To my amazement, he dragged himself out of his chair and lumbered to the back door. With difficulty, but with a steadiness of intent and execution that could not be explained, he took himself outside. I didn’t go with him but stood at the window in case he needed me.
I spent most of the next hour watching him, dumbstruck at what I saw. I almost called Evangeline, but she was taking her afternoon nap, and her sleep had been fitful these last weeks. I also felt certain that if Rufus had intended Evangeline to be part of this—his ceremony of remembrance—he’d have arranged it accordingly. As it was, he chose me, one of his beloved humans, to witness this aspect of his final journey.
This dog, who for more than a week had been unable to support his own weight, was trudging across the acre back field, keeping up a steady pace through the long green grass. Once he reached the back gate, he sat and stared through the wire mesh at the field where deer often congregated. He had spent much time there in his life, never ceasing to be fascinated by the wildlife that ventured so close to his domain.
He sat in great stillness for nearly ten minutes. I was about to go to him, thinking his energy had failed, but he got up and plodded back to the old oak from which he’d once fallen, the remnants of Daniel’s tree house hidden in its spring leaves. Again the dog sat and stared—into the tree this time—his posture remarkably straight, as if keeping guard.
He continued this practice, moving to the empty center of the field, facing the house. I picked up binoculars and startled to see his eyes, clear and directly on mine, as if peering into my soul from that great distance. I couldn’t bear the pain and turned away. When I did, he lumbered to the other side of the house, settling beneath the old plum where he and Evangeline had lain together that first night. When he returned inside, he belly-crawled under the kitchen table, a place where he’d spent many hours, forever lying awkwardly over one set of feet or another, waiting for Daniel to slip him bits of chicken or steak, willing to accept broccoli too.
I wasn’t sure he’d make it back through that maze of chair legs, but he did, and this time when he looked at me, it seemed a warning. He went to the door that led to the second floor, pawed at it and barked, the happy bark we used to receive on arriving home. I opened it and watched as he climbed the rough stairs. Twice a hind leg slid from under him, but each time he recovered and continued his trek. At the top, he stopped and gazed down at me, a lingering gaze that can only be described as a healing, an act of pure love, a look unlike any I have ever shared with another creature. I remembered how I’d imagined Daniel coming home the week he was missing, imagined him looking down on me from the top of the stairs.
Rufus turned and headed toward Daniel’s bedroom. I didn’t follow. I don’t know why. Something private in his motions. I heard his nails on that plywood floor and his weight landing on Daniel’s bed, though how he managed such a feat I couldn’t say.
About ten minutes in, I heard a whimper and went to him.
I hadn’t been in Daniel’s room for many months. It hit me hard to see that form on his bed, as if it might turn and rise and become my son. But of course it was Rufus, and when I switched on the nightstand light, I saw he had returned to his former state: his face fallen, his muscles melted away, his eyes shielded by that inner membrane. I lifted up my beloved dog—my son, it felt—and carried him downstairs.
In the kitchen, Rufus lay on the floor with great stillness, his cloudy eyes tracking me as I stripped the old blanket from his chair and replaced it with a soft, clean fleece. I tucked it carefully, smoothing every fold. Then I slid my arms under him, cradled him to my chest, and placed him on his chair.
Once he made his final adjustments, I began to sing.
66
She didn’t usually dream during her naps, but on this third Saturday of May, she dreamed of men and four-legged beasts running to the second floor, of brilliant light spilling from Daniel’s room, of Rufus split open, his ribs sprung apart, his heart floating in midair.
She woke with a start, and the dimness of the room, the dullness of her mind, made her twist toward the alarm. Four thirty. She’d slept three hours when she planned only one. She roused herself and made it to the toilet, amazed she’d lasted so long.
After splashing water on her face, she was returning to her room but stopped short in the hall. Someone was singing, a lone man’s voice. Supporting her belly with an arm, Evangeline walked toward the sound. A contraction stopped her halfway, forced her hand to the wall. She’d been having Braxton Hicks for weeks, and she dismissed this as nothing more. She was due any minute if Dr. Taylor were right, but she’d heard a lot of women were late the first time.
The spasm passed, and she made it to the kitchen. Rufus lay curled in his chair. Isaac knelt before him, his back to the door, cradling the dog’s head in his arms. He sang in a craggy voice, a low lamentation that gave each syllable its own space.
“The o’cean is breath’ing.
The o’cean is breath’ing me.
The o’cean is breath’ing.
The o’cean is breath’ing you.
The o’cean is breath’ing.
The o’cean is breath’ing . . . us.”
It was a song not of loss but of solace, and Rufus’s labored breaths wove through that pained sweetness as if he were singing too.
A floorboard popped under her foot. A flicker of hesitation caught in Isaac’s voice and a muscle flinched at the side of his neck. He didn’t turn or stop, he simply sang the song once more. When he was done, she went in and laid a hand on his back. She saw how far gone the dog was and sank to her knees before him. She didn’t cry. Something far too important was going on.
Isaac’s full attention was on the dog, on the particularities of how his hands cupped Rufus’s head. He took another breath, and this time when he started again, she joined him, matching his tenor with her shaky soprano.
On hearing her voice, Rufus opened his eyes. She regretted the effort it took, but the look was a miracle, for it was as if the skin of the sky had been peeled away to reveal all that was or, as Evangeline later said to Natalia when attempting to explain it, “the nature of love or God or some shit like that.”
Who could say how long she was held in that place? When Rufus’s eyes released her, she was still singing, but Isaac had fallen silent. Rufus was transformed. His eyes were open and serene, his lips almost a smile. He appeared more himself than he had in months, his muscles clear and full as if he had leaped into that chair with the energy of youth. Death—having completed its task—had left his body at peace.
She threw herself on Rufus, keening and wailing, the pleasure of her grief intense.
* * *
—
WHEN SHE WAS SPENT, when she’d collapsed off the dog’s body to the floor, she felt arms slide beneath her as if to lift her like a baby. She tried to press herself up. With his bad back, Isaac shouldn’t be doing this.
As she rose to her knees, pain gripped her ribs and spine and pelvis, her bones shot through as if electric, and she collapsed to her side.
Isaac’s voice was near. “Where’s the pain?”
“My back . . . my belly.” Speaking was an effort. Her face and arms had gone clammy, and a warmth was spreading down her legs.