How the Dead Dream by Lydia Millet

Author:Lydia Millet [Millet, Lydia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Counterpoint
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Over time, as T. had suspected he would, Fulton delivered an education.

The change came suddenly, when the two of them went back to T.’s apartment for beer once after a game. Fulton claimed he wanted to see the place. As soon as they pulled up stools to the kitchen island and sat down, lifting freshly uncapped bottles to their lips, the dog came trotting over. She stood on her rear legs and put her forepaws on Fulton’s stool, tail wagging, with the slavish affection she sometimes bestowed on strangers who seemed welcome.

Fulton surprised T. by pushing her away roughly with an elbow to her face and the side of his shoe to her flank. Grimacing, he wiped his arm on his gym shorts.

“Dog spit. Disgusting.”

“Spit? What spit? This dog doesn’t slobber at all. Come here, girl.”

The dog retreated to T.’s side, where he put a protective hand between her ears and stroked her head. He was irritated.

“I don’t touch dogs.” “Why? Are you allergic?”

“I don’t like to touch the things, OK? They lick their anuses. You got any chips? Crackers or something?”

T. stared at him as he tipped his head back and took a deep swallow.

“No chips,” he answered. “No crackers.” “I’m starving.”

Fulton jumped up and opened the refrigerator door, scouting. T. followed him with his gaze and felt a tide of revulsion rising in his bones, in his blood and muscles. Fulton’s back was a wall of hostile blankness; Fulton’s neck was no neck.

He got off his own stool abruptly, a cursory glance at his watch.

“Know what? Forgot. Got a meeting. Escrow thing.” “Take the brew with me, then,” said Fulton without

missing a beat, and turned toward the door of the kitchen with his beer bottle still in hand.

T. watched him leave without saying a word.

That night he kicked his legs in and out of the sheets, turned and punched his pillow into different shapes against his cheek. The cheek felt slack, distracting as he tried to sleep. There was no good position for the side of his face. The scissoring of his legs and pulling and twisting of the

blankets kept the dog awake too, circling and circling and rearranging herself head to feet into her curved moon of sleep.

Finally he got up and went toward the bathroom, dog rising once more on the bed behind him. He leaned over the toilet with his eyes closed and saw pricks of light on the surface of his eyelids. Nothing happened beyond a head rush.

He had let him kick her. Almost a kick. His dog—but it was not whose she was that mattered, only how devoted she was, how she followed without questioning. Would follow on and on forever.

He stood. He was taking Fulton’s money, certainly. He would take it as long as he could. But to bring him home? To seek him out?

His dog should not forgive him.

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