Chapter Thirty-One
Richard lay asleep in the guest room. He found it impossible to face Susan after his tryst with Monica. Most of the day had been spent thinking about his conversation with Harriett. It had been difficult for him to translate her experiences into his own, enabling him to heed her counsel. Not a single customer came into the store during the day. At least, not that he saw. He had alienated everyone around him for no other reason than his inability to view them through anything less than the tainted spectacle of his own existence. The bottle of bourbon he purchased on the way to work remained sealed. His depression manifested itself physically and made him feel as though he was encased in lead, unable to move freely. An emotional anvil pressed down on his psyche and removed the inspiration for accomplishment. The alarm clock projected the numbers “3:36” onto the ceiling above him. His slumber was fitful at best. He tossed and turned all night, fluffing his pillow continuously, and throwing it against the wall on one occasion.
Suddenly, Richard sat straight up in bed. He awoke from his shallow sleep and gasped mightily, trying to fill his lungs with air. His heart beat rapidly. Never had he felt so helpless and out of control. When he was finally able to calm down and catch his breath, he tried to think about what might have caused his panic attack. He could not discern the array of thoughts that entered his mind as either fantasy or reality. Should he wake Susan, or not? Would she even care? He decided to let her sleep. Lifting himself out of bed was difficult. The burdens of his life had accumulated and made it difficult to negotiate his way, emotionally and physically. He stopped and leaned against the door-frame and tried to regain his bearing. After a few moments, he resumed his march into the living room. His breathing normalized with each step. The refreshing breaths made him feel better. He did not want to die this way; weak and without resolution. In an effort to gain control he walked in circles around the floor of the living room. The oxygen that filled his lungs felt good. When he was able to breathe normally, he sat on the sofa and turned on the television using its remote control.
Richard never had a panic attack before, and his thoughts raced, wondering what may have caused it. My left arm isn’t numb, so it can’t be a heart attack, right? Mindlessly he channel-surfed and was oblivious to the shows that quickly flashed on the screen. Without thinking, he stopped on the always-entertaining local access station. Maybe it was the sound of dogs barking that caused him to do so, but he was still more concerned with what caused his ailment than the programming.
As he gained his composure Richard seemed to recall the details of a dream that fluttered in-and-out of his consciousness. He was never one to have vivid dreams, but when he did they were spectacular, and of-ten quite odd. The dream was vague, but he recalled being on a plane from Stockholm. Where the plane was going Richard could not quite remember, but he was sure that Susan was waiting for him at the end of his flight. I remember getting to the airport and Susan being there, and then realizing that I had forgotten my luggage in Stockholm, he thought to himself. Then I got right back on the plane, by myself, to go back and get it. He shook his head and wondered why that would have caused him to have a panic attack. It all seemed so mundane.
The constant sound of barking dogs drew his attention away from his thoughts and to the program. He watched several men and young boys who were in the woods before dawn; each had a miner’s light attached to their caps. They were gathered at the base of a tree and all of them were looking up. One young boy, who appeared to be no more than twelve years old, had a hand-held light and shined it into the top of the tree. Among the men and boys were six or seven dogs, barking and howling upward as they pawed at the trunk. A voice off camera said, “We got him treed boys!” Richard recognized the voice as the same man who officiated the cast net contest. When the camera panned the crowd he recognized Gaylord and Two-Guns.
The young boy holding the light in his hand pointed to the top of the tree, and in a disturbingly ex-cited tone yelled, “There he is. Shoot him!”
A grown man with a rifle stepped in front of the young man, took aim and shot into the top of the tree. It was not a powerful gunshot. Richard assumed the gun to be .22 caliber.
“Did you hit ‘im?” another voice off camera asked.
“I think so,” the man said, as he aimed again and fired the rifle several more times. Off camera the sounds of an agonizing squeal could be heard. Richard realized there must have been a raccoon in the top of the tree that had been hit several times.
Gleefully, the man with the rifle bragged, “Did you hear him squeal? I nailed him!” He aimed again and let loose another volley of four or five shots. They came in such a rapid succession that Richard could not count them all. Suddenly, something fell into and then out of the view of the camera from top to bottom. It entered and exited the screen too quickly for Richard to see what it was. A member of the hunting party walked over to the wounded animal. The cameraman focused on him. He picked the raccoon up by its beautifully ringed tail and held it up for all to see; well away from his body. The raccoon squirmed for its very survival. The man made every effort to keep it as far away from his body to avoid being bitten or scratched. The distressful sound of the raccoon’s squeals began to fade.
Richard began to cry. It was not the death of the raccoon that caused his distress, but the vivid recollection of the dream that woke him. Tears welled in his eyes as he watched the man holding the raccoon toss it onto the ground in the middle of the dogs. They at-tacked it, biting and pulling. Four dogs had the animal firmly clinched in their jaws, pulling with all the force their legs could produce in different directions. The sound of the raccoon’s cry rose sharply and then the animal fell silent.
Richard’s heart began to race, once again, witnessing the barbarity. Was he capable of that kind of barbarous action? His dream seemed to confirm that he was. What bothered him most was that he was not sure whether or not it was only a nightmare. He could not only see; he felt the murderous action, right down to the flexing of his triceps and biceps as he shook Susan by the throat. It can’t be true, it just can’t. He was not capable of killing his wife, was he? Or, were his actions true to his soul that had been exposed by his excessive use of alcohol? What kind of man am I to even have these thoughts?
Richard looked at his hands. He could feel Susan’s throat being crushed by his tightening fingers; her larynx falling apart under his thumbs as they squeezed, reducing the bones to mere fragments. The sense of power and control in his thoughts scared him, badly.
Without changing out of his pajamas, or taking the time to put on shoes, Richard walked through the kitchen and grabbed the keys to the Tahoe from a hook on the wall next to the back door. He could have checked the master bedroom to see whether or not Susan was there and if she was all right. The truth either did not interest him, or he was scared of what he might find. He simply couldn’t face it. Whether it was real or imaginary, they were his thoughts, and he needed to make sure they never turned into deeds. Richard had not had anything to drink in over twenty-four hours, so he could blame none of this on alcohol. He walked out of the house and into the garage with a sense of determination.