Bunny, page 11
Well, what now? He shifts his weight on his legs and rocks back and forth, tugging on the yellow cotton drawstring of his ducky hood (he likes listening to the zipping sound it makes as he pulls it one way, then the other, through the eyelets). His internal child-clock estimates that it has been approximately four million years since his aunt entered the cave and stayed hunched over in the back of it.
‘Bunny?’ The sound of his own voice is alien in his ears because the place is so quiet. She doesn’t answer, or even move. There is no ‘not now’ hand this time, though, so he decides to try and push his luck.
‘Bunny?’
Nothing.
‘Hey, Aunt Bunny!’
Still nothing. Silas has had enough of this game; Bunny has somehow managed to make finding a secret cave boring. He waits a little longer for her to move, to come out before he gives up and begins exploring. He tugs back and forth on the drawstring until (inevitably) he pulls too hard one way – it slips, loses its equilibrium and slides out of its fabric tube. He immediately loses interest in his towel hoodie and decides to gather old, brown pinecones from the surrounding green bushes. There are no cones in the clearing itself as the dead white trees surrounding it are hundreds of years past their fruitful prime. Silas fashions a wreath-like crown out of his treasures, held together with his liberated bright yellow drawstring.
After securing the pinecones, he places the crown on his head. It feels heavy. He nods his head emphatically to ensure his crown is sturdy, then marches on. King of his imaginary kingdom. King of the dead trees . . .
Bunny presses the side of her head against the rock. Her ear seals itself against the smooth stone as the words come out:
‘The roots in the rock wake me I bite them the land is dead the roots in the rock wake me I bite them the land is dead the roots in the rock wake me I bite them the land is dead.’
‘Who are you?’ she whispers.
The muttering stops.
Then answers.
‘I am old.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I do not know.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I do not know.’ There’s a pause. It’s thinking; gathering words in its native tongue and translating them into things she will understand.
‘I visit you,’ it whispers.
She thinks she can hear it stir in the rock.
‘Why?’ Bunny asks.
‘You visit me,’ it replies.
Her mind whirls. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You visit me I visit you visit me I visit you visit me I visit you –’ it drones on and on.
Bunny lifts her ear away from the rock and stares at its bare, smooth surface. She expects to see the face of the voice inside it. She feels the cave whispering in the ancient air around her, pulsing into a crescendo: ‘– me I visit you visit me I visit you visit me I visit you visit me I visit –’
The whisper grows into a dark, hard voice, becoming more insistent ‘– YOU VISIT ME I VISIT YOU!’
She’s about to scream when the voice stops. She holds her breath in the silence.
‘The Little King.’ There’s a corrupt purr of amusement in its voice.
It makes Bunny want to dig her nails into her face and tear it off so she would have something else to feel other than the amusement in that voice. Maybe I should try? she thinks madly before hearing Silas humming outside. She turns around and sees him marching along the perimeter of the dead clearing, humming and wearing a crown of pinecones on his head. ‘The Little King?’ she asks, and realises that it’s seen him too – and it is delighted.
‘No!’ she screams at the rock. ‘No!’
Outside, Silas spins around in fright. Bunny runs out of the cave towards him and half scoops him up as she runs. Her nails dig into the same rib that she hurt last time. He yelps as he feels the same red glow of pain singe his skin. He wriggles free as she puts him down, letting him regain his footing as she drags him along behind her.
‘RUN!’ she screams.
He obeys. As they hurtle towards the green path, he glances back towards the stone outcrop, but he sees only flat stone where the cave is supposed to be.
‘Aunt Bunny, where’d the cave go?!’
Bunny doesn’t hear him or turn around. The path stretches out ahead of her in one long, straight line. Where the fuck are all the curves? If they had taken another wrong path, that was fine – they would not be turning around. One foot in front of the other, heading away from this place.
Silas skitters along behind her like a stone skipping across water, half dragged, half sprinting. He travels three paces for every one that his feet touch the ground. As they enter the lush path, an overhanging branch sweeps over his head, catching his pinecone wreath – his self-proclaimed crown. He howls as the branch rakes through his hair, bending like a catapult as it holds him by his scalp. Bunny keeps going. Finally, the branch whips free of him, carrying the wreath with it. Silas steals a final glance behind him. In the grey dust of the dead clearing, directly in front of where the cave was, lies his wreath. An offering to the dead stone.
2018
AND PUPPY DOGS’ TALES
A man who looks to be an accurate amalgamation of every extra in a Kid Rock music video stumbles out of the only consultation room at the Hamner Animal Control office, which also doubles as the local veterinary hospital.
‘Fu . . . fuck you, Eugene. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!’ Donovan bleats, as he pushes open the front door and half leaves.
‘Ya, get that line from Boston Legal, ya fuckin’ dong? Calm down, mate, it was only a backhand,’ the veterinarian explains, stepping out of the consultation room. ‘I warned ya. Keep running the puppy mill up there and I’m taking Nellie off you. Plain and simple, mate. You know – like you.’
Dr Eugene ‘Euge’ Demopoulos is a transplant from Australia; he moved from Melbourne to New York in the mid-eighties after winning the Green Card lottery. When quizzed about why he had moved, he would respond: ‘Met many Aussies before, mate?’
Back then, the person he was talking to would usually shrug, indicating they had encountered none to one (which was usually him).
The Australia Euge had left in the eighties had been a very different place. He had not been a fan of its societal and political landscape at the time, particularly when it came to race relations, or how the country treated anyone that wasn’t Hitler’s idea of the ‘perfect specimen’.
Being of Greek heritage, his folks had been the latest wave of immigrants (along with the Italians and a smattering of Eastern Europeans) to flock to Australia after the British, Irish and Scots. In school he had been called a nigger enough times by pink-skinned classmates for him to decide that the place would never be his home . . . Although it hadn’t taken him long to figure out that America had similar issues. (It was, after all, also populated with human beings.) But he had stepped off the plane determined to make it work. And he had. The majority of his family had stayed in Melbourne, had families and bought up large chunks of real estate, while he had made the decision to live alone with dogs, and had purposefully become the self-described town asshole. He often found it peculiar that his Australian accent was as pronounced today as it had been the day he stepped off the plane almost four decades ago. He wondered why it hadn’t softened, although at the back of his mind, he knew it was because it made him different – exotic even – and he realised it gave him a sort of jaundiced pleasure being the ‘educated other’ among his predominantly white-bread peers.
The constant ‘fuck you’ to the world was more satisfying than the blow jobs he infrequently received from his married veterinary nurse, Carolyn.
And, after all these years in this country, he’d realised that by moving here, he had acted no more superior than a disenchanted moth flying across a dark field to batter itself into the sweet release of a hot light bulb. He had gently come to the realisation that certain men came to as they wrestled through their enraged twenties, scowling thirties, bemused forties and beyond – he knew now that he didn’t much like anyone.
Fuck, he didn’t even really like Carolyn much. His dogs didn’t like her and she was needy. When she acted cutesy at work, she either wanted sex or attention; she would ask him stupid questions, like, ‘Do you think I have wrinkles?’ She was fifty-six, married for over twenty years, had three children and one grandchild. Fuck, Cazza, what do you think?
Although, this didn’t seem to bother her (or him), when on the occasional Friday night, they would wipe down the consultation table and perform oral sex on one another. Euge always thought that this base need to rut would have diminished by fifty (he had hoped it would), but he found himself sliding towards sixty with the same inflamed needs he’d had at fifteen. If he had one goal in life, it was to be beholden to nothing and nobody for anything – apart from Kayle, Birdy, Choo-Choo and Tripes (his three rescue dogs and one three-legged cat).
But today, his mind is on another, soon-to-be rescue dog.
Donovan stands in the doorway rubbing the side of his pubic-bearded face, which is now flushed bright pink from the verbal and physical slap Euge inflicted on it. ‘Nellie is my property!’ Donovan yells.
‘So’s your life.’
Confusion washes over Donovan’s face. ‘So?’
‘So, I can take that away too.’
Euge lunges forward, grabs the handle and shuts the door behind Donovan before he can leave. His other hand shoots out, wraps itself around Donovan’s wiry neck and slams his body against the shut door.
Carolyn sits at the reception desk aghast, prickling with anticipation. Her thoughts run from the situation into her make-believe world, a world with very different possibilities: I could ask Keith for a divorce. He’s nearing seventy, in a wheelchair from the stroke and losing control of his bowels . . . But he knows how to use the microwave and could always get a helper – a nice Mexican girl. Oh! Or that Indian girl that Barbara used for her mother? Then I’d be free and me and Euge could retire to . . . Bali? Oh my God, just like in Eat Pray Love!
Watching Eugene, she’s (almost) ashamed at how aroused she feels. She’s menopausal, her oestrogen rapidly decreasing, and theoretically, shouldn’t she be losing interest in sex? I knit, for God’s sake. I’m a grandmother. Christ, Carolyn, you should be thinking about how you’re going to be seeing your grandchild in a week.
Carolyn’s only daughter, Brenda, moved to Florida with her only grandchild two years ago. There she sold Avon products and lived a perfectly peaceful domestic life with her husband, Owen, who sold holiday packages. Carolyn often felt a sense of anger towards Brenda for ‘having it so easy’, while Carolyn cared solely for Keith. The upcoming trip to see her daughter and grandbaby would be for a month, and Carolyn knew that Brenda and Owen would foot the bill, which she (of course) was grateful for. Carolyn had spent her long evenings knitting two jumpers for her beloved grandbaby, Cora (one SpongeBob SquarePants knitted print and one striped pink and white cardigan). She just hoped that Cora would still fit in them by the time she arrived. She was leaving in just a few days. She should be making a list, checking her bus itinerary (she agreed to take the bus as it was cheaper for Brenda and Owen, although she’d been hoping that they would surprise her with a plane ticket) and she tries to make a list in her head of the mounting to-do’s that have not been done (like ensuring that the live-in nurse really will be a live-in nurse for Keith while she’s gone).
But instead, she’s getting horny.
She always fought the urges, but sometimes she just couldn’t and that’s where Euge came in. It was mostly on the odd Friday night, but lately they’ve been using the ‘Back in 15’ sign during midday lulls. Although, they really only need eight.
She’ll be gone for a month (maybe a little more if Brenda needs help). Brenda and Owen are hiring a new landscape gardener and Carolyn feels her knowledge of American perennial flowers could be of great use for her and Owen’s expansive garden. The point is, she will be gone a while, and nobody could reasonably judge her if she needed a small glass of water before the drought set in. Besides, she has never seen him like this before, so threatening with someone. Carolyn wonders if she should intervene as Eugene presses Donovan’s throat harder into the shut door. She decides against it. Best not get involved, she thinks, before fantasising about the mid-afternoon lull and that ‘Back in 15’ sign . . .
Eugene feels Donovan’s neck becoming greasy with sweat under his hand. He notes the mixture of nicotine and the sharp cat-piss-vinegar scent of meth sweat.
‘I know what you do with those pups, ya cunt. You supply dog-fighting rings. The big ones, like your Nellie, are pumped full of steroids and coke and made to tear each other apart in backwater shitholes all over the fucking country. I know runts have their mouths taped shut – get thrown to the big ones to train ’em to kill.’
‘You’ve got no proof. I, I got raided and they got no proof!’ Donovan stammers.
‘Who do you think I am, fuckwit? The police? I don’t need evidence cos this isn’t gonna go to court. I’ll just put you down, you insignificunt,’ Euge growls.
Carolyn summarises in her head how best to explain to her children that Mom and Dad still love each other very much, but not in that way anymore. She also mentally prepares herself for having sex with Dr Demo when the meth head leaves. Carolyn has never been able to say Eugene’s last name without making a mistake, so she has abbreviated it.
‘I have to drive along the interstate and see discarded dog carcasses with no throats because some micro-penis had them fighting and they’ve lost. A lot of them look just like Nellie, don’t they?’ Euge squeezes Donovan’s throat and nods his head for him. ‘’Cos she’s your champion, isn’t she? Lots of pups from Nellie.’
A whimpering sigh escapes Donovan’s lips. Euge moves in closer, cheek to cheek now – it’s a strange intimacy. Euge only lets his dogs and people he doesn’t like get this close to his face. He whispers into Donovan’s ear so Carolyn can’t hear what he’s saying, ‘I’ve put up with four years of this shit from you. But no more, mate. Any more nonsense and I’ll sneak into your house one night and overdose you with the ketamine I use for Nate Sullivan’s horses. Then I’ll run you a nice hot bath. Your mates, or the cops, will find ya in the bathtub and assume you smoked something, assumed ya nodded off and drowned, ya junkie fuck.’
Euge simultaneously twists the doorknob and releases Donovan’s neck. The door swings open against the weight of Donovan pushing against it and he tumbles onto the sidewalk. The street is empty; it’s that mid-morning quiet when everyone is already where they need to be for the day. Euge glowers at him, purses his lips and blows him a kiss. Just to show him he didn’t imagine the last twenty seconds, he thinks, before closing the door.
He’s silent for a moment before a single amused hoot bursts out of him. This is the first time he has ever truly threatened a man’s life, and it doesn’t feel as terrible as popular morality suggests it should. In fact, he feels great.
‘Shouldn’t’a watched The Equalizer last night, Euge,’ he says to himself, as he walks past the reception desk.
‘Doctor, should I get the room ready?’ Carolyn purrs as he walks past.
‘No,’ is the reply.
That was far better than any thrill he’s had with Carolyn.
Carolyn feigns a smile and returns to her administrative work, the potential divorce and soul-searching pilgrimage to Southeast Asia now a discarded daydream.
Euge walks into the back room and opens the door to a cage that holds the biggest pit bull he has ever seen. The hulking old bitch is white with brown spots. Tired, sagging nipples hang down from her belly in tattered rows, like deflated speed bags in an old boxing gym. Her face is covered in knotted pink scars that peek out between the fur from past fights – a hint of her life before she was turned into nothing more than a breeding commodity. Her one and only eye shines brilliant blue, and fills with love when she sees him. Her tail wags as her enormous mouth opens in a friendly smile, displaying large, battle-chipped canines. From behind them lolls a tongue that resembles a tattered red necktie, the left side torn off in a past fight.
‘Hello, Nellie, come here baby,’ Euge says in his deep, baby-talking voice he reserves only for the purest creatures of the world. He kneels and gives Nellie the first cuddle that she has had in a very long time.
ARTISAN BAKERIES & PRETTIER TOWNS
Silas, Rose and Goober climb out of the car. ‘Welcome to Hamner,’ says Silas as he twirls the car keys around his index finger. Rose looks up and down Emerson Blvd. She decides that whoever anointed the street with the title of ‘boulevard’ must have had a sense of humour.
Emerson comprises two narrow lanes with parking spaces on either side, making it feel significantly wider than it is. It’s lined with a jarring mixture of quaint old storefronts and prefab-looking strip mall cubes. If the town’s story were a song, it would be the industrial Northeast’s greatest hits. Whatever commercial undertaking precipitated the town’s creation dissolved sometime in the previous century, leaving behind a sadder, emptier, poorer place as a eulogy; a Springsteen song with the barrel of Gramps’s American-made Colt 1911 waiting between gritted teeth for the final chorus. A scattering of nearby regional towns have been (or are in the process of being) resurrected by wealthy out-of-towners buying up homes and businesses to accommodate their leisure activities on long weekends. Artisan bakeries with overpriced ‘deconstructed’ sandwiches (meaning you pay a premium to butter the rustic sourdough slices yourself) breathe life into old towns that offer pretty views; those by the sea, or with a view over the valleys. These towns are the first in line to get a new lease of life.
