TUESDAY: Over the Edge

BY DAVID PARTINGTON

Copyright is held by the author.

CHRISTINE’S COUTURE wardrobe, impeccable make-up, and shiny black bob conveyed authority at work, but as she walked home from the subway that summer evening, she felt vulnerable and conspicuous, like a target. Unnerved by a man’s footsteps following closely behind her, the 43-year-old executive dashed across the street on a yellow light as quickly as her pencil skirt and heels would allow.

Once on the other side, she worried that someone could still be watching her from a distance to see where she lived. Hoping to shake off possible stalkers, she left the busy Toronto thoroughfare in favour of a roundabout route home.

Tall oaks cast long shadows in the warm evening light, but Christine’s quiet neighbourhood felt far from tranquil. If anything, the new route was an obstacle course of anxieties, including a sprinkler positioned perilously close to her path and a bushy-haired dog with wild eyes that bounded up to the fence along the sidewalk, barking furiously.

Upon unlocking her front door, she heaved a sigh of relief. Her home was a shambles, but it was her refuge. Bolting the door behind her, she kicked off her shoes and tossed her blazer into a corner. Working for a company that did internal audits of other organizations was stressful, but her suspicious, hypervigilant nature was a positive asset that earned her promotion after promotion. Certainly, people who only knew ‘Pristine Christine’ from work, where her insecurities lay hidden beneath a veneer of professionalism, would have been shocked to see bits of laundry and random papers scattered across her stained carpet. She herself was oblivious to the peeling paint and moldy window ledges thanks to her habit of not wearing glasses. In any case, no one was ever allowed to visit. It was probably just as well that no one could see her now — flopped on the couch, wondering if she should make dinner or just eat potato chips. In the end, she decided to warm up a can of soup.

 But when she opened the kitchen cupboard, she was thunderstruck by the sight of a can of dog food. This was because she didn’t have a dog. She had never had a dog. The can, with the words ‘Bow-Wow’ written below a poodle’s face, most definitely didn’t belong in her house.

Her heart raced as she stepped away from the cupboard and looked around. “Hello. . . . ?” she called in a soft, shaky voice. “Is anybody here?” The back door was still locked. From the bottom of the stairs, she called to the upper floor. No answer.

With an eerie sense that the intruder was downstairs, perhaps right on the other side of the door to the basement, she grabbed her phone and bolted out the front door. Standing on the lawn in her stocking feet, she called 911.

Minutes later, a police cruiser pulled up, and a smiling, young officer stepped out. Christine informed him matter-of-factly that someone had planted a can of dog food in her kitchen. To her surprise, he didn’t call for reinforcements; rather, he proposed that the two of them go through the house to look for evidence of a break-in. So, in they went, Christine now feeling that her space had been doubly violated.

Seeing the disarray, the cop jumped to the conclusion that the whole house had been ransacked. Shamefaced, Christine admitted that nothing had been moved so far as she was aware. Once in the kitchen, she pointed to the offending can, keeping her distance as though it were a bomb. She insisted that the cop take the can with him as evidence, so he dutifully put a white plastic bag over his hand, then calmly reached for the can. “Oh, well, I guess some dogs might like this kind of thing,” he said, glancing at it casually before pulling the bag over it. “My dog just gets dry food…” He asked Christine if she could have bought it by mistake. “My wife buys corn chips and Doritos and stuff like that all the time, and she always says it was a mistake — or that something just came over her.” He chuckled good-naturedly.

No one else had a key to the house, but, as the cop explained, with no sign of forced entry, nothing missing, and no suspects, there wasn’t much the police could do. Walking back to his car, he hinted that she might just need a good rest, adding, “Maybe it’s just one of those things.”

Christine resented the implication that she was confused or had some sort of mental health issue but didn’t want to argue. Climbing into his cruiser, the cop tossed the can carelessly into the back seat. When Christine urged him to check it for fingerprints, he just smirked and gave a thumbs-up sign, confirming her suspicion that the investigation was over. Watching him drive away, she guessed that he was eager to get back to the police station so he could tell his co-workers about the crazy lady.

A bark cut her speculation short. It came from the sidewalk across the street where a woman was walking the standard poodle that had barked at Christine an hour earlier. Its strong resemblance to the dog on the can made her suddenly uneasy, especially when the animal pulled in her direction.

“Come along, Oscar,” said the dog’s owner, tugging at the leash. The woman paid no attention to Christine, but Oscar glared at her long and hard. There was something dark and uncanny in his gaze, a sort of shrewdness, as if he were judging her, that gave her chills.

Returning reluctantly to the house, she twisted the cap off a giant bottle of white wine and tried to nurse her shattered nerves. What were the odds of seeing a dog that she’d never seen before twice in one day and of it being the spitting image of the one on the can? It had to be more than coincidence. After ruminating over the matter for forty minutes, she went back outside, deliberately heading for the section of sidewalk that ran behind Oscar’s backyard.

In the blue-grey twilight, he was waiting for her. Leaping at the fence, he snarled and barked furiously. And then Christine spoke. “I know it’s you.”

Oscar stopped barking and listened with his head tilted. There was no denying that he was a magnificent animal. He’d been groomed like a champion show dog — an extravagant style that might have seemed at odds with his simple, masculine name. Yet to Christine, he was like a prince in afairy tale forced by a sorcerer to take an animal’s form. She continued talking, lost in Oscar’s lustrous brown eyes, and found herself saying that she would do anything for him if she could. Hearing her own words, she took a step back. She had a distinct feeling that Oscar was trying to hypnotize her. Turning away sharply, she began walking home, keeping her head down and fighting the urge to look back. She could sense Oscar pulling on her like an undertow pulling her back to the sea.

The pressures at work had been bad enough; with the addition of a frightening walk home, a break-in, and now a dog giving her the evil eye, she was ready to snap. She still had no theory for how the dog food got into her house. Maybe a master locksmith was behind it, and the whole event was designed to humiliate her. But her intuition suggested that Oscar himself was somehow at the center of it and that perhaps he was using his magnetic persona to make humans do his bidding. The idea was strange, yet impossible for her to dismiss. Whether other people had also found mysterious cans or if she’d been specially chosen was an open question.

Upon returning home, she poured a second glass of wine. And then a third and a fourth. She considered finishing off the bottle but didn’t want to go back to the liquor store too soon, always concerned that the staff there might think she was an alcoholic.

Slumped in a kitchen chair, she regretted telling Oscar she would do anything for him. Still, she reasoned, so long as she kept her head, Oscar couldn’t make her do anything really terrible, like break into a house. Looking down at her empty glass, she wanted to release her pent-up anxiety by smashing it on the floor in a supremely irrational act. She was totally in control, of course, so she didn’t do it. Still, her mind kept circling back to that idea. Would it be so bad if she smashed a glass? She looked at it in her hand without making any sort of decision. And then her fingers parted slightly, and it fell to the floor. Staring down at the broken glass, she was shocked. Yet on one level, she was relieved to have finally put the impulse behind her. Hoping she had exorcised a demon, she swept up the mess and went to bed.

But her peace wasn’t long-lasting. After a few hours, she thought she heard canine panting and sprang out of bed. She went down to the kitchen and, after undoing bolts and latches, opened the door to the backyard.

A warm breeze carried the sound of crickets mingled with the hum of air conditioners on that moonless night. And from over the rooftops, maybe a block away, came the sound of a dog howling. A dog, or possibly a train or a siren — or nothing at all. She’d lost all objectivity. Yet whatever she was hearing, there seemed to be a message. From Oscar, of course. He was responsible for making her break the glass. She had sensed it from the start, but now she knew it. It could have been Oscar’s way of showing his power, or maybe he was just reminding her of her promise. Feeling small and vulnerable, Christine spoke softly, solemnly, as if in prayer, asking Oscar for mercy.

The next day was Saturday, and in the bright morning light, it was easy for her to blame the events of the previous twelve hours on too much wine. She just needed to get a grip and go back to normal life. She had certain obligations, after all. One of her co-workers had asked everyone in her division over to her apartment that afternoon to meet her baby boy. Extreme shyness made such events painful for Christine, but, bowing to social pressure, she had agreed to attend.

While applying eyeliner, a new worry arose. What if she dropped the baby as she had dropped the wine glass? Or maybe even slammed the baby savagely to the floor? Worse yet, she might grab him, then rush out to the balcony and hurl him over. She could see it all in her mind’s eye. Maybe the cop was right; maybe she had some sort of issue. Since Oscar had taken control of her life, she could no longer trust herself. She called the number on the invitation and expressed her regret that something had come up and she couldn’t make it.

But another hurdle loomed. A man from work had invited her to the opera Lucia di Lammermoor a few weeks earlier, and the tickets were for that evening. She knew that he probably just asked her out of pity, but it was too late to cancel, and under the circumstances, it seemed better than staying home alone.

Christine was a picture of elegance that evening, wearing a fitted Chanel dress in deep teal and the studied, carefree expression of a person who isn’t being manipulated by a dog.

She and Miles, her date, having taken their balcony seats, looked over their programs. Christine didn’t want Miles to see her wearing glasses, so she pretended to read, then began a strained conversation that culminated in her asking Miles if he believed that pets could be possessed by spirits.

“Gosh,” said Miles, smiling and wide-eyed. He looked around as if trying to locate the emergency exits. “Anything is possible, I guess!” Then he excused himself, saying he had to make a quick phone call.

Christine wondered if Miles would return before the curtain rose or if she’d scared him off. Anyway, she didn’t blame him for running away; it was probably for the best. Something bad was about to happen — of that she was certain. Looking around the theatre, with its plush boxes and rococo ceiling, the people seemed so fragile that she felt the need to warn them. She imagined herself standing up and announcing to the crowd in a booming voice that they needed to take precautions and be on the lookout for things that didn’t belong in their homes. And when she finished, if things didn’t go well, she would lean over the fourth-tier railing and plunge to her death.

The final chime signaled that the opera was about to begin. Still no sign of Miles. The orchestra had finished tuning up, and the house lights were going down. A hush fell over the crowd. This was it. Watching herself as if outside of her body, she rose to her feet.

“Could I have your attention, please!” she began. What came next — a heartfelt warning about dangerous schemes emerging from the animal kingdom — had the audience baffled. At first, they were silent. Then a few people started to snicker. Fifteen seconds later, Miles returned and tried taking her by the arm as the laughter grew louder. 

The situation could have worsened had Security not helped Miles escort her to the lobby—a feat that earned them a round of applause. Seeing her obvious distress, the theatre manager decided not to take any sort of legal action, whereupon Miles offered to take her to the hospital.

Christine wouldn’t hear of it, however, insisting that he take her home. And so began a tense car ride. Miles swore on his mother’s grave that he would never breathe a word about what happened, but to Christine, that was beside the point. She had more serious things on her mind than personal embarrassment, and the fact that Miles wasn’t being at all supportive made her view him with suspicion.

As the car turned up her street and approached her house, she saw a pair of eyes shining in the headlights. Oscar and his owner were walking away from the house as if they’d paid her a visit. Though deeply alarmed, Christine didn’t mention it to Miles, just offering him a curt goodnight before jumping out of the car.

Once inside, she headed straight for the kitchen and turned on the light. Everything seemed normal. She flung open the cupboard where she kept cans. Nothing unusual. Except maybe one can in the shadows near the back. Pulling it out for a closer examination, her heart leapt. She dropped it and stepped back. The can was just like the one from the previous day. It was tangible proof that the threat was real.

Too repulsed to touch it, she poked the can with a broom handle. As it rolled across the kitchen floor, she caught a glimpse of something she hadn’t noticed before; something on the label. Rushing to her bedroom, she grabbed her glasses from a drawer, then returned to confront the dreaded object.

Picking it up off the floor, she was thunderstruck. The poodle’s face, it seemed, was actually a mushroom, and the name ‘Bow-Wow’ was just a looping calligraphic flourish on the back of the label. She turned it over and read the front of the can, clearly labeled “Cream of Mushroom Soup.”      

There’d been a two-for-one sale.

On Monday, Pristine Christine was back at the office as if nothing had happened. A co-worker came up behind her in the photocopy room, asking how her weekend had gone and if she’d enjoyed Lucia di Lammermoor. “I heard that it’s about a woman who goes crazy.”

Christine didn’t want to discuss it. “Yes,” she said, picking up her copies and turning to leave. “That’s pretty much what happened.”

***

Image of David Partington

David Partington began writing short stories soon after retiring from his job as a zookeeper at the Toronto Zoo. His work has appeared in Power Cut Magazine, Jake, Alma Magazine, The Bacopa Literary Review, and elsewhere.

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