Yes, I had seen him.
From a glass booth above a circular room. Last night. With Jillanna.
He had been-dessert.
I could feel my stomach tightening. Oh, shit. How should I handle this one?
Marcie looked at me. "Did you say something?"
"Uh-Marcie, I-uh, don't know how to tell you this, but-" just tell the truth, the voice in my head said. "-uh, Rangle is dead. He was-uh, hit by a car. It happened late last night. I saw it happen. He was killed instantly. I didn't realize that was Rangle until you described him."
She was shaking her head. "Oh, no-he couldn't be! Are you sure, Jim?" She searched my face for some sign that I was mistaken.
I swallowed hard. My throat hurt. I remembered something I'd heard in the booth, about how this dog had been scrounging around the commissary for a while. "Marcie," I said. "I'm sure. He was about so high, right?"
She nodded slowly. She gulped for a moment, as if she couldn't get air. And then she put her hands to her face and held them there. It was as if she were shattering into a thousand screaming pieces all at once, and only the sheer pressure of her hands was keeping all those pieces from flying off into space.
And then, abruptly, she straightened up and her face was like a mask. When she spoke, her voice was flat and dead. "I'll be all right." She shrugged. "He was only a dog." She was a zombie again.
I stared at her as she bent and picked up the package of meat scraps that Rangle would never eat. She folded the paper up neatly and walked over to a nearby garbage can and dumped it in. "Now I can stop caring."
"Marcie, it's all right to care. We all have to have someone to care about."
"I don't," she said. She pulled her coat around her, as if to shield herself against the cold-but it was a warm night and it wasn't the cold she was shutting out. She brushed past me and started walking away.
"Marcie!" She kept on walking and I felt powerless to stop her. It made me angry-the feeling of helplessness; it was the same feeling as when my father walked away from me for the last time. "No, goddammit! I'm tired of people walking out on me!" Something flickered like a frame in a movie and then I was moving across the space between us and grabbing her arm. I pulled her around to face me. "Knock it off!" I snapped at her. "This is really stupid. I've seen other people do it. You start retreating from life because it hurts. You do it one step at a time, but pretty soon it becomes such a habit that you do it automatically-you run from everything. Of course it hurts! How much it hurts shows how much you care! And that proves just how much alive you are!"
"Let go of me! I don't need a sermon!"
"You're right! You don't! You need a year in a rubber room!"
She broke free of my grip, her eyes wild. "Don't say that!" she shrieked. Her hands were like claws.
"Why? Because it might be true? You said you were terrified of being weird, that you might be one of those ladies with the fried eggs on their foreheads, but nobody would tell you. Well, I'm telling you. If you run away from me now, that's the first step toward the fried egg."
She looked as if I'd slapped her, blinking at me in the glow of the street lights. Her expression seemed to dissolve as the meaning of the words sank in. I could almost see them penetrating, layer after layer. "I've been there," she said. "I don't want to go back."
"So don't. You don't have to. It's all this running from stuff that keeps you crazy. You think you're the only one who's crazy? The rest of us are just as wacko! All you have to do is look. The only difference is we don't let it stop us." I added, "Too much."
"But it hurts!"
"So what? Let it hurt! At least that way you get it over with! What you're doing now sure isn't producing results, is it?"
She nodded and gulped, and then her eyes welled up and she clutched my shirt and she grabbed me and started bawling. I pulled her close and held onto her, as if I could shield her from the pain-only it wasn't pain from the outside anymore, it was pain that bubbled up from the inside and burst out through her eyes and nose and mouth. "It isn't fair! It isn't fair! Why does there have to be so much dying?!! I want my dog!! Oh, Rangle, Rangle! I want my Rangle back!" She sobbed and screamed into my jacket. She gulped for air and sobbed again. The tears were streaming down her cheeks now. "It isn't fair! Everything I've ever loved-I don't want to love anything anymore! I'm tired of losing! It hurts too much to care! I want an end to it! I want my dog!"
I thought about the men who'd captured Rangle and thought about what I'd like to do to them. Marcie was right-it wasn't fair. They killed the dog, but I had to deal with the guilt and the grief! Why did I have to clean up their mess?! All of their messes?!! I could feel my fists tightening against Marcie's back. Her shoulders heaved. She began coughing and I unclenched my fists and started thumping her gently. "It's all right, baby," I said. "It's all right. Let it out, that's the way, it's good to cry. It shows how much you cared. Just scream it out, that's the girl-" I just kept babbling, trying to comfort her and slowly ease her back. It was amazing how much she cared about that dog. She just kept on crying-or was she crying for more than just the dog right now? I held her and let her weep. Two soldiers walked past us without stopping. They took us for granted. Such scenes were common nowadays.
Marcie sniffed and looked up at me. "Jim?"
"Huh?"
"I'm all right now. You can let go."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"No. Don't. Thank you."
"Come on. I'll walk you back to your room."
"Okay."
We walked in silence. She had a small apartment in the second building past the commissary, one of the co-ops we'd seen on the way in. It was austere, but homey.
Once inside, she put her arms around me again and held me close. "Thank you," she said. I put my arms around her and we stood that way for a while.
"Jim," she said softly, "will you make love to me?"
I could smell the perfume in her hair; it made me dizzy. I didn't speak; I just nodded, then brought my face around to hers. Her eyes were wide-she looked like a frightened little girl, afraid I'd say yes.
I said, "Yes," and her eyes closed gently. She laid her head against my chest and I could feel her body beginning to relax. She was all right. At last she knew she was all right. Because I was all right, and I said so.
I stroked her hair with my hand. She was ... so tiny, so pale, so thin. So fragile. So warm.
There were a thousand things to say.
I didn't say any of them.
After a while, we moved to the bed. "Turn off the light?" I said.
"I'd rather leave it on."
"Oh. Well ... okay."
THIRTY
I FLOATED in the land of Afterward, drifting toward the land of Nod-until suddenly, I jerked awake and sat up in a cold sweat. "Holy buffalo shit!"
Next to me, Marcie rolled over, alarmed. "Huh? What is it?"
"I have to go-I have to be back at the hotel! What time is it? Oh, sweet Jesus-it's almost midnight! They're gonna hang me for sure!"
"Jim, are you all right?"
"No-I'm not!" I was already pulling on my pants. "Where are my shoes?"
"Don't go-"
"I have to!" And then I saw the look on her face-that hurt, used expression-and I sat down next to her and pulled her into my arms. "Marcie, I'm sorry. I wish I could stay here with you, but I can't. I-I'm under orders. I know this looks like I'm running out on you, but I'm not. Please believe me."
"I believe you," she said, but I could feel her stiffening in my arms. She rubbed at her eyes. "I'm not angry. I'm used to it." I tilted her face toward mine and kissed her. "I'm not like that, Marcie."