Chapter Eight
The night arced high and cold, pulling icy black sheets over the prison. The sky was starless, the night infirm. Wind whisked inky and aluminum past my window. The chill penetrated the glass, radiating down to pool across the floor. Where was dawn? What good was the sun if it only came by every once in a while?
I rolled up tighter in my thin, penitentiary-issue blanket, but to no avail. The cold would not be stopped. It entered the room through copper wires and old weep holes. It worked its way into knotholes and sump fittings, was siphoned in through ducts and plumbing. It filled the voids in the cinder-block wall, made ice of my bunk’s metal frame. The thick rubber backing of my ankle monitor was fat-tongued with cold, making the thing constrict enough to turn my foot nightingale-blue, to make my toes buzz like baby radio towers.
With some effort, I located my socks, both of them soiled, and slid them, one over the other, on my right foot, then stared at the ceiling, waiting for my foot to warm. First light was on the way; there was still time to sleep, but I’d had a dream, one bad enough to make me remember all the mistakes I’d made before bed. After Eggers left, I’d called my father, hitting him up to deliver my brown suit so I could look suave for Yulia’s arrival. I kind of got going on a brag session, playing up how fine my new lady was, flying seven hundred miles to see me. But Dad’s answering machine ran out of tape, and I was cut off before I even got to the part about Yulia’s hothouse and my Siberian competition, a failed scholar named Ivan.
Next I called Trudy, waking her, and it’s painful to admit, but I begged her to find Yulia’s flight and pick her up from the airport. Finally, most shameful of all, I executed a masterpiece of folly — I called Farley, after midnight, to ask him for his surefire mushroom-soufflé recipe. When he answered, I heard Santana playing in the background, and it turned out he was not alone.
In my room, the cold seemed to radiate from everywhere: from the small metal desk, from the bulbless bedside lamp, from that lone wire hanger in the closet. Yet it was the dream that chilled my heart:
It opens with me walking through my old house, now empty. Though all of Janis’ possessions have been removed, I duck where her stained-glass lamp once hung. Where has she gotten to? I wonder. Suddenly I remember there is an extra room in this dream house, one hidden under the staircase. When I open the door, I find not Janis but our old dog, Roamy. It turns out that he wasn’t hit by a truck after all. I suddenly remember that I’d left him here, years ago. All this time, he’s been patiently waiting for me to come back — years and years of waiting. The part that really hurts is that Roamy isn’t mad. He puts his paws on me and keeps licking my face. He can’t stop — it’s like he’s trying to make up for all that lost time. I push the dog away and start running. I just close the door on him again and take off. I run in the dream — forever, it seems — until my ankle hurts, and then I wake, foot throbbing.
I had to get out of that room. I draped the blanket over my shoulders and stepped into the hall, which was surprisingly warm. Only my room, it seemed, was an icebox. I walked down the center of the dark hallway, and all those doors scared me to death. I kept thinking they would suddenly open — who would I find behind them?
At the end of the hall was a group bathroom and shower house. On the door was a list for latrine duty, with the names of others crossed out and mine written in. Past the bathroom was a communal kitchen area, and my name also led the coffeemaker detail, as well as dishwashing and floors. Gerry had put my name down for defroster duty on the big double-doored refrigerator, and I didn’t even bother to check the list taped to the oven.
The kitchen opened into a group eating area, and on the bulletin boards were activity sign-up sheets, to which my name had been uniformly added. I was now a member of the Christian Jubilee Choir, Books for the Blind, and Tax Tattlers, a program that offered free income-tax preparation services to the community. Beyond the food-prep area were several dining tables, aligned in a horseshoe so everyone could view a large projection TV that was housed on a platform built from fake lava rocks and maroon carpet. The set was tuned to a channel that showed nothing but the weather, and by this blue light I made out one of Gerry’s kids. Before him, upside down on the table, was a wooden sled.
I didn’t have much experience speaking to little persons, especially ones under the impression that I’d killed their dog. But I couldn’t shake that dream. I tried not to think of the small, cold room waiting for me.
I neared the kid. “Whatcha got going on there?” I asked.
Looking up from the sled, he gave me the quick, recognizing glance that people reserved for the village idiot. Then he returned to the sled’s runner, on which he was performing some delicate procedure. It’s true that I had a blanket wrapped around my prison-issue pajamas, and I wore two socks on one foot.
“Saw your sled in action last night,” I told him.
He shrugged.
“Very impressive,” I said.
With the wax-paper modesty of an eleven-year-old, he said, “That thing? That was an assembly-line sled. That thing’s for mama’s boys in Nebraska. This is a racing prototype.”
The thing did look fast and sleek. It was cut from a lattice of blond wood, and all the struts and braces were pulled tight by a cradle of rawhide as clear and taut as drumskin. There were no metal parts that I could see, and everything looked handmade.
I said, “So — who do you race?”
Almost defensively, he said, “Well, right now we just go against the clock.”
“Right,” I said.
“Mom never let us race the dogs the way they do in Impossible Journey. She said it was cruel to make them run around. But Pomeranians were born to pull. They’re an ancient and noble breed, you know.”
“Of course.”
“They come from Iceland.”
“An ancient and noble place,” I said.
He looked at me sideways, to see if I was making fun of him.
To assure him otherwise, I said, “I know you lost your dog.”
He made a few passes down the sled’s runner with a bar of wax that looked tacky and dry, like a withered scrap of soap you’d find in a gym shower.
Without looking up, he said, “No loss.”
“I had a dog once,” I said. “A long time ago. It can hurt pretty bad. I know you think I was the one who—”
“Forget it,” the kid said, licking a finger and running it lickety-split down the runner. “We were going to sell that one anyway. Some dogs are keepers. With the rest, you just do your job and keep moving.”
Where had this kid picked up such a philosophy? I hoped not from Gerry.
I asked him, “What exactly is your job?”
“I teach ’em to sit up and beg. They have to learn that, so you can slip their sledding harnesses on. McQueen does most of the work, though. The other dogs follow him. Gerry saved him, you know. Ever since Gerry brought him home from work, that dog’s done most of the training.”
The sheriff’s station came to me, with its cell-full of dogs, and suddenly it made sense that Gerry was the one who had to put those strays to sleep. It suddenly fit why Gerry was more upset over losing a dog than he was over losing his job.
I shouldn’t have, but I asked, “Does your mom know you guys were spending your days at the sheriff’s station? Does she know you’re here?”
“We’re just hanging out till she gets back,” he said. “Mom’s on vacation.”