The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [25]
Throughout January 1990, things began to disappear from our house at an alarming rate. First, it was the television and VCR, and then the microwave. After that, it was the two space heaters and my hair dryer, my mother’s small radio cassette player, and my father’s barbecue grill. I soon noticed that certain pieces of furniture were missing as well, and the heat was turned down. On the first of February, the phone company disconnected our phone, and three times after that, I had to meet the gas man at the front door and lie for my father.
“My father called this morning from Argentina,” I said to him once. “He said to tell you that when he gets back he’ll pay you the full amount we owe. He got caught up down there. His mother is ill.”
I think that winter was the hardest time in the history of my family. My father began taking pills of all descriptions, and no longer stuck to the ones he was prescribed. My mother claimed migraines and stayed in bed during the day. They never talked to each other. And as they came to the end of any money they had saved, my father clearly held my mother responsible, claiming any money ever given to Junior (even as little as five dollars) had led to this.
They never turned the gas off, and I remember thanking God because it was the coldest winter I’d ever lived through. Between the snow and sleet falling outside and the chilly reality engulfing our life—appliance by appliance—I found it hard to believe in anything but blind faith until spring came.
Emer didn’t sleep that night, as she lay curled in the cold den listening to the terrible noises of war around her. She could hear animals suffering, people screaming and crying, and wounded men moaning. Some of the injured were Oliver’s and some were local men, but they didn’t sound any different from each other. The gurgling of bloody throats all sounded the same.
By dawn, the village was silent but for the sound of hungry livestock and distant artillery. A cock crowed. Emer wanted to look for her mother or father, but no one was moving yet on the knoll, so she lay for over an hour watching a dying blue bottle fly instead. It spoke to her, pushing tiny, barely visible circles into the dirt.
Bzzz. Bzz. Bzz.
On its back and helpless, the fly went round and round while Emer could do nothing but watch and listen.
Bzzzz. Bzzz.
Bz. bzzz.
zzz.
She felt as helpless as she had when Padraig fell, but this time, she watched until there was no more life left. She didn’t pinch her eyes shut.
bzzz. bzz.
zzz.
zz. z.
A man appeared on the road in a fancy uniform and chest armor, smiling. In the dull morning light, Emer could barely see him, but she saw his large teeth reflecting the rising sun.
The man walked confidently to the tall castle tower and looked up its high, blackened wall. He turned to a smaller man in a less-fancy uniform. “That will have to come down,” he said. Then, the sound of a giddy child playing. Emer looked out and saw a wandering little boy, no older than three, giggling to himself, seemingly oblivious. The armored man ordered him killed without a second’s thought. “Nits breed lice,” he said, and then walked out of her view toward the remains of the church.
Emer heard footsteps, and turned to see a pair of boots blocking her tunnel. Her heart pounded as she held her breath and stayed quiet.
“Emer?” someone whispered. Her heart leapt at the sound of a familiar voice.
“Daddy?” she said.
The man crouched down and looked through the tunnel. It was her father’s brother, Martin, the serious one.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Padraig told me yesterday in case we got separated.”
“Padraig is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Mammy and Daddy?”
He shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”
“You