Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

“Oh yeah, everyone will remember this face. I will endure till the end of time. Until then I should probably stop talking to a phone and go find that mailbox… Oh wait, I see one just up ahead. I’ll be home soon. Love you.”

The phone beeped to herald the end of the message.

I didn’t replay it, I’d lost count of how many times I had.

I’d lost track of a lot of things.

Hell, I barely knew if I was awake or asleep anymore. I knew I was lying there on the sofa in a tangle of sheets once again. I had a vague notion it was light outside, I could see a shimmer of sunshine from behind the closed curtains, but whether it was morning or afternoon, I had no idea. For all I knew I was dreaming again.

That is, till I decided to sit up and place my feet on the floor.

Well, it wasn’t quite the floor that I set my right foot down on.

It was another poop from Chet.

Yep, I was awake all right. My toes felt very awake now as they tried to wiggle the crap off.

I hobbled to the downstairs bathroom and washed my foot off in the shower recess.

By the time I returned to the living room, Chet was sitting beside his crap, giving me a guilty stare.

I sighed. “Shit, buddy, I’m sorry.”

I realized if I was going to lose track of time, Chet’s toilet training was headed out the window if I didn’t find a solution. I’d already solved his need to eat by leaving no less than half a dozen bowls of dog chow in the kitchen.

But giving him a place to shit? Well, that was going to require a more creative fix.

I stood at the supermarket checkout with a large plastic tray and two jumbo-sized bags of kitty litter in my hands, one promising to be the most environmentally responsible litter on the market with its unique blend of recycled materials, the other claiming that its state-of-the-art clumping technology would extend the life of each tray of litter.

I looked at the disinterested kid serving me, his hair as jet black as his polished nails. “Which of these would be best for a dog? Recycled material or clumping technology?”

The kid’s expression was as emotionless as I was feeling at that moment, but his voice carried just enough attitude to let me know he thought I was a fucking idiot. “Those are cat litters. For cats.”

“I know that, but I’m hoping my dog will use it. Which one do you think my dog will use?”

The kid looked at me for longer than was comfortable. “I’m not sure I’m informed enough to give you the right answer, although here’s a spoiler alert for you.” He pointed to the label on each bag. “That word there says ‘Kitty.’ It’s kitty litter. For cats.”

“I know, but I have a dog.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Why would you ask that?”

The kid gave a disinterested shrug. “You never know. We have men who come in here and buy porn magazines ‘for the articles.’ It’s called denial.”

“I’m not buying porn, I’m buying kitty litter. And I’m not in denial. What the hell would I be in denial about?”

The kid shrugged again. “I don’t know. Maybe you don’t like your cat, so you tell people you have a dog instead. Maybe you’re ashamed of it or it threatens your sense of masculinity in some way. Maybe you want people to think you’re a dog person because most people think that dogs are friendlier than cats, despite the fact that I’ve never heard of someone being mauled to death by a tabby. Maybe you always wanted a dog but your wife wanted a cat, so life dealt you a cat instead and you find that emasculating in some stupid way. Am I ringing any bells?”

“What the fuck? No! I’m not feeling emasculated, and I don’t have a wife, I have a…” I was about to say husband, but we never got that far. “I have a dog. He’s my dog now and I need to fucking look after him.”

“You shouldn’t curse at me. There are store policies in place. I could call the manager and report you for using abusive language.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just want to get some cat litter and go. Is that okay?”

“That’s okay. We all curse sometimes.” He pointed to one of the bags of cat litter. “Get the litter made from recycled material. If you need to fucking look after your dog, you might as well look after the fucking planet too.”

“You need to open some windows. It smells terrible in here.” Regina sat opposite me with her nose twisted in a way that made me want to twist it right off her fucking face. She was no longer dressed in black but had progressed to a floral patterned dress and a large yellow handbag. Apparently, her period of mourning had ended.

Between us sat two urns on the coffee table—the silver cross-covered urn she’d left me a week ago, and a white ceramic urn I’d had made for Joel at a pottery artist’s studio on Bleecker Street, with the musical notes of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” painted in a spiral from the tip of the urn to the base.

Apart from buying kitty litter, it was the one thing I’d achieved in the past seven days.

But it was the one thing that mattered most.

Regina looked at the two urns, then snatched up my ceramic urn so abruptly I slid forward on the couch, ready to catch it should she drop it.

She didn’t. Instead she shook it in her hands as though the mere sound of the contents would indicate that there were no more than half the ashes left inside.

A suspicious glance was aimed my way before Regina picked up the silver urn, celebrating death and suffering with each and every ornately carved crucifix. She shook it even more vehemently than my urn.

“They’re not maracas,” I said bluntly.

“I’m just trying to ascertain whether you’ve held up your side of the bargain.” The sound of the contents swishing around inside the silver urn seemed to satisfy her somewhat. “Did you use weighing scales? I want to know I’m taking exactly half of him home to where he belongs.”

“Of course,” I lied.

Regina placed the silver urn in her handbag and stood. “Good. Then it’s time to leave this house. I honestly can’t stand the stench a moment longer. Dennis, in the name of God, open a window.”

Jumping at his wife’s orders, Dennis yanked apart the nearest drapes and slid the window open.

Dramatically, Regina sighed with relief and waved a hand in front of her face as though wafting in the fresh air, gazing at the rays of sunshine out the window as she said, “You know, sometimes, when I see the light streaming down from the heavens, I wish Joel had died when he was a little boy. So that he could’ve been spared the person he became.”

“Oh my God,” I uttered in disbelief. “What did you just say?”

“I said I wish Joel had died before he ever met you. God would have taken that little angel straight into his kingdom.”

“Get out! Get the fuck out! You’re the fucking devil, you know that? Get the fuck out of our house now!”

Calmly Regina leveled her gaze at me. “Oh Noah, if you think I’m the devil, just you wait till the day you step in front of a bus.”

She turned sharply and headed for the door.

I jumped over the coffee table and reached the door first, wanting to be sure they were gone, once and for all. But as I yanked it open, Dennis stopped. “Just one last question. Do you still have Greg? I haven’t seen him around.”

“Greg? Who the hell is Greg?”

“The dog.”

“His name’s Chet. As in Chet Baker. And yes, he’s still here.”

“I wasn’t sure. I noticed the kitty litter, I thought maybe you got yourself a cat instead. Reason I ask is, it’s Emilia’s eighth birthday next month and she’s always wanted a dog, and we thought…”

“You’re not taking my dog!”

“Technically, Greg was Joel’s dog.”

“ You’re not taking my dog! ”

Regina tugged her husband out onto the front steps. “Oh Dennis, for heaven’s sake, just forget about it. Emilia wants a purebred anyway. Besides, who knows what that dog’s seen? Now come on, we’re finished here. Quite frankly, I never want to see this place agai—”

I slammed the door shut.

I lay on the floor beside the bed.

Chet didn’t want to meet my eyes.

“You have to come out some time. I mean, besides to eat and poop.”

He gave a low grumble.

“Don’t tell me you think it stinks in here too.”

Chet uttered an even louder grumble.

“Frankly I don’t know if it’s you or me anymore.” I took a whiff under one of my arms.

This time Chet’s growl was squarely placing the blame on me.

I tried his tactic of avoiding eye contact for a moment or two.

My gaze fell upon the shoebox from Hannah.

I went to reach for it… then stopped myself… then grabbed it and slid it out from under the bed.

I sat up, cross-legged on the floor, and placed the box in my lap.

It took me a minute to lift the lid.

Inside I saw the piano key, the cassette tape… and the ring box.

I picked up the cassette.

The handwriting on the label was either that of someone very old, very young, or a person who didn’t know how to write. The only words on it were a name and address—

Lovesong Valentin

Clara’s Crossing

Louisiana

“What the fuck?” I whispered to myself.

Even as I said it… I felt the rabbit hole open up beneath me.