The doc’s flat was a railroad, three tiny rooms in a row. The first one was the kitchen with an oil stove and a sink and an old fashioned ice box and a table and some chairs in it. The second was the doc’s bedroom. The door to the third was closed. The place was pretty bare and was furnished with stuff from junk shops, but the doc had kept it neat and clean. I guess it was his hospital training. Most drunks like doc are pretty messy.
The doc told me to sit down in the kitchen. He left the jug and the dog with me. Then he tiptoed to the old lady’s room, the closed one, and opened the door. He came back in a minute or two. He put a finger to his mouth and said, “She’s asleep now.” But he didn’t close her door.
We sat in the kitchen drinking wine and talking about this and that and once or twice I nodded off and put my arms on the kitchen table and slept maybe an hour or more. Every time I woke up the doc was there. He was one of those winos that seems to drink himself sober. Each time he’d tell me the old doll was still sleeping. The old dog would be sleeping, too, snoring loud.
Once I woke up and saw there was hardly a drink left in the half-gallon jug and that we’d have to start on the fifth if the old lady didn’t die pretty soon. I figured the vino wasn’t lasting as long as the doc had thought it would till I looked out the window and saw it was dark. We’d got to the flat before noon. Now it was night already. A drunk sure loses track of time, sleeping and waking up like I’d been doing.
The doc looked worried. He said, “It’s getting late and the investigator comes tomorrow. I’ve got to get old Marge out of here.”
I was rumdumb and stary-eyed and the nasty part of sitting there and drinking and waiting for a sick old woman to die didn’t mean a thing to me. I was only worried if the wine would last. I said, “You mean she’s already dead and the undertaker hasn’t come to get her?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “She hasn’t died. Not yet, she hasn’t.”
Then he went over and shook the old blind dog named Pasteur and woke him up. He said sharply, “Come on, Pasteur. We’re going to show old Marge the new trick that you’ve learned.”
Like I say, I was rumdumb and stary-eyed and my brain was numb from the blockbusters and the Pete and I just sat there grinning like a halfwit, not realizing what the hell he was up to.
“Play dead, Pasteur! Play dead!” he said.
The poor old dog got down on his side and after a few painful tries he rolled over on his back and lay there with his stiff legs stuck up in the air and the milky cataracts over his eyes glowing in the ceiling light. The doc had told me all about the old doll identifying herself with the dog, but I was so drunk, I’d forgotten.
The doc had an old-fashioned battery radio in the kitchen in one of those dome-shaped stained-wood cabinets. He turned a dial. For a minute nothing happened. Then there was the most God-awful blast of shrieking sound I ever heard in all my life. I jumped half-way to the ceiling. He grinned at me, turned off the radio, said, “You’re nervous, Jack. You need a drink. The radio always does that when you first turn it on. I wanted to show you how well-trained the dog is. He hasn’t even twitched. You can’t even see him breathing. An atom bomb could go off and he wouldn’t move until I snap my fingers.”
The old dog hadn’t moved. He still looked about as dead as any dead thing I ever saw. But the sudden blast of noise had awakened the old woman. She was calling to him in a croaking voice. The doc said, “Come out here, Marge, and take a look at poor old Pasteur.”
To my drunken eyes, Marge was a shapeless bundle in an old gray wrapper with a pale face and toothless mouth and clouded eyes and wild white hair. She looked like she must be about a hundred. She hobbled slowly toward the kitchen. She walked as stiff as the old dog.
Finally she saw the dog lying there and she let out a bloodcurdling scream, the most awful sound I ever heard. “He’s dead!” she shrieked. “He’s dead!”
The doc said nothing. He just sat there looking kind of interested, like one of those scientists who do things to white mice.
I couldn’t say anything, either. I was too stupefied.
Marge’s scream changed to a kind of gurgling in her throat. Her face started turning black, right there in front of my eyes, like she was choking to death. Then she crumpled to the floor, real slow, like one of those trick motion pictures you’ve seen.
I’ve lived rough and I’ve seen some things but that was the most horrible thing I ever saw. Between the booze and the shock I couldn’t move. Not for several minutes. I just sat there with my mouth open, kind of gasping.
The doc kneeled down beside the old woman and felt her pulse. Then he went into his room and got a stethoscope and listened to her chest. Finally he got up, cool as you please, and said, “She’s dead. The shock was too much, seeing the dog like that. I’ll have to call a doctor to issue a death certificate. And then the undertaker.”
He noticed the old dog, still stiff there on his back, and grinned. He snapped his fingers, said, “It’s all right now, Pasteur. You did the trick just fine.”
He said to me, “You’re sober enough to know what you just saw. A perfectly natural death. An old woman with a heart ailment. She came out here and keeled over with a stroke, a heart attack.”
The old dog finally scrambled to his feet. And I came to life, too. I swung one at the doc. I was so drunk and weak I couldn’t have hurt a healthy fly, but it was a fluke punch and it landed right on the point of doc’s chin, the button. He went down and his head banged hard. He lay there with his eyes staring up at me and they looked as sightless as the old dog’s eyes.
It’s hard to say why I swung at him. It wasn’t feeling sorry for the old woman made me do it. In a way, her dying was what they call euthanasia, mercy killing. But when I was a kid back in Ohio I had a dog. It was a little fox terrier named Spot. I guess Spot was the only living thing I ever cared much about. I cried my eyes out when he died. I remember that, all right.
What I did next was pure instinct. I stuck the fifth of wine in my pocket. I figured I was going to need it. I’d seen the doc had bills left from his relief check when he paid for the liquor. He’d had them in an old wallet in the inside pocket of his coat. I bent down and got the wallet.
I guess the doc had a weak heart, too. Anyway, when I leaned down to get the wallet my hand was up against his chest. And his heart wasn’t beating. I wonder who’s going to get the old doll’s insurance money. You can buy all the Sneaky Pete on the Bowery with two grand in your jeans.
I picked the old dog up in my arms. He was heavy, but I ran down four flights of steps with him. I brought the old dog here. He’s right alongside me now. The dog and the bottle. I had to give the clerk downstairs $5.75 of the doc’s money for this cubbyhole I’m in. Six bits for the room rent and five bucks bribe for letting me bring the dog up. I guess you could get a big room in the Waldorf-Astoria for that kind of money, but maybe they don’t take dogs and winos.
I don’t know what I’m going to do about the dog. Maybe I can give him to some home for dogs like the SPCA runs. I don’t understand at all why I took the dog in the first place, any more than I understand why I hit the doc. Maybe it was because I remembered my own dog, Spot. Maybe it was because I was afraid the blind and helpless dog would starve to death if I left him up there in the room with two people who couldn’t feed him.
Mostly, though, I think it’s just that I want to try to make it up to the poor old dog for what the doc did to him. People like the doc and the old doll, Marge, and me don’t count. We stumbled over something a long time ago and we took the wrong turn and landed on a street called Skid Row. The doc and the old doll are dead anyway. I’m still young and if it was only the booze with me, maybe I could join Alcoholics Anonymous or something and start all over again. But a city croaker told me some time back that this thing I got in my throat that keeps me from taking big swallows is going to kill me pretty soon, booze or no booze.