twenty-three

The only good thing about Friday is that my father spends the night at Mother’s. He takes Fred to the A.S.P.C.A. to arrange his cremation, and when he comes back, he sleeps on the couch in the living room, right outside my room. I bawl a lot, so he doesn’t get much sleep. He comes into my room and just sits on my bed. He tells me to cry all I want. I don’t want to cry at all. But I keep waking up. As soon as I do and realize again that Fred isn’t lying on top of my blanket or snuggled up around my feet, I get a sick feeling and say stuff about not believing what has happened.

“I’m sorry, Davy,” Father says several times, “it did.” Sure, I know it did. But I sure as hell don’t want to believe it.

Finally morning comes. Mother hasn’t slept much either. None of us wants to eat anything. Mother keeps telling me how sorry she is.

“I loved Fred,” she says. “I didn’t act like someone who loved him. God, Davy, I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes are puffed up, and I know she has cried all night too. But I can’t bring myself to say that it’s OK and I understand. I don’t. I understand that Fred is dead. I know what is happening to him this morning, and I want to be sick to my stomach. It is less than a day since we went to the seminary park and played games there. Now what is left of Fred is a lot of junk. Two of his rags. A hard blue ball he chewed on. A couple of half-eaten hide bones are on a shelf in the kitchen. I can’t touch them, even to throw them away. I can’t touch anything Fred touched. The whole world of Mother’s house is Fred for me—what Fred could do, what he couldn’t do, where he could go, and where not. Everything is Fred.

The next part is not clear to me. I go through several days. I do things I do every other day, but I don’t remember what I do from one hour to another. Without Fred to walk, to come home to, to sleep with, to feed, to think about, to love—all that stuff—there isn’t anything to do. So I just think.

Who’s to blame? It’s no one’s fault. It just happened. Why does someone have to be blamed? I’m not trying to blame anyone. I am though. Why? Fred has died, and someone is to blame. I want Fred. I can’t have Fred. Who says? The bastard who ran over him, that’s who says. It’s his fault? It’s no one’s fault. It happened. Someone did it. The man driving the car? No. Who else ran over him? No one. Then he did it? Yes … that is, no. Did Mother do it? No. Not as though she sat down and did it, like making one of her drinks. She didn’t do it as a positive act. How do I know? She didn’t think how she was going to get Fred run over, if that’s the dumb thought running through my head.

Since I was a little kid, I have been responsible for a lot of things, principally Fred. I couldn’t have been more responsible than I was for Fred. Grandmother left me in complete charge of him. Look what happened. It isn’t my fault. Whose is it? It wasn’t Mother. He was doing his business. He pulled away from her. He was a speedy son-of-a-bitch when he wanted to be, and clever too. He thought it was a game. I could see that from the window. It was the kind of playful challenge he liked best. Was it the dog’s fault? No! He was a dumb creature. It wasn’t his fault! Maybe she should have watched him better. She could have held on to him better. He was only a little dog. It’s her fault? No! Whose? I don’t know. Not the dog’s. Not hers. It just happ … she took him out because of me. She wanted to leave me alone with my father to talk. Is that why it happened? Yes, God, yes. It’s my fault. Because of everything I did. It wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me. It is too my fault! All that messing around. Nothing would have happened to Fred if I hadn’t been messing around with Altschuler. My fault. Mine!