countered its rankness. The result was satisfactory enough to make the thing less disgusting. Rocco dutifully followed me across the parking lot, then to the automobile entrance of the garage, always pressing his nose as close as possible to the bag containing the gopher.
Once inside the doors, we stopped at the first long corridor. I knew that, by having him with me, I would be breaking somebody’s sanitation rule, or pissing somebody off, but I had had enough Jack in me not to give a shit.
When the coast was clear, we started down the hallway. I gripped the bag with both hands high on top of my butt, so Rocco would stay directly behind me, bobbing up and down after the out-of-reach carcass. Part-way down the second corridor, a night cleaning lady with a pinched, get-even-looking Filipino face, rolled her cart out of a patient’s room and spotted us. She paused to make up her mind what to do. The look she hit me with required a defiant counter-glare. Luckily, she backed down and the dog and I continued to the end of the hall.
That was the only incident.
When we had made it as far as the closed door of the waiting room, I stopped to peek through the window. Dr. Macklin was sitting next to Mom in a private-looking discussion, while the rest of the family waited across the room on other couches. No one saw me. I was full of booze, but I knew that if they did, my escape plan would be screwed. Rocco and I kept moving to the door numbered 334. Jonathan Dante’s room.
Having the dog with me this time, gave me the courage to not turn back. I got to the door and again waited. Finally, my body trembling, I thrust myself into the room.
At the bed, I again looked closely at my father’s gaping mouth as it continued to force air into the hollow body. He seemed to be dissolving in front of me, his breaths more shallow and further and further apart. It was macabre.
I didn’t want to stay. I wanted to leave the dog and close the door behind me and never come back. But I knew this would be my last chance, so I sat down on the chair next to the bed and took his cold palm in mine.
Oddly, he seemed to be repaying my grip, and I was startled by the strength of the pressure in his hand. Half of me dreaded the loss of my father, while the other half agonized over his suffering. I shut my eyes and spoke loud enough so that if God or some spirit were in the room, it could hear me. “It’s Bruno, Pop,” I said. “I’m here…Just let go. For Jesus’ sake, haven’t you had enough?”
Somewhere in the caves of his mind, he must have felt the words because it was then that his breathing did stop. His grip on my hand continued for a few more seconds, but I knew he was done. I closed my eyes again because I couldn’t bear to look.
After a long silence, I opened them and saw what I feared—his face going completely white. Translucent. The blood draining away from the front of his torso. Suddenly, Rocco was standing at the end of the bed. The dog knew. I was sure. For the first time, he’d stopped coveting the fucking gopher and his black eyes were looking from my father’s lifeless face to mine, as if we knew an answer.
I let go of the hand and lowered Dante’s wrinkled arm to rest on the bed covers. “He’s dead, Rocco,” I said. “Pop’s dead.” The bull terrier looked like a dirty white marine coming to attention, stiffening his body, listening to my words.
I would not be able to leave him alone with his dead master. Not now. I had no heart for it. In the confusion that was to come, there would be no one who would care for him.He was alone, too, like my father. He would have to come with me.
In the bathroom I found a white cloth hand towel I used to wrap up Rocco’s dead rodent for transportation, so that the dog would follow me back out of the building to the car in the parking lot.
Opening the towel, my hands shaking again from the desperate need of a drink, I quickly put the stinking, little carcass in one corner
Once inside the doors, we stopped at the first long corridor. I knew that, by having him with me, I would be breaking somebody’s sanitation rule, or pissing somebody off, but I had had enough Jack in me not to give a shit.
When the coast was clear, we started down the hallway. I gripped the bag with both hands high on top of my butt, so Rocco would stay directly behind me, bobbing up and down after the out-of-reach carcass. Part-way down the second corridor, a night cleaning lady with a pinched, get-even-looking Filipino face, rolled her cart out of a patient’s room and spotted us. She paused to make up her mind what to do. The look she hit me with required a defiant counter-glare. Luckily, she backed down and the dog and I continued to the end of the hall.
That was the only incident.
When we had made it as far as the closed door of the waiting room, I stopped to peek through the window. Dr. Macklin was sitting next to Mom in a private-looking discussion, while the rest of the family waited across the room on other couches. No one saw me. I was full of booze, but I knew that if they did, my escape plan would be screwed. Rocco and I kept moving to the door numbered 334. Jonathan Dante’s room.
Having the dog with me this time, gave me the courage to not turn back. I got to the door and again waited. Finally, my body trembling, I thrust myself into the room.
At the bed, I again looked closely at my father’s gaping mouth as it continued to force air into the hollow body. He seemed to be dissolving in front of me, his breaths more shallow and further and further apart. It was macabre.
I didn’t want to stay. I wanted to leave the dog and close the door behind me and never come back. But I knew this would be my last chance, so I sat down on the chair next to the bed and took his cold palm in mine.
Oddly, he seemed to be repaying my grip, and I was startled by the strength of the pressure in his hand. Half of me dreaded the loss of my father, while the other half agonized over his suffering. I shut my eyes and spoke loud enough so that if God or some spirit were in the room, it could hear me. “It’s Bruno, Pop,” I said. “I’m here…Just let go. For Jesus’ sake, haven’t you had enough?”
Somewhere in the caves of his mind, he must have felt the words because it was then that his breathing did stop. His grip on my hand continued for a few more seconds, but I knew he was done. I closed my eyes again because I couldn’t bear to look.
After a long silence, I opened them and saw what I feared—his face going completely white. Translucent. The blood draining away from the front of his torso. Suddenly, Rocco was standing at the end of the bed. The dog knew. I was sure. For the first time, he’d stopped coveting the fucking gopher and his black eyes were looking from my father’s lifeless face to mine, as if we knew an answer.
I let go of the hand and lowered Dante’s wrinkled arm to rest on the bed covers. “He’s dead, Rocco,” I said. “Pop’s dead.” The bull terrier looked like a dirty white marine coming to attention, stiffening his body, listening to my words.
I would not be able to leave him alone with his dead master. Not now. I had no heart for it. In the confusion that was to come, there would be no one who would care for him.He was alone, too, like my father. He would have to come with me.
In the bathroom I found a white cloth hand towel I used to wrap up Rocco’s dead rodent for transportation, so that the dog would follow me back out of the building to the car in the parking lot.
Opening the towel, my hands shaking again from the desperate need of a drink, I quickly put the stinking, little carcass in one corner
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