I stop because probably he gets it, and what happens next is terrible and better left unsaid.
But he doesn’t get it. “Was one of the vets away? We had a cat for a while in Boston, and there were only two vets in the office, so it took forever to get an appointment in the summer because one or the other was always on vacation.”
“Doc Dexter wasn’t on vacation. It was hard to get an appointment because so many people’s pets were having seizures or bleeding from their mouths or growing tumors. Sparkle just lay in the kitchen with his tongue out on the tile all day long, trying to cool off in the closed-up-tight house.”
“And then what happened?”
“And then he died.”
“Holy shit!” He keeps looking at me, at my face, I think because he expects it to crack into a smile any moment now. Like I’m going to punch him in the arm and laugh and say, I’m just messin’ with you, or, Kidding! Gotcha!
But all I say is “Yeah. I know.” I do. It’s hard to hear. I get that. I would like to stop. I would like not to tell him the rest. I would like there not to be a rest.
“So what happened?” he asks, like we are indeed at the end of the story, like dead dogs is as bad as it gets, and all that’s left from here on out is the epilogue where everyone learns a lesson and cleans up the mess and moves on. But this is not that story. And this is not the end.
“The animals got sick and died. The pets and also whatever was living in the river—dead fish washing up all along the shore, dead frogs.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And then the people started getting sick. People who never had asthma before suddenly had it a lot. Rashes and burning. Seizures. Stomach problems. Headaches and coughs that didn’t go away.”
“Jesus.”
“And then people started getting cancer, and that didn’t go away either.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“No, I mean … shit.”
“Yeah.”
I let him just sit with it for a while. It’s a lot to take in. It’d be a lot to take in anyway, but it’s probably more if it’s your fault. His eyebrows have pulled into one in the middle, and he’s rubbing the spot between them as if easing them apart will also erase what’s drawing them together.
“Everyone?”
“Everyone what?”
“Did everyone … get sick or whatever?”
“No. Not everyone. ‘Increased incidence.’ ‘Statistically higher than average occurrence.’ ‘Greater than expected number of cases.’ Those are the words they use. But lots of people. Especially the people who worked in the plant. My dad.”
“Got sick?”
“Died.”
“He died?” Like he never met anyone who died before. Maybe he hasn’t. “When?”
“Six weeks before we were born.”
“That’s horrible.”
I nod. It is. “And then when we were born, well, there were some … unexpected challenges.”
“I mean three is a lot of babies.” He looks relieved to be back on solid ground conversation-wise. “My mom said she didn’t sleep through the night for three months after I was born. And she had my dad to help out. Whereas your mother…” He trails back off his solid ground.
“Not just for my mother.” I make sure to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Challenges for lots of families because another thing there was an increased incidence of was congenital anomalies.”
“Congenital anomalies?”
“Birth defects.”
His eyes are wide now. Wild. “And it was because of the plant?”
“Well, not the plant itself. The chemical. Or the runoff from the chemical. Or the runoff from the process of making the chemical. I’m not sure exactly. I don’t know if anyone is. Point is you dumped a ton of shit in the river. And it turned out, among other things, it also caused congenital anomalies.”
I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I think he probably doesn’t want to talk about it anymore either. But I also don’t see how we’re going to talk about anything else. He’s looking at the patterns my sneakers are making in the mud in front of us, hands laced behind his head, chin pressed into his chest, forearms clamped against his ears like it will block out what I’m saying. After a minute he says, “You and Monday are fine.”
As if this were consolation enough. Two out of three ain’t bad. As if Monday and I are fine.