The Flax Dog

8/18/07

“All sins tend to be addictive, and the terminal point of addiction is what is called damnation.”
W. H. Auden
A Certain World, 1971

A Short Story:
The Flax Dog

The opening between the low concrete wall and the Sherwood’s garage, the path that led into the Flax’s backyard, was only used by neighborhood insiders, mostly kids who knew, as it was possible to know 50 years ago, the layout of every backyard on Ridge street. At the front of the house stood a ramshackle seasonal porch, a dilapidated wooden vestibule that served as a coatroom and shelter in winter. It was, however, impossible to use this entrance, since an old refrigerator, 2 stoves and a toaster atop a dresser allowed no hint that the place had a front door. In fact, the back stairs off the kitchen at the side of the house were the only way in, and gaining entry meant going around the block, walking through the playground of St. John’s School and following the path through the cinders, between the garages and into the Flax’s backyard. Once there, the climb to Adolph’s kitchen was easy.

The hunched old man ran to greet Zeke, nodding and beckoning for him to come in. “Ezekial! Come into my pantry: I have something to show you,” he said with a knowing nod and a coaxing wink. Adolph usually promised food, and Zeke loved sweets, as he was always hungry. They quickly descended the stairs at the rear of the pantry into a musty, dank basement. Once there, they sat amidst mason jars and tool benches, two shabby wooden dressers flanked them as they talked. After rummaging in a small drawer littered with old screws, nails and rusty bolts, the old man found a small key. With this he opened a rusty metal box he had taken from above the furnace ductwork. “Look, look,” he said with glee. At first the boy could see nothing in the dim light, but gradually, a shape slowly emerged out of the shadow. “It’s a gun! Is it real?” “Of course it’s real, And look, something else,” the old man wheezed. Again he scrambled above the ductwork. Unraveling a sooty bandage he revealed a leather holster embossed with the Swastikas, Eagles and Iron Crosses of the Third Reich. “There,” he said. “This, my boy, is the Lugar I took off of a dead Nazi at the Battle of the Bulge—or was it the bridge at Aachen? Isn’t it something”! He encouraged the boy’s cautious fascination. “Here, feel the weight, it’s a real gun, how smooth the barrel, how soft the leather,” he went on. “And you have such beautiful small hands,” he continued, as the boy, now mesmerized by the physical presence of the gun, caressed it longingly. “Such delicate white hands, a tidy little soldier.” “No one has ever looked at my hands,” said Zeke. “Such exquisite hands: you must be joking. How could anyone ignore such hands?” Unequipped to respond to this flattery, Zeke was speechless. He could only follow Adolph upstairs to the fetid parlor off the pantry.

They passed the dark room where Adolph’s invalid wife, Ellen Flax, groaned softly and entered a parlor where her pump organ stood—silent and untouched. The gray light of the overcast day struggled through a grime covered double window, shading the thick dust on the black keys. Like the front porch, and for that matter every other room in the Flax house, the parlor was full of old things, most notably, an old drop leaf table from the Calumet Courthouse, three moth eaten wing backed chairs, and an antique card table with Enrico Caruso embossed on the centerpiece. Partially obscuring the window was a maple hutch, its binding slowly peeling away in the suffocating air. “Look at these treasures,” said Adolph. “So much wonderful stuff! And for what? How foolish we are! Come, sit and let me admire you. Your hair is so silky, isn’t it? So blond, and you never have someone to wash it and comb it?” At the stroke of Adolph’s hand, Zeke was suddenly aware of what it might mean to be groomed, to be cared for. “You must play the organ,” protested the old man. I’ll pump. Please try it, play something. How my Ellen used to play.” “But I can’t play,” Zeke protested. "I can’t”! “But those hands,“ pleaded the old man. For a moment he looked young, like Zeke, exhibiting the face of a boy-child trapped in the cocoon of a dying old man. His dirty brown pants had dropped a cuff and the beltless waist hung below dingy white boxers. But the little baby razor-face that enticed Zeke had soft, blue eyes, deeply set, and a gesturing smile that beamed with kindness. Since Zeke had arrived, Adolph had regressed in age; he was first 10, then 20 years younger. Now he sat on the organ bench, chattering away like a best friend, all the while scrutinizing Zeke’s every move and expression, lusting for approval—for acquiescence.

Zeke knew Adolph. The moral filth and the story of his wife’s accident were repulsive. The old man abused the sick wife, or so the neighborhood gossip had it, and Zeke felt pangs of conscience. Rumor was that Ellen could be heard wailing as he exited the back porch every morning, faintly screaming, “Adolph, Adolph! Help me. Stop! See the priest. Someone. Help!” Everyone knew the story, but no one ever did anything. They recognized no neighbors nor sought them out. But everyone knew (for Ellen had once kept Zelda in touch with the awful truth, filling her head with Adolph’s private cruelties and begging her to never tell a soul) that Adolph beat her, tortured her, and violated her, and that she was cut off from her family—Adolph had frightened them all off. The Demarests, to the west of them, and the Wests, to the east, had heard Ellen Flax’s plaintive moans, and his cruel shrieks and tirades in the early morning hours, and in the calm of some feast days. There was a pathetic kind of solidarity in their sad dialogue that perfectly suited their secluded drama.

And so it was that Zeke was irresistibly drawn to the sugar coated wickedness that swirled beneath Adolph Flax’s vile veneer. He listened with a feigned skepticism, an affectation of caution that disguised his eagerness; all the while observing Adolph’s habits -- and what customs there were in this hideous place. “Would you do me a favor?” asked the old man. “But you will hate me for it. You are strong and I can’t do this for myself. These old bones can’t carry it out.” Zeke eyed the old man with a combination of fear and curiosity. “What is it?” “Your hands. So sure. So strong…” Adolph paused, as if unsure of a way to discuss what he wanted done. He continued, “cruelty to an animal is a terrible thing. Would you be mean to an animal? Would you?” His piercing eyes demanded a certain truth. “No,” said Zeke,” “But sometimes you have to kill an animal, like if a wolf attacks or a crocodile pulls you under.” “True, true,” intoned the old man. “Yes, vicious animals. Even raccoons, and sometimes dogs and cats. Puppies are so sweet, their soft yips are nothing like the drone of a full grown yard-dog. Annoying, no doubt! But the absolute worst is the unfixed female: the bitch dog, yowling and bleeding through endless heats. Only last week my lawn was covered with dog shit and piss-spray. Her dirty habits foul my nest.” His icy eyes fixed on Zeke, their age commanding obedience. Zeke momentarily panicked, thinking Adolph was accusing him of something. “Why! Why is this happening?” the old man’s wicked tongue hissed. It’s horrible! Zeke said with false bravado. Adolph paused, wistfully noting, “I myself have always had dogs. Many times have I fed a stray while I myself went hungry. But there are limits to human kindness,” he trailed off, muttering angrily to himself. “Have you seen my handsome young dog? A mixed breed, black and white, spaniel and hound. You have seen it?” “Yes,” Zeke hesitated, “I know it.” The subterfuge was lifting.

The Flax’s dog, Mitsy, drew packs of mutts, dogs of every breed—although more mongrel than pedigree—to Adolph’s yard; Mitsy’s scent went everywhere, and where it went, there were her suitors, howling and whining at all hours of the day and night. The excreta was old and new, and the old man’s loathing was steeped in its fecal bouquet. “Ellen always tells me,” he whispered, “that I must never provoke the Demarests. Provoke! An old man like me—I am shy as a cockroach. But what shall I do about this dog, this full grown pup that has worn out its welcome,“ he pleaded with Zeke. Suddenly, Adolph’s look of concern turned to a pitiless gaze of such ferocity that Zeke’s will no longer had anything to do with who he was. “I must kill it! It is my duty and mine alone. But how? I hate killing! I release moths and flies, and even spiders that appear on my sill; I brake for squirrels, I love animals! But kill it I must. You, you Zeke could do it. You are strong and quick.” The old man paused. “Maybe you could get one of the bigger boys to do it. Maybe Rodney, he hates cats,” pleaded Zeke. The old man shook his head fiercely. No one but Zeke must know of his this deed, only he could be trusted to keep quiet. “I’ll do it!” said Zeke.

Adolph sat transfixed, content, self-satisfied. “You will,” he said. “Just tell me how and when,” said Zeke. The old man congratulated himself. “”Such a young man of honor, how noble, how selfless.” Adolph looked out the window and said matter-of-factly, “Mitsy’s in the back yard.” He quickly led Zeke out and pointed to a sad dog on a short chain; Mitsy lay forlornly amidst feces and rotting bones; baking in the mid-August heat. Now Adolph looked to Zeke for direction. When Zeke said they would need the big wooden pickling barrel Adolph used for his German Gherkins, it was produced at once along with the lid and clamps needed to seal it. “I’ll need a bacon strip,” said Zeke. Like an obedient child, the old man ran to the icebox eagerly. Zeke then proceeded, with little effort, to lure the dog into the overturned barrel. Once in, they clamped the lid shut on the now doomed dog. Instinctively apprehending its cruel fate, it whined piteously, pitifully mewling and crying. It scratched and clawed, its howl taking on an unearthly pitch of primordial woe. Zeke and Adolph, aghast at this otherworldly howl, were momentarily cowed, and then overcome by a fear that quickly turned to a malicious anger upon the realization that its frantic shrieks signaled an abject helplessness. “Here’s the hose,” the old man muttered disgustedly, as he hurriedly moved toward the laundry basin to turn on the water. Zeke directed the hose into a small hole in the top of the barrel. “Turn it on,” said Zeke. “Go ahead,” said the old man. “Do it Zeke. Do it!” and with that the old man disappeared, leaving Zeke as the barrel slowly filled with water. Zeke steadied the hose in the quivering vat. The dog frantically whimpered and squirmed. As the water neared the top of the barrel, Zeke struggled to ignore the awful sound of the dog’s clawing. Witnessing this produced a knot in the pit of Zeke’s stomach, but he held the hose fast as the convulsive spasms increased. The drowning death throes of the thing heaving in the barrel slowly abated. Time suspended itself as the drowning dog lingered in a kind of sad acceptance. Finally, it floated in watery repose, as if in an opaque specimen jar, a testimony to the vile capacity of human nature.

Zeke ascended from the basement into the arms of a smiling Adolph, silent, with tears of gratitude in his cold eyes. “I did it,” said Zeke. Adolph had changed. His kindly solicitude turned to mild disgust. His words now shaded with rebuke. “I would give you something, but it can’t be my German Lugar, not for such a cruel accomplishment. But I will give you a cookie.” “Okay,” said Zeke shamefully. “Come back when I’ve been to the grocery,” said the old man. “Then you’ll get your treat. Shouldn’t you be running along?” “No one's at the orphanage right now,” Zeke stammered. “I never buy cookies. Sweets are for weak children, like you,” the old man said coldly, venomously. At this, as if on cue, Ellen rang the little bell at her bedside. “Ah! Her silly distress signal,” said the old man, relieved. “You see. It’s feeding time,” Adolph said. He pushed Zeke out the back door and toward the path to Saint John’s School.

Zeke was confused that he had been invited in for the sole purpose of killing the Flax’s dog, but by his lights the old man loved him, and he had vanquished an evil from Flax house.

And now the news:

Washington, Aug. 16 (AP) – Ninety-nine soldiers killed themselves last year, the highest suicide rate in the Army in 26 years of record-keeping, a new report says. Nearly a third of the soldiers committed suicide while in Iraq or Afghanistan. It found a significant relationship between suicide attempts and the number of days deployed in Iraq, Afghanistan or nearby countries where troops participate in the war effort. “Limited evidence” backs a theory that repeated deployments put more people at risk for suicide, the report said.

Paris, Le Matin, 1906 – Louis Lamarre had neither job nor home, but he did possess a few coins, At a grocery in Saint-Denis, he bought a liter of kerosene and drank it.
In the vicinity of Noisy-sur-Ecole, M. Louis Delillieau, seventy, dropped dead of sunstroke. Quickly his dog Fido ate his head.
There is no longer a God even for drunkards. Kersilie, of Saint-Germain, who had mistaken the window for the door, is dead.

Washington, Aug. 16 – Notes taken by director Robert S. Mueller III of the F.B.I. say that Attorney General John Ashcroft was “barely articulate,” “feeble” and “clearly stressed” shortly after a hospital-room meeting in March 2004 in which two top White House Aides (Alberto Gonzales, then the White House counsel, and Andrew H. Jr., then the White House chief of staff) tried to persuade him to sign an extension for eavesdropping on Americans without warrants. Mr. Mueller said in the notes that he had gone to the hospital after receiving a call, arriving at 7:40 p.m. and departing at 8:20. His notes said that Mr. Ashcroft, who had undergone gall bladder surgery the previous day, was in “no condition” to receive visitors.

Kansas City, Mo – A man threw his seriously ill wife four stories to her death because he could no longer afford to pay for her medical care. Court documents say that Steve Reeder walked his wife to the balcony of their apartment and kissed her before throwing her over. She had been under treatment for neurological problems and uterine cancer.

Wyandotte, Mi. - In a horror story eerily reminiscent to that of the French woman whose face was eaten off by her dog, the decomposing bodies of a middle-aged couple were found partially devoured in a suburb of Detroit. Apparently, a despondently ill man inadvertently misidentified his medications, causing both he and his girlfriend to lose consciousness. Tragically, at this point it was conjectured that their loyal cat, Casey, overcome by the delicious smell of a beef stroganoff reduction simmering on the stove, ravaged the dead couple’s faces. According to the medical examiner, the close resemblance between two pills, Zolpidem (a sleeping pill) and Oxycodone (a painkiller), resulted in the victims’ accidentally ingesting too many of the sleeping pills.

Ziguinchor, Senegal, Feb 14, 2003 – A boat called the Joola, en route to Dakar, capsized into the Atlantic. 1,863 people died, putting the sinking among the worst maritime disasters ever. The ferry was the last boat to Dakar before school and university classes got under way. On board were an estimated 400 students: the brightest young minds of Ziguinchor, piled virtually on top of each other with their school books, new shoes and dreams by the trunkload.