The Portrait by Charles Atkins

Author:Charles Atkins [Charles Atkins]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781428505223
Publisher: Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Published: 2008-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I walked quickly through the preserved realm of sixties bohemia on West Third and Bleecker Street, on my way to the Village Vet. Images from Saturday night intruded into my thoughts, like a film loop that played over and over; I couldn’t stop it. I saw the open door to my loft, Ching in a pool of blood, the rush of despair thinking he was dead. I walked over, or did I run? I heard his whimper and saw the faint rise and fall of his chest. I thought he was going to bleed to death.

I tried to shut it out, but part of me wouldn’t let it go. “Look at it,” I told myself, “look at it closer.” For someone who professed to be so observant … I was missing something. And then, standing at the corner of Sixth and Eighth Street in front of the Indian- owned newsstand where I’d bought my paper and cigarettes, I remembered: the triptych was there! When I picked up Ching, I had briefly looked for something to wrap him in before bundling him in my jacket. I remembered looking at the paisley scarf, a present from Pamela, draped over the piano, and behind it—the triptych was still on the wall.

The realization sank in: There was someone in the loft with me. I reeled at the thought. I was being watched. A new emotion struggled to be born—a smoldering hatred, the beginnings of rage. If I had known, whoever it was would have had to kill me, because nothing would have stopped me from tearing him apart, save for the bite of a bullet.

It’s better I didn’t know; at least this way I got Ching to the vet.

I stopped outside the low white building—please, let him be okay—and went into the waiting room. The receptionist, the long- suffering Helen, smiled as I entered.

“Mr. Greene, I’m glad you’re here. Doctor Anderson wanted to talk with you.

My stomach turned. Something must be wrong.

“I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“Thanks.” My eyes met briefly with those of an elderly woman and her Siamese cat, both sets blue and dulled by the milky haze of cataracts. A black shar-pei puppy strained at its collar, snorting and whining, wanting to sniff me. Its owner pulled back on the leash. “Down, Reggie. No!”

I tried to smile, but a weight pressed on my heart. Please let him be okay.

“Mr. Greene, if you could come with me, the doctor will see you now.”

It was like watching a car accident in slow motion, knowing the crash was coming, unable to stop it. She led me into Ching’s room. I went over to his still body, small and crumpled in the corner of the chain- link kennel, his head still encased in the white plastic collar. I knelt down. “Ching. Ching.” For a moment I wondered if he was dead, and then he snorted and opened his eyes, trying to focus on me.

“Mr. Greene.” Dr. Anderson’s voice broke through.

I turned around, still kneeling by my dog, and looked at the tall man dressed in scrubs and a lab coat.

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