When I exit the car, Albert Camus barks and claws at the window with his paws, because he has separation anxiety. I’d bring him inside, but he’s growled at Mrs. Harper on several previous occasions, intentionally trying to sabotage my love life. He doesn’t want to share me. Leaning my weight on my wooden cane, I place my left palm on the glass where Albert Camus is scratching and say, “It’s okay, mon petit frère. I won’t be long.”
Mrs. Harper is at the register, checking out a customer, a man in a flannel jacket who is buying a shocking amount of canned baked beans.
She’s wearing a navy blue shirt.
All the blood drains from my face, and I feel lightheaded.
This is the first time I have seen her wearing any color but black since her husband died of a heart attack more than a year ago.
And yet navy blue is very close in nature to black. In certain lights, navy can be confused with black, which creates a rather unfortunate dilemma for me.
As I make my way under the various deer, moose, and even bear heads mounted on the walls, I wonder if Mrs. Harper has worn navy by mistake. Could it have looked like black in the early-morning light? Or might she be slowly transitioning her way to brighter colors, and if so, what would that mean? Have I been given the proverbial green light or not?
I dare to glance back over my shoulder, seeing that her silver hair is down. It rises like a wave over her forehead before it dives along the left side of her beautiful face.
Mrs. Harper has what I can only describe as a gorgeous Jewish nose, and for some unknown reason, the noses of Jewish women always stir up the dormant lust within me.
Behind the bread aisle I quickly adjust myself, because I am embarrassingly aroused.
Ridiculous.
All of this.
I started imagining a life together with Mrs. Harper long before her husband died. It was never sexual so much as it was intellectually stimulating. She never really says much when she scans groceries, hardly ever smiles, and so it was easy to graft stories onto her and her beautiful angular nose. I imagined her trapped in a sexless cold marriage with a man who named a store after himself and loved it more than the wife he also named after himself. I imagined meeting Mrs. Harper accidentally on one of the walking trails Albert Camus and I often stroll in the summer, the three of us falling into stride—in my fantasy I am cane- and limp-free—perhaps even talking about the novels we are reading at the time. Before long she is sneaking away from her husband to have dinner at my home in the woods, confiding in me, telling me all of her secrets over the meat her husband cut and weighed himself earlier in the day. Turns out, Mr. Harper is a woefully inadequate lover who finishes much too early and is snoring less than thirty seconds after he rolls off his wife. “The shame,” she says through tears. “He’s never once given me an orgasm. Not once in thirty years.” And I pat her hand sympathetically. “It’s like I’m an object. Just a warm mitten for his dick,” she says after one too many glasses of wine. “Are other men any different?” In my fantasy I tell her that I would make her buzz in the bedroom until her heart was content, and she places her hand on her chest and blushes. And then one snowy night I see two lights glowing like God’s eyes through the blizzard, winding their way up my driveway, and I open the door and she comes bounding out of her truck without even putting it in park. I wrap my arms around her as her husband’s vehicle continues slowly into the snowbank. “I’ve left him,” she says, and I say, “Welcome home.”
In real life, Mr. Harper was a curmudgeonly cheap hairy WASP of a little ape in a white butcher’s apron, always pressing his thumb to the scale when he was weighing your meat.
He killed things for fun, forever hanging carcasses up outside his shop and selling his freshly murdered cuts inside. He had an arsenal behind glass and sold his guns freely to all of the local yokels and rich yuppie skiers who also seasonally purchased his overpriced bottles of wine, local microbrewed beers, cheeses made from the milk of Vermont goats and cows, and whatever else they didn’t feel like driving forty-five minutes to get at the nearest chain grocery store. These sales made Mr. Harper a wealthy man. A beautiful wife and a cash machine of a store. One of the biggest houses around these parts, nestled at the center of an ocean of land, overlooking a private pond. You’d think the old bastard would have known happiness, but he was meaner than a bee in your mouth.
I’ve overheard patrons whispering that Mr. Harper died in the store while marking up the high-end whiskey and scotch, just before ski season.
Dead before his head hit the floor, they say, but somehow managing not to break a single bottle, because he was a frugal bastard to the very end.
And that’s when Mrs. Harper started wearing all black.
“Two rib eye steaks—one big, one small,” I tell the middle-aged butcher behind the counter, and he pulls two cuts from the window and begins to wrap them in wax paper.
“Your little dog eats better than most people,” Brian says.
I know his name is Brian, because he wears a name tag. He started working here shortly after Mr. Harper died. I think he runs the place for Mrs. Harper, who has remained a silent and beautiful fixture behind the cash register.
I nod and smile.
“Why don’t you bring the little guy in here anymore? I miss seeing him,” he says as he weighs the steaks. He doesn’t leave his thumb on the scale, I notice.
“He gets a little anxious lately,” I say.
“What’s his name again?”
“Albert.”
“I heard you use a last name too when you were talking to him. What was it again?”
“Camus. Albert Camus.”
Brian itches his goatee with his wrist and says, “How’d you ever come up with a crazy name like that? Albert Cah-mooooo?”
“I named him after the French writer.”
“That explains it. I don’t even read American writers.”
“Maybe you should read Albert Camus.”
“Why?” Brian says as he passes the meat over the counter. He’s smiling at me, and there’s a twinkle in his eye. He’s just making small talk as he takes off his disposable gloves.
“Well, for starters, he’s one of the best and most influential authors of the twentieth century.”
“Hey, listen up, friend. I’m a butcher here in Hicksville, Vermont.” He points at his face. “You see this guy here? Does he read French writers? No, he does not. He reads Field & Stream on the hopper sometimes when he’s feeling really intellectual.” Brian smiles proudly at his joke. “When I get to feeling like Johnny College, I sometimes read TV Guide.”
“To each his own,” I say, and start to turn away.
“Hey, don’t take it that way. I’m just having a little fun today. You have me curious now. Why should I read some French writer? Why would you say that to me? Were you serious? Come on now. Tell me.”
“Old habit, I guess. I’m a former high school English teacher. Maybe it’s in my genes.”
He laughs in a friendly way. “I got a library card because you can check out DVDs for free down there, but I bet my card would work for books too. Imagine that. Me reading a book. That would be something. I’m telling you. What’s the name of this writer again? I wanna read this Frenchy who made you wanna name a dog after him. I mean—you love that dog. So what the hell, right? What the hell! You friggin’ love that dog. I’ve seen you with him.”
“I do love Albert Camus.”
“I never really talk this much.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say, lifting my eyebrows. He seems like a kind man, albeit a little simple. I like Brian. I do. He’s bagged and tagged my meat many dozens of times before, and yet this is the first time we’ve spoken this freely.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “but I don’t have any family around here—except valued shoppers like you. And today’s sort of a big day for me. So I’m a regular C
hatty Cathy this afternoon. This store—it’s changed my entire life for the better.”
“Oh, really? I love this store,” I say, although I am not sure why. This is getting a little too friendly, and my instincts are screaming, Get the hell out of here!
“Hey, can I ask you a question?” Brian smiles, puffs out his chest a little, and lifts his chin ever so slightly. “Did you notice anything different when you walked in today? Did you? Anything?”
Instantly, I know he’s referring to Mrs. Harper’s navy shirt, and yet I say, “No, I didn’t. What’s different?”
“Mrs. Harper?” Brian raises his gray eyebrows, cocks his head, nods, and smiles.
“I’m not sure I—”
“She’s wearing a blue shirt. For the first time since—you know.”
I glance over my shoulder at Mrs. Harper. “Is she? I thought it was black like always.”
“Guess what? Take a wild guess.”
“Um.”
“Give up?”
“I have no—”
“Did you happen to see what’s on her ring finger?” he says.
Please, no.
God, no.
“She and I are getting married. Married! How about that, Mr. High School English Teacher? Mr. Albert Cah-moooo dog owner. Popped the question last night after we locked up Harper’s. Got down on one knee while we were restocking cereal, offered her a ring, and she said yes. Can you believe it? Me, Brian Foley, getting married after all these years of being a bachelor! And to the best woman in the entire universe.”
The world stops spinning for a second, and I lose myself in the black space between Brian’s grinning two front teeth.
“Did you hear what I said, friend? We’re getting married! Hitched. Yoked. United! Making it legal and legit and beautiful! Go tell it on the mountain, Teach: Brian Foley is in love! Reborn even. Today’s the best day of my entire life.”
“Um . . .” I’m sweating now. I place the steaks on the counter and pat my pockets. “Oh, shoot! I think I forgot my wallet. Let me run to my truck. Just give me a second. I’ll be right back.”
“You’re not even gonna say congratulations?”
I move as quickly as my limp and cane will allow toward the exit.
“Are you even serious?” Brian says. “You gotta root for love, man.”
I can’t resist sneaking a peek at Mrs. Harper’s beautiful nose as I leave, knowing that I will never again set foot in Harper’s, even if I desperately need GUNS, AMMO, WHISKEY.
Mrs. Harper is glowing.
She looks radiant.
Happy.
And her nose arouses me like never before.
Cruel temptress!
I don’t bother to buckle in Albert Camus. The truck fishtails back so quickly he falls off the seat and onto the floor mat. When he jumps back up, Albert Camus makes a mad dash for my lap, and I feel him trembling against my jeans.
On a little-used dirt back road, I pull over, rest my head on the wheel, and sob.
Maybe you think it ridiculous, my weeping over the unavailability of a woman with whom I haven’t even exchanged more than a hundred or so words. But I did love her, or the fantasy of being with her, which has pulled me through a very hard lonely period, the way the hope of seeing a single green bud pulls many Vermonters through the coldest and darkest Marches.
Albert Camus continues to comfort me the only way he knows how—by licking my chin, neck, and hands.
Maybe I am also mourning the way my emotional and mental decline mirrors the crippled state of my body. I’m getting worse, all alone in the woods. The shadows are overtaking my mind with useless thoughts that fester and ache like the metal pins in my legs and arms.
Brian the butcher may not have known the name of France’s most famous existential writer, but he knew enough to make his move on Mrs. Harper in a timely fashion, and when you have spent many months talking to a dog—albeit the best dog in the world—facts like these take on a heightened meaning.
You can’t make passionate love to a book, after all.
And dogs can’t trade words with you, no matter how much you pretend.
In the truck, with the engine still running and the heat on full blast, I contemplate the first question and briefly consider driving my vehicle into a tree at 120 miles an hour, which is the highest number on my speedometer.
But Albert Camus is still dutifully licking the salty tears from my chin; he deserves better, or at least a different ending, in this incarnation.
I get the sense that he truly enjoys our life together, and that’s not me projecting either. I love this dog; he gives me purpose and reason, but my longings for more are quite strong, I must admit.
Teaching used to fill the void that has opened up inside me.
This must be what “weariness tinged with amazement” feels like, I think, and then I utter the most dangerous question of all: “Why?”
Albert Camus stops licking me, and with our faces only inches apart, we look into each other. I still see humanity in his shiny black eye, even though he is a dog now.
“I don’t know if I can keep going, Albert Camus,” I say.
He cocks his head to one side as if to say, Vous ne m’aimez plus?
“I do love you, Albert Camus. It’s true. I really do. With all my heart. But I’m afraid I can no longer answer the first question.”
Albert Camus licks my face again.
“Have you escaped the absurd, now that you are a dog? Is that why you can lick me and love me after some monster burned out your eye, and yet I have no longer been able to interact with my own species successfully since some monster gave me this limp?”
He yawns, and his breath assaults me.
It smells like a bucket of sea snails rotting in the August sun.
I stroke Albert Camus’s back, feeling the bumps of his spine, and his tail thumps hard on my thigh.
“If you weren’t so goddamn happy now, I might ask if you wanted to enter into a suicide pact with me. But can I live my life for a one-eyed dog? Can I find meaning in this?”
As if he understands my words, he ducks his head under my hand, begging for a scratch behind the ears, making me feel useful. While I know this is just some sort of animalistic herd instinct—I am the alpha male in his mind, the provider of food and water and shelter—I find meaning, beat the absurd, answer the first question, via my one-eyed dog, if only for the moment.
He is enough.
We drive forty-five minutes to the chain grocery store.
Inside I order two thick prime dry-aged rib eye steaks and a bone from some pimply teenager in an oversize white butcher’s coat. He gags and makes retching noises while he weighs the meat, mumbles the words disgusting, sick, barbaric, throws in the bone at my request and extends the bag over the counter, holding it at arm’s length like a sack of dog shit.
“Are you okay?” I ask, because he’s starting to look green.
“I’m a vegan, and my asshole boss forced me to work in the meat department today. What do you think?”
“That’s the absurd, right there.”
“What are you even talking about?” he says as he turns his back on me, and I recognize his type. He’s practically begging for me to hug him. I imagine the parents at home who alternately ignore and criticize him, offering no promise of better—providing no philosophy, no religion, no belief system whatsoever, which is why he’s chosen veganism, most likely the antithesis of his parents’ diet, as a means of protest.
“Here’s your tip, young man,” I say. “Read Camus. Start with The Stranger. Read him. He agrees with you. A vegan forced to work as a butcher—absurdism at its finest. There’s a whole world out there beyond this small town. You’re not alone.”
“Whatever,” he says, and I fight to quell my old teacher instincts.
As I
peruse the pet aisle, throwing into my basket several months’ worth of overpriced treats for Albert Camus and some dental chews for his awful breath, I think about how that kid in the meat department would have become my favorite student by the end of the year, back when I was teaching high school English. I always won over those types—the ones who were desperate for adult guidance, so terribly wounded and bruised. If you could stomach the apathy for a few weeks, give their minds something real to chew on, offer them the alternative they craved instinctively, what people like them have been finding in story for many thousands of years, they’d always come around. I look down at my cane. Well, almost always.
Before I leave, I swing by the meat section once more, wave to get the teen’s attention. “You probably think I’m just some silly old fool, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that you’re in existential crisis. Look it up. You’re not the first. I’ve been there often. And, metaphorically, vegans have been working the meat counter since the beginning of time.”
He squints at me. “I gave you your order. I did my job. Now just leave me alone, okay?”
“Albert Camus. Read him. You’ll see.”
“Listen, old man,” he mumbles, looking around to see if anyone is listening. When he’s sure no one is within earshot, he says, “What the fuck—are you gay for me or something?”
“No. No, I am not. I am heterosexual and heartbroken, if you really must know. And I was just trying to—”
“Then fuck off, okay? How ’bout you try that?”
Maybe I’ve lost my touch.
And what the hell do I know? I’m just a cripple who lives with a one-eyed dog.
The kid’s behavior is a classic cry for help, but I no longer help teenagers.
Remember, Nate Vernon? You failed as a teacher. The universe beat the hell out of you with an aluminum baseball bat.
“Sure thing,” I tell the vegan butcher, and cane my way to the checkout line.
I let Albert Camus sit on my lap as I drive home, and he does so eagerly, licking my right hand the whole time, completely ignorant of the fact that our not wearing seat belts puts us in serious danger, forgetting how his last life ended, when he was a famous French writer.