Animals. Part 2

"s.h.i.t," Tommy said, drawing it out to two words: shee-it. "You really expect us to believe you saw a wolf that big, and not ten miles out of town . . ."

"Swear to G.o.d," Syd answered, emphatic.

". . . and you actually came within spitting distance of this thing, and it just looked at you."

"Yep."

"And then it just up and disappeared into the woods and left you there."

"Uh-huh." Syd nodded.

Tommy looked at Syd, the car, and back. Then he took a deep breath. "I just have one question."

"Shoot."

"Did you p.i.s.s yourself right when you first saw the wolf . . ."

Budd choked, almost lost it. Tommy, too, barely made it to the punch line.

". . . or did you wait till the wolf saw you?"

The two of them erupted into gales of laughter. Syd felt his face flush with embarra.s.sment and anger. "Yeah, well, f.u.c.k you guys," he muttered.

"Aw, lighten up, son." Tommy threw a beefy arm around Syd's shoulder. "You wanna get insulted, check out your paycheck this week."

Syd resisted for a moment, still p.i.s.sed. Then he sighed. "It really happened, man."

"Yeah, well," Tommy shrugged. "What do I know? Weirder things have been known to." He gave Syd a brotherly squeeze. "C'mon, boy. Let's go see if we work today."

The three of them walked toward the gate in silence. Tommy's face had taken on a contemplative light. "This wolf of yours," he said at last. "Was it male or female?"

"I didn't ask. Why?"

Tommy shrugged. "A wolf in estrus can act pretty strange sometimes."

"What's estrus?"

"Heat, boy." He paused, thought about it. "November's kinda early for mating season, but you never know."

"Ooooh." Budd leered, lascivious. "Maybe it wanted you, Syd."

"Yeah, right." Irritated.

"Puppy love . . ."

"Put a lid on it, Budd."

"Doggy-style . . ." he persisted, pleased with himself.

"SHUT UP!!!" Syd and Tommy chanted in unison. Budd's grinning piehole dried up in a flash. Syd studied Tommy's face intently. He knew that Tommy was a whole lot smarter than his mountain-man appearance might lead one to believe. Wheels were turning in there. He wanted to know what they meant.

"So what else?"

"I dunno," Tommy shrugged.

"Was it alone?"

"Why?" Budd jumped in. "You think there's more than one of 'em?"

"Beats me," the big man said. "But I'll tell ya one thing: if there is a wolf in these parts, I'd guess that it has a mate."

"Unless it's looking for one." Syd wasn't sure why he said it.

"Good f.u.c.king luck," Tommy snorted. "The only wolves around here anymore are the ones with suits and cellular phones."

Just then they pa.s.sed a sleek black BMW parked against the warehouse wall, its polished midnight skin and hand-detailed chrome in stark contrast to the gritty ochres and browns of the yard. Tommy nodded at the little corkscrew antenna protruding from its tinted rear window. "Speak of the devil," he muttered, and nudged Syd knowingly. "Looks like Bobo's here."

Syd groaned and shook his head. A surprise appearance by Beau "Bobo" Harrell was always good for a laugh, particularly if you thought job security was funny. Harrell was sc.u.m.

More specifically, Beau Harrell was a sour, opportunistic little p.r.i.c.k, and his contracting company was a blue-collar gulag. He got the contract by undercutting every other bid by thirty percent, and in so doing became one of the town's few remaining employers, last refuge for those lucky enough to get a slot and able to withstand the degradation implicit in taking it. As a boss, he was both abusive and unscrupulous; as a human being, abusiveness and unscrupulousness were his most endearing qualities.

They reached the foreman's trailer, got on the crew line. A dozen other disenfranchised souls were there, smoking and shuffling their feet. The three men joined the queue. Just then the foreman came out, a burly barrel of a man with a face like a bulldog and a fur-flapped hunting cap; the short stub of yesterday's cigar protruded from the corner of his mouth like a big tobacco tampon.

"Yessir, Mr. Harrell," he said, then turned and descended the steps. He waved his clipboard, sent groups of men this way and that. Budd went with one crew. "See ya later," he said.

The foreman checked his list, grunting. "Jarrett, Kramer, this way," he gestured. "You're tearing out the boilers in unit five."

"Lucky, lucky," Tommy muttered.

"I love my life," Syd added facetiously. "My life is great."

"Beats the alternative," Tommy replied.

Syd thought of Bobby Carmichael, and wondered.

3.

It was six-thirty when Syd finally arrived at the tiny two-story walk-up he called home, another day of gainful employment safely behind him.

He keyed open the door, pushing aside the pile of mail laying heaped on the floor. He sighed as he stooped to retrieve it; he was beat to s.h.i.t, physically speaking, and the day's correspondence didn't help much on the psychological front. Bills, bills, bills, junk mail, and bills. He riffled through them absently as he crossed the room, thinking that the old saying was wrong. There was one more certainty in life, aside from death and taxes.

There were bills.

Every month, in ceaseless cycle, falling through the mail slot like some weird variation on the old Chinese water torture. The phone was overdue, the electric was overdue, his Visa card was maxed to the point of no return. He'd long ago forgone such luxuries as cable TV, so that was mercifully absent. Ed McMahon's preening mug beckoned from a Publishers Clearing House mailer, a.s.suring him that he may already have won a million dollars!!!, but Syd wasn't holding his breath.

He tossed the pile unceremoniously onto the kitchen table and headed for the bathroom, pausing en route to put on some music. The living room was tiny and run-down, but well-ordered and clean. The furnishings were strictly Salvation Army-a lamp, a seedy tweed sofa, and a Naugahyde recliner with big holes in the arms, huddled around a tacky coffee table like b.u.ms on a barrel fire.

His stereo alone was impressive-Philips power- and pre-amp, Denon tuner, Nakamichi CD and ca.s.sette deck, and an old Technics turntable for his 78s. A pair of Boston Acoustic speakers hunkered in the corners like squat sonic sentinels.

The audio system and his music collection were the only things of value he'd salvaged from his former life, and he treasured them. He scanned the rack of CDs, pulled a Melissa Etheridge disc and popped it in, hit the random search b.u.t.ton. Syd wandered over to scarf a cold Keystone from the fridge. The player hummed for a second, then sweet sad acoustic guitar filled the air, arpeggiated cascades that transformed the cramped s.p.a.ce of the room. The voice that followed was smoky and haunting, filled with loss: "Everybody's got a hunger No matter where they are Everybody clings to their own fear Everybody hides some scar Oooooh, precious pain . . ."

Syd grabbed a beer and popped it. The music swelled, achingly beautiful. G.o.d, Melissa could sing. He took a sip, toasting her talent. He was about to take another, when he happened to glance back at the mail, and one particular envelope caught his eye. Melissa wailed on: "Empty and cold but it keeps me alive I gave it my soul so I could survive Keeping me safe in these chains Precious pain . . ."

The envelope was postmarked Pittsburgh and addressed to him; the handwriting was his own. The return address was preprinted in a tiny cursive script. Anthony P. Weisman, attorney-at-law. Syd felt his stomach drop like a gallows trapdoor.

"Oh boy," he said. "Here it comes."

He sat down, readying himself. He knew in his gut what it was. He opened the envelope; inside was a grainy one-page photocopied letter and a very plain doc.u.ment from the Court of Common Pleas, 59th Judicial District of Pennsylvania.

Dear client, it stated bluntly. Your divorce is final. . . .

A few meager paragraphs followed, mostly a lot of redundant legal speak explaining why the certificate didn't have an official colored seal but was completely legal and authentic anyway.

Syd took a swig of his beer and flipped the page. The attached doc.u.ment was just as perfunctory: it is ordered and decreed that on such-and-such day, blah blah blah, Sydney C. Jarrett, plaintiff, and Karen L. Jarrett, defendant, are divorced from the bonds of matrimony. Etc., etc., blah blah blah . . .

Syd felt his spirit plunge, do a spastic death jig where his stomach had been. So much for pageantry. He held the piece of paper up to the waning light, marveling at how little substance there was to it. After all the pomp and circ.u.mstance surrounding the conjugal act, you'd think the flip side would at least have some heft. Maybe be carved in stone or something, like a memorial, or a headstone. Here lies the marriage of Syd and Karen Jarrett.

Rest in pieces.

Syd dropped the paper and lit a cigarette. A photo from their last summer together lay amidst the clutter of the kitchen table. Karen was standing on the boardwalk at Rehoboth Beach in Delaware, on a vacation he couldn't afford that was his last desperate attempt to keep them together.

Funny, Syd thought, how pictures can lie, by the simple act of freezing time. In the photo she was smiling and standing in the middle of the promenade: a shy and pretty woman holding one hand delicately up to her breast, one leg c.o.c.ked like Venus descending from her sh.e.l.l. In real life the smile was a grimace, and she'd actually been backing away, trying to escape from Syd's intruding lens. As if she were afraid of letting him capture her like that.

As if she were afraid it might reveal something.

Syd closed his eyes and more images a.s.sembled unbidden in his brain, parading by like the Bataan Death March of love. The first time he ever saw her. The first time he asked her out. The night they first kissed. In one jarring gestalt he remembered the night she had captured his heart, and the night she had broken it.

And the ten long years that stretched in between.

"Everybody's got a reason to abandon their plan How can I think of tomorrow with my sorrow at hand Oooooh, precious pain . . ."

They were young when they first met: she was twenty-two, he was twenty-five. She was lithe and willowy, with a personality so diametrically opposite his own that people sometimes wondered how they could stand each other. Where he was boisterous, she was reclusive; where he was reckless, she was reserved.

Still, they shared a connection, and it was strong. It was like they were tuned to a very intimate frequency, one that no one else could hear. And as much as their natures differed, there was a complement there, a melding of strengths. They were always honest with each other, in a way that Syd had never found with anyone else, and in the privacy of their relationship she opened up to him in ways she never had to anyone else.

He had to admit that she was a mystery to him. She had a sense of impenetrable composure, an inner serenity that intrigued him. At first it was a challenge; penetrating her veils wasn't easy. As he got to know her, he saw that Karen had learned early in life to hide her true nature: from her parents, from her family, from the world at large. She lived in a world of unfulfilled dreams, and protected them with a veneer of innocent acquiescence. Just tell everyone what you think they want to hear and you're safe. That's all they really want from you, anyway. Karen spent most of her life hiding behind a mirror that reflected other people's expectations.

And then Syd came along.

He was brash and confident, with a wild streak a mile wide. He couldn't see through her mirrors, but he knew they were there. And as Syd fell deeper and deeper in love, he longed to find the person hidden behind the looking gla.s.s, and let her out at last.

Easier said than done. It took trust, and trust like that was hard to come by. They were together for years before getting married. Syd was marriage-shy, not because he was afraid of commitment but because he had seen too many people who did it and then let the spark go out, only to end up trapped in loveless frustration, dead inside. He never wanted to be like that.

And then one day, some seven years into their relationship, it struck him: here is a woman who truly loves you and wants you and you love her and just how many times do you think that happens in a lifetime?

When they tied the knot they literally got a standing ovation as they walked away from the altar: family and friends cheering them on, the organ music swelling, the autumn sunset ablaze as if G.o.d himself were on hand to personally wish them well.

And Syd found, much to his amazement, that he loved being married almost as much as he loved her. It wasn't a trap at all. To the contrary, it was liberating; there was a power in the knowledge that he had a partner, someone with whom he was mated for life. Someone to watch over, even as she watched over him. Syd was amazed at how he could look at Karen and feel the same exhilaration as the first night they'd kissed. And when they made love he felt time melt away, as if the joining would last forever.

It blew him away. He wanted to give her everything, be everything for her, fulfill her heart's every desire. And bit by bit, he began to truly believe that he could. No matter what happened, they had each other. They had the rest of their lives. They could beat the odds and build something that would really last a lifetime.

For a while it looked like they actually might.

And then everything started to go wrong.

Maybe it was a long-buried fault line in their dynamic. Maybe just a series of random events, connecting with one another in near-lethal precision. The recession hit. The bills started to pile up. Karen got pregnant, only to have it end in a sudden and ugly miscarriage that sent her pinwheeling off into her own private h.e.l.l.

Little by little, they started to drift apart.

For a long time, Syd blamed himself. He had failed to provide for them. He had failed to make the dream come true. He blamed her, too; for not trying, for rolling over and giving up in the face of hard times. He got scared, and the fear got him angry, and he pushed himself that much harder, doing anything and everything in a grimly determined attempt to keep it all together.

Eventually the sheer stress of it all just ground all the sweetness out of him. His sense of humor curdled, turned caustic; his hope became desperation; his desperation soured into bitterness.

Meanwhile, Karen drifted. Months went by. Years. He pressured her to take control of her life, get a grip, do something to help. She responded by drifting from one low-paying dead end job to another, ended up making a halfhearted stab at real estate. The first thing she did was find a big old house, which she brought Syd to see. He saw the spark light in Karen's eyes for the first time in what felt like forever. And that was all it took.

They managed to buy the place, and Syd set to restoring it with a fervor: sanding floors, painting, ripping out fixtures, making it theirs. To him it was way more than material, worlds beyond simply improving the resale value of an investment. He was trying to build a repository for their dreams, make physical his hope for their continued future together. It was home. It mattered. He poured his heart into it, as if by sheer dint of will he could transform it into a fortress strong enough to deflect the forces that threatened to overwhelm them.

All the while, the wheels kept turning. The economy worsened. The bills kept coming. Syd managed to keep them alive, but the uncertainty was wearing on him. The real estate market went quagmire-soft in the face of more layoffs, more closings. Karen's career didn't earn a dime, but it got her into the bars a lot, where she began to quietly drown in her own insecurities and depression.

The gulf between them grew colder and colder by degrees.

Until the inevitable happened.

"Each road I walk down Reminds me of you This whole town is haunted There'll never be anything new . . ."

One night Karen happened into the sights of a yuppie lounge-lizard party animal named Vaughn Restal. Vaughn was a fixture on the local singles scene: boyishly charming, with curly black hair and a cheesy, easy grin. His special gift was helping women in trouble-especially married ones. He listened to their problems: with their husbands, with their jobs, with their lives. He tapped into their deepest longings. He liked to make them feel special.

And he had a special way of making them feel it.

Vaughn befriended Karen: running into her casually, encouraging her to share her feelings. He was always there with a smile and a hug and a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. He was a nice guy. He was concerned for her. He bought her lots and lots of drinks.

On the home front, things were growing increasingly distant. Karen had become a virtual shadow in the hallways. And Syd was no fun at all anymore. When they spoke at all, their conversations revolved around a seemingly never-ending parade of problems; and as Syd became single-minded in his determination to get them out of the hole they were in, Karen felt increasingly lost and powerless in the face of it. They became estranged, each lost in their own inability to cope.

It wasn't long before Karen's nights out making business contacts started to run later and later. And it wasn't much past that before her shmoozing became a nightly thing. It was all just part of the business, after all. And if Syd didn't like it, well, he was the one who'd been pressing her to go out and hustle in the first place, now wasn't he?

But by then Syd had begun to pull out of his anger. He felt like a man trapped in a rubber monster suit, a life-sized replica of himself, fashioned entirely of bile and bad feelings. It had taken him a long time to recognize that fact, even longer to find the zipper and finally set himself free.

As he did, the anger sloughed off of him. Syd began making overtures, trying to heal the damage, to rekindle the fire they'd let go out. Karen responded with indifference and suspicion. Why was he being nice all of a sudden? He was up to something, no doubt, trying to manipulate her somehow. She went out every night, stayed out till the bars closed. She shared nothing, told him exactly what she thought he wanted to hear.