She told him about an old western she had just seen. The previous week she had been laid up with a stomach flu, unable to move or eat for days, and she watched TV the whole time. The hero was a cavalry officer, and throughout the movie he had been shooting Indians out of their saddles without batting an eye. But when he had to kill his lame horse, the hero — one of those archetypal western stoics — became hesitant and dewy-eyed.
“His name was Ol’ Blue,” she said. “Or Ol’ Buck. The horse, I mean. And damn if I didn’t start crying. It’s nothing to watch people in a movie die, but when the horse gets it, I’m all weepy. Isn’t that awful?”
“Not so awful,” her date said. “The Indians were the bad guys. You were supposed to not care. That’s how they made movies back then.”
She nodded. “It still bothers me, though. People can die by the dozen, but it only gets to me when a horse or a dog is caught in the cross fire. You know what I mean?”
“I do.” He leaned toward her. “I do know what you mean. But you see, dogs are innocent. People deserve to get it. The bad ones, anyway.”
“I know,” she said. The flame of a candle flickered on the table between them. She watched the light play on his face. “Sometimes I worry that I’m hardened to it. Watching human beings die while munching on popcorn.”
“I don’t think that would be possible with you,” he said. “To be hardened, I mean.”
She twirled her wineglass, looked into it, and smiled. A comfy silence arose. Dinnerware clattered quietly around them. A siren in the distance rose and fell, rose and fell.
“But then,” he said, “that would depend on the human being, wouldn’t it?”
She asked him what he meant. Before answering, he reached for the wine bottle, topped off her glass, and refilled his own. He leaned back in his chair.
“Let’s say you’re in a room,” he said. “In one corner there’s a dog, and in the other corner a man. A man who has killed without remorse.” He sipped from his glass. She waited, her mouth slightly open.
“You have a gun,” he said. “Which one do you kill? The dog? Or the man?”
She thought a moment. “That would depend on the dog,” she said. “If it was one of those yippy little lapdogs? I’d plug the pooch!” She laughed.
Her blind date smiled. He carefully set his wineglass on the table. “Seriously, though. Which one would you shoot?”
She sipped from her glass, held it close. “Well, then. I wouldn’t shoot either one. I would … abstain. That’s it! I would abstain.”
“But you have to shoot one.” He leaned forward. “That’s the scenario. You have the gun. One of them has to die.”
“I see,” she said. Here we go, she thought. The fork in the road. The diverging path. She looked out the alcove window. Moths pitched madly at the lanterns outside.
“In that case,” she said, “if we have an animal and a human being, I would have to shoot the animal. That’s the only choice, really.” She turned to him. “Isn’t it?”
He was still smiling, but blinking rapidly. “This man is a killer. He’ll kill again. He has vowed to kill again.” He leveled a finger at her. “You have to stop him from killing again.”
She shook her head. “I know, but I can’t point a gun at a human being and shoot him. I just can’t do it.” She brightened. “Say, we’re both in this scenario, aren’t we? Why don’t I hand the gun to you?” She batted her eyes. “You’d kill him for me, wouldn’t you?”
His smile widened for one second and settled into a thin line.
“All right,” he said, shifting in his chair. “What’s your favorite breed of dog?”
She hesitated. She had no favorite breed. She didn’t like dogs, and she was about to tell him this when he snapped his fingers.
“Favorite breed,” he said. “Come on, come on.”
She selected a breed at random.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He cleared a spot on the table. Near the wine bottle, a yellow Lab pup mewled adorably, gnawing on a bedroom slipper. Slouched against the candlestick, a man watched indifferently. He was, of course, a child killer, slack-jawed and cruel, with cracked lips and stains on his pants and evil in his black, greasy heart. He was the Last Child Killer. Shoot him, and all children would be safe, but let him live and he would somehow breed and multiply. Shoot the dog, and beloved Labs everywhere would vanish, never to return. Her blind date elaborated on the dire hypothetical consequences, his hands slicing the air and disturbing the candle flame. A fat moth thudded against the window glass next to his head. She watched the moth, the guttering flame, the sheen of flop sweat on her blind date’s forehead.
And then dessert arrived.
It was the house specialty. They called it Cuore Inverno — a ball of hazelnut gelato inside a dark chocolate shell, drizzled with syrup of pomegranate and positioned within an immense cut-glass goblet dolloped with crème fraîche and dotted with champagne grapes. This was why she had suggested meeting at this café. She picked up her spoon and leaned forward. The man across from her had fallen silent. “Of course, it’s just a game,” he was saying now. “No biggie.”
“Right,” she said, gazing into the goblet before her. She gave the ball a sharp whack with the flat of her spoon. Ice cream oozed sweetly from the wound, and she pried into it.
“It’s just interesting,” he was saying. “What people would do, I mean.”
She put the spoon into her mouth, sucked on it, and swallowed. She closed her eyes and groaned: “Oh. My. God.” They had figured out a way to keep the gelato cold and soft while encasing it in hard chocolate. She’d been hungry all week, coming off the stomach flu. She had starved herself all day, looking forward to this evening, and it was worth it.
The man across from her touched his spoon on the table, then left it alone. “Well,” he said. He looked around the café, then back at her. “This was nice,” he said. “Wasn’t it?” She didn’t answer. He watched his blind date work intently on the dessert, watched her finish it, chattering all the while about their dinner together, speaking of it in the past tense, as if this evening had already entered their common memory, as if it had become the story they would tell their friends — the story that he imagined they would both look back upon and laugh about, years from now.
IV.
She was buried on a sun-dappled slope of lawn at the edge of the cemetery grounds, near a thin stand of cypress trees. There were five men present: her husband, her grown son, the mortician from the funeral home, the limousine driver, and a Catholic priest recommended by the cemetery people. They all wore dark suits and ties, even the priest, for some reason. And they all had on sunglasses that glinted in the midafternoon sun. They could have been mistaken for Secret Service agents discreetly burying one of their own. The cemetery bordered a county golf course, and a boisterous round could be heard in progress just over a tall hedge. When the priest closed his book and blessed the deceased’s eternal soul, the limousine driver stepped forward and flipped a switch that engaged a pulley. As the casket descended into the ground, father and son made their silent farewells, and hereafter would recall this moment of departure and loss with such ambient details as the smell of mown grass, the twitter of a bird or two, the irregular screak of a pulley motor, and the hoots and high fives of golfers in triumph.
In the backseat of the limousine, father and son loosened their ties. They gazed out the windows, watching the cemetery grounds roll away and the terrain of strip malls and auto dealerships along the highway unreel past them. As their neighborhood glided into view, the father turned away from the window, pressed his fist between his knees, and let out a small sigh. It was a tiny, restrained exhalation, a brief leak of air that nonetheless seemed to deflate him completely and leave him shrunken inside his suit. The mortician, watching in the side-view mirror, casually wiped the corner of his eye. And even the veteran limousine driver — a mortuary science student in his third summer with the funeral home — even he got weepy and had to stop chewing his gum to blink back a tear.