Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) (8 page)

Then she wanted to go back in, call the auto club, get the Buick taken care of, all whipped up and ready to go. Sister could do that: lay around for days, sit with her head on her knees, then—bang!—she's up and cleaning the house twice in a row.

What she does next is tell me she sent Mot's suit out to be cleaned. A thoughtful thing to do—fine, I agree, it'll be good to see him all dressed up again. The label inside the coat is what she wanted to discuss, says it was from some fancy deal in London. I knew that, and so what? I got stuff says
Made in China
, but that doesn't mean I'm Chinese. She's saying Mot is a man of money. Maybe, maybe not. Who knows where he got all that dough, the coat, his pants. Of course he had no interest in this, sat himself on a stool in front of the TV waiting for somebody to turn it on.

Then she's on the subject of his tattoos. I agree, they're not regular tattoos, not skulls and hula dancers. But she's making the case that they're “tribal,” her point being that Mot was no local Negro. Of course he wasn't, I got him in New York. I could see where she was headed, but didn't give her the satisfaction—you let her win on one thing, next thing she'll have you washing the dishes.

She wants to take him down to Mister Fig, find out what went wrong with him. That's where we differ; I don't care what went wrong with him. Everybody in the world's got something wrong with 'em, and finding out how come hasn't made any difference yet. Mot had less wrong with him than most people I ever met.

Fig was a so-called mind reader, who wore a necklace. Don't know why they call him “mister” unless it's because he's missing something. I said he was a shyster and no way was I taking Mot down there. She said “shyster” was a nasty word. I suggested she consider having a consultation with Mister Fig herself. But disagreements like this could cause her to lose control, so I tell her on second thought Fig might be a good idea, I'd think it over. But I wouldn't. This idiot worked out of a trailer on planks, covered in nut grass, probably infested with spiders and rats. I wouldn't go near the place, but I'd seen it. His specialty was olfactory perception. He'd sniff a customer up and down, then tell you how your ancestors were doing and, for more money, what the future was gonna be. All by how you smelled.

I didn't buy an inch of it, and it disappointed me she did. Sister always had an interest in black magic and self-improvement. I found a note once she wrote telling somebody she hadn't done the Rites yet because after she started in on something called the Klister Diet she was on the toilet too much to begin the program. She got kicked out of the house when she was eighteen for growing marijuana in her closet. Under the impression she had a job dancing in a nightclub, I hitchhiked all the way to Shreveport to join her. What it was was a strip joint, and she was a cocktail waitress. After she got off work that night we went up to her room on the second floor of a two-story hotel she got to stay in.

She was drunk and tried to read the Bible to me. Then this cabdriver showed up and I was told to get out for a while. He was a big guy with long blond hair, wore a yellow taxi cap. I waited in the hall, sat on the floor until they'd finished what they did in there. Then this cabdriver came out making noises through his nose like a goose. He tried to teach me to do it. Told me if I could get it down, my future would improve. He said it was a thing he got from a book about India, and if he wanted to he could be the president someday, and in a past life he was burned at the stake, and that the planet Earth was just a stepping-stone to a place with better-looking women. He was drunk and pretty pleased with himself. Gave me two bucks and a handful of quarters because I told him it was my birthday.

After he left I went back into the room. This was July—I remember because it truly was my birthday. I turned fifteen that day and it was hot as hell, no air-conditioning in that room. Sister was trying to sleep, didn't wanna talk, and I was sick from not eating anything but candy bars, so I decided not to stay around any longer. The next morning when we woke up I told her I was leaving and I did. An hour later I was on the road, hitching a ride home. Then Sister showed up, said she'd quit her job and was coming with me. By the next day we were back with Mama and Doc. I don't think she ever left town again.

But all this Mister Fig stuff wore me out. I had to conserve my energy—so afterwards we went to our respective areas; her to the piano, me and Mot upstairs for a nap. Him on the floor, me on the bed. When I wake up for dinner, he's not there. He's downstairs eating waffles again. She made 'em this time. None for me, thanks. I needed out of there, told her I was taking Mot to the movies. She wants to know how we gonna get there? We're gonna walk, I tell her. And she wasn't invited.

I thought I might of seen it before, but I was wrong. It was the title that fooled me. Out front it said
THE DRILL INSTRUCTOR
, which should have been a war movie. I love a war movie, but this wasn't that. The box office lady was asleep when we came in, so at least it was free. Except for me and Mot, nobody in the back row, almost had the place to ourselves.

It was about a bunch of guys who dress up like women on the weekend. Some place up North, near a lake. What they did was cook and swim in female bathing attire. Splashed and laughed and jumped around telling each other about their ideals in high voices. Come on, gals, soup's on! And they all dash back up to this cottage to eat. The drill instructor part was because of the exercises they did. Bill, the big tough one who knew how to handle himself, was the drill instructor. But his weekend name was Olive. His job was to get everybody in shape to fight the lunkheads from town who had plans to burn down Camp Blanka. Camp Blanka is what they called this place. Also it was the name of their little black bulldog who ate at the table, had his own chair, and was treated like a baby. Then there was some songs. “She's Looking Lovely Tonight” was one of 'em. It was so terrible you couldn't stop watching. But really it was about Olive getting everybody in shape in time to handle what they were up against or they'd all be burned and killed. On the weekdays one was a bank teller, one was a truck driver, and there was a traffic cop too. None of it made much sense. Going about their regular business in town and keeping how they act on the weekend a secret. I think it was supposed to be funny.

T
hey cooked and sewed, giggled and wore earrings together. No women; the only women were them. A couple of 'em had wives back in town, but nothing to speak of. For sure it wasn't a porno film, but at one point a couple of 'em did get into a wrestling match and their dresses got hiked up, showing their hairy thighs, both of 'em wearing leopard-skin jockstraps. If there'd been more audience, likely that would of got a laugh. But Mot got excited, he started slapping his thigh. I nudged him to stop, but he didn't; I had to grab his hand, but then he starts doing it with the other one. Knowing he wasn't capable of doing two things at once I decide to go up and get him some candy. There was no proper snack bar, but they had a machine. I got him a box of Black Crows and a pack of Neccos, one for each hand. I was only gone just for a minute, but when I got back he wasn't there. There was two exits, so he must of gone out the one when I came in the other.

But no Mot in the lobby. I go outside; no Mot in the street. The box office lady is still asleep. The men's is the only place he could be unless he went in the ladies'. But he's not in either. Nobody is. It didn't make sense. I go back in the movie, look on the floor in case he's hiding under a seat. But he's too big to hide under a seat. Only other place he could be is around behind the screen, but there is no behind the screen. I go back out on the street. Maybe he's tied up in the trunk of some car already ten miles away. It made me feel sick. I think of going to the police, but it's in the wrong direction. I wanted to go home.

As a rule Sister didn't go to bed before midnight. She'd be up practicing her German, singing at the piano, or knocking around in the kitchen. But she wasn't. The house was quiet, the lights were out. No sign of Mot. I creep upstairs already knowing everything gone wrong was gonna continue that way, and I was right. I could hear 'em before I got there, both of 'em snoring,

Mot must of thought I'd left him and come back on his own, looking for me. Then he got railroaded into Sister's bedroom. Who knows? Never having had one, maybe she was holding him like a baby in there. Whatever it was, it wasn't right. Showed what happens when an older woman drinks gin at night. Mot might be a man in body but he was more like a boy in the rest of him, and I felt like going in there, telling her what I thought. But maybe it was different than what I thought, so not wanting to be a chump in the hallway, I went downstairs to check out the kitchen.

Ice cream was all gone. Unwashed spoons in the sink. She forgot to put the cap back on the Gilbey's. You didn't have to be a detective to see what happened. All this made me wish I had a bike. Not a motorcycle, just a regular two-wheeler so I could take a ride, feel the air on my face. I went out back to relax, clear my mind.

Auto was standing next to the pool, chewing something. I tried to get it out of his mouth but he wouldn't let me. Probably the evening news. I sat down behind him—not a best place to be with a mule. Part of me was wishing he'd kick me in the head and if he did I'd kill him. Grass was wet, but it was good to be on solid ground trying to get a grip on things before going up to bed.

I didn't need a dream to tell me, but that's how it came, that
Mot
spelled backwards is
Tom
. In the dream Tom was a snail with a fine-looking shell, looked like mahogany, but the head and face was Mot, and he was crawling over this woman who in the dream was my wife, looked like my old girlfriend Gaylene but better. Tom was leaving a trail over her white thigh, making his way up her body. I come out the back door of the house, see Gaylene sunning herself next to the pool, and Auto was there too, in the water watching all this. I don't see Tom the snail, but he sees me. I'm coming across the yard and Auto hollers at me to be careful of Tom. I don't know what he's talking about. And Tom hurries off my wife just in time that I don't catch him crawling on her and he's trying to get out of there, going across the lawn, but I don't see him till he gets crunched under my shoe like a piece of candy and it woke me up.

Next morning when I woke up again, I'm thinking about Sister. Her doing what she did the night before was out of loneliness, out of her need to be somebody important to somebody who might like her. But just because you understand something doesn't mean you have to shake hands with it. I could hear her downstairs singing “Happy Days Are Here Again” in German, making breakfast.

I rolled out of bed and stepped on Mot. He was lying on the floor like he'd been there all night. He was dressed too. I stared at him till he looked at me, and when he did it was the same look he usually had, didn't look any different. Like an idiot. I ask him how come he left the movies last night. There wasn't any answer to that any more than there would have been if I asked him the names of the planets. Instead of saying good morning, what I did was touch him on the head, and he kind of smiled. I think he did; it's hard to tell. He remained on the floor till I came out of the bathroom and took him down to breakfast.

How to keep bread from getting old or what to do if you get bit by a snake, there's a trick for everything if you know what it is. The trick here was to be courteous, stay clear of the issue. I treated her just like I was a good customer in a diner and we started having an okay time, but I could tell it wasn't gonna last.

She asked me how the movie was. I tell her I didn't really get to see it because Mot wandered off and I had to go looking for him. She says he came home and I tell her I know that. We don't say anything for a while, then she says she was trying to teach him how to talk. Said it reminded her of Mama. That was about the dumbest thing I ever heard. Because Mama was like a big black man? I ask her.

No, because at the end, Spencer—the part you weren't here for—Mama couldn't talk any better than him.

I didn't take the bait, got up to clear the table. But then doing the dishes, she brings it up again and I tell her the only thing Mot ever “learned” to do was bark, and already he forgot that. To drive it home, I barked at him. He stared at me like it rang a bell somewhere, but he didn't bark back. Case closed.

But she kept going, said Mot was a lonely soul and needed a mother. I say, To sleep with? That got a rise out of her, and she called me some names. Sticks and stones. She said I was disgusting.

I was tired of it, so I backed off and changed the subject; I asked her about Gaylene. That was my girlfriend before I went away. I already know what happened to Gaylene because Doc told me, but Sister loved to gossip; I like it too—runs in the family. More or less she said what Doc said. That Gaylene got married, married a football player who became an electrician and a drunk, and they moved away, had three kids. I say, I hope she's having a good time with her little family.

She is.

Well, I could have a good time too, I say.

With who?

Nobody.

That brought us to laughing, first her and then me. Sometimes we could do that like with nobody else and we couldn't stop. Then we looked at Mot looking at us laughing and he didn't have anything to laugh at and that made us laugh harder. We're standing there at the sink doing that when the doorbell rang. Sometimes you just know when there's something bad at the door. Even Mot paid attention. We just froze, stood there waiting to see what would happen. It rang again. Sister whispered, Who is it, Spencer?

How was I supposed to know, but I knew she didn't have callers.

The mailman maybe.

Both of us knew that wasn't true. And how come we were whispering? We didn't have anything to hide. I tippy-toe into the front room, halfway expecting the door to fly open, but whoever it was must of left. I look to see what Sister's doing. She's already going up the stairs, and Mot's right behind her. I peek through the curtain. It was because of the quiet I thought nobody was there, but there was.