Bunny, page 13
He once had (years ago, when he drank and didn’t mind socialising as much) a boozy one-night stand out there with Louise Burbridge in a boathouse on the lakeside. He knew she lived in a rambling house nearby, and to his knowledge, still does. That name and her face have returned to his memory frequently over the past few weeks.
He thinks of her as he picks a salted cashew from a bowl and tosses it into his mouth, remembering his younger years. Lou Lou Burbridge was one of the few women that Eugene had actually (sort of) attempted to have a relationship with. After their tryst, he had become enamoured and tried calling her – but never heard back. When he had spotted her in town a few weeks later purchasing large show candles, he’d waved. She pretended she hadn’t seen him before quickly driving off. In the years since, he had occasionally seen her from afar and walked the other way.
He prefers to dine alone, but enjoys keeping distanced company and listening to the old bastards who keep Surley’s in business with their perennial stewardship. Even after decades of him living here, they still know more than him about the local terrain.
‘Ayuh, that lake, thaaat fuckin’ lake is . . . dead,’ Dennis ‘the menace’ Garbrandt proclaims like a plaid-draped seer, to the nods and grunts of the others.
Euge tries some gentle coaxing but elicits nothing further that is useful from the old-timers – just a long-held consensus that the place just isn’t very pleasant, that the fishing is bad and that the trout seem to prefer neighbouring bodies of water. There are ducks, apparently, but much fewer than there should be, and so, unless you’re an out-of-towner doing some exploring, there isn’t much reason to remember that the place even exists.
Dennis conspiratorially leans his white whiskers over Euge’s ginger ale. Perhaps some useful nugget of information is about to be shared –
‘The gays have been known to frequent the parking lot at the north end, if you catch what I’m drifting,’ Dennis murmurs with sour-mash breath.
Euge sighs inwardly as he nods at Dennis’s not-so-subtle eyebrow lifts and jerky head nods.
‘How would you know?’ squawks a butter bean of a man who’s tightly packed into oil-stained Carhartt overalls with the name NORMAN embroidered on the bosom-like chest. The hooting that follows signals a definitive end to useful discourse.
*
Two hours later, Euge parks at the north end parking lot.
He sees no gays.
He opens the back door, hauls out a backpack and slings it over his shoulder. The canine mountain that is Nellie hops onto the ground with more grace than her size would suggest she is capable of. (He’s not exactly sure how she’ll behave if they come across other people or animals; he knows he’s being irresponsible taking her out so soon, but he’s doing it anyhow.) He gently places a lead over her head, which she watches with mistrust. When it is securely on, she immediately tests it with a tug. It’s not a harness, but at least it’s not the steel choker chains with inward-facing teeth that she’s used to. Nellie watches his face, making herself available for kindness.
‘It’s okay, girlie, it’ll be fun,’ Euge croons.
The two make their way a few hundred yards down to the edge of Long Lake, ready for adventure and maybe, later, eel pie.
Somehow the lake looks colder in the afternoon sun than if it were cloudy. His ancestors ruled the Greek isles, and were known for being the best fishermen in the world – but that was in warm Mediterranean water.
He ties Nellie to the branch of a downed pine, and offers her a handful of Tasty Chewz. He knows it is crucial for her to learn trust, and to distinguish between life with a meth-head dog-fighting fuckwit and life with him. He fishes his snorkelling gear out of his backpack: wetsuit, gloves, fins, mask, snorkel, knife. He kits up next to Nellie, who has become attached to him over the last few weeks and now whines anytime he goes away.
‘There there, love, won’t be long. Just going to have a look and see what I can see,’ he says, scratching her gnarled, pointy ears.
In spite of years of regular sessions of garage-gym weightlifting while listening to Chet Baker records, Eugene’s wetsuit hardly fits; yes, his shoulders have broadened into mature, middle-aged brawn, but the pot belly now encased in black neoprene is the primary issue. Well, ya can’t listen to jazz while ya run, can ya, mate? he thinks to himself as he tries to remember the last time he actually saw his running shoes.
He picks a spot, wades in and sits down in the thigh-deep water to put on his fins. Before he does, he slips his mask on and peeps into the water. The lake bed consists of a flat blanket of bottle-top-sized stones before giving way to a steep slope that disappears into the cold, tannin-coloured depths.
Nellie begins to whine.
‘It’s okay, girlie, it’s okay!’ He pushes his mask up on his forehead. The clear rubber sucks at his skin and he jams his left foot into the fin when Nellie stops whining and starts barking. He turns to reassure her. ‘Hush now, girlie –’
He feels a tug on his ankle – small, like a toddler who wants your attention. A much harder tug jolts him so hard he hears his hip socket creak as a vice snaps shut on his ankle. By the time he realises he’s being pulled into the water, he’s already under. His mask loses its hold on his skin. It pops off the top of his head and floats to the surface for Nellie to bark at.
As he slips deeper, the sun’s rays battle to penetrate the murk and he begins to lose the light. His eardrums scream as he descends too fast. He feels surprisingly little pain as the bones in his ankle grind against one another and then give way in a series of crackling pops. A new species? Newly introduced predator? Eugene looks down before the light fades completely, expecting to see the black eyes of some Lovecraftian eel. Before the light flees altogether, he could swear he sees a hand below him.
In the dark he feels rock on both sides pinch shut against his belly as he’s pulled into a crevice. A deep, heavy crack comes from somewhere inside him as his hip wrenches at an impossible angle and suddenly feels as if it’s floating high up in his chest.
Shit, the dog’s still tied to the tree.
He hears Chet Baker’s trumpet sighing in his ears as blood wells up his throat, warming the cold water in his mouth as he closes his eyes . . .
Nellie strains against the branch. Her enormous chest rises as she stands on her hind legs, trying to tear herself free from the collar around her neck. She falls back, recovers and punches forward again. The leash snaps taut, she falls back, recovers and punches forward again. The branch splinters and breaks, freeing her. Nellie tucks her tail between her legs in terror and skitters away from the lake, her flanks dripping urine as she goes.
NOT YET
They wake on their bedroom floor; Silas first, which rouses Goober, who’s using his outstretched arm as a pillow. Silas looks into Rose’s sleeping face, her head resting on his other arm. A thin trail of drool has crept out of her mouth and dried on his skin. She looks happier when she’s asleep. Her face is betrayingly expressive, so every thought is punctuated by small twitches around her mouth, or a frown dancing over her brow. Sleeping seems to be the only time she’s at peace, the only time when she isn’t trying to right the world.
‘Rosie, Rooosiiiiiiiie.’
Goober assists Dad by gently nuzzling her cheek.
‘Hello, boys,’ she says.
She leans over Silas’s shoulder at the laptop on the floor beside them, groggily attempting to read some of the section they were working on before their midday nap. Goober grows excited as she stirs.
‘Hello, good sir,’ she says into his playful eyes as his tail whips Silas madly.
‘Fuck, Goob, careful of Dad’s face,’ Silas says, trying to keep black dog hair out of his mouth. As Rose reads over their pre-nap writing, she feels a gentle clinch around her sternum, which descends into a wrestling match between all three of them. Laughter bursts out of her, causing Goober to bark in excitement. ‘Shh, Mom and Dad are trying to be inconspicuous!’ she says before laughing again. Rose has a laugh that can shake a room. It comes from her gut and sprinkles others with happiness.
‘How long did we sleep?’ she asks as she stretches out, her body sputtering with vibrations as she lengthens.
‘Dunno. Hour, maybe? I’m just spitballing here, but maybe it has something to do with the eighteen-hour days?’ Silas says, giving her his best cockeyed grin.
‘Almost done. It’ll be worse if we slow down.’
‘But sanity . . .’
‘We’re in so deep now, let’s not give ourselves any excuse to slow down or we’ll crash out and stop altogether.’ Rose knows she’s the marching girl with the baton; she knows she’s got to keep up the pace or things could go sideways fast.
Goober hops onto the bed. He either wants to be tucked in properly, or is waiting for the latest wrestling match to commence. He waits expectantly above them like a patient priest waiting for his rowdy congregation to quieten down. As he does so, he sits on his haunches, kneading the blanket with his paws.
‘Your son has something to say,’ Rose says, knowing how to read her kid. His ears fold back. He looks very serious and achingly adorable.
‘What say you, sir?’ Silas inquires from the floor.
Goober pauses melodramatically, and they wait for what they know is coming. A small ruff noise rumbles out of his partially opened mouth, then another, and another. If they let him, the ruffs will build into growling yarps, before erupting into mad, full-throated barks. Then he’ll tear around the room, his furry butt tucked under him, in the way that terriers do when they play. Before the second yarp erupts, Silas springs to life, pouncing up and descending onto Goober before pulling him back to the floor, pinning him down and tickling his undercarriage. Goober smiles, wriggles and makes small growling sounds, enjoying the pure magic of playing with Dad.
Rose watches them play. She was the one who proclaimed four years ago, in their Queens apartment, that they would be adopting a rescue dog. One week later, they sat in their minuscule bathroom with their tiny, eight-week-old shivering mongrel Goober-pup, taking turns cleaning him up before manoeuvring his small body into his first NYC winter puppy jacket. For months, Rose observed Silas gently caring for their furry child; the two of them had tag-teamed to crack her maternal nature wide open.
She coos at him on the floor as if he were a baby. He is their baby. His mouth lies cracked open in a canine grin and he lets loose another yarp as he struggles under Dad.
‘Be quiet or you’ll summon Bunny!’ Silas says into Goober’s fleshy tummy.
‘Si! Shh.’ The dreamy look on Rose’s face vanishes as the potential of that happening plays in her mind.
‘Buuunnnyyy!’ Silas screeches into the air.
‘Shut up. She’ll hear you!’
‘Preciousss. Where is Bun-Bun’s aperitif, precious?’ Silas squawks in his best Gollum impression.
The last one is too much. Rose cracks up, while trying not to, which makes it even harder. She jumps into the pile of mandog. ‘Buuunnnyyy!’
Fuck the ghouls, let them come . . .
Outside in the darkening evening, a figure crouches on its haunches and watches them. The eyes gleam orange in the waxing glow of a cigarette being drawn on.
Had only Bunny been listening, the heavy drapes and shut window would not have allowed her to hear their mockery. But The Other listened for them, and they both heard the mocking call of her name. She sucks the cigarette down to the blackened filter and allows it to fall from her lips and bounce off her knee, where it hits the soft pine-needle ground. She hears her name called into the air and she walks back to the house.
Silas is drifting off again and Goober is fast returning to chasing squirrels in his dreams.
‘Go make sandwiches. We have to finish working,’ Rose says. She brings her knee up and grinds it into his side.
‘Ah! Okay, I’m going, boss-lady. Whaddya want on yours? The usual?’
The usual is cheese and tomato on depressed-looking freezer-preserved seed loaf from their last visit to town.
‘Yeah, sure.’ She jumps up and makes her way to the en-suite, raising her arms and removing her T-shirt as she steps into the bathroom. Silas hurriedly follows. His eyes trace her lithe back and waist. A freckle here, a mole there, and tiny hairs that prickle in the cold air. She doesn’t get far before he wraps his arms around her, burying his face into the patch of neck between her collarbone and throat. ‘But it looks more fun in here.’
‘No. You smell like a mixture of Goober-breath and anxiety.’
She’s expecting more resistance, but Silas cocks his head and mumbles, ‘Actually, I’m hungry too.’
She laughs, pushing him out the door. ‘I’ve been dumped for a bologna sandwich, haven’t I?’
Silas shrugs. ‘It just happened, babe. I’m sorry. I’m hungry and your bra strap is confusing.’
She reaches behind her to free herself. Silas looks down to see Rose’s breasts smiling back at him. ‘Not that confusing. You’re just dumb . . . Idiota,’ she says, tapping the side of her temple.
‘Idiota?! Madam, may I remind you that I am a marginally accomplished writer!’ He dives in and kisses both nipples, before flying out the door to make sandwiches.
Goober, now alert and eager to tag along, follows Silas to find out more about this bologna sandwich business.
The bedroom door closes behind them.
Rose turns on the shower tap, and cold water warms under her hand.
As he and Goob descend the stairs, Silas is in the best mood he’s been in since the incident at the lake. That comes to an abrupt halt when he sees downstairs washed in gloom; the only light source is a weak orange glow from the corner of the kitchen counter where Lou Lou sits, moribund in its halo.
Hmm, she must have got the memo about my influx of positivity. Silas can read the scene from the way her shoulders hunch and how her elbows rest on the table. The shoe box of old pictures and the large wine glass with multiple lipstick imprints around the rim, act as sufficient supporting evidence. The shoe box is a sarcophagus for her wedding pictures and (after the divorce) any picture that contained his father. She visited the box two or three times a year to tear the healing scabs off and make the wounds bleed again. From what he figured, in her eyes, if the wounds were still bleeding, then the drinking was justified. And so, over the years, out came the box periodically like a masochist boomerang.
No chance of any drama-free sandwich-making now.
Her watery eyes drift to his feet, then climb to his face. ‘Hello, son.’
Silas tries to maintain the pretence of ignorance as he slips past her into the kitchen. ‘Hi, Mom. Uh, Bunny home?’
‘I don’t know.’ Lou Lou always sprinkles strange and unnecessary inflections into her speech when she drinks. ‘I haven’t seen her this evening. I think I saw her this morning but it’s hard to tell sometimes. She’s so quiet. Poor thing. She’s waiting for God now, my son.’
Silas notices that both doors are ajar – usually a telltale sign that Bunny is out. He gathers sandwich accoutrements in an attempt to multi-task as the well-worn drinking conversation topic unfolds with the familiarity of a used summer chair unpacked after a hard winter.
‘Yup. She leaves the doors open all the time. Given up trying to close ’em,’ Silas says without any attempt to hide his exhaustion with the dilemma.
‘You know I tried to help her, don’t you, son?’
‘With what?’ Feign ignorance. Ask questions. Keep her talking till you can finish the food and leave. He drops a slice of bologna to a waiting Goober – who has strategically manoeuvred himself below the counter.
‘The drink. She was okay for a while. I think. But over the years, it just got worse and . . . worse,’ Lou Lou says as she pushes herself up off her elbows and stands haughtily.
Oh Jesus, strap yourself in. ‘Uh-huh. Yeah.’
‘It was harder to . . . support her after she moved out to the boathouse.’ Lou Lou drifts closer, leaning on the edge of the counter. ‘You know, I had hoped the solitude was helping her, but I think it made it worse. She needed the structure of being together in the house. Together . . .’
Lady, structure with you is like the structure of a burned-out building after a fucking fire guts it; you two are the Twin Towers of sisterhood, he thinks. But what he actually says are the well-rehearsed words and tone of a person who’s grown up around drinking. The ‘I will be the voice of reason and middle ground, so that you can stumble, but still stand’ voice. It was the voice that children of alcoholics learned so that they could cope. Or pretend to.
‘Yes, I think you’re right. But, as I recall, it was her choice to move to the boathouse, so what could you have done?’ Whoops, I just used the last of Rose’s fancy French wholegrain mustard. Time to switch back to synthetic yellow American.
Lou Lou shakes her head at nothing in particular before sipping the last of her wine. ‘I should’ve been there for her. I should have . . . but I was in no state to be anyone’s saviour.’
The pneumatic pressure of words unspoken is slowly starting to push a needle on a gauge in Silas’s head. ‘Well, you know, you tried your best,’ he says, slicing a tomato with more force than is necessary.
Lou Lou swallows the appeasing comment, but finds it too small a morsel. ‘Well, my best wasn’t good enough, was it? If I wasn’t such a mess all the time, then I could have saved her, you know. But your father –’
As Silas slams down the knife and opens his mouth to speak, he already knows he’s making a mistake, but he’s stepped out of his body and watches himself make it regardless. Why can’t you just shut your mouth for two more minutes while you finish the fucking sandwiches and go back upstairs? This is what she wants – attention. And now she’s got it. AGAIN!
