the others

It rained today and the air feels clean and new.  I walk home from town beleiving that once the rain subsides, everything will be back to the way it was.   We’ll pack up and move back to before.  Before we gave up on Brooklyn, before the old men disappeared from the stoop next door.  Back to long ago where they will  still be there, smoking and grinning and drinking ear to ear: not understanding one another, but happy in their stupor.  I believe that the streets will teem with buses and millions of people beyond beyond these mountains instead of the small nuclear family I have come to know.  

The smell of dog shit hits me at the bottom of the stairs.  The odor is strong and familiar and I welcome the sting.  It takes me back to Saturday mornings when not even the radio could wake us; not the sound of the dog scratching at the door and whining, only the acrid sting of her eventual spite and our guilty, sleepy walks down the block followed by dog treats and coffee and babytalk.  We used to work so hard for her forgiveness.   Now there is no forgiveness, there is no fault, and that’s okay.  

Yes, the dog is still alive, and we can’t leave her to die.  Grandma used to insist that we give her away. Take her somewhere and throw her away in her native language.  I think she used to say that for attention.   Now she’s gone too.  Gone before this happened, thank god.  When the people started disappearing, I thought to myself, at least we don’t have to worry about leaving grandma behind.  At least we don’t have that guilt.

 The dog gives us reason to feign hope until we don't have to.  Because eventually she wont be and then we won’t.  These days with Ben out for so long, I live in preparation of the day that he won't come back.  And when that happens, I assure myself, at least I’ll have the dog to protect me.  Funny how protection is first on my mind.  From who else?

Before it became just us, I used to have the same fears - but what then was another woman, a better life, a lucrative career has now become a rattlesnake bite, a treacherous fall, or just simply giving up altogether.  I guess these could be the same things:  I guess giving up on this life can take many forms.

When I open the door The Dog welcomes me with a low bow, her haunches close to the ground, her head ducked.  In the middle of the kitchen, a field of land mines, and the piercing smell.  She hasn't changed her behavior.  Its as if she doesn't know anything is different.  Or maybe, she doesn't care.   Then again what does it matter as long as your immediate life isn't so different - that your pack is still here and you know your place in the world; that your food is in your bowl, and even when it isn't, you can trust that there is reason.

Ben comes home later and later.  Sometimes hours after the sun has gone down.  He has started taking a flashlight with him in the mornings and I resent that he knows that he’ll be gone for so long.  When he comes home, he falls into bed exhausted.  He sleeps quietly until the next day, barely breathing.  In the morning he is tired and wordless.  Even when he says nothing, the mornings he does not leave are my happiest. 

As usual I wake up alone.  The normal pang and nervousness my alarm clock.  I look for the dog, she's gone.  Ben's side of the bed is cold.  I lay quiet, this bed in this world is my tomb.  The whole silent earth is a grave.

But there is noise in the kitchen.  I climb out of bed and stumble toward the door.  At the bottom of the stairs, I can hear the tea kettle, the rain outside sounds like traffic.  I want to pretend, everyday, that things were the way they used to be.  Will I always be so used to the old ways of describing my world?

Ben appears in the doorway.  His face is dark and he is silhouetted in soft grey light.  Everything reminds me of the end.  He looks like some dangerous, treacherous angel.  He holds out his hand: "hi baby" and folds me into a cold hug - he's already been outside and this makes me angry, for a moment. 

I stop when I see her on the couch.  The dog wont go anywhere near her.  Bundled and wrapped desperately in blankets, she sleeps hungrily.  She is blonde her hair is matted and caked.   I look at Ben, he smiles and I feel a deep pang of jealousy.  I have not seem him look this way in a long long time.  

"Look" he says.  "Look, I found her.  I knew there were others."