Oldfangled

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

She’d left Carl Petnoy on a Tuesday. He’d begged her not to go. He’d gone so far as to use that word.

“I’m begging you, Mattie,” he’d said to his second wife, his eyes red, swollen. “Please don’t go. Don’t you leave me. You can’t….”

It was no use. His pleading fell on deaf ears. Even though her body was right there beside him, the chill and stillness of it proved her departure had come to pass in the night. The cancer had won.

Carl held his wife’s hand—it felt like paper, dry and light—and wondered what was to become of him now. He felt so selfish in that moment. So petty. How could he think only of himself? How could he have asked his sweet Mattie to carry on even after all she’d endured? Her pain. Lingering as she did for so many months even after all that pain. He cried then. A slobbery weeping gushed forth even after he’d thought he was empty of tears. But he was not. Nor would he be for many years to follow. He wept for her that morning…and for himself.

Carl Petnoy had waited another hour before he’d called the nurse. What would she care? His dear, beloved Mattie’s departure was just another process to her. Mattie was now nothing more than tedious paperwork and phone calls instead of sponge baths and IV drips and diaper changes.

Out in the hall a janitor whistled as he slopped about his mop. The smell of disinfectant was heavy on the air as if the janitor was shoveling it into the room. The man was better suited to carrying a pail and broom than carrying a tune, Carl couldn’t help but think. Carl would have preferred a better closing score for his bride. He wished he had his instrument. He would have played despite the nurse’s protest.

Carl’s empty hands turned into fists. They stayed tight for the next few hours—a pair of knots pulled too tight to be undone. Even as he left the hospital he mashed the elevator buttons and pushed the glass exit doors with clenched hands. Stepping out into the morning sun the world suddenly became vaster than he’d ever known. He had never felt so alone.

But that was years before. Now, however, standing on his little island of marmalade light out on the boardwalk—the egg moon the only other illumination—he felt something of that sort once more, insignificant, scared and isolated. This, as he heard the low growl continuing to rise up from the dark recesses beneath the boardwalk’s octopus ride. It was a thick, throaty threat and Carl was all too sure it was directed at him. The old man put a hand down to his hip, looking for what, he didn’t know. There was nothing to be had there to help. He wasn’t armed and he was already holding the flashlight he’d borrowed from Norris. It had turned out the light wouldn’t fit on his belt ring. It was switched off and he was almost inclined to keep it that way. He didn’t want to antagonize whatever it was just before him there in the dark.

Carl considered running. Even with his fancy track shoes—polished and worn for so many nights for a moment such as this—the old man knew that was a bad idea. Such a futile move would only invite attack.

His hands shook as he held forth his torch, the knuckles of both a little row of taught white hills. He fumbled to find and negotiate the switch. With that click of small success, a thick beam blazed and blinded him for just a second and the shaft danced about, as if of its own accord. Before his eyes adjusted and hands settled, in that brief moment, he caught a glimpse of glistening, bared teeth. Fur. Teeth and glaring eyes.

Carl stepped back but his spine was pressed by the boardwalk rail. There was no avenue for retreat. He shielded his eyes from the glare. The creature came into focus.

It was the dog. Captain Baha’s escaped pooch. A good looking animal that looked to have some sheep dog in him, not a husky or chow at all as Carl had thought before in his first brief glimpse of it. A good sleek coat of black and white mottled fur. The kind of dog a little girl might name ‘Petey’ or ‘Mister’ something. Maybe dress up with sweaters and bonnets. No wonder the poor damned thing had run off to become a stray, Carl thought with a sigh. His hand fell from his brow to down below his belt to check his adult diaper. Still dry. Small miracles.