solemn knell reverberated through the cavernous house, catching hold of architectural angles and bending around corners. Warping. Tapering to a hook. Earlier that morning, Russell’s mother and father had taken off for Montgomery, mentioning something about antique shopping while flying out the back door. They might have said something else, too, but Russell had been in Piano World at the time and thus hadn’t heard. Now he was alone and couldn’t remember what time they said they would be back
After the third ring, Russell lifted his fingers off the keys, got up, and went to the foyer. "It’s probably Pete," he said, and when he opened the front door, he wasn’t surprised.
The skinny kid on the porch gripped in his hands a torn fragment of notebook paper, which he thrust in Russell’s unsuspecting face. "The…Perseids are…back," he sputtered between breaths. "They’re… peeking in…six…days. Wanna…watch them…again?"
Russell stepped back and said, "Yeah…sure. Cool, man. Hey, didja run here or something? You’re all out of breath. And you’re sweating like some sort of animal."
"I’m not an animal," Pete said, adding, "Yeah, I ran. I don’t know why. Just something to do, I guess."
"Well, get your scrawny ass inside before you die of heat stroke."
Pete stepped through the threshold. "You sound like my mom."
Russell closed the door, grabbed Pete’s bony shoulders from behind, and crowed in an affected New York City accent, "Oy vey, Petah! You’ahr gwowing so vewy tuwall."
"What’s that supposed to be," Pete asked, dragging Russell down the hall and into the kitchen, "a slam against my ethnicity?"
"Not at all. You’re not from New York."
Pete flushed. "You know what I mean."
"I’m just messin’ with you, buddy. Relax." Russell let go of Pete’s shoulders. "It’s just—I’ve been so goddamn bored this morning, I think it’s driving me nuts." Russell sat down at the table and patted Apollo’s head. "I’m conflicted, see, because I want to go out and do something, but at the same time, I don’t want to sweat. It’s a dilemma—that’s what it is. A goddamn dilemma."
Pete opened the cupboard, filled a glass under the tap. "Well, like I said, the Perseids are back. That’ll give us something to do—for one night, at least."
Russell got up and sauntered over to the refrigerator. "Say, you hungry? There’s some leftover spaghetti in here if you want any. Diane made it last night." He opened the fridge and gave Pete a serious look. "Your people are allowed to eat spaghetti?"
Russell saw his friend’s smile through the bottom of his tilted glass; Pete shot him the bird anyway. Laughing, Russell said, "Hey, it’s not my fault you’re ripe for the picking."
Pete lowered the glass "And what exactly makes me ripe for the picking?"
Russell tossed the plate of spaghetti into the microwave and set the timer. "Hmmm…let’s see…oh, I know! How about this: You’re the only Jew in Alabama with a Christian first name."
Pete wanted to throw back something witty and biting but instead settled with: "I’m the only Jew in Alabama."
Russell turned to check on the timer just as it let out its double-ding. Removing the steaming plate, he asked Pete again—seriously this time—if he wanted any. Pete shook his head in the negative. Russell shrugged and carried the plate to the table.
He was about to dig in— long fork poised over pasta, ready for a rapid descent—when the doorbell rang. Apollo bellowed a single deep bark. Russell reluctantly dropped the fork and got up.
Upon opening the front door and seeing Michelle Donovan standing on his porch, you could say Russell was more than a little shocked. Her stopping by wasn’t rare, but usually she arrived at prearranged, scheduled times, holding the handle of a guitar case in one hand. Since her lesson wasn’t until Wednesday and both of her hands were clearly empty, Russell couldn’t help but think that maybe she had a little more than music on her mind. This thought alone elicited ripples of excitement to radiate through his stunned body. He wasn’t exactly shy around attractive girls, but Michelle had an intense, domineering way about her that he found both alluring and daunting. It didn’t help that she was also the most sensitive girl he knew. A slow song on the piano or guitar could draw tears down her tan, Hellenic face, and Russell was pretty sure he was the only person in the world (or at least the town) who knew how to bring those tears to light. She never apologized when she wept either, and Russell liked her as much for that as he did for her penchant for cussing up a storm upon the slightest provocation.
"Hey, what’s up?" Russell said, holding the door open with one arm, nonchalantly leaning against the jam with the other.
"I’ll tell you what’s up," Michelle replied, pushing Russell out of the way and barging into the house. "Your friend Hector—that’s what’s up."
She barreled down the hall and into the kitchen, where Pete sat at the table skimming through one of Russell’s father’s Popular Mechanics. Pete looked up, waived, and went back to the magazine.
"Hey, Pete," Michelle said before turning to Russell. "He came by my house last night, in the middle of dinner, shit-faced as usual. He was lucky it was me who answered the door and not my dad, because he would’ve punched the fat fuck in his fat, fucking face. I tried being polite—you know, asking him to leave without making a whole lotta noise, but he started begging and whining to let him spend the night and—"
"Whoa…" Russell said, cutting her off. "You need to calm down, Michelle. What do you want me to do about it?"
"He’s your friend. Do something. Tell him to stop coming by my house." Michelle lowered her voice and whispered so only Russell could hear. "You know, I think he might have stuck around after I told him to fuck off, because Freddy started barking not long after I slammed the door on him. Now, he only barks when there’s an intruder, and when my dad went outside to see why he was making so much noise, I heard an engine start up out front. I bet you it was his Jeep."
As she whispered, she also sidled up close to Russell. Russell wasn’t sure why this had to be between them only, since it was no big secret that Hector was a jackass. At the same time, though, he didn’t shy away from her approach. Instead of taking the hint and draping a comforting arm across her shoulders, he just stared at the front of her black t-shirt, where the words THIN LIZZY ran across the breast in simple white lettering. Russell unabashedly eyed those nine letters while a song he wrote played in his head.
At the table, Pete, per usual, exhibited great tact by turning his chair away the moment their voices lowered. Now that he heard footsteps again, he turned around and asked Michelle if she wanted any spaghetti.
"No thanks, hon," she r
eplied. "Already ate."
Russell fired a look over the island that said Don’t you dare. Pete, in return, boldly smiled at his friend, darting his eyes to the pasta, which was already losing steam.
Russell said to the back of Michelle’s head: "I’m sorry, but I just remembered that I can’t talk to Hector for you."
"Really?" Michelle said in disbelief, whirling around. "Why’s that?"
"Because yesterday Pete and I decided that we’re going to find some new people to hang around with. Ain’t that right, Pete?"
Pete nodded behind the magazine.
"As of now, Hector is out of our lives. Maybe O’Brien, too. But Hector for sure."
Michelle gaped at him. "Where did all this come from?"
Russell went to the table, sat down, looked at his spaghetti, and said, "I don’t know, but it was a great idea—an idea whose time had come."
Once again, Russell found himself hovering over the plate with fork in hand. Steam had ceased rising from the pasta, but it still smelled like pure ambrosia. Meanwhile, with Apollo tagging behind, Michelle disappeared into the living room to think things over. To his right, Pete continued to thumb through the magazine.
At the foot of the table, Russell twirled his fork tines into the thick sea of snakes, splattering tomato sauce on his wrist but not caring, his mouth watering at the prospect of food. Bringing the fork to his lips, it suddenly dawns on him why he is so hungry. He never ate breakfast.
Then the doorbell rings—again.
"Shiiiiii…iiiit!" Russell hissed, pushing his chair away from the table and jogging for the door, mentally preparing to smack whoever was making him part ways with his meal.
Russell swung the door open, looked down, and saw a shirtless and distraught Mike O’Brien kneeling on the porch boards. Next to him was his fire plug of a dog, Huey. Both panted heavily, their stomachs heaving spasmodically, mouths and bodies raining saliva and perspiration onto the gray porch slats. The first thought that popped into Russell’s mind was that Hector had done something to them. He performed a cursory search of their bodies for bruises or gashes. When he didn’t find any, he remembered what Michelle had just told him—that Hector had gotten drunk last night. And while Hector could be a mean drunk, more often than not he turned pathetic and weak when really hammered. No, somebody or some thing was responsible for this. Then again, it was just a likely that this was another one of Mike’s shticks, executed solely to focus attention onto himself. What was obvious, however, was that O’Brien and his dog had run a good distance to get to where they were now—two and a half miles to be exact. So Russell approached the situation cautiously, not wanting to get lulled in if it turned out Mike was pulling something funny.
"Get inside, Mike."
The boy and the dog crawled indoors. Looking down at them, Russell sighed. "Stand up, Mike."
"I…can’t."
"You ran here?"
Mike tilted his head up and answered, "Yeah."
Russell allowed a few silent seconds to elapse before asking, "Well, do you mind telling me why you ran here? Because I’d like to know why you’re sweating all over the floor." He waited for a response, and when he didn’t get one, he went on: "You know it’s too hot to be doing that. You and Pete…and you know it’s way too hot for Huey to be running. He’s a bulldog, for Christ’s sake. They overheat easily—how many times do I have to tell you that?"
"I didn’t know where else to go," Mike said, looking away from Russell. Without explaining further, he scooched into the hallway. Huey followed.
Russell felt his anger beginning to boil over. He managed to keep it in check, though. But only barely. "Okay, one more time, O’Brien: Why…are…you…here?"
Mike crossed the threshold into the kitchen, and Pete lowered his magazine, shook his head, then went right back to the article. In the foyer, Apollo’s heavy footfalls crescendoed to a rumbling din. The Dane shot past Russell, into the kitchen. When Apollo saw the bulldog, he tried to stop, but the combination of forward momentum and smooth tiles sent him skidding into the island, where he stuck the corner broadside and tipped over, uttering a pained yelp as he went down.
Apollo immediately scrambled to his feet, hunkered down on his forepaws, and flashed his canines at the little dog. He barked in his full, booming voice, prompting Huey to respond with a guttural growl. At the same time, the smaller dog shrunk away, backwards, away from Apollo. Pete lifted his legs, and Huey cowered beneath them. Mike, meanwhile, retreated to the living room—still on all fours, like a crab—past Michelle, who stood in the door frame between the kitchen and the living room, watching the spectacle play out with wide-open blue eyes.
Russell interceded by grabbing Apollo’s collar and dragging him around Huey and then out the back door, which he held open with his hip. After releasing the Dane onto the patio, he shut the door. Sorry boy, he beamed telepathically through the window pane. This won’t be long, I promise. Outside, Apollo stared at his master with betrayed eyes—eyes that could have said, What did I do to deserve this? It wasn’t my fault. I swear.
Russell turned and ran to the living room, where Mike sat with his sweaty back pressed against the wall. Kneeling down, Russell leaned into the blonde kid’s face and shouted, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"
Taken aback by the volume of his voice, Russell glanced away in shame, only to see Michelle scowling down at him. All of a sudden he felt the need to apologize, but he didn’t know who to apologize to, or what to apologize for. With Mike, it was always one endless frustration after another. Sometimes the only way to get through to the idiot was by doing what he’d just done. How could he explain that to Michelle, who didn’t know O’Brien the way he and Pete did? She probably—no, make that definitely—thought he was a complete asshole now for screaming at poor, defenseless, little old Mike. At the same time, though, he could tell by the look on Pete’s faraway face that he had done the right thing.
And the yelling worked too, because O’Brien finally looked him in the eyes and said, "There are rabbits everywhere, Rusty." Licking his chops, he went on: "Bloody rabbits everywhere. In my backyard." He swallowed. "I think you were right. I think that coon had rabies."
Russell stood and backed slowly away. He sat on the couch, placed his elbows on his thighs, and said to O’Brien, "Why don’t you get a glass of water, Mike. While you’re at it, grab a bowl from the cupboard and give some to Huey, too."
Mike climbed to his feet and limped into the kitchen. Over O’Brien’s retreating head, Russell waved for Pete to come to the living room. Thankfully, Pete understood the gesture and came at once. He sat down next to Russell, and shortly after, Michelle sat next to Pete. All three looked over their shoulders at Mike sitting on the kitchen floor, gulping from a glass and stroking his dog’s flabby back.
"Don’t forget about Huey," Russell said.
Mike smiled at him, but something about his smile was wrong.
Pete whipped his head around and whispered, "Well—what do you want?"
"Did you hear—" Russell said. He lowered his voice and continued: "Did you hear what he said?" Then without saying another word, he took Pete and Michelle by their arms and led them to the piano room. He shut the door behind him and sat on the bench. Michelle sat down next to him.
"What’s with all the cloak and dagger?" Pete asked.
"I think we might have a situation here. You heard what he said, right Michelle?"
She nodded. "I heard, but it didn’t make any sense. You really shouldn’t have screamed at him like that."
Russell pursed his lips. The last thing he wanted right now was an argument with Michelle, especially over something about which she had no clue. "This isn’t one of his games, Pete. He’s scared."
"You’re going to have to give me more information." Pete said. "I didn’t hear a word he said."
Michelle filled him in, and Pete raised his bushy eyebrows and nodded. "Do you think it’s rabies?"
"I’m pretty sure. I th
ink he’s exaggerating about the number—it was probably only a couple—but I know when that kid is telling the truth. He saw something in his backyard that made him run all the way from his house to my house. I was thinking about it last night—you know, about how Mike came across that raccoon on Cuthbert Road in the middle of the day. Remember how he said that it had hissed at him? Well, as I was driving him home from Hector’s, I tried prying some more information out of him about it. I kept asking him things like ‘Did it walk funny?’ and ‘Was it foaming at the mouth?’ He got all antsy and dodged my questions. It bugged me at the time, because it didn’t seem like O’Brien—he loves to talk about animals. He’s always going on and on about Huey doing this and Huey doing that. You know how he is, Pete. So when he told me that he didn’t want to talk about the raccoon, I knew right away something was wrong—really wrong. I’ll tell you both what I think is going on here. I think a raccoon has, or had, rabies and has passed it on to a dog."
Pete, naturally, was skeptical. "A dog? Really?"
"Makes sense. What else is going to kill rabbits and lay them out in Mike’s lawn?"
"Well it doesn’t necessarily have to be a dog," Pete responded.
Russell shook his head. "You say that because you’ve never had one. Dogs will do stuff like that sometimes—go out, kill an animal, then drop it on their owner’s doorstep. It’s pack behavior, built into their genes. Michelle knows what I’m talking about."
Michelle nodded emphatically.
Russell went on: "They don’t do it all of the time, just occasionally. Apollo’s never done it, because I don’t let him out of the backyard alone. But O’Brien’s house backs up to a woods, and that means more game."
"So you think Huey is rabid?" Pete asked.
"Probably not. It could have been a stray that snuck in through a hole in the fence. Just the same, though, I wouldn’t get too close to him if I were you. Mike doesn’t seem like the type of dog owner who keeps up with his pet’s vaccinations.
Michelle saw her opening and jumped in. "Huey is the most out of shape dog I’ve ever seen. Mike doesn’t feed him right, and he doesn’t exactly come from a well-off family. Hell, I’ll say it; I’m just being honest. And since when has a bulldog ever chased down a rabbit, let alone a whole bunch of them? They’re too fat for that sort of thing."
"If he were rabid…" Russell speculated.
"He’s not rabid. Trust me," said Pete.
Michelle stood and clapped Pete across the back, "I’m with you on this one, Petey-boy."
"Well," Russell said, "I think something out there has rabies and we need to tell somebody about it. If it turns out I’m wrong, fine. If not, lock up your dog, Michelle."
Michelle looked down at her Chucks then, unsure of how to respond. What Russell had said opened a floodgate inside her. Beginning in her head, a warm wave of doubt cascaded down to her toes. The idea that an animal could instill so much dread in her, in effect, gave more power to that animal than she was comfortable ceding. An image of Freddy foaming at the mouth sparked in her mind.
"How do you know he isn’t making this all up?" Pete asked. "He’s pulled some crazy crap on us before."
"I’ve just got a feeling, that’s all. I can’t explain it, and I know you’re not going to accept that as an answer, Pete, so that’s why we’re going to drive over to his house, to make sure he’s not—"
"Wait. Why not just let the cops handle it?"
Russell exhaled, allowing a bit of his excitement to leave with his breath. "I guess you’re right. It’s not our place to get involved." Then, with the same silence he’d displayed when he ushered them into the room, he got up and walked out the door. Perplexed, Michelle and Pete followed.
In the kitchen, Mike O’Brien sat on the glossy tiles. Next to him, Huey lay supine on his back, his stumpy legs kicking air. From their corner of the living room, Russell, Pete, and Michelle looked on as Mike spun the dog like a contestant on "Wheel of Fortune." And he spun the poor, ugly thing way too fast. He’s going to kill him, Russell and Michelle thought. For his part, Huey appeared apathetic to the whole ordeal, behaving as if it were a normal, everyday occurrence (Russell, Pete, and Michelle fearfully assumed that it was a normal, everyday occurrence, and they were mostly right in their assumption), and, like a good dog, he laid back and took it. After a minute into Mike’s game, Huey let out a gurgling, wet bark and vomited over his upturned face. The lumpy, gray mess splattered across the floor in a wide, malodorous arc.
Mike stopped spinning his dog and looked up at the horrified faces in the living room. He grinned the silly, openmouthed grin of an impudent four-year-old who’s just gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His chin and upper lip were stained orange.
On the table, the plate of spaghetti was licked clean.