Disconnect

Twenty-seven years went by, and she kept fondly in touch with Alex. Then his phone went dead. Anita learned that Alex's sister, Kimber the shrew, had placed Alex in assisted living in Connecticut. Anita called Kimber, but the shrew then told Anita to reach no more.

A shrill ring jarred Anita from her reverie. A systems test, but how long was I standing here? She glanced self-consciously around the cafeteria, then keyed herself through the service entry, walking the service line and chatting with her helpers while inspecting the steam table. All seemed in order: lasagna, chicken nuggets, hamburgers, mashed potatoes, and a choice of vegetables. She went to the tray return and powered up the dishwasher. The machine came up to temperature, and she gave it a run, throwing up the door and pulling the strainer as it completed its cycle. Alkaline steam billowed out and floated rapidly to the ceiling. With five minutes until A-lunch, she rolled a drink cart from the walk-in and then took up her station on the service line. As Mack set the lunch tables, Anita signaled the cashier to open the service doors. The bell rang, lockers clattered, and students angled into the cafeteria. Two more lunches followed the pattern. Anita's spent the rest of her workday calling in orders and overseeing the cleanup.

Pups had a 4:30 p.m. appointment with the veterinarian, so Anita left work an hour early. She went down the loading dock stairs and started her truck before brushing snow from the windows. Anita left the parking lot and, reaching the interstate, merged into faster traffic. Sun glare from the opposite lane caused her to narrow her eyes as she sped along the freeway and thought about Joe.

A month had passed since she'd visited him at Canyon State Penitentiary since she'd suffered the humiliation of being patted down and then escorted to a visiting room. She'd sat on a plastic chair at a grey metal table, her fingers interlocked, the edges of her hands on the worn surface. Anxiety had checked her movements, caused discomfort, and kept her from looking about the room at the other convicts and their visitors. Moisture collected between her breasts and around her waistline. A thin leather belt cinched material too tightly to her skin. An electronic click cut through the hushed voices, and a door opened. Two guards stepped through and then came Joe, lowering his head to clear the doorframe. He wore heavy leg shackles. A third guard flanked him. He was Big Joe to the men who'd witnessed him lift a five-hundred-pound anvil from the back of a flatbed and carry it into a blacksmith's shop. Anita searched his face. Joe had his father's face without the complexity, a simple face made overly simple by the ravages of illness.

The doctors called it rheumatic fever, bad enough to affect Joe's brain. Maybe. But the fever left nothing to chance. Joe had been a healthy boy until he went to bed sick. Three days later, he was a halfwit. As an adult, he'd been able to work repetitive jobs, but he lacked common sense. Grifters found him an easy mark, and Anita had been forced to position herself between Joe and the world. She'd done what she could, but she couldn't change Joe's fate. His eyes betrayed what Anita's heart already predicted: the effects of a cage on the ponderous industry of Joe's mind.

He sat opposite Anita at the table. His eyes followed her hand as she reached out and rested it on one of his.

"They let me put money in your commissary account, Joe. Pups sends her love. Are you still working in the laundry?"

He made no response. They'd keep him forever; he was too scary for anything else. They sat silently as half an hour ticked by, and then one of the guards touched Joe's shoulder, saying, "It's time to go, Son. He pulled his hand away, and Anita understood. He'd disconnected.

They'd taken Joe away on the day before Christmas. She'd sent him out to purchase a Christmas tree saying,

"Ask them for white pine, Joe. A white pine."

She'd handed him cash. She started wrapping gifts as soon as he'd left. She put bows on them all and brought decorations from the basement. She hung a stocking for each of them on the fireplace mantel and then sat at the kitchen table awaiting Joe's return. Joe came through the front door carrying a small dog, "I've named it Pups," he said, grinning strangely. His watch cap was missing. She asked him where he'd found the animal. Joe described a cornfield, saying Pups came from the sky. Where was the tree she'd sent him for? The police arrived an hour later and took Joe into custody. He'd killed a man. Eric Sutherland later testified at Joe's trial.

"That's right," said Sutherland. "Mr. Witt came to our lot looking for a tree."

"Joseph Witt, the defendant?" asked the prosecutor.

"Yes, Joe Witt. He wanted a white pine. I told him we didn't have that species. I picked out a good tree and offered it to him at a discount. He said no. He didn't want it because it didn't look like white pine. He didn't grasp that we had no white pines on the lot. He kept saying, white pine, like his brain was locked in that single orbit. There was no getting him off it. And then he tried stuffing bills into one of my jacket pockets. It was scary because he was powerful, and I could see he was simple. I didn't want to anger him, so I stood there, but he tore the pocket, and I told him to stop. That's when his expression changed. It was baleful, and that spooked the hell out of me. I called out to the trailer for Sonny. I wanted Mr. Witt to know I wasn't alone, that's all. Sonny came out of the trailer carrying an ax handle. I swear to Christ; he thought he was John Wayne or something. Excuse my language. I told him, 'Put that thing away, for fuck's sake.' But Sonny walked straight up to Mr. Witt and started waving that ax handle around. I was like, 'Knock it off, Sonny; he's simple.' He snapped his fingers in Mr. Witt's face, saying, "I don't give a shit how big you are, dummy." I'll tell you now; those were Sonny's last words. Mr. Witt took the ax handle away from Sonny and assaulted him with it. It's hard to describe what that single blow did. It pulverized Sonny's neck. I mean, he was nearly decapitated. I ran for the trailer, thinking I'd be next to get it, but Mr. Witt took off across the street and ran into Pickard's cornfield. That's about everything I remember. I called an ambulance and the cops."

Anita took an offramp and then weaved through the side streets to her house. Pups lifted her head and peered over the edge of her basket as Anita entered the door. The dog biscuits sat untouched in the pantry. She knelt next to the basket and rubbed Pups' head.

"We have someplace to be, Pups. Remember I told you this morning?"

Pups yawned and put her head back down.

"You want to be carried? Well, you're not so heavy."

Anita lifted the basket and fit it under one of her arms. She carried Pups to the truck. On her way to the veterinarian, she stopped at a shopping plaza with a pet store. Pups twitched in her basket as Anita searched for a parking space. She cracked a window and got out of the truck, momentarily startled by her reflection as she swung the door shut. Is that what I look like now? An annoying jingle played as she opened the pet shop's entrance. She stopped to admire a topsy-turvy parrot, clawing about a large cage with a slice of apple in its beak. Open barrels of dog biscuits sat at the back of the shop. She went from one barrel to another, determining if the difference in biscuit color meant anything. Every barrel had a similar odor. She decided the colors meant nothing. One barrel had pig ears; she thought she'd be sick. She selected green and maroon biscuits, scooped them into a brown bag, and headed for the checkout. A young girl with beautiful eyes opened the bag and peered inside suspiciously at the counter.

"They're only dog biscuits. Did you think it would be pig ears?" Anita asked.

"Those things are sooooo disgusting," the girl said. "Some of them still have the hair. So gross." She wrinkled her nose and shivered.

"Not what you'd call fragrant either."

"Noooooo," said the girl, laughing hysterically.

Her laughter was the badge of her wellbeing: uncomplicated. A little poison leaked into Anita's veins; her smile weakened. She wanted to cry, but she held herself in check. Don't let it happen. But the girl's limpid beauty, the open sky in her face. I am she.

"Can I tell you a secret?" the girl asked, leaning closer to whisper in Anita's ear. "My boss is partial to the orange biscuits. He dips them in his coffee when he thinks nobody sees. That's him standing at the other register."

Anita shot an embarrassed glance toward a smallish man wearing a lab coat.

"That's not nice," Anita smirked.

Anita found Pups sitting up in her basket back in the parking lot. She placed a maroon biscuit in the basket, then paused and thought about the counter girl.

"One more stop, Pups, then it's home."

The receptionist at the animal clinic was pleasant, leading Anita and Pups down a sterile white hall to the examination room. No sooner was the door closed than it reopened. The veterinarian walked in, nodded curtly, and placed Pups on the exam table. Anita sat in a chair as he began the examination. Pups sat very still, her head hanging as if she were studying her front paws.

"She doesn't feel very well," the veterinarian said.

"What does that mean?" Anita asked, distracted.

"I'd like to test Pups for heartworm, Ms. Witt."

Anita stood very quickly, fished a tissue from her purse, then held it nervously to her mouth.

"Heartworm? I don't know what that means,"

"Ms. Witt?"

Anita's eyes darted around the examination room.

"I won't listen to this!" she said, wringing her hands. "Did you know they locked my son up for life?" She cried. "Of course, you don't. Why would you?"

She tried to reel herself in. It was too late.

"I worked thirty useless years at a job most people wouldn't give two shits about!"

"Ms. Witt, I'm sympathetic toward--"

"Oh, don't you fucking dare speak to me as if." Her voice shrank to nothing. "As if...as if."

She folded her arms tightly across her body and pulled back defensively. She trembled, then broke apart, weeping piteously, reaching out as if to embrace something unseeable.

"Why? Oh, God, why? My flower...my precious flower."

The examination room door opened, and the veterinarian's assistant walked in, frowning.

"Angie," said the veterinarian, "would you please bring Ms. Witt a water bottle?"

Angie left the room, returning quickly with the water.

"I'm sorry," said Anita, regaining herself. "I can't do this. Please don't let Pups die."

"Oh, Honey, no," said Angie, stepping forward and gently rubbing Anita's back. "Pups isn't going to die."

"Ms. Witt," said the veterinarian uneasily. "I'm prescribing a simple blood test. Nothing more. Even if Pups tests positive, there are treatment options."

"Then you'll help her?" asked Anita, suddenly hopeful. "Yes, please do that. I don't care about the cost."

end