Kidd Wadsworth
Kidd
JACK
“Mom, I don’t want a dog.”
She points to the long row of cages. “What’s the harm in looking? We’re already here.”
“Would you like to see the dogs in the next building?” our guide asks. She seems to bounce from place to place. Maybe she’s wearing those shoes, the kind with springs in the heel. Yeah, right. Maybe she’s sixteen, and no one’s beaten her yet.
I’ve divided my life into two parts: the before part—before my husband beat me and left me to die, and the after part—which includes panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares and, of course, the ever-wonderful walking. My feet don’t exactly do as they’re told. As Mom and the beautiful naïve fool walk out the back door, my right foot makes one of its more unique decisions.
“Shit!”
I grab at a cage on my way down, landing hard on my hip. At least no one sees me fall—no one meaning Mom. Of course, there isn’t really anyone else. Hey, want to find out who your friends are? Go through eighteen months of intensive physical therapy and see who still phones.
I suppose I should be angry at my husband. After all, he beat me. But I’m not. I’m mad at God. I’d prayed before I’d decided to marry Mark. I’d even followed the no-sex-before-the wedding rule. So, I figure it wasn’t really Mark that betrayed me, it was God. He hadn’t warned me. No, it was much worse than that. God set a trap for me. Mark: handsome, great job, I’d even met him at church. And now that I’m hurt? Where is God? Guess he’s on vacation: Venus, Jupiter, Messier 82? Hey, I’m still here. Remember, me? I’m the one lying on the floor of the Tri-City Animal Shelter.
At first, when I woke up in the hospital, I prayed that God would send me an angel, someone to heal me, to help me. Now, I prayed to die. I wanted to confront God. I imagined myself shoving St. Peter aside, marching through the pearly gates, past the angelic choirs and into the smoke-filled throne room. I’d scream at him, “Why!”
I lie on the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold linoleum, waiting to die.
I open my eyes. Nope, not dead.
Instead, I’m eye level with a beagle, cowering in the back of his cage. Painfully small with a mangled, half-torn-off ear, his coat lacks any sort of shine. Crisscrossing his right forepaw, a long cut glares, covered with a fresh, juicy scab.
Other scars, some old, some new, have me hating God all over again.
A dog? You let this happen to an innocent animal? You’re not a God of love. You’re a God of cruelty.
The beagle’s eyes find mine.
Head down in subservience, the pup crawls toward me, whimpering. My right hand is pressed up and twisted against the cage. Twice he reaches out a paw but draws back.
I whisper, “I’ll never hurt you.”
Again, he reaches out. The sandpaper bottom of his paw touches my hand . . .
. . . and the world changes.
#
I peer out from under a chair at a room slightly out of focus. I blink, trying to see: beige carpet, ugly yellow Formica in the kitchen.
What?
Scents flood my nose: cigarette smoke, reeking, like I have my nose pressed up against an ashtray. Body odor—the stench of his sweat could only be worse if I had my nose crammed into his armpit. Carpet smells of tracked-in car exhaust and dust explode into the air as he walks; dryer sheet smells burst from his jeans. I swear I could close my eyes and follow his movements with my nose.
Blissful scents rise from the trash can: Micky D’s scrambled eggs, hot cakes, sausage, maple syrup, and, not so blissful, oily margarine. I’m hungry, so hungry.
Sounds are different, too. The refrigerator emits a constant squeal. Outside the low rumble of a car interspersed with a rattle tells me the neighbor’s door will open soon. The jingle of keys. I cringe waiting for it—the jarring creak of the hinges. Bang, the door shuts.
Think.
I was in the animal shelter. I fell; saw the dog; it touched me.
Is this death? Is this what I asked for? Is God, granting my wish in a way I never imagined?
Take a deep breath. . . My ribs hurt. My ear stings. I stretch out my hand—it’s a paw. Is this some cruel joke, some Twilight Zone episode? Am I the dog?
Blood pounds in my ears.
Stop. Stop, panicking. Nothing could be as bad as Mark.
Snap! The sour tang of Coors Light overwhelms my nose.
It’s more than seeing through the beagle’s eyes. I know what he knows. It’s knowledge without words. Or maybe, knowledge that I must give words. I grapple with an emotion, trying to name it . . . dread.
More words come—
I’ve got to get out of here.
More knowledge—more words.
Oh, God he’s a ‘Mark.’ Cruel, like my husband.
I know what he’s going to do. My aching body tells me. I pull in my legs, making myself as small as possible. It won’t work. It never works. The door . . . maybe it’s open. I turn . . . it’s shut. It’s always shut.
With a lazy stride, boot heels scuffing the carpet, he ambles closer.
The scent of dog sweat, my sweat, fills my nose. Panic rips through me. Hoping for pity. I whimper. Is this how animals feel? Oh, God. The beagle went through this, powerless, without even words to rage at you.
The man kicks over the chair. Beer sloshes from the can onto me, burning as it hits my slashed ear. The pointed toe of a cowboy boot swings rapidly toward me. I jump, but my leg doesn’t work well. Of course, it doesn’t. I’m injured. The man has kicked him—kicked me—so many times before.
“Stupid mutt!”
The boot hits me. Pain sears through my left side. My shoulder collides with a stereo speaker.
#
I return to reality—to the shelter, to a world in focus, to only one scent: disinfectant. I jerk backward sliding across the room until my back finds the wall. Gulping in air, I touch my body, raise my hands—my wonderful human hands—in front of my face.
I look into his soft brown eyes. “You . . . you showed me.”
He whimpers.
“You’re trying to tell me what happened to you. I understand.” Sliding back across the floor I try to make my voice as small and gentle as I can. “I understand; I really do.” But as I push my index finger into the cage, he scurries back against the wall.
“No, don’t be afraid. I heard you. I heard your pain.”
Slowly, he inches forward, stretching out a paw. We touch, this time without the Twilight Zone effects. A shiver runs through me, raising chill bumps on my arm. I lie full on the floor stretching out. He stretches out, too. I can only get one finger through the cage. I rub it along the top of his head and partway down his back.
Behind me, the outside door opens. Mom runs to me.
“I’m okay. Really.” I smile up at her. “Mom, I’d like to adopt this dog.”
“Oh, he’s a rescue,” the teen says. “I’m not sure he’s well enough to be adopted.”
“Please, let’s find out. And if he’s not. I’ll wait for him.”
The vet’s reservations are not about his physical condition. “His wounds are healing well. But emotionally…”
“Trust me. I’ve got this.”
Mom takes care of the necessities: a leash, a doggy car-carrier, a red doggy bowl covered with white paw prints, a white water bowl covered with red doggy prints, a flannel-lined doggy bed, dog food.
On the way home—she’s driving, I’m not approved to drive—she asks, “What’s his name, sweetie.”
“He doesn’t have a name, Mom. Because he doesn’t have any words.” Tears stream down my face. “He didn’t have words to cry out. Oh, God, Mom, he went through it alone. He was all alone.”
At a stop light, she reaches in her purse and pulls out a packet of tissues. “How about, Jack?”
#
When I get home, I gently set Jack’s doggy carrier on the floor and open the door. Mom, politely excuses herself to visit my restroom. When she emerges, she has in her hand the pad of paper I keep in my medicine cabinet listing the times I’ve taken each of my five medications. Obviously, there is an entry missing.
“Chrissy, did you take your medicine this morning?”
Why did I let her inside my apartment?
“Sweetie, you can’t keep forgetting.”
I try not to shout. “Mom, I know.”
“Why don’t I set an alarm on your phone.”
“I’ll set it.”
She picks up my purse and takes out my phone. “What’s your password, sweetie?”
I stumble across the room and grab my phone out of her hand. “I can do it.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Leave.”
When the door shuts behind her, I collapse onto the carpet, not even making it to a chair. Yup, forgot the medicine. Five, or is it fifteen minutes later, I crawl to the bathroom and gulp it down.
#
It takes hours for me to recover. Finally, back in the living room, I reach for my phone to set a take-your-medicine alarm. Where is he?
“Jack? Jack?”
With a wildly beating heart I search the room. Then bending down look under the furniture. Relief floods through me. He’s under the couch.
“Of course, you’re hiding. Got it.”
I cross the room and lie down on the carpet, trying to touch him. My arm isn’t quite long enough, because he’s wedged himself into the corner.
“I saw what you showed me. I understand. It happened to me, too.”
He makes up the distance between us, reaching out a paw . . .
. . . and the world changes. Only this time I see my own past. I see Mark.
*
So different from the last vision, this one is in focus. I always loved the way Mark’s dark hair fell into his eyes. He’s wearing a bright blue polo shirt, dockers pants, and the leather boat shoes I bought him for Christmas. I know what’s coming, but I’m strangely calm. Maybe because I’ve seen this movie before. I’ve got the ending memorized. The smells are muted, but I notice them more now, especially the smell of his sweat. Beads of it dot his forehead.
Why is he sweating? The air conditioning is on. Oh, he’s high.
I scream, “I want a divorce.”
He’s shaking, his hands clenched into fists. “You want! I don’t give a damn what you want!”
He’s between me and bedroom door. My eyes dart to the window.
“Thinking of jumping? Two floors? Onto the concrete patio?”
Maybe I should have. Maybe breaking my pelvis would have been better than the head injury he gave me. At least I would have gotten medical attention immediately. I wouldn’t have lain on the carpet for five hours until Mom grew so worried, she’d used her key.
He grabs my hair.
I scream as he jerks me backward, then forward, ramming my face into his knee. Pain shoots through my nose.
Why didn’t my neighbor call the police? She was home. Not ten minutes before, I’d waved to her as she’d watered her plants on her balcony. She hadn’t even bothered to knock on the door after Mark left. Months later I saw her again, when I moved out. She hadn’t said a word. She must have heard me scream, and she’d done nothing.
Again, I scream. He throws me; my head hits the corner of the nightstand.
The door opens and slams shut, the sound echoing in my head like a thousand doors slamming closed on a thousand things I’ll never do again. Slam: You’ll never walk without a limp. Slam: You’ll never hear a high-pitched sound in your right ear. Slam: You’ll never be able to control your right foot.
Relief melts through me. He’s gone.
I’ll call Mom; she’ll help me.
The carpet under my face grows warm and wet. I can’t see.
Why can’t I see? Where did I leave my phone?
“Chrissie, can you hear me? Chrissie, Chrissie, please Chrissie, please wake up…” Mom fumbles for her phone. “I need an ambulance. It’s my daughter. I think her husband has killed her. He’s murdered my baby.” She weeps. She kisses me. “Please don’t be dead. Please. I love you.”
#
I snap back into reality, staring into Jack’s beautiful eyes. “Did that really happen? Did she say that?”
Jack crawls out from under the couch and Eskimo kisses me.
“Not the answer I was looking for, but I take it.”
We decide to spend some time out on my back patio. Okay, I decide to sit on my back patio. I force myself to work on my lesson plans. The tears come. My mom is the only one who thinks I’ll ever be able to teach second grade again. Doesn’t she get it, that I’m broken? That I’m afraid to sit on my patio? What happens if I get a panic attack in the classroom?
I’d left the sliding glass door open. About an hour into my pathetic attempt to edit my lesson plans, a small noise tells me that Jack has decided to venture out probably for a bathroom break. I don’t turn. He sure doesn’t need me watching his every move. I’m not my mother. Two hours later, I’ve completed one and only one lesson plan. Wow.
“Jack, time for dinner.”
The sound of paws trotting across the carpet surprises me.
“You came.” I almost pick him up, but with his injuries, I curb my need. Instead, I pet his head.
“How about some food, boy?” I pour some dog food into his brand-new doggy bowl. He backs away, lies down on the floor, and stares at it.
“What’s wrong, boy? Wrong kind of food?”
I sit beside him and wait.
“Show me,” I whisper.
He touches me with his paw . . .
. . . and my kitchen disappears.
#
Perhaps the previous vision should have prepared me, but seeing through Jack’s eyes is so different. A blurry stove and refrigerator, and the scents, the wonderful scents are everywhere. I’m in scent heaven. I lie on my belly on the cold floor staring at a light blue doggy bowl, filled to the brim. Spit drips out of my eager mouth. I sniff in beef tongue, fat and blood; chicken gizzards and turkey. My empty belly aches. The man moves bringing to my nose his scents of leather and sticky hair gel. I freeze. I know, he’s right behind me.
The wound on my paw itches. Trembling, I dare to lick it.
Reaching over me he stirs the food with his finger: intensifying the heady fragrance of meat, luscious meat.
“Oh, sorry mutt. I forgot.”
He moves to the sink, pours water on the food, and again stirs it.
The magnificent scents are so heavy in the air, I can taste the food. I whimper and move toward the bowl.
Stepping over me, he scoots it way with toe of his boot.
“You want this? Yeah, I bet you do.”
Shaking with need, I wait.
He opens the refrigerator. Its annoying squeal becomes deafening. More wonderful scents: pizza, tacos, cheese, bacon beginning to rot. He reaches inside, his back to me and the bowl.
Totally silent, I inch forward.
He turns, picks up the bowl and puts it on top of the refrigerator.
“Aw . . . too bad.”
Bending down, the man waves a slice of pizza in front of my face—sausage, spicy pepperoni, cheese. Better still, his hand: warm flesh, pulsing with blood…
“You want this, Mutt?”
#
. . . and the kitchen reappears.
“I hope you bit his hand off.”
Jack looks up at me with totally innocent eyes.
“Yeah, don’t give me that look. I know. I used to dream of hiring some dude in prison to beat up Mark. I’d tell him to make sure he rammed Mark’s head into a pointed object and left him to bleed out.”
Mom had restocked the fridge this morning, before she’d insisted that I get out of the apartment, before she’d arrogantly decided I needed a dog. As I open the refrigerator, I find myself wondering if it, too, has an annoying high-pitched squeal I can’t hear.
I find freshly sliced, oven-gold turkey from the deli counter. That will do. Calling to Jack we go into the living room. I sit on the couch. Gently, I lean forward and pick him up, settling him beside me. Carefully, I put the turkey in my open palm. Keeping my fingers back, well out of the way, I watch as he gobbles it down. Later, when I pour water in his bowl, he doesn’t hesitate to lap it up.
The days fly by. Jack likes detective shows, especially snarling at villains. He always knows who did it.
Mom visits daily, checking up on me. “Did you take your medicine?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Maybe you should go out for lunch.”
“It’s more nutritious to eat at home.”
Jack now greets my mother with yelps of joy, no doubt because she brings him gourmet dog food and today, sliced London broil.
“Maybe you and Jack should go to the dog park. Jack needs exercise, sweetie. It will help his wounds heal.”
I look down into his wonderfully kind eyes.
There will be other people at the dog park. “I don’t know . . .”
“I’ll come with you.”
We couldn’t have dreamed up a more wonderful day. Jack is a natural at frisbee. He chases butterflies, rolls in the grass, eats a cricket.
That evening, Jack pushes open the bathroom door while I’m in the shower. He puts his paws on the side of the tub.
I peek around the shower curtain. “What’s up boy?”
He reaches out a paw to touch my wet leg. I wait, but the world doesn’t change. On a whim, I turn the shower to barely warm, and bring him in with me. He yelps and squirms, trying to lick the water. I put him down in the tub. I’ve got a slow drain, but I don’t relish letting the apartment’s handyman in. My abode is strictly a man-free zone. I’ve tried drain cleaner and all sorts of little plastic drain-cleaning wands Mom brings me, but I still spend the latter half of every shower in ankle deep water. Now, as the tub slowly fills, Jack whacks the water with his tail. He licks it. He jumps against the side of the tub, slides down, and belly-flops. I decide against lathering up. Don’t want to get soap in his puppy eyes. I’ll do a little spot cleaning later in the sink. Probably best to shampoo my hair there, too.
Ruff. Ruff.
“Do you know that you have a happy bark?”
Ruff. Ruff.
I lift him up into the stream. He licks my face, and for the first time in eighteen months, I laugh.
#
Two days later, Mom shows up at my apartment with clothes. Yes, she’s decided to tell me how to dress. I rip into her. “Really? You don’t think I can dress myself anymore?”
“Well, you have a tendency to look a little frumpy.”
“Frumpy?”
She gives my two-sizes too large sweats a look. “I know that you don’t want anything sexy, but . . .”
I ram the clothes back in the oversized shopping bags they came in. “I hope you can get your money back.”
“Sweetie, you need to get out more.”
I rage at her, “I need you to let me live my life.”
“I made you an appointment.”
“What?” Didn’t she get it? My mother is so dense she should rent herself out to a nuclear power plant as radiation shielding.
“Sweetie, the therapist said that you are young. Your brain could establish new pathways. You could regain control of your foot.”
“And all I have to do is go through three more operations. Try to understand,” I get in her face, two inches from her nose. I shout at her at full volume. “I’ve had enough pain! I can’t take anymore! Get out! Get out!”
I grab her arm, drag her to the door, and throw her out of my apartment. Slam. The sound echoes in my brain. Slam: Forget about dating. I’m afraid of men. Slam: I’ll never be able to live independently. I’m 28 years old and my mom still grocery shops for me because I’m afraid to leave my apartment Slam: I’ll never be able to teach again. I’m no good to anyone. I’m worthless. I collapse onto the couch.
Jack, whimpering, hops up beside me.
“What did we do to deserve this? Do you hate God, too?”
He reaches out with his paw, touches me . . .
. . . and the world changes.
#
I yelp. Scents of grass and soil and wild Jasmine growing on the dog park fence fill my nose. But as sweet as the jasmine is, there is something else, even sweeter, flitting through the bright sky with yellow wings. I run after it. I jump trying to fly with it. It darts a crazy path, rising, falling, now sideways. So quick! And with every flap of its wings, sweetness gushes into the air.
“Jack! Jack!” I turn at the sound of my own voice. Happiness fills me. I see me, my short, easy to fix, blond hair ruffled up by the breeze. The sun glints off it. With my fuzzy vision it looks like a halo.
Wild anticipation courses thru me. My feet won’t be still. I jump. I run toward me, my eyes trying to focus on the whirling disc. Jack’s joy becomes my own. He has no words, but I feel his emotions. Throw it! Throw it! When is she going to throw it? Now? Are you going to throw it now? Yes!
I run, following it with my eyes. Suddenly, it comes into sharp focus. It’s falling . . .got it.
. . . and the world changes.
I’m splashing in water, wonderfully warm water. Yuck! It tastes awful. I slap my tail against it; flop into it. I see me again, wet hair clinging to my head. I lick my own face.
. . . and the world changes.
#
I am back on the couch with Jack beside me. The vision replays itself in my mind, especially the part where I’m chasing the butterfly and I hear my own voice calling out Jack’s name. In the vision, I turn and see myself as Jack sees me. I look like an angel. Me, crippled and hopeless; I am Jack’s angel.
Tears run down my face. I cradle Jack against my chest, rubbing my cheek against his fur.
“I’m nothing, boy. Don’t you understand? I’m not worth you.”
He yelps and licks my face.
I turn on the TV, but the shows come and go and still I’m sitting with this terrible awfulness inside. Beside me, Jack rolls on his back. I rub his tummy. The hair has grown back on his paw in a crooked line. “Guess you’ll have that scar forever, boy.”
Eventually, I turn off the TV, and Jack falls asleep. I stare at the blank screen. I pace, walking from room to room. I wipe up a drop of orange juice on the kitchen table, tie up the trash to take out tomorrow, water my cactus. The clock glows 10:13 p.m. I wake Jack.
“Boy, I need you to help me. Show me what I need to see. Please.”
I look into his eyes, his wonderful soft brown eyes. I touch his paw,
. . . and the world changes.
#
Normal vision; must be my own past. My weak human nose tells me where I am—disinfectant. All hospitals smell the same.
Mom’s diction is perfect. “Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.”
I mumble, “Peerrr Piirr pe a pecc of pic (the ‘l’ in pickled is lost somewhere in my throat).” I stop.
Try it again, dear.
“Nnooo.”
“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.”
Tears roll down my face. I scribble on a piece of paper, my handwriting only slightly better than my speech.
What’s the use?
Sobs shake me. Mom takes my broken body into her arms. “I’m here, sweetie. I’m right beside you. I know, I understand. You’ve got to fight, baby. You’ve got to fight.”
. . .and the world changes.
#
“Mom . . . oh, God, Mom.”
My foot fails me, I fall. I crawl to my phone. Push favorites. Hers is the only number listed.
“Mom?” I sob out her name. “Mom, I’m sorry.”
“No, sweetie, I understand. You want to live an independent life. You’ve lost so much. I’m a pest.”
“No, Mom, that’s not it. I don’t need to be independent. I mean . . .I thought I did. But I realize now that what I need to be . . . is grateful. Yeah, I walk funny, but I’ve got you. All this time, I took you for granted. Oh, dear God, Mom, you fed me. You helped me go to the restroom. You even slept beside me, those first days in this apartment when I was too scared to be alone. You were there for me. You held me. Mom, you taught me to talk again. I was so busy feeling sorry for myself and being afraid, that I never saw you.”
“Sweetie, you don’t have to thank me.”
“Yes, I do. Mom I need to thank you. And more than that, I want to thank you. Please, maybe tomorrow you could come back over? I’d like to try on those clothes. And Mom, if you’ll help me, I’ll have the surgeries.”
“Sweetie, you don’t have to.”
“I know, but I’ve got this fantastic Mom. And with you, I can do anything. I love you, Mom.”
I hear her weeping. Ut. Oh. She’s not good with emotion. Weeping? That’s way too hard for her. I glance down at Jack and wink.
“So, Mom, here’s the deal. I’m having a problem about going back to teaching. I mean . . . well what if I fall down in class?”
“Oh,” the crying abruptly stops, “we’ll practice, sweetie. I’ll come over tomorrow . . .
THE END