* * *
The song ended too soon (all the good ones do) and was chased by Elton John’s "Madman Across the Water." Russell reached under his seat, pulled out the CD album, made his selection, and slid it into the dash. Closing in on downtown, the Lost Dog posters began popping into view, but the dread that had accompanied their presence yesterday was no longer there. They were just pieces of paper—gaudily colored rectangles, but still paper. So what if a few dogs had gone missing? Was he not the one who had explained to Mike O’Brien four days ago that "shit happens?"
He tried saying it out loud. "Shit happens, Rusty."
No, it doesn’t. Everything happens for a reason. Besides, that’s not what you told Mike. You told him that Lola catching rabid was a Mulligan. Then you’d tried to get him to confess that he’d killed the animals in his backyard and not Lola—that he must have blacked out and gone on a killing spree, while, at the same time, completely discrediting his last thread of sanity—just to save your sorry ass. Because if Hector finds out what you did to his dog…
"He’s never going to find out, because O’Brien can’t prove shit."
Russell resumed singing along with the song and thumping his thumbs against the steering wheel, exuding the detached coolness of someone who has just made the best decision of his life. No longer was he going to allow anybody or anything to bring him down—not Ursula, not Busby, and definitely not those self-destructive thoughts that kept popping up in his mind like stealthy Rockem Sockem robots. From time to time, life might offer up certain…unpleasantries…but they didn’t have to affect him like they had before. Especially not today, when he had so much to see.
He parked in front of Busby’s Electronics and Repair Shop, got out, and grabbed the toolbox from the bed. When he stepped inside, Busby was in the middle of slamming the phone in its cradle.
"What the hell did you do over there, son?" Busby began as way of greeting. "That was Ursula on the can. She says you walked out on her. Is that right?"
Russell looked squarely into his employer’s sallow eyes. He had planned on making it dramatic, perhaps by waving both middle fingers in the air and screaming "I QUIT!" at the top of his lungs. But now that he was face-to-face with the man, he knew he could never do that. If anything, Russell thought he might cry if he were to quit that way, and that would be even worse—for both of them. Overall, Busby was a decent, but abrasive, man who only got under Russell’s skin when he allowed him to. Jeff didn’t even care if he came in late half the time, just as long as customers weren’t demanding service right away. He had done right by Russell, and that made what Russell had to say even more heart-wrenching.
"Well, are you gonna answer me, boy, or am I gonna have to pry it outta you?"
Russell dropped the toolbox on the counter, and when he was ready, said, "I can’t do this anymore."
Busby waited for an explanation.
"What I mean, Jeff, is I quit. I don’t know what else to tell you, other than, you know…sorry."
Keeping his eyes glued to Busby’s face, Russell backed steadily toward the door.
"What am I gonna do about Ursula?" Busby asked sullenly. "Is this about calling you at home?"
"No…no. That’s got nothing to do with it. I know I should have come in on time today, but there’ve been so many…things going on lately." Unsure of how to proceed, he tried another tack. "Call Lucas. Maybe he can have a go at Ursie’s stove. But not me. I can’t do that kind of stuff anymore."
He was at the door now. His weight held it partially open. "I have to go, Jeff."
But he didn’t go; he stayed where he was, staring at the old man. Then he realized that if he didn’t leave soon, he would cry.
Finally, Russell relented. "Okay, maybe this is only a temporary quitting. I can come back in a couple of weeks. I know school’s starting then, and you only needed me for the summer—but the thing is, I need some time off before school starts. Trust me on this, Jeff. I’m coming back."
Russell turned and exited the store. Not surprisingly, once he was outside, he felt lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. But that weight was soon replaced with a deep sorrow for the man whose only help now was a bumbling, college dropout. It wasn’t right the way he had left Busby hanging, but he had to do it.
As good-natured as his promise to return to Jeff’s employ was, his resolve to follow through with it waned with distance from where he’d made the promise—that is, the further Russell drove from Busby’s shop, the more that thoughts like I’m a musician, not a repairman and I can’t deny what I am any longer took over. The truth was simple: Russell was done with Busby. He would never do that type of work again. And if Busby begged—and he might—Russell would not relent. To do so would be admitting defeat and denying his true essence.
And what is my true essence?
Immediately, his mind chirped: To create.
And what’s the first step of creation?
"To see what others can’t or refuse to see."
Damn straight.
When he snapped out of his ego-stroking inner dialogue, he was parked underneath the dying crepe myrtle. He hadn’t planned on going home, but habit had brought him there in spite of his desires. It was scary, when he thought about it, how one part of his mind could take over while another part could drive a vehicle back to its place of origin.
"Wait a second," he said to no one. "This isn’t where I wanted to go."
But when his stomach began twisting and moaning—as it did when he killed the engine—he knew that this was where he needed to be. And looking down at his soot-covered shirt, he realized he could also benefit from a shower before going where he had to go.
The instant he opened the truck’s door, Apollo barked a single hello through the kitchen window. Russell waved a grimy hand in return.
"What’s up, boy!" he said, moving inside, throwing his keys on the countertop, and heading for the stairs. Behind him, Apollo fell in line. Russell turned and showed Apollo his palms. "I can’t pet you now. Look at my hands!"
"See? They’re all nasty. I’ll mess up your coat."
He smiled at the Dane, climbed the stairs, and ran a shower.
When he came back down fifteen minutes later, he went straight to the kitchen and slapped together two turkey and mustard sandwiches, which he ate hurriedly at the table. Every time he lifted his sandwich to take a bite, Apollo would move forward and pry his nose between the crevasses of bread. After a while, Russell grew tired of pushing the dog away and resigned to letting him lick the mustard off his fingers.
With his task complete, Apollo lay on his belly, rested his chin on his forelegs, and raised his butt high into the air. He stretched his back that way sometimes, but that wasn’t what he was doing now. He was doing the other thing.
"Stop it," Russell said docilely, grabbing hold of one of the Dane’s deer-like legs and standing him upright. Lightheartedly, he added, "Come on, silly rabbit. Tricks are for kids."
It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. Apollo cocked his head and looked confusedly at his master.
"Never mind," he said, letting go of the dog’s knee and returning to his remaining sandwich.
If Pete were here, he’d be squirming right about now. A dog has just licked my fingers and now I’m eating a sandwich.
Russell snorted at the thought of his friend’s easily-troubled disposition. Anything grossed that kid out. For a moment, he gave serious thought to going over to Pete’s house and pulling him away from his SAT prep guide and dragging him along. He knew Pete wouldn’t be grossed out by that. In some twisted way, he’d find it scientific.
Ultimately, Russell decided to go it solo. He might bring Pete in later, but there was too much he didn’t know about the significance of the find. Pete would only ask question after endless question.
But later, I’ll tell him the whole story. He’ll like it, because it’s a good one.
Finishing the last bite of his last sa
ndwich, Russell stood, nabbed his keys off the counter, rubbed Apollo’s head, and exited through the back door.
Backing out of the driveway, his mind flashed to the way the dog had bowed to him.
"Why does he do that?" he wondered aloud.
Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids. That’s what I said. I bet he hates that stupid catch phrase more than I hate his stupid bowing. He did look at me strange after I said it.
"That’s because I had a weird look on my face. He’s worried about me."
Are tricks really for kids? Is Apollo really a rabbit?
"Of course not! He’s a dog."
Then why did I call him a rabbit?
"It was a joke."
But it wasn’t funny. You’re losing it kid. You used to be funny.
"That’s it!" Russell screamed, slamming his fist against the dashboard. "I’m not talking to you anymore. Shut up!"
And the traitor voice did just that, but the other one—the real Russell voice—spoke up: I’m hearing things. Am I really going crazy? Is this what crazy feels like?
No. You’re not going crazy. You’re just stressed. The past week has been—well, it’s been a real bitch. But you know something now. You have a secret that will set at least some of the shit straight. Go see what you need to see. If those two cops were telling the truth (and you have no reason to believe they weren’t), then go be the hero you were born to be.
Russell shut off all the voices in his head: the "real" one, the traitor, and the suck-up.
There wasn’t going to be parade thrown in his honor if he did what he had to do. Nor would his actions change a damn thing. Dogs will continue running away, and people will continue shooting them, and running them over, and placing their innocent heads between planks of wood and jumping on their skulls until brains spew like Play Dough from their nostrils and ears. People don’t change. At least not overnight. And never for the better.
Speeding past Pritchard Street, he looked down its long, barren corridor and tried to spot Hector’s house. At the speed he was traveling, though, all of the structures blurred together. All he could make out clearly was the bright white pavement and the dirt road extending beyond it.
"Fuck Hector," Russell said absently, thinking of Pete.
Two minutes later, he stopped at a T-intersection. An elm branch obstructed the blue sign at the corner, but he knew what the sign said. He had taken the road it named to Greenville hundreds of times—first as a piano student on his way to and from his teacher’s house, then with his friends (Pete riding shotgun, Hector sprawled out on the back seat, and O’Brien in the bed, his wild hair streaming in the wind) as they went to Keller’s General Store.
He turned right, north, onto Highway 71. He wasn’t exactly sure where it would be. All he knew was that it was somewhere between Riley and Greenville—if it was there at all. He had to consider the possibility that it might be gone by now. But if it wasn’t, he’d definitely see it.
The road wound through patches of forest and open field. Sun bombarding his eyes one minute, shade the next, he didn’t know whether to leave his sunglasses on or to take them off. If he left them on, and what he was looking for happened to be in a shady area, he might miss seeing it. Not wanting to risk it, he took them off.
"Now, where the hell is this thing?"
He checked for traffic in his rearview mirror. Finding none, he slowed the truck to a crawl.
A giant field bloomed to his right. About a square mile in size and flanked by tall Southern pines giving way to moss-colored forest, the tract’s wild grass swayed lazily in the hot, dry breeze. The towering, blonde stalks, heavy with seed, ticked and tocked like the pendula of a billion upside down grandfather clocks.
Russell saw that a vehicle had plowed through the field recently, leaving a broad scar in the grass wall closest to the road. He pulled onto the shoulder to investigate. He didn’t know why he let it distract him; he only knew that he had to see.
He left the engine on and hopped into the bed to better view the furrow. Making a visor out of his hand, Russell peered into the field. The scar cut deep and far. In the distance, a second furrow—a fainter one—faded into a clearing on top of a small mound.
Standing there, a sound arose, seeming to emanate from the grass itself. It grew louder—a faraway honking, like a flock of geese, but deeper and more raucous. He then saw something so bizarre and compelling, he couldn’t shake it from his mind, even after jumping into the truck and hightailing it back to Riley. Now, he had to show Pete, because if Pete saw it, too, then it meant it was really there and he wasn’t crazy.
Russell had gone to Highway 71 to see something, but not that. In a way, that had turned out to be even better.