* * *
Something poked his ribs.
"Rusty, get up."
"Come on. Get up," the voice and the other thing jabbed.
Russell opened his eyes and inhaled a pungent odor of seared onions and burnt meat.
Still in his work clothes, Darrel loomed over his son as he groggily awoke from a four-hour nap. Disoriented and not quite sure of the time or year, Russell looked up at his father.
"We’re waiting for you," Darrel said, nudging Russell with the corner of his briefcase.
"Wha—" Russell mumbled. He closed his eyes, but the cloying aroma wouldn’t let him slip back to sleep. So he sat up. Nausea mushroomed through his guts.
"Do I have to? I don’t feel good." He brought his arms to his belly, curled over them, and collapsed back into the cushions. "My stomach hurts."
But he didn’t say why his stomach hurt. While his lights were out, he had dreamt a series of rolling dreams that had rattled him to the core. The finer details of most he couldn’t recall, except for a single (scene?) image of a pale, lifeless unicorn laying legs askew on the ground while a taunting Mike O’Brien danced wildly, primitively, beside it.
"Go upstairs and lie down," Darrel ordered, put off and sickened in his own way by his son’s blatant theatrics.
Russell stood wearily, stumbled to the first set of stairs, climbed them, turned the corner, and headed up the second set—the ones that led to the lofts.
Once in his room, he faceplanted onto his bed and from there tried to avoid thoughts of Michael O’Brien’s dirty-blonde head floating atop dirty-blonde wheat shoots. He found that if he focused on Michelle instead, he could keep his mind away from O’Brien. For a couple of minutes, anyway. Ultimately the tactic proved futile. No matter how hard he tried, his conscience kept circling back to Mike. And once his brain locked onto the gangly kid, it would begin recalling the raucous barks that had issued from the thick, grassy field the day before and how much those barks had sounded like phonograph recordings from the 1800s. In his mental ear, the barks—the geeselike honks—resonated so distant and undoglike, so distorted and strained, that if he concentrated on them long enough, he could almost convince himself they’d never been there at all, that he had imagined the whole thing. After all, he had never actually seen the animals they’d belonged to.
Of course, this did absolutely nothing to quell his nausea. By now, he was pretty sure he was past the point of blowing chunks. But he got up and went for the trash pail by his desk, just in case. On his way back, he stopped short of his bed and sat on the ledge of his dormer window. He liked to sit there from time to time and think things out, let his mind drift. He played guitar there sometimes, too. And when he did, he’d angle his Guild acoustic in such a way so that it wouldn’t clonk against the wall when he strummed. Comfort existed in that spot, and if comfort could be culled from this still, sticky night, he’d have to sit in that magical nook and wait for it to funnel into him.
And it came. Didn’t know how or when, but it came. The nausea gradually slipped away and hunger returned. Eating dinner was still within the realm of the impossible. If he were to attempt such a feat, the Big Queasy would return and overwhelm him. And then—
"Blllaaaaghhh!! All over the floor."
Russell smirked and looked out the window. A deep indigo sky rested in a nest of low cirrus clouds, the underbellies of the most distant wisps painted pink by leftover sunset. The twin rows of oaks along Deer Street obstructed his view of Pete’s house, but he knew his best friend was over there somewhere, most likely in his room, setting things up, making preparations, anxiously waiting. The Perseid meteor shower was at its peak in the wee hours of tomorrow’s morning, so tonight was Pete’s big night. Russell was expected to show up and share in his friend’s enthusiasm, but Pete’s reaction when he told him he wasn’t coming was something Russell couldn’t predict. He might take it well, or…
He might blow a fuse. That’s a distinct possibility, but please, God, don’t let him throw a hissy fit.
"He’s going to be pissed," Russell said, turning to face the room. "I guess I should give him a call."
He wouldn’t have to. Downstairs, the doorbell rang, and Russell knew right away who was standing on the porch, pushing that glowing white button.
Descending the last staircase, Russell heard his mother say in the foyer, "He’s upstairs in his room, Pete. But he’s not feeling well right now. Maybe—"
"That’s okay," Russell called out, hurrying through the piano room. He opened the door and greeted the two surprised faces with a gloomy smile.
In her retreat to the kitchen, Diane lightly punched her son on the shoulder.
"Hey, Rusty!" Pete said, leaning into the house and eying the musician from head to toe. "You’re mom said you were sick, but I guess you’re feeling better."
Russell stepped onto the lamplit porch and closed the door behind him. Moths fluttered around the light sconces overhead, their flittering, thin wings casting dancing shadows over Pete’s face and body, making him flicker like an old TV set.
In his hands, Pete held two lumpy grocery bags. He handed one to Russell. "I went to Ronald’s, like last year, and got us some craptastic junk to hold us over until the shower gets going—which won’t be until about two or so, in case you forgot."
Russell looked inside his bag: dozens of assorted candy bars on top of a six pack of Coke.
"I’ve got popcorn at the house," Pete went on. "There’s also a couple of frozen pizzas, in case you haven’t eaten yet."
Russell ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Actually, my mom was telling you the truth. I’m not feeling too good right now."
The hint was out there, tossed like a worm on a hook, but Pete showed no sign of biting. He plowed on, oblivious. "I hope you’ve been reading up on your constellations, because once we get over there, I’m gonna quiz ya!"
"Really?" Russell responded, trying to sound indifferent.
"Yeah, really. And don’t expect me to lob you any soft balls like Orion or Canis Major because—"
"Because you can’t," Russell interjected. "Because you can’t see those constellations in the summer. They…rise with the sun."
Pete put down his plastic bag and applauded. "Bravo!! Good Boy! You remembered!"
Russell smirked and folded his arms across his chest. Pete wasn’t making this easy for him.
"But," Pete said, "Can you find Draco and Leo?"
Russell shrugged. "I don’t know. I’ve been a kind of busy this week, so I really haven’t had time to study. Look—"
Before he could finish, Pete jumped in. "It doesn’t matter. I’ll show you them later. Leo’s the easiest because he looks like a coat hanger. Draco’s a little tougher, but once you see him, you can’t unsee him. Am I right?"
Russell nodded politely. "You’re right, Pete. Now, the thing is—"
"I’ve got the chess board ready, too. That way, if we get bored waiting, we can play a few matches—you know, to make time pass. I’ve also got Parcheesi and Monopoly, if you don’t want to play chess."
"That’s great, Pete. But you see, I was thinking maybe we should postpone things for a night—just one night—until I’m feeling better."
Pete’s face sank, but he continued to smile. "What’s wrong? Are you really sick?"
"I think so. Not sick sick. But my stomach is…is really bothering me right now."
"Hey, I’ve got just the thing for that." He reached inside his bag and pulled out a bottle of Pepto Bismol. "See? I prepare for everything."
Russell nodded. "I know you do, Pete. Just the same, though, I think we should do this tomorrow night."
"Why?" His smile vanished.
"I just said I wasn’t feeling good," Russell said testily, rocking on his heels. "Don’t you listen?"
"But tonight’s the night. It won’t be the same tomorrow night. It won’t be as good. You know that."
"I’m sorry, but my stomach—"
"Yeah, I kno
w: it’s bothering you. You’re a terrible liar, Rusty. You’d think that with all you have going for you—all of your so-called ‘creative genius’—you’d be able to come up with a better excuse than ‘my tummy hurts.’"
"It does!"
"And look," Pete said, thrusting the Pepto Bismol bottle in Russell’s face like a late-night TV huckster, "I’ve got the cure right here!"
"You don’t understand—"
"I understand perfectly."
"We can do it tomorrow night. It will be just as good—"
"No, it won’t!" Pete interrupted. "By tomorrow, it’ll be…exiguous. It’s gotta be tonight."
Russell watched his friend pace the porch. "Look, Pete—you’ve got to learn to be more flexible. The sky will be there tomorrow night and so will the shower. I’m not blowing you off."
In the dim at the other end of the porch, Pete said, "That’s exactly what you’re doing! You know I planned for this."
"I know, but you’ve gotta see where I’m coming from here. A lot of things have happened this week, and—"
"YOU PROMISED!!"
"Don’t yell," Russell said quietly. "I know how you feel. I’d be upset too if—"
Pete stepped into the full glow of the dual porch lights. He shook his head as he spoke, his eyes glinting with restrained tears. "You have no idea how I feel. All you care about is yourself and your stupid girlfriend."
Russell’s head jerked up. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what it means. It means you have all of the time in the world to help her look for her stupid dog—you put up posters, drive her around, be the kind, sensitive Russell all the bitches go for—but when it comes time to follow through on a promise made to me, your friend, you shirk your responsibility and call in sick."
"Hey," Russell said, "leave Michelle out of this. I’m warning you, Pete."
"Maybe if I had a warm, soft pussy like her you’d find some time for me, too."
"You don’t even know what you’re talking about, so just shut up." Surprisingly, Russell felt calm saying this to Pete. It was like watching a scene unfold on primetime: a sitcom where he and Pete were the squabbling couple.
As the silence expanded, Pete grew more agitated. He paced the porch faster, and when he finally spoke, he addressed the night. "You kicked me to the curb, Rusty. You sold me out for a bitch Hector used to fuck. Hector, Rusty. Do you understand? She used to fuck Hector." He hocked a wad of spit into the azalea bushes, then looked Russell straight in the eyes. "Hector," he repeated.
Russell’s face flushed; his hands chilled. "Go away," he croaked.
Pete squared his shoulders, and in a steadier voice than Russell’s, said, "No, not yet. There’s something I need to tell you about dogs first." He waited for a response. When he didn’t get one, he went on. "You don’t know how long I’ve been dying to say this to you."
Russell’s jaw trembled. He wanted to speak up, to defend himself, but he was mute. He had lost his mettle. To Pete Oscowitz, he thought. What have I become? What has he become?
"Dogs," Pete began, "don’t love you. All they are are bastardized wolves. Look at their DNA and you’ll see. You, Michelle, Mike, and Hector buy into that ‘man’s best friend’ crap because none of you know jack shit about genetics. Okay, maybe you know more than those three, but you’re still mostly ignorant when it comes to the big picture. Your emotions get in the way. If I were to ask you if Apollo loves you, you’d say ‘Of course he does!’ Then you’d list all the cute things he does, like bringing you your slippers, the newspaper, playing fetch, licking your face, et cetera. But those are just tricks, Rusty; there’s no sentiment behind them. It’s almost as if you dog owners think you purchased another human being at the pet store instead of a domesticated wolf. And then you act all surprised when one day, out of nowhere, little Scrappy-Doo momentarily reverts to his nascent self and snaps or growls at you for no reason.
"Except there is a reason. He’s challenging you. Wolves and dogs are pack animals, and every pack member has a rank. When you live with a dog, you accept a rank, too. Essentially, you are their pack leader. You’re the one who decides when they eat, sleep, and play. You’re the one who controls just about everything in your dog’s life. You’re the alpha and Apollo’s the beta, gamma, and omega all rolled into one. But, you know what? Even the little guys have to make a go at being top dog. Every dog tries it eventually, and do you know why? They do it because they have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Usually, though, the alpha—that would be you—reprimands Fido or Rex and, through discipline and training, the dog gradually accepts his place in the hierarchy. Problem solved. No more pesky social climber!
"What happens is the dog is relegated to being the peon of the family. Even the newborn baby outranks, if you will, the family dog. In a sense, the dog is the baby. He fawns for your attention and cries out when he is ignored. ‘Poor wittle puppy. Are you wonely?’ Then you go and shower affection on an animal that’s only using you for food and shelter. You didn’t know that, did you? That as long as you keep feeding him and suppressing his biological urges, Apollo does whatever he’s told?
"Well, now you know. You people chop off their balls and gut out their ovaries so they won’t get ‘all riled up’ when a dog of the opposite sex walks by. You think you’re doing a good deed—that you’re helping control the population—but all you’re really doing is suppressing another instinct every animal has. But where do all of these suppressed instincts go when you deny them to a ‘family member’ you supposedly love? Do they stay inside, never to see the light of day? Or do they explode when you’re least expecting them to?
"While you’re mulling that over, I’ll fill you in as to why dogs lick your face. They do it because they’re caught in a permanent juvenile state. In a way, they actually think they’re puppies. And what do puppies do when they’re hungry? They lick mamma’s nose and mouth to get her to vomit. In the wild that’s how puppies eat. They drink their mother’s vomit. Yummy, right? How’s your stomach feeling, by the way?"
Russell tried to speak but he couldn’t. If he turned out to be two feet tall when this was all over, he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.
"Apollo doesn’t love you, Rusty. Huey doesn’t love Mike, and Lola…well, Lola sure as hell doesn’t love Hector. She can’t! You killed her. Remember? But you should be happy that Apollo sees you and your family as a bunch of alphas. He’ll never attack you—although I’d be willing to guess he’s tried to at least once in his life—and he’ll always be the baby brother you never had."
Russell’s legs quaked. He tried to still them by leaning against the door, but it didn’t work. All of a sudden he needed to piss really bad.
"Plus—here’s the good part—when he dies, you won’t have to pay for a funeral! Apollo’s the only disposable and replaceable family member you’ve got. You love him so much, but he doesn’t love you back. Because he can’t love, Rusty; he’s an animal. And if you can grasp that—if you can accept that—then maybe you can also grasp why I’m so pissed off at you for having all the time in the world to search for a lost baby wolf—that’s all a dog really is—and none to spend with me. All I asked for was a couple of hours, Rusty. That’s all. A couple of hours with a fellow human being."
With that said, Pete yanked the plastic bag from Russell’s cold hand, walked down the brick path, and became one with the night.
"Wait," Russell managed to call out the instant his friend disappeared.
Pete walked expectantly to the light. "What?"
"You’re a real motherfucker, you know that?"
Now it was Pete’s turn to be shocked, but not too shocked to spit back, "No. I don’t think so. I keep my promises."
"You have no idea what I’ve been through!"
"Oh, yeah? Well, you have no idea what I’ve been through! You’re not the only person on this planet with a symphony of the world’s smallest violins playing just for him. Newsflash, Rusty: No one care
s. Either deal with it or go hide in your room with your guitar and pretend the real world is something below your consideration. As for me, I’m leaving! And don’t bother coming by tomorrow, because I won’t be here."
Russell peeled himself from the door. "Fine with me, jackass. I’ve got better things to do on a Saturday night than look at lame-ass shooting stars."
"No you don’t," Pete said, retreating backwards down the path. "You’re just going to play your gay-ass piano until you can’t stay awake any longer. Then you’re going to go to bed. You’re predictable, Rusty."
"No I’m not!" Russell shouted. "You don’t know shit about anything—not about me or dogs! All you know is science, and science…sucks!"
Pete clucked once, softly, and said, "I know lots of things, Rusty. And the one thing I know for certain is that eventually Apollo is going to run away from you, the same way all of the other dogs have been running away from their owners, because he has an instinct, and his instinct is telling him that being in this town right now is a very bad thing."
"Fuck you and get off my property!"
"No, fuck you, Rusty." Pete said calmly. "You refuse to see reason. You refuse to see, period."
"I see too much."
"Your vision is biased. You only see what you want to see.
"GO!" Russell shouted
Pete backed away, his hands raised in absolution. "I’m leaving, I’m leaving."
Then he was gone.