* * *
"Pete’s not coming," Russell announced to Michelle as she climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.
She shot him a sarcastic glance over her shoulder. "Oh, really? That’s too bad."
Russell idled the pickup away from the curb. "He said he has to study for the SAT’s."
"Of course he does," she replied, tossing the flyers onto his lap then fastening her seatbelt. "You didn’t happen to see the news last night by any chance?"
"Nope."
"You missed quite a show then. Get this: they were doing a report on the ‘murder’ from a couple of days ago, and this reporter was interviewing Price about it. And Price said—are you ready?—that they were currently looking for suspects and that her face was never ripped off as previously reported. He went on to say that her throat had been cut—not bitten. That fuckin’ idiot."
Russell mulled it over while Michelle twisted in her seat. Then, calmly, he said, "But her throat was bitten. It was torn out. And the tracks in the kitchen—"
"Hey, I believe you, but that asshole Price obviously has some sort of agenda because he’s lying through his goddamn teeth. Why would he do that, Rusty?"
"I don’t know," he said, racking his brain for an answer. Somewhere deep down he had an answer, but, for the moment being, it was lost to him. Whatever Price was trying to cover up, it would surface eventually. No secret lasts forever, and he had a hunch that once the sheriff’s secret was revealed, it would end up costing him dearly.
But what is he trying to hide? Everybody knows rabies was the cause of both incidences. So why say otherwise?
Russell changed topics. "Forget about Price. What about Freddy? Get any calls?"
"Not yet. And I don’t think I will—not with the way things are now."
She means the panic. People are shooting strays now. Last night, at two fifteen, I heard the crack of a rifle coming from the outskirts of town. And I know why that shot was fired, too. People are scared, and when people are scared, they don’t think. It’s not like in the movies where one or two people remain calm in the midst of chaos and lead the way to safety. In real life, everybody panics, everybody runs around screaming with their hair on fire. No one thinks clearly. Heroes don’t exist in the real world.
"You may be right," Russell said. "To be honest with you, I don’t think we’re going to find Freddy alive. But we’ll ask around one more day. That way you can tell your dad you tried your best."
He reached out to pat her knee, hesitated.
Before he could bring his hand back to the steering wheel, Michelle snatched it with hers. Caressing his long fingers, petting them, she said, "I appreciate what you’re doing for me. Really, I do."
"Don’t mention it," he said. "I’m here to help."
Letting go of his hand, she glanced briefly at his face, then, just as quickly, looked away.
"Can I ask you something, Michelle?"
"Yeah, sure."
"What’s your dad’s problem?"
"You mean about him not getting off his sorry ass and looking for his own stupid dog?"
"Yeah," Russell laughed nervously, "that."
"I don’t know. I think he blames me for Freddy running away, even though he’s the one who left the gate open—twice. And there’s also the fact—I’ve never told anybody this—that Freddy was supposed to be my dog."
"What?!"
"Yeah. My dad bought him for me when I turned seven. He was a puppy then, but I still hated him."
"Because he was a Doberman?"
"No—because he was a dog. Dogs are unpredictable. I used to be terrified of dogs when I was younger—that’s another thing I’ve never told anybody. I still am, but I’ve gotten better."
"In what way?" Russell asked.
"In what way what?"
"Why were you scared of dogs? Was it their size, their bark, their teeth…their smell?"
"All those things! You’ve got to remember, I was just a little girl, and when you’re small and a girl, you frighten easily. Old people used to scare the hell out of me with the way they walked around all hunched over, and their saggy faces, and their cold, dry hands. Those kinds of things really bothered me. So it wasn’t just dogs, you know."
"So why—" Russell began, then stopped.
"Why did my dad buy me a dog when he knew I couldn’t stand the sight of one?" Michelle finished. "I’ve thought about that a lot, and I guess maybe he assumed that if I were to raise one from a puppy, I would overcome my fear. Or maybe he just wanted a dog of his own, so he bought one and gave it to me as a…I don’t know…a goof."
"Ha-ha," Russell said dryly.
"I know, right? ‘Very funny, Dad. Can I get an anaconda next?’"
"You were afraid of a puppy?" Russell couldn’t help himself. He thought the question might put her on the defensive, but he tossed it out there anyway.
"No, but I was afraid of what he would become. Come on, Rusty, I knew what a Doberman Pinscher was when I was seven. I knew Freddy would turn mean eventually. And guess what? I was right! Some dogs are fucked from the start. I don’t know why things have to be that way, but they are. You can’t change nature."
Russell felt himself puffing up, growing preachy—like Pete—but he didn’t care. What he had to say needed to be said. "You see, Michelle, that’s where I’m going to have to disagree with you. All dogs are inherently good. It’s their owners that turn them bad, by abusing them and training them to attack other dogs and people without discretion."
He turned the steering wheel aimlessly, not knowing where he was going but knowing exactly where he was heading. They were on the short side street that forked to become Crooked Back Lane. Realizing this, he stopped, made a U-turn, and went the opposite direction.
"I wish I could feel that way," Michelle replied, "but I can’t. It’s not that I hate dogs or anything, because I don’t. But at the same time, I can never feel totally comfortable around them when I’m alone. I’ve been that way my whole life. Whenever I used to swing on my swing set, I’d watch Freddy out of the corner of my eye. Even now, when I’m taking out the trash or walking out the front door, he’s there by the fence waiting for me, looking at me. And sometimes he’ll walk up to me and sniff me—you know…down there. Other times he’ll just sit next to his dog house and stare at me and do nothing. That scares me even more because I know—I just know—he’s planning something. I know what he’s capable of."
"Capable of what?"
"Of tearing me to fuckin’ pieces! He’s a Doberman Pinscher, Rusty! My dad picked the meanest breed because he knew it would scare me the most. That motherfucker!"
Russell drove. He said nothing and wondered if Michelle noticed the pack of strays emerging from the copse of pines to their right. At least twenty of them, walking skeletons with rows of knobby vertebrate writhing atop mangy, arched backs.
Of course she doesn’t notice them. She hates dogs (or, at the very least, dislikes them strongly) and people refuse to see what they hate most.
"That motherfucker," she repeated softly, shaking her head, "He did it on purpose."
Russell expected her to cry then, but she didn’t. Not even a sniffle.
"Are you scared of Apollo?" he asked.
It took her a while. "No. Apollo’s a good dog."
Russell knew she was holding back, so he pressed, hoping for an admission. "Not even the tiniest bit?"
Again, she hesitated. "No. I like Apollo. He makes me feel safe—then again, he’s not a Doberman."
"But he’s still a big dog."
"Yeah, I know. But he’s one of the good big dogs."
"Because he’s a Great Dane?"
Annoyed, Michelle said, "Yeah, because he’s a Great Dane. What’s with all the questions?"
He followed her question with another question, because he had to keep her looking in his direction. If she were to turn and look out her window, she would see another pack of dogs mingling in an alleyway between two houses,
sniffing butts, rolling in the dirt, just shooting the breeze. Most were strays, but some had collars and appeared well-fed.
Russell searched for a Doberman but found only a Chocolate Lab, a Dachshund, a Miniature Schnauzer, and about five mongrels.
"I don’t know," Russell answered. "I guess I’m surprised to find this out about you. If you don’t mind me asking, would you be scared of Apollo if he were O’Brien’s dog?"
"I know what you’re getting at, Rusty. I see right through you."
No you don’t.
"You think I’m more scared of the owner than I am of the dog."
He had to admit: that’s exactly what he was getting at. She had seen right through him—this time. But it had been a fluke. Pure luck.
"Yeah," Russell conceded, "that’s kinda what I was thinking."
"Well," Michelle huffed, "you’re wrong. I already told you I’m afraid of certain breeds more than others. Why don’t you believe me?"
"Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I could tell you were lying about Apollo."
"I wasn’t," she fumed.
"You hesitated, and then you breathed through your nose. After every other question I’d asked, you’d breathed through your mouth before answering. That’s how I could tell you were lying."
"You noticed my fucking breathing?" She was shocked by his perception, yet she didn’t refute it.
"I notice lots of things," Russell replied before abruptly turning down a side street.
Centrifugal force threw Michelle’s body against the passenger door. "Owww!" she yelled. "What’s your problem? Can’t you drive?
Russell could drive just fine. His record was spotless: no tickets, no accidents. What he was doing was protecting her from the splattered dead thing on the road ahead of them. Had he not veered left at the last second, they would have passed the tawny, lumpy mound that may or may not have once been a Golden Retriever, and as good as Russell was at keeping the spotlight on himself, he didn’t think there would have been any way for Michelle not to have seen the dead dog smeared across the pavement like strawberry preserves over a giant shingle of toast.
The buzzards will feast today, Russell thought, stifling wild laughter.
Why is that funny? Only a crazy person would find that funny.
For a moment, he considered sharing this thought with Michelle. She had opened up to him about her fears. Why couldn’t he do the same?
Because being crazy doesn’t scare me. I wouldn’t be who I am if I wasn’t a little bit touched. But at least I keep it under control, not like—
"Yeah I can drive," Russell said defensively. "I’m trying to get us back to Main Street so we can put up some more flyers. I see that you didn’t bring any tape. Or a stapler."
"I thought you were going to bring them."
Russell bit his tongue. "We’ll swing by my house. We’re heading that way anyway."
"Are you mad?" Michelle asked from out of nowhere.
"What makes you think I’m mad?" Russell answered edgily.
She means mad as in angry.
Then, in a steadier voice, he added, "No, I’m not mad. What’s there to be mad about?"
"I’m sorta scared of Apollo," she said, lowering her head as if admitting a shameful secret. "I thought you’d be mad about that. Or offended. Something."
"Oh, no," Russell said soothingly. "It’s perfectly fine by me that you think Apollo is a big bad meanie."
Michelle raised her head and laughed, and at that moment Russell would have sold the world for the courage to reach out and cradle her delicate chin in his palm or tenderly thread the loose strands of purple hair behind her ears. "You and your jokes, Rusty. A giant meteor could hit the earth tomorrow, killing us all, and you’d make a joke about it. You’re crazy, you know that?"
Russell sank. "So they tell me."
"But crazy is good. Sometimes crazy is the best option."
"You say that like you have experience."
She punched him playfully on the shoulder. "Hey, you’re the crazy one. You’re lucky, I’m just boring old Michelle Donovan."
Russell looked at her as long as he possibly could while driving a moving vehicle. Her eyes were cheerful, but a profound sadness lurked behind them. It didn’t sour her beauty any. If anything, it enhanced it, revealing a hidden layer to her dynamic he hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps it was her admission of her fear of dogs that made him see her in this light, but he knew that was only a small piece of the puzzle that was Michelle Donovan. Then it dawned on him. Bingo!! Lights turned on; sirens blared. She wants to be crazy. She wants to be like me.
"You’re not boring. You’re unique," Russell said.
"In what way?"
"You’re creative on the guitar. You have a unique way of playing. I listened to that tape you made. It’s really good."
"I’m not as good as you."
He ignored that. "You cuss a lot. And I mean a lot. I love that about you. Most girls are too afraid to express their darker emotions—I mean the really dark ones like envy and rage. Most girls hide those sides of their personalities away like squirrels hiding nuts. The only problem is they’re too much like squirrels: they forget where they leave them. Over time, they begin doing that with all of their socially unacceptable feelings and ideas, and before they know it, they’re no longer able to feel anything at all anymore, because everything’s missing, everything’s buried. Then they wonder why the world around them seems so dark and bleak and their dreams are drained of color and sound."
"I like the way you talk."
Russell flushed. "Thanks."
Then she asked the big one—the question Russell hated most yet got all the time.
"Rusty?"
"What?"
"What’s it like being you?"
He considered giving her the stock answer: "I started playing piano when I was a toddler, and it took a lot of practice and repetition to get to where I am today, blah-blah-blah…" But Russell felt he owed her more than that, since she had shared so much of herself with him, and he didn’t think she was talking about music anyway. She wanted to know the whole story. She wanted to know what made Russell, Russell. And Michelle deserved the truth, as ugly (and as beautiful) as it was. It was time he opened up to another human being, damn it, and put to words what his hands, fingers, and soul already knew.
"You’ve got to promise not to tell anyone what I’m about to tell you."
"I promise."
Russell took a deep breath and began. "It’s like this: being me sucks—for a while. Then it gets good, then it sucks some more, then it gets really great before starting to suck all over again. I’m lonely and sad most of the time, even when I’m ecstatically happy, because I know things that I’m not supposed to know. And whenever I try translating my ideas and concepts into words and sentences that actually make sense to other people, I just end up getting frustrated and give up. So much is lost in translation. I think too much when I’m not playing guitar or piano, and I don’t think at all when I am. The harder I try at things, the more I fail at them. My biggest fear is that I’ll never have one. I find things funny that really aren’t, and jokes that everyone else thinks are hilarious are lame to me. I can’t relate to people, have practically zero friends, and yet everybody in this godforsaken shithole of a town seems to know who I am. I try to see the best in people, but I see only the worst. People think I’m weird and strange, and you know what? I agree! I am weird; I might be insane—I’m probably showing signs of clinical depression—but I don’t care! I take on more than I can handle, and when things start going wrong, and it’s my fault, I ignore the problem and tap dance on the graves of the people I’ve let down. Too many people want too much from me, Michelle, and I just don’t know how to deal with that."
He couldn’t believe how effortlessly the words had escaped his mouth. It was as if a second Russell had taken over while the original version sat quietly by, listening as the traitor version spilled his— their—guts.
&nb
sp; "You’re right," he continued. "If a giant meteor were to annihilate us tomorrow, I would make a joke about it. I’d find it to be about the funniest goddamn thing to ever happen. Somehow I’d find irony in it. Don’t ask me how, but I would. I get so lonely sometimes…"
Parked in Russell’s driveway, under the thirsty crepe myrtle, Michelle stared at Russell staring out the windshield. Beads of sweat trickled down his temples and over his ruddy cheeks. His tongue smacked irregularly against the roof of his mouth, as if to form words he did not wish to utter.
She nudged him. "You okay?"
Russell startled, as if from a slumber, and looked at her with eyes forlorn and distant. "I’m sorry if I rambled a bit there. I’m not used to talking about myself."
Michelle knitted her eyebrows together. "What are you even talking about? You haven’t said a word. You’ve just been sitting there, staring off into space."
Russell laughed weakly. "Really?"
"Yes. After I promised not to tell anybody what you were about to tell me, you took a deep breath—through your nose—then just sat there. You sure you’re okay?"
"Oh yeah," Russell said with apparent confidence. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. "I guess I was just thinking. What was that question again?"
She sighed. "Something’s wrong with you. Have you been getting enough sleep?"
"Yeah," he lied.
"I don’t believe that at all, but if you still want to know, I’d asked you what it was like being you."
"Okay," Russell said, remembering. "It’s like this, Michelle. I started playing piano when I was a toddler, and it took a lot of practice and repetition to get to where I am today…"