Bull Head (26 page)

“You'll get another chance.”

He slung the puppies over his shoulder and hurried to his car, tied the top of the sack in a simple knot, and dropped it on the ground. The sack jostled with cries; dime-sized paws and doughy limbs pushed against the rough burlap. He climbed inside the car. His eyes stung. Listening to the murmuring cries of the puppies, he sobbed deep in his throat. On the Hump, the studio seemed to pitch back and forth, an electric air that vibrated through him. He started the car, put it in reverse, and stepped on the gas. The crunch of cartilage rose from the ground, beneath the tires, travelled violently up into his stomach. He retched and shouted out, slipped it into drive, and lurched forward. Reverse. Drive. Reverse. Drive. He felt crazier with each thump of the gearshift until he stopped, slammed it into park, and cut the ignition.
Penny howled from the porch, her tail erect, a hoarse rasping wail piercing the air.

Brian got out of the car. The sack lay motionless, soaked with blood; the thick smell reminded him of rancid milk. He snapped open the trunk, dropped the sack inside, banged it shut. He tried to wipe his hands on his pants, fumbled for a cigarette, lit it, inhaled, and coughed heavily, held a finger to one side of his nose and blew. Then the other. His sobs doubled him over. He shook the string of mucous off his finger. Can't get it right. One disaster after another. The studio loomed above. They were up there, living their lives, going about their business like all families do. It seemed impossible that he shared the same world as them. When he stood up straight, his heart was lighter, but his head throbbed and his eyes burned. He got into the car and started it.

The night bled in around him. He drove to the gravel turnoff where the main artery led toward the dull lights of town. In his rearview, brake lights blazed a trail behind him. He took his foot off the brake, turned in the opposite direction, and accelerated, keeping his eyes on the road as it unfurled a few yards ahead in the white wash of the headlights. The wilderness rushed toward him in the glow, trees flashing past like an ancient chorus in a cold cathedral. The car swerved, gravel peppered the undercarriage, dust obliterated the road behind. He crushed the gas pedal to the floor; the cruel rush of night air stung his face like a slap. Brian turned off the headlights and sped faster, the wind screaming in his ears as he lifted his hands off the steering wheel, and hurtled through the darkness.

Acknowledgments

There's no one I'm more grateful for than my wife, Nancy Lee, for believing in me and for blessing me with her strength, beauty, and grace. Hot on her heels, of course, is our puritanical office manager and little funny buddy, Jaine.

A special thanks to my family, especially Annie Vigna, and Mark and Peter Vigna. Daniel Sarunic, Nancy Chen, and Dave and Monica Ilett. And to the Lyin' Bastards: Judy McFarlane, Sally Breen, Dina Del Bucchia, Keri Korteling, Carol Shaben, and Denise Ryan for their guidance, bottles of wine, celebrity gossip, and numerous pieces of cake.

I've been fortunate to have generous, perceptive readers who have seen some or all of these stories at various stages, in particular Keith Maillard who encouraged me from the beginning. Much gratitude towards Calvin Wharton, Steven Galloway, Charlotte Gill, Chris Offutt, Todd Craver, Adam Honsinger, and Andreas Schroeder. A shout-out to my peers from UBC and Iowa.

Anne McDermid for her unflagging support. Francis Geffard for being the first to jump on board. Peter Oliva, Kevin Chong, and Cathleen With for their sage advice. The Banff Literary Journalism Program, particularly Moira Farr, Ian Pearson, and Rosemary Sullivan. Shirley Dunn and the Dave Greber Freelance Writers Award.

I'm appreciative of my colleagues at Douglas College and the University of the Fraser Valley.

And I'm deeply grateful to Brian Lam and the rest of the enthusiastic team at Arsenal Pulp Press.

JOHN VIGNA'S
fiction and non-fiction has appeared in numerous newspapers, magazines, and anthologies including
Cabin Fever: The Best New Canadian Non-Fiction, The Dalhousie Review, Grain, Event, subTerrain
, and
The Antigonish Review.
He is a graduate of the MFA program at the University of British Columbia and alumnus of the Writers' Workshop at the University of Iowa. John lives in Vancouver with his wife, the writer Nancy Lee.