The Slavering Hounds

From a dis­tance, Will Dougher­ty spots the old man and the hounds. They appear like a mirage on the lone­some trail. The vision caus­es the thoughts in Will’s war­ring mind to tem­porar­i­ly retreat.

As he gets clos­er, the image crys­tal­lizes: a frail fig­ure and three hulk­ing canines on a leash. The dogs are sleek and tall—skeletal, their coats thin and filthy. Shin­ing ropes of slob­ber hang from snarled teeth. The mid­dle hound, rear­ing against the old man’s chest, moves with a lis­some gait, despite its ema­ci­at­ed appear­ance. It reminds Will of his Uncle John’s Aza­wakh. The old hunt­ing dog, long dead now, was kept in a ken­nel in the back of his uncle’s garage, near the guest room. The stac­ca­to sounds of bark­ing kept Will up at night when­ev­er he and his father vis­it­ed the large split-lev­el home in rur­al Michi­gan. Will imag­ined the dog some­how get­ting loose from its ken­nel and stalk­ing into the house, nos­ing open the door of the guest room he insist­ed be left ajar (he want­ed to be able to hear the tele­vi­sion and occa­sion­al bursts of laugh­ter from his uncle and father, to make sure they hadn’t aban­doned him in the night as his moth­er had when he was five). He imag­ined the dog slink­ing into the room qui­et­ly, only a scrab­ble of sharp, clack­ing nails on hardwood …

On the trail, jog­ging at a slow-to-mod­er­ate pace, Will pass­es the man and his dogs—the for­mer hunched and mov­ing slow­ly, despite the agi­tat­ed excite­ment of the canines—and he endeav­ors to meet the man’s gaze, offer up a nod. (As a boy, he was often berat­ed by his old man for keep­ing his head down when he walked—a tell­tale sign of weak­ness.) When he does, the look in the man’s eyes chills him. Ice-blue iris­es stare into his own, and the thin-lipped mouth dis­torts into a grin that looks more like a leer or a gri­mace of ire. Decayed yel­low teeth glint in the dark cres­cent of mouth. Webs of white spit­tle dot the lips. 

To Will, it’s the smile of a deranged per­son, a lunatic in a padded room …

It’s enough to erase the image of Dani and Eric, which, until this moment, has tak­en res­i­dence in Will’s con­scious­ness like a ten­ant from hell. Even after pass­ing the old man—still hear­ing the scratch­ing of the dogs’ nails on the hard-packed dirt of the trail—the image of that hoary face and the slaver­ing dogs remains imprint­ed on his mind and refus­es to let go. 

#

At home, Will tries call­ing Dani four times, and each time, the call goes to voice mail. On the third try, he debates leav­ing a message—something adamant and res­olute, yet heartfelt—but decides against it. 

Like­ly she’s with Eric. 

Frus­trat­ed, Will toss­es his phone on the sofa, where it bounces off the white cush­ion and falls to the hard par­quet floor beneath. 

Will just wants to talk. About account­abil­i­ty. The last few months have been filled with self-recrim­i­na­tion and regret. April was a mis­take. A stu­pid, ter­ri­ble mis­take. He real­izes how reck­less he was, jeop­ar­diz­ing eight years of mar­riage for some­thing as shal­low as a one-night stand. 

The thought of the wil­lowy para­le­gal con­jures sour feel­ings. Young and still in school, Will had tak­en her under his wing, intro­duced her to the senior part­ners as a bright and shin­ing star. In turn, she’d shown him kind­ness, inter­est. And then betrayed him.

 An escapade, noth­ing more. 

And now, she, too, is gone—having failed to show up at the firm one day two weeks ago. (As though, hav­ing bull­dozed Will’s life, her job at Weise & Weise was now done.) 

The more Will thinks about it, sip­ping whiskey in the large, silent house, the angri­er he gets.

He’s downed a third of the bot­tle of John­ny Walk­er Green and lies sprawled on the twist­ed bed­sheets, when the image of the old man from his jog comes rear­ing back—

A shud­der rip­ples down his spine as the wrin­kled vis­age resolves in mem­o­ry, emerg­ing like a face in the clouds. The ancient rime-blue eyes, star­ing intent­ly. The curved and hideous smile. 

And those dogs. Their disheveled coats buzzing with fleas. Jaws unhinged, slaver­ing. Will scents nox­ious breath, envi­sions fangs latch­ing onto defense­less flesh. Clamp­ing down and drag­ging—

Soon the alco­hol pulls him under, and he’s dream­ing of the old man and the dogs. The for­mer a shrunk­en sil­hou­ette, hob­bling at a snail’s pace; the hounds just as shad­owy, ser­ried so close as to be seem­ing­ly con­nect­ed at the neck, like Cerberus …

Clos­er, advanc­ing over a hillock. Foul breath mist­ing the air. Ropes of slaver swing­ing like Vic­to­ri­an chains from peeled red lips. One of the hounds, scent­ing prey, veers off into a bush, and tears out a brown baby rab­bit frozen in fear. Anoth­er leaps onto a woman in a flo­ral sun­dress, knock­ing her down. Jaws clamp over the slen­der fore­arm, which shakes and trem­ble as it attempts to ward off the snarl of teeth gnash­ing at the woman’s tear-sod­den face.

#

Over the next few days sim­i­lar dreams persist.

 In some, the old man’s fea­tures are hideous­ly clear, skin wiz­ened and gray in the mut­ed dream­light. Eyes like chips of ice under clot­ted white lash­es. In one night­mare, the man is absent; only his eyes, large as aster­oids, hov­er in the sun­set­ting sky. Down­ward they glare as the hounds cir­cle a child sprawled on the ground, cow­er­ing in a torn rain slick­er. Cir­cling, the dogs snarl and bark. 

In anoth­er dream, he’s the old man. Flab­by arms, leathered by age, grip the taut leash, strain­ing as the dogs vie to be let loose. 

As their pro­tec­tor, he leads them—

or is it the oth­er way around?

—to a wood­en bench, where Dani and her lover meet on week­day after­noons. He lets the leash fall, watch­es as the hounds bound through blades of grass, rip­ping up div­ots of sod with their claws.

Growl­ing, the dogs leap: jaws snap­ping, teeth grind­ing hun­gri­ly to hook their vul­ner­a­ble quarry—

Each day after work Will’s back on the trail. Retrac­ing his steps in the hope of com­ing across the old man and the hounds. From a dis­tance, every sil­hou­ette makes him quick­en his pace, caus­es his heart to leap—until the fig­ure invari­ably crys­tal­lizes in disappointment.

Aside from his rever­ies and night­mares, the old man and the hounds are nowhere to be found. 

#

Dani’s laugh­ter trills, rid­ing on the crisp autumn breeze. Her hand, mag­ni­fied by the viewfind­er, rests on Eric’s thigh. Will’s col­league wears a slim-fit­ted shirt, loos­ened at the col­lar; a slim pais­ley tie hangs from his exposed neck. Eric whis­pers some­thing in Dani’s ear, which elic­its a bark of mirth. 

Across the street, behind a pha­lanx of shrubs, Will sits motion­less, the binoc­u­lars pressed tight around the depres­sions of his eyes. 

What are they say­ing? he won­ders as he watch­es the two lovers—a sharp hook dig­ging into his chest when he thinks of them that way—on the small park bench. Are they talk­ing about me? Laughing—at my expense? 

At the firm, Will feels like the object of every snick­er, the butt of every joke. The part­ners act like nothing’s wrong. In the begin­ning, some even offered their con­do­lences about his and Dani’s sep­a­ra­tion. They nev­er men­tioned Will’s indis­cre­tion with the paralegal. 

A week ago, Will ran into Eric in one of the third-floor restrooms as the young tax attor­ney was wash­ing up. The “hotshot”—as he was referred to among the senior partners—had his sleeves rolled up, gold­en arms sleek in the flu­o­res­cent light of the restroom—no doubt admir­ing his reflec­tion in the mir­ror when the door swung open, and in entered Will. 

Will had imag­ined sim­i­lar even­tu­al­i­ties play­ing out ever since learn­ing about Eric and his wife. Var­i­ous sce­nar­ios tran­spir­ing in the the­ater of his mind, some where­in Eric mut­tered sheep­ish apolo­gies, claimed he was just being there as a mutu­al friend. In oth­er con­jur­ings, Will lis­tened qui­et­ly and patient­ly, before dri­ving the young attorney’s head through the restroom mirror—smashing the glass and cut­ting Eric’s well-pro­por­tioned face into bleed­ing seg­ments. The real­i­ty, how­ev­er, had been pre­dictably banal: Will strode to the uri­nal, while Eric fin­ished up at the sink, tak­ing his time, it seemed to Will—even paus­ing to blow-dry his long, knuck­ly hands while glanc­ing at the mir­ror, which reflect­ed Will’s back in the urinal—while the old­er part­ner tried in vain to piss. Then he saun­tered out the restroom door with­out say­ing a word. After­ward, Will cursed him­self for his cow­ardice, for prov­ing his father right—Will the Weak—by not say­ing any­thing, for not demand­ing an apol­o­gy or fail­ing to send a stark and with­er­ing rebuke—

Instead, he’d cow­ered at the uri­nal, his flac­cid dick pinched in his hand. 

Eric leans clos­er, nudg­ing Dani’s neck. She, too, leans in, eyes closed, slim hand encir­cling his nar­row waist. Will’s fin­gers pale as his grip on the binoc­u­lars tight­ens. Amor­phous sweat flow­ers at his armpits, sweat coats his brow in a sticky sheen. 

He tries, whim­si­cal­ly, will­ing the old man and the hounds. (The way he used to try man­i­fest­ing his moth­er, those sleep­less nights after she left, when it was just him and his father, who was so angry all the time, and always tak­ing it out on Will.)

Believ­ing that if he tried hard enough, she might appear …

But, like every day in the last week, the man and his hounds are nowhere in sight. Per­haps Will imag­ined them? A fig­ment of his over­wrought mind. 

No. They were there, that day on the path. A fleet­ing, rev­e­la­to­ry moment as he passed them, the old man’s stare icing his blood. In his mem­o­ry, the man grinned at Will cru­el­ly, as if he could read his mind. As if he found the sham­bles of Will’s life amus­ing, a kind of joke. 

Fuck you, old man. 

Vin­dic­tive­ly, Will imag­ines the hounds turn­ing on their mas­ter. Whip­ping around on skele­tal legs and snap­ping at him, tear­ing into his fee­ble form, bit­ing out hunks of pale flesh and champ­ing down like monsters—like the night­mar­ish, near­ly mytho­log­i­cal beings from Will’s rever­ies and dreams. 

#

“… Will? Oh my god. No—”

Peer­ing across the street, into the bush, Dani stoops, a slen­der hand shad­ing her frown. Beside her, at the driver’s door of a white, late-mod­el Mer­cedes, is Eric. They peer in Will’s direc­tion. Smudged lens­es mag­ni­fy the blonde locks of Dani’s hair. Will lets the binoc­u­lars fall, and the image of Dani and Eric shrinks—though the for­mer grows larg­er as she stalks across the street, the etched frown get­ting clear­er as she skit­ters around a lum­ber­ing van that honks and near­ly hits her. Crouched on a bed of dry grass, Will ris­es as she cross­es the street.

“What are you doing here?” she says, voice seething with emotion.

She stands before the bush, star­ing through the matrix of leaves and thorns. Will looks past her, delight­ed to note that Eric seems to expe­ri­ence a moment of hes­i­ta­tion, fol­low­ing Dani across the street. His gait is slow and timid. Shame­ful, almost. 

Will turns his atten­tion back to his wife, who glares at him, face a nasty snarl. 

“You haven’t been answer­ing my calls,” he says flatly.

Her eyes flare like two struck match­es. “I’ve said all there is to say,” she says, the words hiss­ing through grit­ted teeth.

Past her shoul­der, Eric approach­es. “Will,” he mut­ters in a chum­my, grave­ly false tone. A lop­sided smile tug­ging his lips. “What’s going on, bud? You know you shouldn’t be here …”

In a moment that would have made his father proud, Will meets Eric’s gaze for the first time since the restroom encounter a week ago. The gaze holds steady. He’s vowed, in the days since, to atone for that shame­ful moment.

“I have a pend­ing court order,” Dan­i­ca says. Her voice, low and qua­ver­ing, belies the rage in her features.

Will curs­es the sweat he can feel slip­ping down his tem­ples in slug­gish lines. “I have rights, too,” he says—suddenly hat­ing this woman, his wife of nine years, for mak­ing him jus­ti­fy his actions. “And I have a right to see our son.”

Laugh­ter blurts from Dani’s lips. Her eyes nar­row, pin­ning him like a but­ter­fly on wax paper. “Ohh—it’s about Ben, is it?”

Will’s eyes snap back and forth between Dani and Eric. His wife’s lover stands behind her, putting his weight on one gray-trousered leg. He scratch­es the small of his back, idly.

“Let’s not bull­shit each oth­er,” Dani lev­els. “We both know this isn’t about Ben.” She fix­es him with a stare that con­jures painful mem­o­ries. Teach­ers and school­yard bul­lies. Will fights the urge to take a step back from that with­er­ing glare. “To be total­ly hon­est, Will, I don’t think you ever cared. You cer­tain­ly weren’t think­ing about Ben when you screwed that woman—in our home. While Ben was asleep …” 

Will tunes out the stream of vit­ri­ol, catch­ing only brief snip­pets of her dia­tribe. Occa­sion­al words— “nar­cis­sist, borderline”—cut through the flim­sy men­tal bul­wark he’s erected. 

Rage expands in his chest.

“Fuck you, Dan­i­ca,” he retorts, after she’s final­ly stopped talk­ing. He looks at Eric, who’s tak­en a step for­ward. “How dare you accuse me of being the prob­lem, when it’s YOU who won’t pick up the phone,” he says. “Who refus­es to accept an apol­o­gy. Did I screw up? Yes, I admit it. Am I per­fect? No. No one is. Not you, or Hot­shot over here—” He points at Eric, whose face has lost its smarmy expres­sion, and now glares, too, a look of pure scorn.

Gri­mac­ing, Will returns the glare, and says, “And you, Eric, should be ashamed of yourself.”

Dani almost screams, caus­ing the passers­by on the street to stop and glance at them. “You’ve con­firmed every­thing, Will. Bra­vo! You’re actually—truly fuck­ing sick. I feel sor­ry for you. But this has to end. You need to stay away from us. Me and Ben. You’re … you’re not okay.”

In that moment, Will wish­es more than any­thing to just dis­ap­pear. He can’t abide these accu­sa­tions from the woman he loved for so long. The moth­er of his child.

His heart feels crushed, a pulped, bit­ter fruit in the cav­i­ty of his chest. 

He wants to run before the tears come on. Before the shame over­takes him—shame his father exploit­ed when he was young, when he’d unload his angry dia­tribes, some­times with the hard end of a belt. He can’t bear to have his wife—and most cer­tain­ly not Eric—see him suc­cumb to tears. 

In a slimy lay­er, sweat cov­ers every inch of him. He feels light­head­ed. Dry-mouthed. He takes a step back as Eric takes a step for­ward. He’s about to give in to cowardice—proving his dad right, once and for all—when a snuf­fling sounds in the dis­tance, a scrab­bling of dirty nails on pavement—

Then a lacu­na … He’s on the ground. Ribs staved in by black patent leather. Eric grunts as his foot con­nects with Will’s stom­ach, his gut. Will winces, curled on his side like a slug. 

Past the kick­ing legs, he spies the old man, hunched like a ques­tion mark in a thin cardi­gan. The knobs of his bony fin­gers hold the leash that restrains the bark­ing hounds. They’re a growl­ing, rav­en­ous para­dox: mus­cu­lar yet starved, skele­tons delin­eat­ed under the mot­tled hair. Eyes black and glossy; teeth bared, slaver­ing drool. 

Help …

Will beck­ons to the man, grate­ful the enig­mat­ic fig­ure has sensed his dis­tress sig­nal and come for him. As boot meets chin, Will’s head jerks back with a thud. Blood leaps. A tooth parts, swim­ming loose, and he spits it out onto the ragged grass. On the ground, col­lapsed on his side, Will mut­ters an entreaty to the old man, attempt­ing to meet the cold, lev­el gaze. Silent­ly, he begs the man to loose the hounds. But the old man and the dogs remain still, watch­ing from a dis­tance. The hounds are motion­less as stat­ues or orna­men­tal top­i­ary. Will imag­ines it would take only the slight­est nudge from their mas­ter for them to leap for­ward … but the old man sim­ply watch­es, gelid gaze fixed on Will. A smile splits the sal­low face. As if he, too, is enjoy­ing this—reveling in Will’s shame and disgrace.

Air­less words punc­tu­ate the kicks to his back and side. “Leave—her—ALONE, Will. Enough—is—ENOUGH!” 

THWH-UP

THWH-UP

THWH-UP

A kick snaps Will’s jaw to the side. His mouth fills with blood. Spit­ting anoth­er tooth out, it lath­ers his chin in a crim­son froth. He looks up, grog­gi­ly, past the gath­ered spec­ta­tors, for one final entreaty—this time focus­ing on the dogs.

But they’re gone. 

Only the old man remains, hold­ing the leash in his knob­bly skele­tal hand.

Lips cracked, slicked with red, Will smiles. He looks up, notices the beat­ing has stopped. Dani and Eric stand back, heav­ing deeply, hold­ing each oth­er. Dani’s eyes are filled with tears. She claws inside her purse, then, pos­si­bly for her phone, maybe to call an ambu­lance or the police. 

Lying on his side, Will racks his mind for some­thing to say, one last sen­ti­ment, but he rec­og­nizes the futil­i­ty of speech. 

So instead, he barks.

Dark red spit­tle swings. His face a twist­ed mask.

With amuse­ment, he notes the looks on his wife and her lover’s face—expressions of unmasked terror—which, despite the agony in his lungs and chest, gal­va­nizes him, makes him bark loud­er. 

Aghast onlook­ers stop and stare, shar­ing in his shame and humiliation. 

Will pays them no mind. He fix­es his gaze on the old man, who stands on a rise, apart from the crowd—bent, with­ered, and smiling. 

He meets Will’s gaze and nods.

On hands and knees, Will snarls and yaps, stac­ca­to bursts of fero­cious noise.