were closed. The slash in his throat was so wide and so rough-edged that the frozen edges of it looked like a broad shark’s smile. Bremen struggled not to drop the chain in his left hand.
Miz Morgan yelled something unintelligible and released one of the dogs.
Bremen climbed higher onto the swaying corpse as the dogs bounded down the slippery aisle and Miz Morgan raised her shotgun.
EYES
At this same moment, more than a thousand miles to the east, the thirteen-year-old blind, deaf, retarded boy named Robby Bustamante is being beaten by an “uncle” who has lived with his mother for the last four months. The “uncle” sleeps with his mother and provides her crack and heroin for various services rendered.
Robby’s crime is that he is still not toilet trained at age thirteen and has soiled his pants at a time when “Uncle” is home alone with the boy. Uncle, coming down from some bad Colombian, flies into a rage at the sight and smell of Robby, jerks him up from the pillowed corner of the small room where the boy has been rocking with his teddy bear and nodding silently to himself in the night, and begins striking him in the face with a fist that Robby cannot see coming.
Robby begins crooning a weird falsetto cry and throws palsied hands to his face to ward off the invisible blows.
This enrages Uncle further and the big man begins pounding Robby in earnest, slapping away the ineffectual, splayed-wrist hands, and punching the boy in the mouth, pulverizing the blubbery lips, smashing in the carious front teeth, breaking the boy’s broad nose, smashing cheekbones and closing eyes.
Robby goes down with a spray of blood on mildewed wallpaper, but continues the falsetto crooning and begins slapping the torn linoleum with his palms. Uncle does not know it, but the child is trying to find his teddy bear.
The nonhuman noises push Uncle the last millimeter across the killing line and he begins kicking the boy with his steel-capped Redwing boots, first in the ribs, then the neck, and then, when Robby is huddled in the corner, no longer crooning, in the face.
Uncle comes out of the red place he has gone and looks down at the blind and deaf boy, still huddled in the corner but at impossible angles now—wrists and knees splayed the wrong directions, one finger rising vertically backward, the bruised and mottled neck twisted wrong on the fat pulpy body in its urine-soaked Mutant Ninja Turtle pajamas—and Uncle pauses. He has killed men before.
Uncle grabs Robby by his tuft of coarse black hair and drags him across the linoleum, down the hall, and through the small living room where MTV still blares from the black thirty-two-inch television.
There is no falsetto crooning now. Robby’s pulped lips leave a trail of saliva and blood on the tile. One of his blind eyes is wide open, the other swollen shut under his scarred brow. His loose fingers flop across the floor moldings at the doorways and make pale lines in the red smears his face leaves.
Uncle opens the back door, steps out, glances around, steps back in, and uses his foot to shove Robby down the porch steps. It is like listening to a gunnysack filled with two hundred pounds of Jell-O and loose rocks fold itself down the six wooden steps.
Uncle grabs Robby by the front of his too-small pajamas and drags him across the moist grass of the yard. Buttons pop and flannel tears, Uncle curses, gets a grip on Robby’s uncut hair, and commences dragging him again.
Behind the rotting garage, beyond the fallen-down fence and the abandoned lot behind it, back under the rain-dripping elms in the dark, out beyond the edge of light where a shack once had sat in the high grass not far from the river, leans the outhouse. No one uses it. A faded sheet of cardboard nailed on the door reads: KE P O T. A length of rotting rope has been tied around the door handles to keep kids out.
Uncle tears off the rope, steps into the foul-smelling darkness, rips the boards off the one-hole seat, drags Robby in, levers the boy’s body into a sitting position, and then grunts and heaves to tilt the seemingly boneless mass up and over the sill where the seat had been. Robby’s Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle-patterned pajama top tears off on a nail and remains behind as his body slides into the dark pit. His bare feet seem to wave as they disappear into the hole. The noise from ten feet below is liquid and yielding.
Uncle steps out into the darkness, obviously relieved to be breathing fresh air, looks around, sees nothing, hears only a distant dog barking, finds a large rock underfoot, and then steps back into the outhouse to wipe his hands and shirt with the pajama top. Finished, he drops the rag into the reeking, rectangular hole and uses the rock to bang the seat boards back into place as best he can in the darkness.
There is no sound from the outhouse for the hour Uncle waits in the house until Robby’s mother returns with the car.
Robby, of course, does not hear the voices raised in shouts, nor the brief bout of weeping, nor the quick sounds of packing and car doors banging.
He does not see the house and porch lights being switched off.
He does not hear the roar of the car’s engine or the sound of tires crunching over the gravel of the drive as his mother leaves him for the last time.
Robby cannot hear the barking of the neighbor dog finally die down, like a scratched record finally being shut off, or sense the descent of silence in the neighborhood as the rains come softly, pattering on the leaves and dripping down from tears in the corrugated roof of the outhouse under the trees.
All these things I have told you are true. All the things I have yet to tell you are true.
And Saw the Skull Beneath the Skin
The rottweiler leaped three seconds before Miz Morgan fired the shotgun.
Bremen straddled the dead black man’s shoulders and wrapped the chain around the big dog’s neck as the creature clambered and scrabbled up frozen flesh to get at him. The rottweiler howled. Bremen jerked the chain tight and lifted. Miz Morgan saw the dog seem to levitate between Bremen and her and she raised the barrel of the shotgun even as she pulled the trigger.
Bremen winced and almost lost his balance on the corpse and his grip on the dog as pellets slammed into the fluorescent light fixture above him and the ceiling above that. Sparks and glass flew from the light fixture. Some stray shot must have caught the rottweiler for the beast began howling with an increased frenzy and started whipping its head back and forth to bring its teeth to bear on Bremen’s hands. Bremen tightened the chain until the dog’s growls choked off and the howling became a high whine.
Miz Morgan pumped the shotgun, pulled the leash tight on the second rottweiler, and came down the cold aisle between softly swinging sides of meat.
Bremen was panting so hard that he was afraid he might pass out. The steel links of the chain were so cold that flesh was peeling away from his fingers and palms whenever he pulled the chain tighter or shifted position. The rottweiler was making a sound more like that of an old man gargling than that of a dog howling. Bremen knew that it would be seconds before Miz Morgan reached him; she could simply stick the barrel of the shotgun up against him and pull the trigger.
The first shotgun blast had knocked out the double row of fluorescent strip lights above him, but now there was dappled light falling on the hound’s dark head. Bremen looked up, saw the depression in the ceiling above the light stanchion, and blinked at the dozen flecks of light there. Holes in wood, not cinder block. Holes letting in light from the tall arc lamp behind the cold house.
Miz Morgan moved between the corpses eight feet away. Her eyes glistened and seemed very large; her breath clouded the air between them. The rottweiler hanging from Bremen’s chain was no longer struggling and its long, bony legs twitched. The sight seemed to make the other dog go insane and Miz Morgan had to cradle the shotgun for a second to hold the animal on the leash as it leaped for the black man’s corpse and Bremen’s dangling
