* * *
"Hello."
"Hi, Mrs. Whitford. Is Rusty there?"
"Oh, hi Pete. Um, yeah, he’s here, but…um…he’s up in his room right now. Is this important?"
Before Pete can respond, the line crackles and hisses (Mrs. Whitford covering the receiver with her hand, Pete surmises) and Diane shouts something. A few seconds later, Russell replies faintly, as if an ocean’s distance away. Then Diane comes back on the line. "He’s getting it upstairs, Pete."
There is a click and Russell’s voice booms in Pete’s left ear.
"Whadya want, Pete?"
Hearing the irritation in Russell’s voice, Pete hesitates and nearly hangs up.
"I…I…" Pete stammers.
Russell sighs into the line. "Just say it, Pete."
"The thing is—" Pete starts confidently before faltering. He feels his face turning red.
Soothingly, Russell says, "Okay, listen. I’m not mad, and I’m not mad at you."
"The thing is," Pete repeats, "is—well, first, hi, but I guess I just called to remind you—with everything that’s been going on lately—well, I thought you’d might forget."
"Forget what?"
"The Perseids. This Friday."
"What are you talking about?"
Now it is Pete’s turn to sigh frustratingly into the receiver. “The meteor shower—remember?"
"Look, man, I’ve been through some serious shit today. Haven’t you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"Jesus, I thought I was the last person to find out about stuff like this. What do you do, Pete, hide in a cave all day?"
"I was studying for the SATs. What happened?"
"I shouldn’t be telling you this. In fact, I was specifically told not to talk to anyone about this, but fuck that. I’m telling you anyway."
"Telling me what?"
"If you’d stop interrupting for a second—I swear to God, Pete, sometimes your manners are worse than Hector’s."
At the mention of Hector’s name, Russell’s and Pete’s hearts lurch in their chests.
"Go on," Pete coaxes, when he’s finally able to.
"So today Busby sends me out to fix some old lady’s air conditioner, but when I get there, she’s sitting in her chair."
Russell stops, gathers himself, and plows on.
"She was dead, Pete." He has difficulty getting the words out. They keep wanting to crawl back down his throat. When he speaks again, his voice has the phlegmy timbre of bottled emotion. He unintentionally blurs the next three words together. "Facerippedoff."
"What was that?" Pete asks.
"I said, ‘her—face—was—ripped—off.’ Do I have to spell it out for you? Everybody knows about this. Why don’t you?"
"Wow" is all Pete can muster.
"Wow is fuckin’ right. You’re the first person I’ve told this to—after Price, that is—but somehow everybody knows. You know how it is around here. Once the gossip mill starts up—"
"The rumors spread like wildfire," Pete finishes
"Exactly. Now here’s something that’ll really leave you speechless. It was a dog that did it. You hear me: a DOG!"
It quiets Pete too much; he is silent for close to a minute.
"Pete? You still there?"
"A dog?" He sounds puny now.
"Yes. A dog. There were pawprints leading in from the back door. And don’t say it was a coyote, because I know what I saw, and it wasn’t a coyote."
"Do you know what this means?" Pete asks.
"Hell yeah, I know what it means. And so does Sheriff Price. He’s trying to downplay the whole thing, telling me not to tell anyone what I think—what I know—I saw. In a couple of days every last yokel in this God-forsaken town will know about it. Then they’ll put two and two together. First, they’ll take what happened over at Mike’s the other day and add that to what happened today. Then they’ll start with their talkin’ and their beard strokin.’ And I think you know what happens after that."
"One plus one equals a million."
"Hillbilly math. You’re lucky you don’t have a dog."
"Wait," Pete chimes in. "It doesn’t have to be that way."
"Oh yeah? All it takes is one rock to start an avalanche. We’ve got two."
"It won’t happen that way."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Because they can run an article in the paper explaining the precautions people can take to prevent the transmission of—"
"Sure. But who’s going to follow advice from a newspaper, especially ours? People are just going to do what they’ve always done around here: they’re going to take the law into their own hands. Get ready for a lot more bloodshed, Pete. You thought we saw a lot of dead critters at Mike’s house…"
"I’m glad I don’t have a dog."
"Morons."
"Not everybody will act so irrationally."
"You’re right," Russell agrees. "But enough will. Too many will. They’ll worry about their livestock, and they’ll worry about their kids."
"I didn’t think about the kids," Pete says.
"That will be their first rationale for doing the things they’re going to do. The kids. It’s always about the stupid kids."
"Shudder to think," Pete says, trying to sound poignant but failing.
There is an uncomfortable pregnant pause, with only the minute pops of telephone static to fill the vacuum of their mutual silence. Russell licks his lips and says, "Pete, do you mind if I open up to you about a couple of things that have been bothering me lately?
"No. Go ahead."
Russell begins: "I don’t know what has gotten into me."
"What do you mean?"
"This past week. This whole summer, really."
"I haven’t noticed—"
"It’s like something crawled up my ass when school let out in May, but I don’t know what. I feel like my fuse has been cut short. I’m always on the verge of exploding at people who don’t deserve it. At you, even."
"At me?"
"Yeah, you. When you bailed on me yesterday and left me to deal with Mike on my own, I wanted so badly to wring your bony little neck. How could you leave me alone with that freak? I wanted to call you up and scream those exact words into your ear, but I stopped myself before I could. I ended up brooding over it in my room last night. I felt like such a pansy, too. I mean, what would it have accomplished had I called you just to yell at you? More to the matter, why would anybody in their right mind ever do such a thing?"
"Entropy?"
"Christ, Pete," Russell says, "You and your goddamn nerd words. And, yes, before you ask, I know what entropy means. But tell me this—I can’t believe I’m actually yelling at you when I told myself I wouldn’t—why is this all piling up on me? Huh? You got an answer for that one? While you were sitting in your room, studying for your precious SATs, I was prying Mike O’Brien off my dog and coming across dead, little old ladies with missing faces. Oh, I forgot to mention that first part. Yesterday, O’Brien tackled Apollo. He jumped on his back and tried to ride him like a horse. Nearly scared him to half to death. I had to kick him out of my house. I could’ve used a little help from my best friend—that would be you, in case you forgot."
Pete sputters and mutters before the words catch. "You know I can’t stand that idiot. He’s faking it. You know that, right?"
"Oh no, Pete. He is definitely not faking it. He’s loonier than either of us has ever imagined. Certifiably nuts, is more like it. If you’d been there to see the look in his eyes when he ran at me and Apollo—charged at us—you’d understand. You really should have been there. You should have had my back."
"I’m sorry, but you know I’m not big enough to protect you."
"You were big enough to intentionally piss off Hector the other day."
"That was different. That had to be done."
"Why? For the love of God, why? You know how he gets when people contradict him."
"Somebody has to stand up to
him."
"You? You’re practically a skeleton."
"And you? You’re the only one he’s afraid of, but you’d never take him on."
"Why should I? What could I possibly gain by going up to Hector and saying ‘You know, you really need to cut out that Bareback Friday bullshit and bossing people around all the time. It’s really quite annoying. And, oh yeah, feel free to punch me in the stomach, too. I want you to show me how big you are and how small I am.’?"
"Yes! Exactly! Say exactly that to him! He’s scared of you, Rusty. You confuse the hell out of him. Do it once. Please! You’ve had to have noticed the face he makes when you answer one of his questions with one of your own. It’s the same look a person gets when he walks into a dark room, turns on the light, and everybody jumps up and yells SURPRISE!"
"Hey, I’m done with Hector. Finito," Russell says. "I thought you were, too."
"I am, I am. But if you ever run in to him again—like at Keller’s or something—tell him what you just told me. I promise you that not only will he not punch you, he’ll actually think you’re joking around with him. Then you can start screaming all these horrible obscenities at him—calling him a fat fuck, a lousy cock sucker, just going on and on in the most degrading, condescending way, really laying into him—and then either one of two things will happen: he’ll either stare at you, confused, or he’ll play it all off as another joke and clap you on the back—you know, Rusty being Rusty. But later on, when he’s alone, he’ll start thinking about the names you called him, and then he’ll realize that you weren’t kidding around. Then he’ll be hurt. He’ll be defeated."
"I don’t think I’ll be trying that."
"Why not?" Pete whines.
"Because it’s pointless. I don’t want to ‘defeat’ anyone. Not even Hector."
"You’re just saying that because you don’t believe you can."
"No. I’m saying that because it’s an exercise in futility—this male, ego-driven, pissing contest we’re all expected to take part in. I think it’s stupid, and so should you."
"So you’re scared?"
"Of what?"
"Of Hector."
"No, I’m not."
"Then why won’t you fight him?"
"Entropy," Russell says victoriously.
"That doesn’t even make sense."
"Or does it make too much sense?"
It is too easy.
"You’re just like O’Brien," Pete says. "You turn it on and off."
"Turn what on and off?"
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don’t, Pete. Explain."
Bait and hook.
And dodge:
"Look," Pete says, swinging the conversation full circle, "the Perseids are at their peak this Friday. If you want to watch them on my roof like we did last year, you’re more than welcome to come over. That’s all I really called to say."
Russell breaks in suddenly. "Pete, are you scared?"
There is enough seriousness in Russell’s voice to warrant a semi-resolute response.
"Of Hector: not as much as I used to be. Of O’Brien: no. Of some supposed rabies outbreak: not really; I stay indoors most of the time anyway, and I don’t have any pets. Everything else is irrelevant."
"You see, that’s where you’re wrong, ol’ buddy. Everything is relevant. You bailing on me when I needed you most probably being the most relevant thing of all. Please don’t let me down again. I need you on my side. Your sanity is refreshing."
"Of course," Pete says reassuringly. "I said I was sorry, but I guess I’ll say it again: I’m sorry for leaving you alone with O’Brien yesterday, and if I can make it up to you, let me know."
"That’s all I wanted to hear. It’s good to have you back, Pete, though I guess you never really left."
"Been here all along."
Russell can hear Pete’s smile through the phone.
"And Pete," Russell says.
"Yeah?"
"You don’t have to prove anything to Hector—or to anybody else. Please remember that."
"I will."
"Because when you graduate and go off to college, things will change. I can see you cruising into Riley ten years from now behind the wheel of a brand-new Ferrari, breezing past all the people who hassled you in high school. Just to rub it in, you know. They’ll still be working at McDonald’s and Wendy’s—most likely as managers, but still working there—maybe unclogging sewer drains or fixing downed power lines for Public Services. It doesn’t really matter where those morons end up, because, trust me, when you roll down the window to laugh, they’ll hear it. That’s what victory sounds like. That’s how you defeat someone."
Echoes of déjà vu ripple through Pete’s mind. "Thanks," he replies. "I needed to hear that."
"We all do sometimes."
"Rusty?"
"What?"
"Was her face really ripped off?"
"Pretty much. It was brutal."
"Wow!"
"Goodnight, Pete."
"Goodnight."
Russell lowers the phone into its cradle, walks the breadth of the narrow hall and enters his room, where he plops face-first onto his bed and gently sobs into his goose down pillow. His muffled cries go unnoticed by his parents, who are downstairs staring at the TV, but Apollo, who sits next to Diane and Darrel, hears them. Within a matter of seconds, the clomp-clomp-clomp sound of the Great Dane climbing the stairs reaches Russell’s ears. He removes the tear-moistened pillow from his face in time to see Apollo push the slightly ajar door further open and let himself into the room. Russell sits upright and reaches out. With a jingling of his tags, adroit Apollo leaps onto the mattress and into his master’s waiting arms.
Into the dog’s felt-covered ear, Russell whispers, "He’s never going to win. I want him to so bad, boy. But he won’t, and I don’t know why."