November's always the coldest. The old man, cradling a whiskey glass, fights sleep. A dying fire no longer crackles. Every joist creaks, every eave fighting the bitter wind, so he listens to the stairs. He expects a visitor. Or not quite a visitor, but an old friend nonetheless. That tired loneliness, tired of being lonely, might come creeping down the creaky stairs, each footstep a soft thud against an old, cold pillow of dust. But they ain't come yet. The glass drips condensation. Its ice melted a while ago.
The scratching don't bother him at first, he'll check the traps tomorrow. Fire's too dim anyhow. Judging by the glass, one part bourbon three parts water, he must've slept a while. Ice all melted like that. Still tolerable, though. The scratching ain't stopping so he drinks his whiskey and sets the glass on the little three-legged table with Lauren's picture on it and looks towards the kitchen and thinks real hard before looking back at the fire. At the rug in front of it. At the old dog's silhouette still living in it. He buried her last week, and she was the latest to leave to old man. Weren't nothing sad about it. Her time had come, and he reckoned his would come, too. But that weren't now. He couldn't go before winter was up. Before he could say good-bye to Rory and his wife. To the little one they'd named after him.
He'd meant to fix the door today. Never got around to it. Ain't surprised by its racket. Scratching stops. Whining, howling starts. Reckons he ought to check it. The cold outside piles up against the window. There weren't snow till now, not till he stood and popped. Hand on cracking back he rubs his aching fingers where it hurts. Traces the path of his spine. His eyes trace their own: snowy window to wall of photos, photos of Lauren and Rory and him to dusty staircase, top stair to Rory's room, empty and silent, and stopping, at last, at his. Least they linger that way, but it ain't in sight. They retreat to Rory's instead. Empty and silent and cold. Closed. Insulation, these days.
He only tells himself he wants to see his old room anyhow. Its from there he expects his visitor. Hears her howling at half-moon. Last he checked, she'd hung around the bed, transparent and calling his name. But it weren't his name, and it weren't Lauren calling. It was the wind. Next morning, he saw as much. Saw her thin white robe draped over the bedpost like a ghost. Course it weren't her. Still, he wouldn't chance it. It's in his chair downstairs where he sleeps now, a fact he'd kept a secret ever since Rory swore at him until he swore he'd sleep in his bed again, even though he couldn't without her there. Rory didn't understand. He ain't slept with ghosts before.
Jaw clenched, he walks to the kitchen. That rattling and howling dies with the wind. Scratching's back. He lights the old oil lamp on the dining table with a match from a fresh box. Flicks the match. Watches the smoke curl, rise, collapse from its burnt-out end. Drops it in his shirt pocket. Pats it. Scowls. Shotgun's hung over the creaking kitchen door. Loaded. Oughta change shells, full-bore ain't necessary. Lonely pup. Scared. Buckshot oughta do. He shakes his head. No, be safe. Use slugs.
He swings the lamp around the kitchen. Can't see a thing. Knows his way, though. Lamp on counter, he tugs a drawer but the damn latch won't open. Fingers too weak. Why'd he bother with them anyway? Rory ain't coming. Cold wind brushing his ankles stops like the world sighed its last breath, and the old man glances toward the rattling, whining, growling cabinet below the kitchen sink. It's big. Careful: compress the coil, lift the latch. Unlocked, loose shells roll and rattle. Shotgun down. Release action, eject rounds, load slugs, set both hammers. Gun near hip, he faces the noise.
In the lantern light, a small, black nose and muzzle with sharp white teeth pokes through the gap between the cabinet and its door. Guess the locks were handy. The scratching fades with each shaky step, but the growling don't. Ain't nothing your yapping'll do. Straight-lipped, the old man locks his eyes on the cabinet lock. Wish Rory was here. Legs ain't moving. Shouldn't do this alone. Shakes his head. He ain't. Pup can't stay. Still can't move, still frozen. Damn whiskey. What's it good for? Move, damn it. He takes a step. Move. He takes another. Reaches for the latch and the growling grows louder but it don't sound so strong that he can't take it; and besides, Rory ain't here, and he can't wait, so he grabs the latch and lifts it and uses it as a handle to creak open the door so he doesn't startle the pup.
"Be still, I ain't —"
Fleeing fear for freedom, the pup leaps from the cabinet. It tackles the old man to the floor, biting and barking, and he wrestles and wrenches the gun between himself and the pup's gnashing teeth. He senses sorrow behind the pup's yellow eyes. Hunger. It's bleeding from its hind leg. It bleeds in the cabinet, on the floor, on the old man as it gnaws on the stock of his gun.
"Rory," the old man says. It comes out as whimper, and tears blur his vision because his grip ain't what it used to be, and the pup backs off the gun and lunges and bites the old man's wrist and recoils with a sudden clarity of purpose: food. Warm, sticky blood coats its tongue. Saliva floods its mouth. Eyes dilate.
pKUgh
The shell tears through the pup's emaciated chest, flooding its lungs with blood and knocking it off the old man. He drags himself backward, braces himself against the cabinet with the lamp. The pup struggles to stand, to breathe, and it locks eyes with the old man who sees the pain and hunger and now the fear. The pup collapses against the cabinet, wheezing. It whimpers, and he whispers, "I know."
He notices its splotchy coat, its protruding ribs. Only one lung seems to be working. "You're Patches," he whispers. "Too bad we couldn't be friends." He raises the gun and braces himself and squeezes the second trigger and closes his eyes after the bang until the ringing and drowning disappear and when he opens his eyes he thinks he sees a glisten in the pup's but he chooses to stand and look away.
He wobbles to the counter, puts down the shotgun, checks the bite on his wrist. Deep, but okay. He nods. Seen worse - not good, not the worst. He uses the counter like a crutch. Lightheaded. At the sink, he runs the cold water. Winces while washing the wound. He removes a splintered tooth, drops it in the sink, watches it circle the drain and disappear with the bloody water. He runs cold water but can't stop the bleeding, so he wraps a dirty dish rag around it and squeezes. Closes the tap. Faces the pup again. Careful, he stoops and scratches Patches.
"Least you weren't alone."
Cold compress. Nods, stands. From a high cabinet shelf, he fishes a plastic sandwich bag. Struggles, but crosses the room. Opens the back door, packs snow in the bag. Cold air bracing, he binds the baggy to his wrist with the bloody rag. He wants to sleep. He closes the back door, nursing the bloody compress. He longs for his bed, but it's miles away. He stumbles back to his chair.
He don't sit. Instead, he pours another thumb of bourbon in his glass. "For you," he lifts it towards the imprint in the rug. "For you," he nods towards Patches, then drains the drink with a wince. He replaces the glass with Lauren's photo. Traces her profile with his heavy eyes. "And for you," he says, then decants the decanter in the fireplace. The charcoals hiss and diminish, too tired to ignite.
Heavy. Room spinning. Shakes head. A howling from the kitchen. The wind, or Patches? Shakes head. Groaning eaves. Or was that a stair? Shakes head. Turns. The light from the oil lamp hardly reaches him, but he sees her anyway. No wind outside, but he hears the howling and creaking. He's at the staircase. He caresses the banister with his bloodied hand and raises his eyes to his bedroom door, expecting his guest. He sees her silhouette near the bedpost. She tells him he's done enough.