How do you explain that to yourself?
Virgil can't bear to throw out the diary, to just toss it in the garbage. It is his first real glimpse of his daughter's soul. In a way, he feels like the diary is the real her, and the daughter he thought he knew was a counterfeit.
But Helen mustn't see it. It will kill her. Helen loved the fake: her good grades, her polite reserve, her high potential. Helen would be appalled at the flawed Judy. It would kill her. It would wreak havoc on her reality.
In his deepest heart, Virgil long suspected that something was off, that there was more to his daughter, but he ignored that niggling feeling. She got good grades, didn't she? So why make it complicated? Why fret about a little niggle? Why go looking for trouble?
Helen keeps the sash (Why that? Why not something without blood stains, at least?). He never understands.
She keeps it in the drawer by the bed, and sometimes she runs it through her fingers, so silky and smooth, except for the burgundy patches, which are stiff.
Does she suspect that there is more to Judy's story? If so, she never says.
But when she starts to lose her memory, she brings the sash out more often, and she cries, and is inconsolable. And once, Virgil has to call the doctor, because she has been crying for hours and he doesn't know what else to do.
So one day, while she dithers in the other room over a word search puzzle, a very easy one that she only thinks she is completing, he quietly slides open the bedside drawer and folds the sash into his fist, and slips out the apartment, down the steps to the shop they have owned together for thirty years.
He cuts straight through the shop, looking neither right nor left, then down the creaking steps to the dirt-floored basement, and tucks the sash into a gap between brick and beam, under the stairs, where he has hidden the diary.
Why not throw it out? Because he can't bear it. The sash says something important. It just hurts too much to hear the story.
Virgil Goes to the Hospital
In the morning, Corey arrived and called an ambulance that took Virgil away, howling. I tried not to compare this to the accident with Him and Her, but I was worried. I panted and paced upstairs by the television, and chewed on the remote until it finally talked to me.
I was curled up in Virgil's easy chair with the voice of the TV washing over me, trying to stay calm, when Corey finally returned.
He said that Virgil was fine, but that he'd have to stay in the hospital for Observation, because he had low Potassium and something with his heart, maybe, and a cast for his ankle. Corey said the cast was Blue, like that would cheer me up. For dogs, about half the world is blue, so Blue doesn't actually seem that special.
Then, Corey said that he'd called Truffle because she was Virgil's closest relative and she should know what's going on. What he didn't say is that he wanted Truffle to take this whole mess off his hands, to take me home with her and take over the shop so he didn't have to Stress over an old man and a sausagey old dog.
I used all my talents, then, to convince Corey that he was wrong. "We don't need Truffle's help," I said. I used the Sad Eyes and the Mesmer-eyes (two different expressions with different purposes). I wagged. I buried my face between his knees and told him I wouldn't be any trouble. He wasn't convinced.
But he needed to be convinced, because Truffle could not be trusted. She might take me back to the Pound. That would ruin everything. Ten-year-old dogs never leave the Pound.
So I brought out the big guns: "Truffle doesn't know that you take money from the till," I said.
"I don't--" He drew a deep breath and started over. "I am a legitimate employee of this..." he gestured to include the whole building, "shit show."
"Now don't get agitated, Corey."
"I'm not agitated! Where do you pick up these words, anyway?"
"All I said was, Truffle doesn't know that you work for me. She can't Hear me, and I can't explain things to her the way I could with Virgil. And if she visits Virgil in the hospital and asks him about you, Virgil might not remember that we hired you."
Corey narrowed his eyes at me. He sensed that he was being manipulated.
"I wouldn't want you to get in trouble," I said, and I yawned to let him know I didn't care that much.
"So where are you planning to live?" he asked.
"With you, of course."
He groaned and scrunched his fists into his hair. "This is such a bad idea," he said.
"I challenge you to suggest something better."
"But my apartment complex doesn't allow pets," he said.
"I am not a pet," I said. "And besides, it's only temporary."
"We took a day off to move, but when we got up to the apartment above the shop to collect my belongings, Corey realized there was nothing to take.
He gathered all the empty pizza cartons and the sticky-sweet garbage that overflowed from under the sink, and kicked it out the door and down the stairs. Corey swore when the kitchen bag burst open, spilling frozen custard cups and Little Debbie cellophane wrappers that whirled away in the breeze.
"Don't you have, like a water bowl or something?" Corey asked.
"It's better out of the toilet anyway. More flavor."
"You're disgusting. Seriously?"
I stood by as he locked up, then followed him down the stairs. I could navigate them on my own, of course, but it was nice to have a large person in front of me to cushion my fall, just in case.
He dragged the garbage around the building and threw it into the dumpster.
"If you want to live with me," he said, "you're going to drink from a bowl."
On the way home to Corey's place, we stopped at the pet store. I slouched through the aisles behind Corey and his cart. A golden retriever with shiny-sun-kissed fur tried to strike up a conversation. "Hey, Dude," he grinned.
I sat on my tail so that he'd stop trying to sniff my behind.
When we got home, I gave the place a once over and decided I could live with it. I felt bone-weary. Was it old age or just stress? I wasn't sure, but all I wanted to do was curl up on the reclining microfiber sofa and watch TV. But, oh, no, there were all these rules: no dogs on the sofa, Corey chooses the program. Dogs must drink from bowls.
I paced Corey's kitchen and kicked over the heaping bowl of kibble he had left at the base of the dishwasher.
"What the hell?" he said.
"This is crap!" I said. "I'm a successful entrepreneur and philanthropist, and you're treating me like...a..."
"Dog?" he finished for me. "Yes, you're a dog."
"Kibble is an insult to my intelligence."
"It says on the bag that it contains all the nutrients a dog needs, plus glucosamine for joint health."
"I eat Zoom Burger. That's what I eat, so live with it."
"No wonder you're built like a truck."
The next day, Virgil was still in the hospital. They had found more Problems. Corey said that was the problem with hospitals. They always found more problems, and if you went in at Virgil's age, it was hard to get out alive. This sounded a lot like the Pound to me, and I was scared for Virgil, and it made me wonder about Him and Her all those years ago. Maybe someone took them to the hospital, and they never left.
We went to work because we didn't have anything better to do, and because Corey wanted to get the Mouse Situation under control so that Robyn would like him and so we didn't have trouble with the Land Lord.
As we drove over, and I cowered on the floor in the back seat (there was a time when cars hadn't bothered me, but not any more), Corey tried to cheer me up by talking in a high voice (which was irritating), and by stopping off at the Zoom Burger drive-thru.
"Look, Sophie, it's your friends!" he coaxed.
I popped my head up long enough to nod, then dove back down. Corey said they stuck in an extra order of fries for free.
The Evil in the Basement
At the shop, Corey tried to pet me. I told him to lay off. Then he asked me what was wrong, and it all c
ame spilling out, about the basement having an evil secret, and about how we didn't know what we'd find down there.
"No kidding," said Corey.
He explained that most basements were scary and possibly evil, and that this one was probably worse than most, but that we had to do what we had to do. And then he pulled on a dust mask and gave me one, too, to help protect me from evil.
He said I looked hilarious. I said he looked like a monkey.
He put a sign on the door that we were Closed for Inventory.
Corey grunted and sweated, clearing a corridor. His shirt turned grey with dust His hairdo smooshed flat. He shoved and heaved and carted boxes and bags and armloads of random Stuff to and fro. The crotch seam split on his fancy jeans with the embroidered pockets. I fetched a pair of army fatigues off the military rack so that he could change.
Then Corey brought a handful of keys from the cash register and tested each of them in the lock. Finally, the knob turned. He kicked the corner of a bloated plastic bag to get it out of the way.
A stack of boxes swayed but didn't fall. He wedged his thigh in the gap and wormed through.
"Holy--!"
The door creaked shut.
I sat down and waited, thankful that my truck-like figure prevented me from squeezing through behind him.
I heard thumping and cursing. A yelp. More thumping and cursing
A few minutes later, Corey burst back into the storage room. His hair stood out on his head and he was wild-eyed.
I paused in my wrist-licking. It was a new habit I'd developed to calm my nerves when I didn't have access to TV.
"You're right. The basement is evil." He shook himself like a wet dog. "And yeah, it's like, mouse-palooza."
"Is Helen there?"
"Who's Helen?"
"I don't know," I said, not sure how much of Virgil's secret I should share. "So...no bodies? Not that I smell anything. Just double-checking."
"You are a really strange dog," said Corey.
"I need to talk to Virgil," he said. He left me to mind the shop and bounded out, car keys tinkling in his hand.
While he was gone, I had a couple of customers, and since I couldn't operate the credit card machine, I made an executive decision to accept personal checks. I stashed the day's takings under my bed behind the counter. But mostly, I pictured Corey and Virgil in my mind.
"Who are you?" Virgil demands when Corey sidles into his hospital room, hands in his pockets. "Are you the one who's been calling me all the time? I told you to leave me alone."
"I'm sorry," says Corey, wondering who that other person might be. Are they a responsible next-of-kin, and can they take this mess off his hands?
Virgil gestures at the hospital phone, wrapped in its own cord on the artificial wood grain counter in the corner. "The nurse unplugged it for me. Male nurse."
Corey conveys my best wishes to Virgil (dogs aren't allowed in the hospital). He tries to comfort Virgil with the news that he will take care of the mice in the basement, although it will be a big job, and by the way, is it okay if we throw out all that junk?
"You've been to the basement, then?"
"Uh-huh," Corey says warily.
"And you would just throw it all out?" Virgil glared.
"Um," Corey says.
"All of the memories? You have that much disrespect for someone's sorrows?"
"Excuse me, but I'm not sure I--"
"Or worse yet," Virgil charges on, "you would let those things circulate again, let them pollute the world with their creepiness and whatnot? Is that what you want?"
"So you want to keep them, then? I mean, I'm not sure if you realize, but it's all moldy and covered with mouse droppings, and--"
"Want?" Virgil shouts. "No, I never wanted any of it! Who would want any of it? Who are you again?" Virgil squeaks. "Are you the Devil? What are you trying to trick me into?" Virgil scrambles for the nurses' call button and jab at it. "Make him go away! Make him go away!" he yells into the intercom.
Corey slips out and passes the nursing assistant in the corridor as she speed-walks toward Virgil's room.
Corey isn't sure what is going on with Virgil, but he figures it's the low potassium talking, or the Vicodin, or whatever.
Virgil Runs Away
The next day, Virgil surprised us by checking himself out of the hospital and coming home by cab.
Corey and I were just preparing for a basement cleaning foray when Virgil showed up, clacking his new walker on the glass window in the entry alcove.
Corey unlocked the door and pushed it open. Virgil shuffled in with the driver behind him, demanding his fare.
While Corey rung open the cash drawer and counted out seventeen-fifty, Virgil kept shuffling and clunking toward the back room, nudging me aside. His lower leg was cartoonishly large and solid.
"I thought they were doing more tests today," said Corey.
"Don't bother me, son, I'm busy," said Virgil. He gestured at the door knob and Corey pulled the basement door open for him.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Corey said. "It's kind of steep. If you want something, I can bring it up for you," he added, as Virgil kicked his walker aside, grasped the door jamb with two gnarled hands and peered into the darkness.
"Turn on the light," I murmured to Corey.
"He's gonna get hurt," Corey said, as he reached past Virgil to flick the switch.
"You've got something to say, say it to my face," said Virgil, lowering himself one step with a wheezing exhale. He steadied himself on the bannister and took another step, and another, as Corey and I looked on nervously.
At the bottom, Virgil sank onto a rotting cardboard box to catch his breath. He passed a trembling hand over his eyes and after a minute he straightened and looked around him.
"Go away," he barked.
In that moment I saw the glisten of tears on his cheeks.
Corey and I retreated to the sales floor and loitered by the hat rack, just around the corner. Corey kept trying to catch my eye, but I pretended not to notice. I didn't know what to do, either.
For a long time it was silent, except for the occasional sniffle. Then we heard him shuffling around, shifting things.
I peered around the corner. He had disappeared from view. Corey crept up behind me. When Virgil's bent figure came back into sight, leaning heavily on a sagging sofa heaped with boxes and bags, Corey and I flinched back away.
What was he doing?
I gave up and flopped onto my bed behind the sales counter, ears alert for new developments.
Corey pretended to count the cash in the till. Neither of us suggested we open for business.
Something was happening. Something that kept us frozen with apprehension.
Corey went for a restorative chai and hurried back with it in a to-go cup. He crumbled some macadamia cookie onto the floor for me.
Across the street, a cluster of young stay-at-home moms in yoga pants spilled out of the yoga studio. Corey barely ogled them.
I licked my wrists.
It was too quiet.
I finally met Corey's eye. At the same moment, Corey and I sprang for the back room. Corey got there first. He thundered down the stairs. I saw him on his knees, bent over Virgil, who was sprawled on the dirt floor, something clutched to his chest.
Corey sprinted back toward me, taking the stairs two at a time, yanking his phone from his pants pocket mid-stride.
He dialed 9-1-1 and spoke urgently while I pogoed down the creaking stairs, panting. I nudged Virgil's face with my nose, then curled up next to him. Stones dug into my elbows.
Corey unlocked the front door and paced the sidewalk until help arrived.
The paramedics were kind. They remembered Virgil's name from before. They talked softly and pushed me aside so they could work. The last time I saw Virgil, he was on a stretcher, at a steep angle, floating up the stairs between two paramedics.
I stayed behind in the cool darkness to think.
At my feet was
the thing that a paramedic had gently tugged from Virgil's fingers. I sniffed it over. It was a taffeta sash.
Ghosts
Back in the shop the next day, Corey disappeared down the stairs. Closing time came. I had Business to do, and there was no sign of Corey. I stuck my nose to the crack under the basement door and inhaled deeply. He was down there, somewhere. I scratched once, and the door drifted open.
Flinging it aside with my nose, I clicked down the stairs to the dirt floor. Mice scattered before me as I picked my way past rotting crates and disintegrating cardboard boxes. I shivered, but not from cold.
I found Corey sprawled on a disemboweled sofa. Tufts of horsehair were scattered everywhere. His hand dangled down. I nuzzled it, then clambered up and stuck my nose in his face.
"Wake up," I said. "I have to pee."
We could talk about his strange behavior later. I couldn't hold it like when I was young. Please let me not be incontinent, I thought. I may have whimpered, just a little.
He stirred slightly and groaned. "Why?" he said. "Why?"
"Because nature calls and all that." I tugged on his shirt sleeve.
"It's just so pointless," he said.
"Can we talk about this outside, Corey?"
I led him up the stairs. He stumbled after. I pogoed across the shop and waited for him to let me out.
Aaah. As I did my business, he perched on the narrow sill of the display window and rested his head in his hands.
The square of dirt beside the grate under the tree smelled particularly exquisite at that moment, so I rolled over on my back and wriggled around. Paws in the air, I craned my neck to look him over. He hadn't moved.
Under my gaze, Corey squirmed. "There's just so much to do. I don't know where to start. And what's the point, anyway? I don't want to do this. I don't want to work for a dog. I don't want to take care of some grumpy old man I don't even know. The store's going down the tubes anyway. Why am I even here?"
I tried to think of a point. I tried very hard. But the only thing I could think of was: "You can't just give up."
I could have explained about doing the right thing. Making the world a better place. But that wasn't his language.
"How about a bonus?" I said, finally.
He perked up enough to look me skeptically in the eye.
"There's another ice cream carton of money that you don't know about."