Peaceable Kingdom
Authors: Francine Prose
Stories
Francine Prose
Contents
TALKING DOG
T
HE DOG WAS GOING
to Florida. The dog knew all the best sleeping places along the side of the highway, and if my sister wanted to come along, the dog would be glad to pace himself so my sister could keep up. My sister told our family this when she came back to the dinner table from which Mother and I had watched her kneeling in the snowy garden, crouched beside the large shaggy white dog, her ear against its mouth.
My sister’s chair faced the window, and when the dog first appeared in our yard, she’d said, “Oh, I know that dog,” and jumped up and ran out the door. I thought she’d meant whose dog it was, not that she knew it to talk to.
“What dog?” My father slowly turned his head.
“A dog, dear,” Mother said.
That year it came as a great surprise how many sad things could happen at once. At first you might think the odds are that one grief might exempt you, but that year I learned the odds are that nothing can keep you safe. So many concurrent painful events altered our sense of each one, just as a color appears to change when another color is placed beside it.
That year my father was going blind from a disease of the retina, a condition we knew a lot about because my father was a scientist and used to lecture us on it at dinner with the glittery detached fascination he’d once had for research gossip and new developments in the lab. Yet as his condition worsened he’d stopped talking about it; he could still read but had trouble with stairs and had begun to touch the furniture. Out in daylight he needed special glasses, like twin tiny antique cameras, and he ducked his head as he put them on, as if burrowing under a cloth. I was ashamed for anyone to see and ashamed of being embarrassed.
My father still consulted part-time for a lab that used dogs in experiments, and at night he worked at home with a microscope and a tape recorder. “Slide 109,” he’d say. “Liver condition normal.” My sister had always loved animals, but no one yet saw a connection between my father dissecting dogs and my sister talking to them.
For several weeks before that night when the white dog came through our yard, my sister lay in bed with the curtains drawn and got up only at mealtime. Mother told the high school that my sister had bronchitis. At first my sister’s friends telephoned, but only one, Marcy, still called. I’d hear Mother telling Marcy that my sister was much better, being friendlier to Marcy than she’d ever been before. Marcy had cracked a girl’s front tooth and been sent to a special school. Each time Marcy telephoned, Mother called my sister’s name and, when she didn’t answer, said she must be sleeping. I believed my sister was faking it but even I’d begun to have the sickish, panicky feeling you get when someone playing dead takes too long getting up.
One night at dinner my sister told us that every culture but ours believed that ordinary household pets were the messengers of the dead.
“I don’t know about that,” my father said. “I don’t know about
every
culture.”
After that it was just a matter of time till she met the dog with a message. And we all knew who it was that my sister was waiting to hear from.
Her boyfriend, Jimmy Kowalchuk, had just been killed in Vietnam.
Mother had gone with my sister to Jimmy Kowalchuk’s funeral. I was not allowed to attend, though I’d been in love with him, too. All day in school all I could think of was how many hours, how many minutes till they lowered him in the ground. It was a little like the time they executed Caryl Chessman and the whole school counted down the minutes till he died. The difference was that with Jimmy I was the only one counting, and I had to keep reminding myself that he was already dead.
Mother came home from the funeral in a bubbly, talkative mood. After my sister drifted off, Mother sat on the arm of my father’s chair. She said, “They call this country a melting pot but if you ask me there’s still a few lumps. Believe it or not, they had two priests—one Polish and one Puerto Rican. The minute I saw them I said to myself: This will take twice as long.”
Mother had never liked it that Jimmy was half Polish, half Puerto Rican—if he couldn’t be white Protestant, better Puerto Rican completely. She never liked it that our family knew someone named Jimmy Kowalchuk, and she liked it least of all that we knew someone fighting in Vietnam. Every Wednesday night Mother counseled draft resisters, and it made her livid that Jimmy had volunteered.
“Guess what?” Mother told us. “His name wasn’t even Jimmy. It was Hymie. That’s what the priests and the relatives kept saying. Hymie. Hymie. Hymie. Do you think she would have gone out with him if she had known that?”
“J pronounced Y,” my father said. “J-A-I-M-E.”
“Pedant,” mumbled Mother, so softly only I heard.
“Excuse me?” my father said.
“Nothing,” Mother said. “Maybe we should have got her that pony she nagged us about in junior high. Maybe we should have let her keep that falcon that needed a home.”
To me she said, “This does not mean you, dear. You cannot have a bird or a pony.”
But I didn’t want a bird or a pony. I still wanted Jimmy Kowalchuk. And I alone knew that he and my sister had had a great love, a tragic love. For unlike my parents I had seen what Jimmy had gone through to win it.
The first time was on a wet gray day, winter twilight, after school. My parents were in the city, seeing one of my father’s doctors, my sister was taking care of me, we were supposed to stay home. Jimmy came to take my sister out in his lemon-yellow ’65 Malibu. My sister must have decided it was safer to bring me along—better an accomplice than a potential snitch. I felt like a criminal, like the Barrow Gang on the Jericho Turnpike, ready to hit the floor if I saw Mother’s car in the opposite lane.
As Jimmy left the highway for smaller and smaller roads, I felt safer from my parents but more nervous about Jimmy. He was slight and tense and Latin with a wispy beard, dangerous and pretty, like Jesus with an earring. We drove past black trees, marshy scrub-pine lots, perfect for dumping bodies, not far from a famous spot where the Mafia often did. The light was fading and scraps of fog clung regretfully to the windshield.
Jimmy pulled off on the side of the road beside the bank of a frozen lake. “Ladies,” he said, “I’ll have to ask you to step outside for a minute.” Leaning across my sister, he opened the door on her side and then arched back over the seat and opened mine for me.
A wet mist prickled our faces—tiny sharp needles of ice.
“I’m freezing,” said my sister.
I said, “Do you think he’d leave us here?”
She said, “Stupid, why would my boyfriend leave us in the middle of nowhere?” I hadn’t known for certain till then that Jimmy was her boyfriend. He hadn’t even touched her leg when he’d reached down to shift gears.
Jimmy rammed the car in gear and pointed it at the lake and sped out onto the ice and hit the brake and spun. It was thrilling and terrifying to see a car whip around like a snake, and there was also a grace in it, the weightless skimming of a skater. The yellow car gathered the last of the light and cast a faint lemon glow on the ice.
Suddenly we heard the ice crack—first with a squeak, then a groan. My sister grabbed my upper arm and dug her fingers in.
Jimmy must have heard it, too, because the car glided to a stop and he gingerly turned it around and drove back in our direction. I stood up on tiptoe though I could see perfectly well. Then I looked at my sister as if she knew what was going to happen.
I was shocked by my sister’s expression: not a trace of fear or concern, but an unreadable concentration and the sullen fixed anger I saw sometimes when we fought. She was very careful not to look like that out in the world, except if she saw a pet she thought was being mistreated. It was like watching a simmering pot, lid rattling, about to boil over, but her lids were halfway down and you couldn’t see what was cooking. At the moment I understood that men would always like her better, prefer her smoky opacity to a transparent face like mine.
On the drive home Jimmy elaborated on his theory of danger. He said it was important for males to regularly test themselves against potentially fatal risks. He said it was like a checkup or maybe a vacation—you did it regularly for your health and for a hit on how you were doing.
“That’s bullshit,” my sister said.
“She thinks it’s bullshit,” Jimmy told me. “Do you think it’s bullshit, kid?”
I knew he was inviting me to contradict my sister; it made me feel like a younger brother instead of an eighth-grade girl. I knew that if I agreed with him I might get to come along again. But that wasn’t my reason for saying no. At that moment I believed him.
“The kid knows,” Jimmy said, and I whispered: The kid. The kid. The kid.
“This danger thing,” Jimmy told us, “is only about yourself. It would be criminal to take chances with somebody else’s life. I would never go over the speed limit with you ladies in the car.” I hunched my shoulders and burrowed into the fragrant back seat. I felt—and I think my sister felt—supremely taken care of.
My parents were often in the city with my father’s doctors, occasionally staying over for tests, not returning till the next day. They told my sister to take care of me, though I didn’t need taking care of.
Jimmy would drive over when he got through at Babylon Roofing and Siding. He loved his job and sometimes stopped to show us roofs he’d done. His plan was to have his own company and retire to Florida young and get a little house with grapefruit and mango trees in the yard. He said this to my sister. He wanted her to want it, too.
My sister said, “Mangoes in Florida? You’re thinking about Puerto Rico.”
One night Jimmy parked in front of a furniture store and told us to slouch down and keep our eye on the dark front window. My sister and I were alone for so long I began to get frightened.
A light flickered on inside the store, the flame from Jimmy’s lighter, bright enough to see Jimmy smiling and waving, reclining in a lounger.
When Jimmy talked about testing himself, he said he did it sometimes, but I began to wonder if he thought about it always. Just sitting in a diner, waiting for his coffee, he’d take the pointiest knife he could find and dance it between his fingers. I wondered what our role in it was. I wondered if he and my sister were playing a game of chicken: all she had to do was cry “Stop!” and Jimmy would have won. Once he ate a cigarette filter. Once he jumped off a building.
One evening Jimmy drove me and my sister over to his apartment. He lived in a basement apartment of a brick private house. It struck me as extraordinary: people lived in basement apartments. But it wasn’t a shock to my sister, who knew where everything was and confidently got two beers from Jimmy’s refrigerator.
Jimmy turned on the six o’clock news and the three of us sat on his bed. There was the usual Vietnam report: helicopters, gunfire. A sequence showed American troops filing through the jungle. The camera moved in for a close-up of the soldiers’ faces, faces that I recognize now as the faces of frightened boys but that I mistook then for cruel grown men, happy in what they were doing.
My sister said, “Wow. Any one of those suckers could just get blown off that trail.” On her face was that combustible mix of sympathy and smoldering anger, and in her voice rage and contempt combined with admiration. I could tell Jimmy was jealous that she looked like that because of the soldiers, and he desperately wanted her to look that way for him. I knew, even if he didn’t, that she already had, and that she looked like that if she saw a dog in a parked car, in the heat.
Jimmy had a high draft number but he went down and enlisted. He said he couldn’t sit back and let other men do the dying, an argument I secretly thought was crazy and brave and terrific. Mother said it was ridiculous, no one had to die, every kid she counseled wound up with a psychiatric 1-Y. And when Jimmy died she seemed confirmed; he had proved her right.
On the night of the funeral, Mother told us how Jimmy died. The friend who’d accompanied his body home had given a little speech. He said often at night Jimmy sneaked out to where they weren’t supposed to be; once a flare went off and they saw him freaking around in the jungle. He said they felt better knowing that crazy Kowalchuk was out there fucking around.
Mother said, “That’s what he said at the service. ‘Out there fucking around.’”
But I was too hurt to listen, I was feeling so stupid for having imagined that Jimmy’s stunts were about my sister and me.
Mother said, “Of course I think it’s terrible that the boy got killed. But I have to say I don’t hate it that now the two of them can’t get married.”
After that it was just a matter of time till my sister met the white dog that Jimmy had sent from the other world to take her to Florida.
