a time, he gave up the fight. He lived alone in the house he grew up in, and when it seemed likely to swallow him with its smells and memories and dark couches, the attempts he'd made to escape it--through church socials, lodge picnics, and one horrific mixer thrown by a dating service--had only opened the wound further, left him patching it back up for weeks, cursing himself for hoping.
So he took these walks of his and, if he was lucky, sometimes he forgot people lived any other way. That night, he paused on the sidewalk, feeling the ink sky above him and the cold in his fingers, and he closed his eyes against the evening.
He was used to it. He was used to it. It was okay.
You could make a friend of it, as long as you didn't fight it.
With his eyes closed, he heard it--a worn-out keening accompanied by distant scratching and a sharper, metallic rattling. He opened his eyes. Fifteen feet down the sidewalk, a large metal barrel with a heavy lid shook slightly under the yellow glare of the streetlight, its bottom scraping the sidewalk. He stood over it and heard that keening again, the sound of a creature that was one breath away from deciding it was too hard to take the next, and he pulled off the lid.
He had to remove some things to get to it--a toaster and five thick Yellow Pages, the oldest dating back to 2000. The dog--either a very small one or else a puppy--was down at the bottom, and it scrunched its head into its midsection when the light hit it. It exhaled a soft chug of a whimper and tightened its body even more, its eyes closed to slits. A scrawny thing. Bob could see its ribs. He could see a big crust of dried blood by its ear. No collar. It was brown with a white snout and paws that seemed far too big for its body.
It let out a sharper whimper when Bob reached down, sank his fingers into the nape of its neck, and lifted it out of its own excrement. Bob didn't know dogs too well, but there was no mistaking this one for anything but a boxer. And definitely a puppy, the wide brown eyes opening and looking into his as he held it up before him.
Somewhere, he was sure, two people made love. A man and a woman. Entwined. Behind one of those shades, oranged with light, that looked down on the street. Bob could feel them in there, naked and blessed. And he stood out here in the cold with a near-dead dog staring back at him. The icy sidewalk glinted like new marble, and the wind was dark and gray as slush.
"What do you got there?"
Bob turned, looked up and down the sidewalk.
"I'm up here. And you're in my trash."
She stood on the front porch of the three-decker nearest him. She'd turned the porch light on and stood there shivering, her feet bare. She reached into the pocket of her hoodie and came back with a pack of cigarettes. She watched him as she got one going.
"I found a dog." Bob held it up.
"A what ?"
"A dog. A puppy. A boxer, I think."
She coughed out some smoke. "Who puts a dog in a barrel?"
"Right?" he said. "It's bleeding." He took a step toward her stairs and she backed up.
"Who do you know that I would know?" A city girl, not about to just drop her guard around a stranger.
"I don't know," Bob said. "How about Francie Hedges?"
She shook her head. "You know the Sullivans?"
That wouldn't narrow it down. Not around here. You shook a tree, a Sullivan fell out. Followed by a six-pack most times. "I know a bunch."
This was going nowhere, the puppy looking at him, shaking worse than the girl.
"Hey," she said, "you live in this parish?"
"Next one over. St. Theresa's."
"Go to church?"
"Most Sundays."
"So you know Father Pete?"
"Pete Regan," he said, "sure."
She produced a cell phone. "What's your name?"
"Bob," he said. "Bob Saginowski."
Bob waited as she stepped back from the light, phone to one ear, finger pressed into the other. He stared at the puppy. The puppy stared back, like, How did I get here ? Bob touched its nose with his index finger. The puppy blinked its huge eyes. For a moment,
So he took these walks of his and, if he was lucky, sometimes he forgot people lived any other way. That night, he paused on the sidewalk, feeling the ink sky above him and the cold in his fingers, and he closed his eyes against the evening.
He was used to it. He was used to it. It was okay.
You could make a friend of it, as long as you didn't fight it.
With his eyes closed, he heard it--a worn-out keening accompanied by distant scratching and a sharper, metallic rattling. He opened his eyes. Fifteen feet down the sidewalk, a large metal barrel with a heavy lid shook slightly under the yellow glare of the streetlight, its bottom scraping the sidewalk. He stood over it and heard that keening again, the sound of a creature that was one breath away from deciding it was too hard to take the next, and he pulled off the lid.
He had to remove some things to get to it--a toaster and five thick Yellow Pages, the oldest dating back to 2000. The dog--either a very small one or else a puppy--was down at the bottom, and it scrunched its head into its midsection when the light hit it. It exhaled a soft chug of a whimper and tightened its body even more, its eyes closed to slits. A scrawny thing. Bob could see its ribs. He could see a big crust of dried blood by its ear. No collar. It was brown with a white snout and paws that seemed far too big for its body.
It let out a sharper whimper when Bob reached down, sank his fingers into the nape of its neck, and lifted it out of its own excrement. Bob didn't know dogs too well, but there was no mistaking this one for anything but a boxer. And definitely a puppy, the wide brown eyes opening and looking into his as he held it up before him.
Somewhere, he was sure, two people made love. A man and a woman. Entwined. Behind one of those shades, oranged with light, that looked down on the street. Bob could feel them in there, naked and blessed. And he stood out here in the cold with a near-dead dog staring back at him. The icy sidewalk glinted like new marble, and the wind was dark and gray as slush.
"What do you got there?"
Bob turned, looked up and down the sidewalk.
"I'm up here. And you're in my trash."
She stood on the front porch of the three-decker nearest him. She'd turned the porch light on and stood there shivering, her feet bare. She reached into the pocket of her hoodie and came back with a pack of cigarettes. She watched him as she got one going.
"I found a dog." Bob held it up.
"A what ?"
"A dog. A puppy. A boxer, I think."
She coughed out some smoke. "Who puts a dog in a barrel?"
"Right?" he said. "It's bleeding." He took a step toward her stairs and she backed up.
"Who do you know that I would know?" A city girl, not about to just drop her guard around a stranger.
"I don't know," Bob said. "How about Francie Hedges?"
She shook her head. "You know the Sullivans?"
That wouldn't narrow it down. Not around here. You shook a tree, a Sullivan fell out. Followed by a six-pack most times. "I know a bunch."
This was going nowhere, the puppy looking at him, shaking worse than the girl.
"Hey," she said, "you live in this parish?"
"Next one over. St. Theresa's."
"Go to church?"
"Most Sundays."
"So you know Father Pete?"
"Pete Regan," he said, "sure."
She produced a cell phone. "What's your name?"
"Bob," he said. "Bob Saginowski."
Bob waited as she stepped back from the light, phone to one ear, finger pressed into the other. He stared at the puppy. The puppy stared back, like, How did I get here ? Bob touched its nose with his index finger. The puppy blinked its huge eyes. For a moment,
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