The dog looked at her a moment longer, continuing to snarl, threatening her with its eyes. Let’s have an understanding, lady, the eyes said. You do your thing and I’ll do mine. That’s the understanding.Sound okay to you? It better, because if you get in my way, I’m going tofuck you up. Besides, he’s dead-you know it as well as I do, and why should he go to waste when I’m starving? You’d do the same, I doubt ifyou see that now, but I believe you may come around to my way of thinkingon the subject, and sooner than you think.
“GET OUT!” she screamed. Now she sat on her heels with her arms stretched out to either side, looking more like Fay Wray on the sacrificial jungle altar than ever. Her posture-head up, breasts thrust outward, shoulders thrown so far back they were white with strain at their furthest points, deep triangular hollows of shadow at the base of her neck-was that of an exceptionally hot pin-up in a girlie magazine. The obligatory pout of sultry invitation was missing, however; the expression on her face was that of a woman who stands very near the borderline between the country of the sane and that of the mad. “GET OUT OF HERE!”
The dog continued to took up at her and snarl for a few moments. Then, when it had apparently assured itself that the kick wouldn’t be repeated, it dismissed her and lowered its head again. There was no lapping or licking this time. Jessie heard a loud smacking sound instead. It reminded her of the enthusiastic kisses her brother Will used to place on Gramma Joan’s cheek when they went to visit.
The growling continued for a few seconds, but it was now oddly muffled, as if someone had slipped a pillowcase over the stray’s head. From her new sitting position, with her hair almost brushing the bottom of the shelf over her head, Jessie could see one of Gerald’s plump feet as well as his right arm and hand. The foot was shaking back and forth, as if Gerald were bopping a little to some jivey piece of music-'One More Summer” by the Rainmakers, for instance.
She could see the dog better from her new vantage point; its body was now visible all the way up to the place where its neck started. She would have been able to see its head, too, if it had been up. It wasn’t, though. The stray’s head was down, and its rear legs were stiffly braced. Suddenly there was a thick ripping sound-a snotty sound, like someone with a bad cold trying to clear his throat. She moaned.
“Stop… oh please, can’t you stop?”
The dog paid no attention. Once it had sat up and begged for table scraps, its eyes appearing to laugh, its mouth appearing to grin, but those days, like its former name, were long gone and hard to find. This was now, and things were what they were. Survival was not a matter for politeness or apology. It hadn’t eaten for two days, there was food here, and although there was also a master here who didn’t want it to take the food (the days when there had been masters who laughed and patted its head and called it GOOD DOG and gave it scraps for doing its small repertoire of tricks were all gone), this master’s feet were small and soft instead of hard and hurtful, and its voice said it was powerless.
The former Prince’s growls changed to muffled pants of effort, and as Jessie watched, the rest of Gerald’s body began to bop along with his foot, first just jiving back and forth and then actually starting to slide, as if he had gotten all the way into the groove, dead or not.
Get down, Disco Gerald! Jessie thought wildly. Never mind theChicken or the Shag-do the Dog!
The stray couldn’t have moved him if the rug had still been down, but Jessie had made arrangements to have the floor waxed the week after Labor Day. Bill Dunn, their caretaker, had let the men from Skip’s Floors “n” More in and they had done a hell of a job. They had wanted the missus to fully appreciate their work the next time she happened to stop down, so they had left the bedroom rug rolled up in the entry closet, and once the stray got Disco Gerald moving on the glossy floor, he moved almost as easily as John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. The only real problem the dog had was keeping its own traction. Its long, dirty claws helped in this regard, digging in and inscribing short, jagged marks into the glossy wax as it backed up with its teeth buried to the gumlines in Gerald’s flabby upper arm.
I’m not seeing this, you know. None of this is really happening. Justa little while ago we were listening to the Rainmakers, and Gerald turneddown the volume long enough to tell me that he was thinking about goingup to Orono for the football game this Saturday. U of M against B U. Iremember him scratching the lobe of his right ear while he talked. So howcan he be dead with a dog dragging him across our bedroom floor by thearm?
Gerald’s widow’s peak was in disarray-probably as a result of the dog’s licking the blood out of it-but his glasses were still firmly in place. She could see his eyes, half-open and glazed, glaring up from their puffy sockets at the fading sunripples on the ceiling. His face was still a mask of ugly red and purple blotches, as if even death had not been able to assuage his anger at her sudden capricious (Had he seen it as capricious? Of course he had) change of mind.
“Let go of him,” she told the dog, but her voice was now meek and sad and strengthless. The dog barely twitched its ears at the sound of it and didn’t pause at all. It merely went on pulling the thing with the disarrayed widow’s peak and the blotchy complexion. This thing no longer looked like Disco Gerald-not a bit. Now it was only Dead Gerald, sliding across the bedroom floor with a dog’s teeth buried in its flabby biceps.
A frayed flap of skin hung over the dog’s snout. Jessie tried to tell herself it looked like wallpaper, but wallpaper did not-at least as far as she knew-come with moles and a vaccination scar. Now she could see Gerald’s pink, fleshy belly, marked only by the small caliber bullet-hole that was his navel. His penis flopped and dangled in its nest of black pubic hair. His buttocks whispered along the hardwood boards with ghastly, frictionless ease.
Abruptly the suffocating atmosphere of her terror was pierced by a shaft of anger so bright it was like a stroke of heart-lightning inside her head. She did more than accept this new emotion; she welcomed it. Rage might not help her get out of this nightmarish situation, but she sensed that it would serve as an antidote to her growing sense of shocked unreality.
“You bastard,” she said in a low, trembling voice. “You cowardly, slinking bastard.”
Although she couldn’t reach anything on Gerald’s side of the bed-shelf, Jessie found that, by rotating her left wrist inside the handcuff so that her hand was pointing back over her shoulder, she could walk her fingers over a short stretch of the shelf on her own side. She couldn’t turn her head enough to see the things she was touching-they were just beyond that hazy spot people call the corner of their eye-but it didn’t really matter. She had a pretty good idea of what was up there. She pattered her fingers back and forth, running their tips lightly over tubes of make-up, pushing a few farther back on the shelf and knocking others off it. Some of these latter landed on the coverlet; others bounced off the bed or her left thigh and landed on the floor. None of them were even close to the sort of thing she was looking for. Her fingers closed on a jar of Nivea face cream, and for a moment she allowed herself to think it might do the trick, but it was only a sample-sized jar, too small and light to hurt the dog even if it had been made of glass instead of plastic. She dropped it back onto the shelf and resumed her blind search.