Listen to Me (19 page)

“Sure,” said the woman. “Sure, sure. I'm waking them.” The baby still latched to her chest, she moved toward the sedan.

“It's nothing,” said Mark. He shrugged his shoulders, a lame attempt to look meek, repentant. He turned again toward the hotel. He tested taking one, then another, step away.

The man said, “Hey.”

Mark kept walking.

He heard what sounded like a knock on a window. A car door opened, maybe two car doors.

Again the man said, “Hey.”

But Mark didn't stop; wouldn't stop. His heartbeat raced violently.

Behind him, there was more whispering. Mark couldn't make out the words—he was too far now or the words were too low—but as he continued his escape, he believed he could detect different tones, various octaves. How many people were back there? How many women? How many babies? Oh god, he wondered, how many men?

Mark was halfway across the parking lot—an even distance between himself, the hotel, the bank of trees, and the offending automobiles—when he and Gerome were suddenly awash in a bath of headlights. He turned. Both the truck and the sedan beside it had turned on their high beams.

An engine revved. Gerome bolted.

Mark faltered, tripping over his own foot with the other. He tried to recover but lost his grip on the leash. Gerome sprinted toward the tree line. Mark called his name, but the dog continued his flight.

The sedan and the truck pulled forward in unison. Mark watched the dog's outline. He ran first for the woods then halted midcourse. Mark called his name again: “Gerome!” The dog turned, paused, then made a beeline not toward Mark but toward the hotel.

He ran in and out of the headlights of the sedan. His brilliant brown coat was lit up momentarily.

The sedan swerved toward the rear exit of the parking lot, and Gerome swerved too. He went dark, but only for a second. Mark could hear his collar ringing, heading again for the forest.

Gerome appeared once more, now in the headlights of the truck, which was moving too fast around the far side of the hotel. He was midair, all four feet aloft in a magnificent leap toward the grass. A single bound separated him from asphalt and the trees.

The truck, unlike the sedan, didn't swerve, and the sound—the terrible
whump
followed by his dog's pitiful cry—sent Mark running.

The truck didn't stop, and in the distance he was aware of the drowning sound of two cars speeding haphazardly away.

Gerome had landed with his body on the pavement and his head, resting almost gingerly, on the concrete lip of the parking lot.

Mark tried to get him to stand, but he wouldn't obey. He would only moan.

Then Mark tried to pick him up, but each attempt, every maneuver, seemed to increase the dog's pain.

“Gerome, Gerome,” he kept saying, as if in repetition a solution might be found. “Gerome, Gerome.”

The sun in the east inched up from the earth.

The only answer was to bring Maggie outside, which meant leaving Gerome alone.

Mark looked around. Objects—trees, streetlamps, the hotel itself—had outlines, but none of the outlines was a person. There was no one to help him, no one to go for help for him.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Gerome. “Stay here.”

The dog groaned.

There was just enough light, just enough morning sun for Mark to see into the dog's eyes. He did something Maggie was always telling him to do, something he'd never before dignified by trying, but that now made perfect sense. He visualized the image of himself—
The Grown Man Inside! The Man Already a Man! It all had a purpose; everything had a purpose!
How had he never made the connection before?—running toward the hotel, waking Maggie, bringing her back to Gerome's side. He visualized the three of them together, happy, healthy, sound. He gave the image to Gerome. Through ether, through embers and fibers and neurons, through elements and atoms and strands, through filaments and particles and the universe itself, he sent the image from his brain to Gerome's.

“Do you understand?” he said. “Can you see it?”

Before the dog could answer, Mark, the man, was running.

          It took her a minute before she remembered where they were, why they were there. Mark was yelling at her, but she didn't know why. He'd forced her into a seated position on the bed. He'd manipulated her legs so that her feet were touching the floor.

“Where's Gerome?” she said. Her mouth was sour. Her lower back was sore.

“That's what I'm telling you,” he said. “He's been hit. Get up. Get out of bed.”

Mark was handing her things, pieces of clothing. He was trying to force a damp shirt over her head. She pushed him away.

“What are you doing?” she said. “Get off. What are you doing?”

“Get out of bed,” he said. “Get up. Come outside.”

“Why is Gerome outside?” she asked. She pulled on her T-shirt and stood. Her knees cracked.

Before she could look for them, Mark had placed her shorts in her hands. They too were damp, and she pulled them on slowly. Her legs were wobbly, as though maybe they were still asleep. “You left him outside alone?” she said. It didn't make sense. “Is he in the car? Did you leave the a/c running?”

“Please,” said Mark. He was pulling her. He had taken her by the wrist, and now he was pulling her.

“My shoes,” she said. “Do you have my shoes?” Her shorts weren't yet buttoned. She couldn't see where she was going. She took a step forward and ran into something hard with her toe. “Fuck,” she said.

“I have your shoes,” he said. “But please, Maggie. I need you to wake up. I need you to concentrate.”

She was trying to take her shoes from his hands. He seemed unwilling to give them to her. Her toe was in exquisite agony. She sat back down on the bed.

“Maggie,” he said.

She closed her eyes. It felt so good to close her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept so soundly, so peacefully.

Mark slapped her.

She yelped.

Her eyes were open again.

“I'm sorry,” Mark said. He was kneeling down in front of her now. “Are you listening?” He was rubbing both her knees with his hands. “Can you hear me?”

Her cheek was on fire.

“Maggie?”

She stood, slipped on her shoes, and pushed past Mark.

All at once she understood. All at once the last two minutes came into focus. It was as if she'd lived there her whole life, the way she pivoted the turns in the dark, the way she maneuvered the corners so effortlessly.

She was out of the room, out of the hallway, out of the hotel in an instant.

          A violent fuchsia sun was just visible at the tip of the trees to the east.

Daybreak, at last.

The asphalt of the parking lot was wet. Lavender steam rose up in pockets around them like ghostly bouquets. Gerome was on his side, his head in Maggie's lap.

She was doing something with her hands, running them up and down his body. Any other day, any other setting, and this might have seemed normal. Just his wife giving the family dog a little shoulder massage while he slept. Mark wished they were back home, back in their apartment, in Chicago. He wished the asphalt was their Oriental rug and the hotel was just a wall. He wished the minivan was their sofa, and he wished what Maggie was saying right now was, “Bring me some coffee, will you? I don't want to disturb Gerome while he's sleeping so peacefully.”

But that's not what she was saying. And the would-be urban setting of his imagination fell away, and he was back again squarely and cruelly in a parking lot at daybreak, his wife yelling up at him. “In the car,” she was saying. “In the glove compartment. Get me my kit.” He didn't know why he wasn't moving, but he wasn't. Not yet. “Mark,” she said. “Goddamn it.” She smacked him in the calf. “Get my kit. Do it now.” Her other hand was still on Gerome, still performing some terribly clinical massage. The dog yapped and opened his eyes. They gazed upward at Mark. The look of confusion was galling. “Go,” said Maggie again, and now Mark did go. He ran to their car, unlocked the passenger side, swept the contents of the glove compartment to the floor, and picked out the medical kit. Had he known such a thing existed? Had he known that Maggie kept it there? But when had she put it there? And when, before putting it there, had she taken the time to put the kit together? There was so much he hadn't thought of, so much he hadn't taken into account.

He ran back to Maggie. Her right hand was stationary, pressing hard on the dog's side.

“What now?” said Mark. “Tell me what to do.”

“In the side pocket,” she said. “The one with the zipper.” She looked up. “Yes, that one. There are two needles. Do you see?”

He unzipped the little side pocket. “There's no blood,” he said. “That's good, right? He's in shock, right? That's it?”

Maggie ignored him.

“Read the baggies,” she said. “Do you see the one that says Telazol?”

Mark held out one of the needles. He was somehow unable to read what it said.

“Not that one,” she said. “The other one. Hold it up for me.”

He held out the second needle.

“Yes, okay. Good.”

Gerome had started to pant. She leaned down and put her mouth to the dog's ear. Mark couldn't hear what she was saying. With her left hand she was stroking Gerome's neck.

She sat up again and looked at Mark. “Open the package for me. I can't do it with one hand.”

“You need this?”

“Open it.”

Mark opened it and held out the needle.

“What does it do?” he said. “Will it calm him down?”

Maggie took the needle.

“Good boy,” she said. With her free thumb, she rubbed at a spot on his front leg. “Good boy.”

She looked up at Mark. “Kneel down.”

Mark knelt down.

“Put your hand here.”

“Here?”

“Just there. That's right. Just how my hand is.”

Mark did as he was told. The skin was hot and he felt—
oh god
—what did he feel? What was that protrusion under his dog's skin? He looked at Maggie.

“He's bleeding internally,” she said. She was so calm. She was so matter-of-fact. “Do you understand?”

Mark could feel the lump beneath his hand. Was it getting hotter? Was it growing?

“No,” he said. “I don't think I understand.”

Maggie nodded. Her thumb was still rubbing at a place just behind Gerome's elbow. “I'm going to give him this shot. It will calm him. Like you said.”

Mark found that he was nodding in time with Maggie, two metronomes perfectly in sync, though he felt several measures behind.

“Just to calm him,” Mark said.

“And to take him out of pain.”

“Good, good,” said Mark. “Good. Yes. Do it.”

“Are you still pressing? The pressure helps take away the pain too.”

“I'm pressing.” And he was pressing, and what he was pressing into felt like it was pressing back. “I think I can feel the leak,” he said. “I think it's right here. Is that good? What happens next?”

Maggie's head was bowed in concentration. She pushed the needle into Gerome's arm, where her thumb had been. Slowly, she pressed the plunger until the top was flush with the barrel. Gerome let out a little sigh. Maggie set the syringe down. She stroked the dog's ears. “That's better,” she said. “That's better.”

Now she reached for the kit and from it removed the second syringe.

“What's that?” Mark said. “What are you doing now?”

Maggie looked at him. Had she been crying the entire time? It seemed to him that she hadn't been crying before. Only now she was. Now that things were better, that Gerome was beyond danger and out of pain.

“Mark,” she said, tearing at the package with her teeth. “This will happen fast. Okay? This will happen very quickly.”

Mark was shaking his head now. “What are you talking about? What are you doing? He's fine.”

“He's not fine.” She was rubbing him again, awful circular motions, only now she was rubbing the spot above his heart. A little sniffling sound came from somewhere on her face. “He's bleeding internally. There's nothing I can do. There's nothing either of us can do.”

She moved her hand from Gerome's shoulder to Mark's fingers. She squeezed them just slightly. “This isn't anyone's fault. Even if we were in a hospital right now, this would be the only option.” Now she had her hand fully on top of Mark's, the one that had been pressing so purposefully on Gerome's side. She squeezed again. “You can let go,” she said. “Love, you can let go.”

But he didn't want to let go. He didn't want it to end this way. This wasn't right. He wanted her to fix him. He wanted her to make it better. He wanted to feel that strong heartbeat, which he realized now, beneath his open palm, had slowed considerably.

“Come around here,” she said. “Come here. Come be by me. Come talk to him. Let him know it's okay.”

She pulled at Mark gently. He obeyed.

“When I put this needle in, when the liquid is gone, it will happen fast,” she said.

Mark cupped his hand around the dog's ear.

“Nod so I know you understand,” she said.

He nodded.

“This one goes into his heart. It sounds painful, but it won't be. He's sleeping already. You see? So this needle goes in and then it takes fifteen seconds, that's it.” She spoke deliberately, evenly. It was possible she didn't know she was crying.

She put her left hand on Mark's again and then around and under Gerome's neck. She raised herself onto a knee and, with her right hand, guided the needle into the spot above Gerome's heart.

The plunger moved down the barrel.

The liquid disappeared.