“You’re saying that I gave birth to a sadist?”
“No. No, this is difficult to grasp, I realize, and I’m certainly not an expert. What I’m suggesting is that someone with this particular disorder cannot distinguish between, for instance, fear and sadness. Or anger, for that matter. He could tell you that these feelings are all ‘bad’ in some sense—but that might be the extent of his discrimination.”
“So it’s a disorder now?”
“That’s crazy,” muses Roger.
“I’ve got the name of someone I could give you. A specialist if that would make you feel better.”
“A specialist? What would we do in the meantime?”
“Nothing extraordinary. Little boy things, like playing outside. You might consider getting a pet, a dog maybe.”
“Oh God.”
“Is something the matter?”
“It’s such a cliché,” Amy moans.
In any case, it is a big house, an expensive heap of white stucco and glass thrown up in the Mediterranean style. A house of many levels. The interior has been professionally decorated, the furnishings contemporary and severe. Some of the walls meet at acute angles and some simply stop, but there are plants to soften sharp corners: ficus and fern on green marble pedestals, African violets, arrangements of silk flowers. It looks like the architectural drawing of a house, a model set down for inspection in the architect’s studio. But there are many humanizing effects. It is a lived-in house with fabric wall hangings, shelves of authentic tribal artifacts from areas of the world where savagery has become fashionable once again. Books. Magazines. A baby grand piano. And here is that satellite photograph at a scale of 1:450, shot from a height of 705 kilometers, framed and
hanging in the foyer, as though
National Geographic
had taken an interest in their lives.
Wesley watches the man and the dog playing below him. He watches impassively from a turn in the stair, studies them, thinking that soon he’ll be expected to repeat certain motions, certain words and phrases. It’s the memorization game at which he excels, and it begins like this.
The man says, “Speak!”
And the dog says, “Wuff!”
And the man says, “Good dog. Good boy! Come over here now. Come. Come. Sit. Good boy. Say your name.”
And the dog says, “Wulf!”
“Oh God,” Roger groans. “
NO
!
NO
! Come back here. Sit! Say your name. Say Rex.”
And finally the dog says, “Rex.”
“Good. Good dog. Now. Read this.” He holds up a piece of paper.
The dog tilts his head, sniffs, listens. Wesley tilts his head, remembering, watching the woman who is watching both the man and the dog from a nearer distance.
“Read. This.” Roger pronounces the words slowly and distinctly.
The dog blinks.
“
READ!
”
Without thinking, the dog says, “See Rex run.”
“Okay, that’s better,” says the man. “Now read it again.”
Rex makes an indefinite sound.
Then Roger hits him across the muzzle, a sharp downward blow that slaps the jaws together. “
BAD
! You’re bad!” When he reaches to hit again, Rex cringes, tail between the legs and eyes tightly closed. “What is my name, for God’s sake? Can you at least remember that?
Rex says, “What is my name.”
“
NO! NO! ROGER!
Say
Roger.
”
“Roger.”
“Okay. Now read this.”
“Can’t,” says Rex.
“Jesus Christ. This is ridiculous. He’s hopeless, absolutely hopeless.”
When Amy replies, she is soothing and rational. “Roger, please. Darling, you’re the one who’s hopeless. You just don’t know how to work with him.” She stoops, caresses the sharp and upright ears, runs her fingers through the gray-brown hair, the thick fur of his chest, giving a secret glance back toward the turning of the stair. “Good boy. Good Rex. All we want you to do is try. I know you can do it. Please try. Try hard for Amy. Good boy, goooooood boy. What does this say, fella? What does it say?”
The boy watches her. For a time only his fingers move, manipulating an imaginary controller, working an invisible joystick. She’s acting, he thinks. She’s acting for me.
Rex swallows and works his lips with effort. “Once upon a time.”
The woman says, “Goooood! Good boy. You just have to be patient with him. That’s all.”
“He’s an idiot,” comes a disembodied male voice from the kitchen. “The whole thing is ridiculous.”
“He’s not an idiot. You just have to be patient. Rex, look at this. What does it say?”
“Once upon a time,” says Rex, “there was a … a …”
“Wolf.”
“Wolf.”
“Gooood. Now keep going.”
“A wolf. All skin and bone, so well did the. Dogs. Guard the, the. Neigh-bor-hood. Who met one moonshiney night a mas—mast—”
“Wesley,” she says sweetly, without looking over her shoulder, “can you help Rex?”
“Mastiff,” he says automatically.
“Good!” It is a short, sharp sound, almost an explosion of delight. She is so happy that her happiness fills the room.
Rex, though, had not noticed the boy, who had come partway down the stairs one moonshiney night. It had taken all of his concentration on the markings, and he had neither smelled nor heard Wesley on the stairs. Rex wagged and wiggled closer, radiating relief and happiness, licking the hand that held the book, and listening carefully now.
Amy continued, “Wesley, can you come down and help your friend? Can you come down and help Rex?”
“Sure.” Wesley makes his way to the sofa and begins to read tonelessly. “The Wolf would gladly have supped off him but saw that first there would be a great fight, for which he was not prepared, and so he bid the dog good night very humbly. ‘It would be very easy for you,’ said the Mastiff, ‘to get as fat as I am, if you liked. Quit this forest where you and your kind live so wretchedly and often die of hunger. Follow me, and you shall fare much better.’”
There is a tinkling of ice cubes from the kitchen and then Roger’s tired voice. “This is ridiculous. It isn’t helping either one of them. The whole story … it’s far too elementary for Wesley, and—”
“Just be patient. I know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah? Well, that dog gets one more chance, and that’s it. You can handle it any way you want. But that’s it.” There is the sound of a door opening, and Roger’s voice becomes fainter. “I’ll be outside cleaning up. Somebody turned over the damn garbage cans again.”
The door slams, and Amy pats both Wesley and Rex. “Wes, will you continue please.”
Wesley thinks of the words as chords in a rather elementary composition. He plays them quickly, effortlessly. “’What shall I have to do,’ said the Wolf. ‘Almost nothing,’ answered the Dog; ‘only chase away the beggars and fawn upon the folks of the house.’ The Wolf, at the thought of so much comfort, almost shed tears of joy. They trotted off together, but as they went along the Wolf noticed a bare mark on the Dog’s neck. ‘What is that mark?’ said he. ‘Oh nothing,’ said the Dog.”
It’s all Amy can take of such drivel. She interrupts, thinking that perhaps she should have chosen a more modern story. “Thank you,
Wesley. Maybe we can let Rex finish. Rex, can you finish for us? Can you read, Rex?”
Rex hesitates, then continues. “’Nothing?’ urged the Wolf. ‘The merest tri—trifle,’ answered the Dog. ‘It is the mark of the collar where I am tied up at night.’ ‘Tied up!’ ex … exclaimed the Wolf. ‘You cannot run as you please?’ ‘Not always,’ said the Mastiff, ‘but what does it matter?’ ‘It matters to me,’ re … rejoined the Wolf; and, leaping away, he ran once more to his native forest.”
“Gooood! Good boy.” Amy pats the head and leans back against the sofa, closing her eyes and massaging her temple. She sighs. “Now, Rex. Tell me, what does that story mean to you?”
“Story?”
“Yes. What does it mean to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try hard. It’s important.”
“Try, Rex,” says Wesley. There is quick comprehension in his words, an understanding of consequences. “Try really hard. Please, Rex.”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. I’m sad now that you don’t know what to think, Rex. I’m very sad.” Her voice is sweet and caring.
“Rex, try really hard.”
“I was hoping you would do better this time,” she says. “But now … I’m sorry, Rex, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay outside for awhile. I’m afraid you won’t be able to spend the night in Wesley’s room until you’re able to do better.”
“Mom, no.”
“Here, Rex. Come along, boy.”
“No, Mom, please.”
There have been troubling developments since the death of their first son.
Sometimes there are whimpering sounds at night.
Urine stains on the carpet.
They have found unidentifiable tracks, dried mud, in several rooms of the house.
And savagely ripped articles of clothing left where someone will be sure to find them.
In the mornings Amy showers while Roger sleeps, then stands dripping in the doorway, shivering and staring at the recumbent form, the near stranger in her bed. Finally toweling herself, wrapping the towel around her body, and tucking one corner between her breasts, she steps before the mirror, standing where she can still see him and take in his every breath.
She begins brushing her hair with brisk, painful strokes that make her face flinch and set her jaw tightly shut.
But he is no longer asleep. And when he speaks, it sounds like the continuation of an old argument. His voice is tired. “Now what?”
“You’re the one who wanted another child.”
“I wanted a family. You wanted a child.”
“Oh?” she replies flatly. “This is all my doing now?”
“I didn’t say that.” Their words have no more passion than the words of lawyers. “I’m just saying,” Roger continues, “I’m just saying what do we do now? That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’m thirty-seven years old, Roger. Life has a way of closing in, you know?”
She dresses silently. In the hall mirror she ties the crème bow and then fluffs the ruffles on the front of her blouse. It is a pale silk blouse that contrasts sharply with the dark tan of her face. The effect is flattering, feminine, a look that will surprise both colleagues and students when she arrives on campus. They will stare and wonder if they have been misreading her after all.
Amy slips into the navy pumps and descends, throwing herself into the
Journal
with barely a good morning to Mrs. Dilettuso. By the time he joins her at the table, she has worked her way through the paper
and moved on to a magazine. “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Why don’t you quit your job and stay home with him? Why don’t you drive him to Little League and buy ice cream for the team?”
“Maybe I will,” he says.
“Maybe you’d last a week. What do you want me to say, Roger? That this place needs a mommy? Maybe I should flush my career.”
“No, I don’t want you to say that. I don’t know what I want you to say.”
She avoids his glimpses.
They take their breakfast like communion. Bagels and jelly and juice.
Roger makes himself content with the early sun and the vista outside the breakfast room windows. The woods seem to draw him. It is a room full of white wicker furniture and uncertainty.
Toward the end Rex reaches them. Saves them perhaps. It begins with a clamor at the kitchen door, a frantic scratching to get out. And as soon as Roger opens the door, Rex bolts, eager to get at something lying just outside. There on the terrace is a legless corpse, covered with dirt and decay. It is a chunk of cloth barely recognizable as the rag doll it used to be. Rex takes hold with his teeth, the stuffing spilling out of his mouth like red and gray entrails, and Roger shivers, feels the food rising in his stomach. He barely has time to put out his foot and stop the crazy dog from dragging the thing into the kitchen.
Amy half turns from the refrigerator. “What is it? What’s got him so excited?”
“It’s Timmy,” he says.
At first Wesley thinks of fairy tales, of goblins and ghosts, evil stepmothers and fathers who murder their sons, trolls burying small soft bodies in deep forest. And roots like crawling fingers that go down fast. It’s like one of the stories from the book, but soon real patches of sunlight and the real warmth of afternoon banish dark thoughts. And Rex frolics. And they go walking, the three of them—Wesley, Roger, and Rex.
When the path fades, they follow a stream that trickles through their forest, turning with no regard for the straight and crooked of human perception. It is just a stream. After a time they go creekwalking. And when Rex at last plops belly down, head between his paws upon a sandbank, Roger and Wes practice construction. They make a dam of stones and sticks and creek clay. Then a waterfall. Then a bridge. And before long they cut sturdy branches for walking sticks and again go clambering over roots and rocks, working their way upstream for another hour or more into cooler, clearer water. Finally resting at a pool where water striders skate on the stretched-tight surface of late afternoon, finishing their snacks where the foliage is rubbery green and thick.
While they are walking and exploring, the stream begins to unravel imperceptibly, dividing itself, turning underground at one place and thinning to dribbles and drops in another. So they follow the dog, who scrambles thoughtlessly over moss boulders and through shadows, rips up a hillside of leaves, panting at the crest, the three of them panting and flopping together. And realizing by degrees that they are lost.
“This is great,” says Roger. Then after a few breaths, “Reminds me of when I was a kid.”
“You lived here?” The relief is audible in Wesley’s voice.
“Naw. Just, you know, fooling around in the woods, doing guy stuff. I never knew all this was back here until old Rex”—he scratches Rex’s ears—“showed us. It’s great, isn’t it?”
“How are we going to get back?” says Wesley.
Roger snaps a twig and throws both pieces. Rex pricks up his ears momentarily, sniffs, and begins rooting among the leaves. “Look at him. Not worried a bit, not losing a moment. That’s the way we’re going to be from now on. I promise.”
“Does he know the way back?”