Water Dogs (2 page)

In his underwear, Bennie shone the flashlight at the trap. The beam sparkled on the empty trap’s galvanized metal. “Did you talk to Gwen?”

“No,” said Littlefield.

“She called tonight. She said you said we didn’t want her to visit.”

They walked back inside, Bennie holding the door again. Littlefield said, “No. I told her
you
didn’t want her to visit.”

Bennie felt a familiar anger rise in his chest. “What? Why?”

Littlefield crumpled newspaper and laid it on the andirons. “Where’s the kindling box?”

“We’re out of kindling,” said Bennie. He grabbed a wool blanket from the back of the couch, wrapped it around himself, and sat in the rocking chair.

“I’ll go chop some,” said Littlefield.

“Hold on,” said Bennie. “There’s some in the kitchen.” He retrieved the cardboard box from the mop closet and brought it to the living room, set it down gently, and opened it. The raccoon babies were clumped together, a mass of wriggling fur, squeaking quietly.

He waited for his brother’s reaction.

Finally, Littlefield said, “Do you see those rats in that box?”

“They were in the wall,” said Bennie. “They were keeping me up. They’re not rats. They’re raccoons.”

“And you
put
them in that box?”

“I didn’t want you to poison them.”

“They’ll give you roundworm. The grubs can get into your stomach. They eat your kidneys and your heart.”

“The grubs can get in your stomach?”

“If you swallow them.”

Bennie knew it was rarely worth arguing details with Littlefield. He handed him the kindling and said, “I’m just trying to catch the mom. Then I’ll let them all go.”

“Get them the hell out of here. They’re wild animals. They shouldn’t be in here.”

“After I catch the mom I’ll bring them all down to the ravine.”

Littlefield shook his head. He arranged the kindling on top of the newspaper. Bennie closed the box and returned it to the kitchen closet and poured himself a glass of milk. When he got back to the living room, the fire was towering, yellow flames lapping the entrance to the flue. Littlefield was sprawled out on the purple couch, still wearing his boots.

Bennie asked, “Why’d you say that to Gwen?”

“Didn’t you tell me you didn’t want my friends coming around?”

“Just Skunk and those other guys living in his trailer.” Skunk Gould and Littlefield had thrown an impromptu party at the Manse in January when Bennie was away for the night. They’d broken windows in the living room and someone had pissed on the rocking chair.

“And that you wanted to keep the place neater?” asked Littlefield.

“And this has
what
to do with Gwen?”

“I told her you were dating some girl from Bowdoin. And you didn’t want the house to look too messy. In case you brought her back here.”

“Admit you
do
want to see your sister.”

“I’d be happy to see Gwen.”

“Admit you’re just being an asshole,” said Bennie. “And for the record, Helen’s not
from Bowdoin
. She went to Bowdoin College. And she lives in Musquacook. She’s a cook. At Julian’s.”

“Impressive! That’s some real fine cuisine they have down there. I just had their onion rings about an hour ago. Five stars.”

“Screw you. She puts together their dinner menu. That kitchen is actually doing a much better job since she started there.”

“I’m telling you—top-shelf onion rings.” Littlefield kissed his fingertips.
“Magnifique.”

“I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself, retard, but that’s the fry cook, not Helen.”

“What a shame,” said Littlefield, closing his eyes.

Bennie wrapped himself in the wool blanket again. He rocked back and forth in the chair, staring at the fire. Both brothers were quiet. Within minutes, Littlefield was snoring on the couch.

2

W
hen Helen had moved to town in January, she’d started working at the restaurant, and Julian, her boss, passed along the following information to Bennie: she ate a PayDay before every shift, she listened to the Smiths, she liked watching zombie movies (
Night of the Living Dead
was among her favorites), and she’d grown up in Lewiston, the depressed French-Canadian mill town, where her mother still lived. Julian said she and Bennie would make a great couple. Bennie knew Julian was mercenary when it came to women; he suspected that Julian had already taken a crack at her himself and she’d been polite but clear in expressing her disinterest. She’d rejected him so tactfully, Bennie
guessed, that Julian had convinced himself he’d never even flirted with her. Julian’s only disclaimer was that she seemed weird. This, Bennie knew, was his way of protecting himself in the event that her rebuff of him ever surfaced. “She’s a little odd,” Julian had said while he wiped down the bar with a wet towel. “She’s perfect for you, though. She went to Bowdoin, but she’s not a jackass.”

Bennie had asked about her after seeing her through the glass door to the kitchen, where she pulled orders off the wire. She was tall and had dark eyebrows and straight brown hair, and her skin glowed from the heat of the stoves. His first idea was to catch her on break and ask her to the porch for a smoke, but he knew if he got her onto the porch there might be too much pressure on the conversation; it’d be too quiet and intense, and she’d probably end up asking him how he spent his time and he’d be cavalier, he’d let something slip about hunting, or paintball, or living in his mom’s old house with his brother, who also enjoyed hunting and paintball. He’d learned that the first conversation was especially important—you plotted a course that was difficult to recalibrate—so he knew he had to be careful. He could open with news of his part-time job at the Esker Cove Animal Hospital and Shelter, allowing her to perceive him as a kindly guy with a soft spot for wayward cats and dogs, but follow-up questions about the animals might lead to a description of the crematorium, and perhaps even the specifics of the pentobarbital injections, which, actually, were a large part of his job. He didn’t want to talk about the injections.

He was occasionally struck by how the details of his life didn’t show well. His paychecks from Esker Cove covered his bills, but his bills were small; he lived in his family’s old house, which was falling apart. Guiltily, he liked war games; he’d dropped out of college. He didn’t have a trust fund, but his mother was ready and willing to give him money (to get him “out of a hole”) whenever necessary. She was a therapist. She complained about not having any money but he knew it was there. He never took her up on her offer. He hadn’t felt desperate enough yet.

Helen probably drank wheatgrass and would hate that he smoked. He didn’t smoke, not really—he just smoked out on the porch at Julian’s. In the summer, he liked to smoke and watch the bats on the creek. Just when you thought you’d seen one, it was gone, but then three more would appear, and vanish. After a while, the flecks of brown blurring along the surface of the water seemed to be everywhere. Now, though, the water was frozen and the bats were asleep underground.

Julian and Bennie had only recently become friends. They’d been high school classmates, but Julian had spent most of his time working at the restaurant. The pub drew people down from Brunswick and up from Portland because of its views of the river, the tidal surge, the proximity to the ocean, its adequate food and comfortable atmosphere.

After first seeing her, on his way home from work Bennie stopped regularly at the restaurant, where he thought about approaching her but instead stayed quiet at the bar. One unseasonably warm afternoon in late January, though, Julian placed a pair of sunglasses beside Bennie’s beer. “These are hers,” he said.

“Why are you giving them to me?” asked Bennie.

“It’s perfect. Just give them back to her. Say you found them outside. She dropped them.”

Bennie looked at the black plastic frames. “You took these out of her bag?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s a great opening.”

“No,” said Bennie. “I’m not doing that.”

“Bring them over to her. It’s a built-in conversation starter. The glare off the creek, how tough it can be when the sun’s shining. The angle of the sun. January thaw. You got it?”

“Give them back to her.”

“I’m leaving them with you,” said Julian, suddenly stern.

Bennie folded Helen’s sunglasses inside a section of the newspaper and turned toward the kitchen to see if Helen had witnessed any of this. Julian was pulling back the Stella Artois tap, filling a pint glass, his hair hanging down in front of his face. Julian liked his place in the
spotlight behind the bar, and at six-foot-seven, 230 pounds, with a booming voice, he was difficult to miss.

Bennie slid the newspaper across the bar.

Without looking up from the beer taps, Julian said, “You’re a wuss.”

When Julian got closer, Bennie leaned toward him. “What time does she get here in the morning?” he asked.

“Perfect idea,” Julian said, pointing at Bennie and smiling. “I love it. Come by in the morning. You’re the man!”

Bennie glanced back toward the kitchen, but his view was obscured. “What time.”

“She gets here around ten,” said Julian, leaning over the bar. “And she comes through the back alley. Bring the sunglasses. They could help.”

“No. I’m leaving them here.”

“Yeah you are, baby!” said Julian, swinging his fists like a prizefighter. “You don’t need nothing. You’re a killer!”

So far the winter had been mild, though they’d weathered a few storms. Most of the snow had melted, as it sometimes did at the end of January, before the winter picked up speed again and kept everyone cold and snowbound until early May. For the past five years the January thaw had arrived predictably about a month after Christmas—rivers of snowmelt running along the shoulders of every road, everyone driving around in T-shirts, confused moose and deer trotting out of the woods to lick salt off the roads, causing accidents.

When he arrived at Julian’s the next morning, Bennie didn’t go inside; he sat on one of the dented trash cans beside a storage shed, near the restaurant’s back entrance.

There would be no way around the awkwardness with Helen. He’d just muscle through, skip the bullshit, flip past the usual channels. With Helen, he would be ready to put forward his best self. With
Helen, he would make only occasional mistakes, and only mistakes that could be construed as charming and guileless.

He arrived at nine-forty, giving himself some extra time to relax and acclimate. The time passed slowly, though when she finally turned down the alley, her clogs clapping the pavement, the hood of her sweatshirt bouncing around her neck, her approach was rushed—he hadn’t thought about giving her some kind of warning. He stayed quiet until she was just a few yards from the door, when he said, “Excuse me.” She slowed her stride but she didn’t look up.

“Excuse me?” he said again, this time a little louder.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, looking at the ground as though she had dropped something.

“Let’s go sailing.” Bennie was wearing his favorite windbreaker, with the stripe down the sleeve, army green pants, and running shoes.

Helen removed her sunglasses—the ones Julian had stolen from her—and looked plainly at him. The muscles in her face relaxed. “What do you mean?” She wasn’t being cruel; it was a sincere question.

“Well, the ocean is right over there,” he said, pointing east. “And it’ll still be warm tomorrow. And windy.”

“Do I know you?” The sweatshirt was zipped all the way up, and she wore a calf-length jean skirt.

“No,” he said, without elaboration. He’d planned for this; he assumed she wouldn’t like a defensive stance. He stood by his answer.

She folded the sunglasses and slipped them into her pocket. “Do you have a boat?”

“No,” he said, and it felt even better this time. “My name’s Bennie. I eat here a lot. I’m a friend of his.”

“I’ve seen you.”

“You have?”

“I think so.” Again, she maintained an even tone and didn’t smile. He had no reason to believe she was being coy. “Were you the one who returned my sunglasses? Julian told me. I must have left them on the bar.”

During this first exchange he got a good look at her eyes, up close—they were, as he’d thought, brown, and big, and the whites of them were shockingly clear. Under her dark eyebrows, they were identical in color and shape and glossiness and brightness, but then you could see that her left one was pointed gently inward. Was this called a wandering eye? She told him her name, her full name: Helen Coretti.

She’d never been sailing before. He picked her up on his motorcycle at one the next day, when it was so freakishly warm that it felt like early summer. He knew there was a good place to rent boats near Meadow Island, Sagona’s Marine, and he was surprised they were closed. He hadn’t expected they’d have boats to rent in January, but he’d assumed someone would be around to loan him one. The owner had been a friend of Bennie’s father.

The big doors to the back of the boathouse were wide open, though, and Bennie spotted a few small fiberglass boats tucked in the corner. He asked Helen to help him drag one down to the shore.