If only that was all it had been. A bad dream fades upon waking. But reality is something else entirely. Reality comes back to bite you in the ass when you’re least expecting it.
It was true that Russell Whitford awoke Friday morning with no recollection of having tried to kill one of his former friends, but it was also true that by lunchtime it was all he could think about. And by dinnertime he was so stricken with guilt that, for the second night in a row, the thought of eating food turned his stomach inside out.
All it took was going downstairs for a late breakfast and seeing Apollo sitting on top of the piano bench, his outstretched paws on the Baldwin’s fallboard, a variation of his bowing pose, as if he were worshiping the damn thing. Tail ticking like a pendulum, eyes fixed expectantly on the stucco ceiling. At first Russell was shocked; then he was spooked; then he was irate; and finally he was shouting at Apollo, who, startling at the sound of his master’s wild screams, ran erratically from the room. That’s when the flotsam of the previous day crashed over Russell in a series of clunking waves.
(Kids stomping a stray’s head. Tackling the fat asshole and rolling down the hill. The brave, freckled kid and his knife. Ursula and her Mexican cook. Cockroaches!! The two cops and their secret. Busby’s sad eyes when he told him that he had to quit—that he just had to "take some time off." The way Apollo bowed to him at lunch; the sick way the dog supplicated himself. The blur of Pritchard Street. The absence of a secret and discovery of a new one. Pete’s anxious face. Snaking furrows in tall grass. Dog barks from the thicket. A bodiless head running through an overgrown field. Egging Pete to do something he should have done himself. The panic in his gut when he realized Pete was crazy enough to do it. An absence of sanity across the board. The feeling that the world was sliding and he was the only one noticing the changing scenery. An arrow that should have flown over rustling grass but didn’t. A drawing that Michelle had made…)
Russell collapsed onto the couch in the living room and peeked at the lustrous, black piano through the open door. Tears distorted his vision, and his throat was ragged from yelling. What exactly he had yelled, he couldn’t remember. All he knew was that it had been loud and had probably scared the Dane half to death. In all his life, he’d never once yelled at Apollo, and the aftershocks of his actions left him feeling ashamed and abased, as if he—and not Hector Graham—was the biggest loser in the universe.
I’ve always been a winner, he thought.
"But these days…" Russell began before trailing off.
Lying there, he tried to avoid thinking of the outcome had Pete fired the arrow. He thought about it anyway. Would it have pierced O’Brien’s dense forehead, killing him instantly, or would it have fallen short?
It would have hit him smack-dab between the eyes and you know it.
Or would it have struck one of those dogs? Russell had to consider that, too. And if it had, what would have happened then? Would O’Brien have charged him and Pete like a bull?
Probably.
"But that’s not how it happened. I wussed out. I should have never made Pete lower his stupid bow."
Then guilt racked him again, a physical thing, like a punch, doubling him over on the couch and making him moan into the seat cushions. In the kitchen, Apollo’s feet clicked twice on the tiles before falling silent. Two seconds later, the Dane’s long, velvet tongue was stroking Russell’s cheek—once, then once again—following the jawline up to his temple. Turning his head, Russell opened his eyes then shut them. Five minutes later, he was asleep.
He woke at noon, his conscience lighter but his stomach gurgling, and went to the kitchen to make a sandwich. He ate it greedily, holding an open hand under his chin to catch the raining crumbs. Then he made another one and devoured it just as ravenously. Afterwards, he and Apollo went outside so the dog could take his midday crap. When they came back in, Russell rolled a tennis ball across the kitchen floor for the dog to fetch. After they both grew tired of that, Russell went and got the short-bristled brush from the hall closet, sat down on the couch, and began combing the Great Dane’s blonde coat.
He laughed as Apollo leaned into the brush. "You like that, boy?" he said, running the bristles over the dog’s rib cage. "I bet that feels good, huh?"
Apollo smiled and lolled his tongue at his master’s face. Russell backed away.
"Not now, buddy. I’m trying to groom ya."
When he was finished, Russell took the brush off his hand, and the duo wrestled around on the living room floor. By two o’clock, Russell became drowsy again. Without announcement, he made his way to the couch and rolled up into a ball. Shortly after closing his eyes, the infinity of sleep swept over his body like a warm melody.