The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

But they could find no thorn in any of Gandalf’s paws, and this time when Timlin pulled gently at his fur, a patch on his hindquarters came out. Gandalf seemed not to feel it. The two men looked at each other.

‘Could be the mange,’ Robinson said at last. ‘Or stress. Dogs do lose fur when they’re stressed, you know.’

‘Maybe.’ Timlin was looking west, across the lake. ‘It’s going to be a beautiful sunset. Of course, they’re all beautiful now. Like when Krakatoa blew its stack in eighteen eighty-three. Only this was ten thousand Krakatoas.’ He bent and stroked Gandalf’s head.

‘India and Pakistan,’ Robinson said.

Timlin straightened up again. ‘Well, yes. But then everyone else just had to get into the act, didn’t they? Even the Chechens had a few, which they delivered to Moscow in pickup trucks. It’s as though the world willfully forgot how many countries – and groups, fucking groups! – had those things.’

‘Or what those things were capable of,’ Robinson said.

Timlin nodded. ‘That too. We were too worried about the debt ceiling, and our friends across the pond were concentrating on stopping child beauty pageants and propping up the euro.’

‘You’re sure Canada’s just as dirty as the lower forty-eight?’

‘It’s a matter of degree, I suppose. Vermont’s not as dirty as New York, and Canada’s probably not as dirty as Vermont. But it will be. Plus, most of the people headed up there are already sick. Sick unto death, if I may misquote Kierkegaard. Want another beer?’

‘I’d better get back.’ Robinson stood. ‘Come on, Gandalf. Time to burn some calories.’

‘Will I see you tomorrow?’

‘Maybe in the late afternoon. I’ve got an errand to run in the morning.’

‘May I ask where?’

‘Bennington, while there’s still enough gas in my truck to get there and back.’

Timlin raised his eyebrows.

‘Want to see if I can find a motorcycle battery.’

Gandalf made it as far as Dead Man’s Curve under his own power, although his limp grew steadily worse. When they got there, he simply sat down, as if to watch the boiling sunset reflected in the lake. It was a fuming orange shot through with arteries of deepest red. The dog whined and licked at his back left leg. Robinson sat beside him for a little while, but when the first mosquito scouts called for reinforcements, he picked Gandalf up and started walking again. By the time they got back to the house, Robinson’s arms were trembling and his shoulders were aching. If Gandalf had weighed another ten pounds, maybe even another five, he would have had to leave the mutt and go get the truck. His head also ached, perhaps from the heat, or the second beer, or both.

The tree-lined driveway sloping down to the house was a pool of shadows, and the house itself was dark. The gennie had given up the ghost weeks ago. Sunset had subsided to a dull purple bruise. He plodded onto the porch and put Gandalf down to open the door. ‘Go on, boy,’ he said. Gandalf struggled to rise, then subsided.

Just as Robinson was bending to pick him up again, Gandalf made another effort. This time he lunged over the doorsill and collapsed on his side in the entryway, panting. On the wall above the dog were at least two dozen photographs featuring people Robinson loved, all now deceased. He could no longer even dial Diana’s and Ellen’s phones and listen to their recorded voices. His own phone had died shortly after the generator, but even before that, all cell service had ceased.

He got a bottle of Poland Spring water from the pantry, filled Gandalf’s bowl, then put down a scoop of kibble. Gandalf drank some water but wouldn’t eat. When Robinson squatted to scratch the dog’s belly, fur came out in bundles.

It’s happening so fast, he thought. This morning he was fine.

Robinson went out to the lean-to behind the house with a flashlight. On the lake, a loon cried – just one. The motorcycle was under a tarp. He pulled the canvas off and shone the beam along the bike’s gleaming body. It was a 2014 Fat Bob, several years old now, but low mileage; his days of riding four and five thousand miles between May and October were behind him. Yet the Bob was still his dream ride, even though his dreams were mostly where he’d ridden it over the last couple of years. Air-cooled. Twin cam. Six-speed. Almost seventeen hundred ccs. And the sound it made! Only Harleys had that sound, like summer thunder. When you came up next to a Chevy at a stoplight, the cager inside was apt to lock his doors.

Robinson skidded a palm along the handlebars, then hoisted his leg over and sat in the saddle with his feet on the pegs. Diana had become increasingly insistent that he sell it, and when he did ride, she reminded him again and again that Vermont had a helmet law for a reason … unlike the idiots in New Hampshire and Maine. Now he could ride it without a helmet if he wanted to. There was no Diana to nag him, and no County Mounties to pull him over. He could ride it buckass naked, if he wanted to.