He had seen better.
Rosalie uttered a string of panicky yelps that grated on Ralph’s ear like the sound of unoiled hinges.
So far it’s only happened on its own but maybe I can make it happen. Maybe I can make myself seeSee what?
Well, the auras. Them, of course. And maybe whatever Rosalie (three-six-nine lion) was looking at, as well. Ralph already had a pretty good idea (the goose drank wine) of what it was, but he wanted to be sure. The question was how to do it.
How does a person see in the first place?
By looking, of course.
Ralph looked at Rosalie. Looked at her carefully, trying to see everything there was to see: the faded pattern on the blue bandanna which served as her collar, the dusty clumps and tangles in her uncared-for coat, the sprinkle of gray around her long muzzle, After a few moments of this she seemed to feel his gaze, for she turned, looked at him, and whined uneasily.
As she did, Ralph felt something turn over in his mind-it felt like the starter-motor of a car. There was a brief but very clear sense of being suddenly lighter, and then brightness flooded into the day.
He had found his way back into that more vivid, more deeply textured world. He saw a murky membrane-it made him think of spoiled eggwhite-swim into existence around Rosalie, and saw a dark gray balloon-string rising from her. Its point of origin wasn’t the skull, however, as had been the case in all the people Ralph had seen while in this heightened state of awareness; Rosalie’s balloon string rose from her muzzle.
Now you know the most essential difference between dogs and me, he thought. Their souls reside in different places.
“Doggy. Here, doggy, c’mere.”
Ralph winced and drew back from that voice, which was like chalk squeaking on a blackboard. The heels of his palms rose most of the way to his ears before he realized that wouldn’t help; he wasn’t really hearing it with his ears, and the part that the voice hurt the worst was deep inside his head, where his hands couldn’t reach.
[Hey, you fucking flea suitcase! You think I’ve got all day? Get your raggedy ass over here.”
Rosalie whined and switched her gaze from Ralph back toward whatever she had been looking at before. She started to get up, then shrank back down on her haunches again. The bandanna she wore was shaking harder than ever, and Ralph saw a dark crescent begill to spread around her left flank as her bladder let go.
He looked across the street and there was Doc #3, standing between the laundromat and the elderly apartment house next door, Doc #3 in his white smock (it was badly stained, Ralph noticed, as if he had been wearing it for a long time) and his midget-sized bluejeans.
He still had McGovern’s Panama on his head.
The hat now appeared to balance on the creature’s ears; it was so big for him that the top half of his head seemed submerged in it. He was grinning ferociously at the dog, and Ralph saw a double row of pointed white teeth-the teeth of a cannibal. In his left hand he was holding something which was either an old scalpel or a straight-razor.
Part of Ralph’s mind tried to convince him that it was blood he saw on the blade, but he was pretty sure it was just rust.
Doc #3 slipped the first two fingers of his right hand into the corners of his mouth and blew a piercing whistle that went through Ralph’s head like a drillbit. Down the sidewalk, Rosalie flinched backward and then voiced a brief howl.
[Get your fucking ass over, Rover Do it now.”
Rosalie got up, tail between her legs, and began to slink toward the street. She whined as she went, and her fear had worsened her limp to the point where she was barely able to stagger; her hindquarters threatened to slide out from under her at each reluctant, lurching step.
“HEY!”
Ralph only realized that he had yelled when he saw the small blue cloud float up in front of his face. It was etched with gossamer silver lines that made it look like a snowflake.
The bald dwarf wheeled toward the sound of Ralph’s shout, instinctively raising the weapon he held as he did. His expression was one of snarling surprise. Rosalie had stopped with her front paws in looking at Ralph with wide, anxious brown eyes.
[What do you want, Shorts?] There was fury at being interrupted in that voice, fury at being challenged… but Ralph thought there were other emotions underneath. Fear? He wished he could believe it.
Perplexity and SLirprise seemed surer bets. Whatever this creature was, it wasn’t used to being seen by the likes of Ralph, let alone challenged.
[What’s the matter, Short-Time, cat got your tongue? Or have you already forgotten what you wanted?] [“I want you to leave that dog alone!”] Ralph heard himself in two different ways. He was fairly sure he was speaking aloud, but the sound of his actual voice was distant and tinny, like music drifting up from a pair of Walkman headphones which have been temporarily laid aside. Someone standing right beside him might have heard what he said, but Ralph knew the words would have sounded like a weak, out-of-breath gasptalk from a man who has just been gutpunched. Inside his head, however, he sounded as he hadn’t in years-young, strong, and confident.
Doc #3 must have heard it that second way, for he recoiled momentarily, again raising his weapon (Ralph was now almost certain it was a scalpel) for a moment, as if in self-defense. Then he seemed to regroup. He left the sidewalk and strode to the edge of Harris Avenue, standing on the leaf-drifted strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street. He hitched at the waistband of his jeans, yanking it through the dirty smock, and stared grimly at Ralph for several moments. Then he raised the rusty scalpel in the air and made an unpleasantly suggestive sawing gesture with it.
[You can see me-big deal! Don’t poke your nose into what don’t concern you, Short-Time.” The mutt belongs to me!] The bald doc turned back to the cringing dog.
[I’m done fooling with you, Rover! Get over here! Right now.”
Rosalie gave Ralph a beseeching, despairing look and then began to cross the street.
I don’t mess in with long-time business, Old Dor had told him on the day he’d given him the book of Stephen Dobyns poems. I told you not to, either.
I Yes, he had, yes indeed, but Ralph had a feeling it was too late now. Even if it wasn’t, he had no intention of leaving Rosalie to the unpleasant little gnome standing in front of the coin-op laundry across the street. Not if he could help it, that was.
[“Rosalie.” Over here, girl! Heel!”] Rosalie gave a single bark and trotted over to where Ralph stood.
She placed herself behind his right leg and then sat down, panting and looking up at him. And here was another expression Ralph found he could read with ease: one part relief, two parts gratitude.
The face of Doc #3 was twisted into a grimace of hate so severe it was almost a cartoon.
[Better send her across, Shorts I’m warning you.”] [“No.
I’ll fuck you over, Shorts. I’ll fuck you over big-time. And I’ll fuck your friends over. Do you get me? Do you-] Ralph suddenly raised one hand to shoulder height with the palm turned inward toward the side of his head, as if he meant to administer a karate chop. He brought it down and watched, amazed, as a tight blue wedge of light flew off the tips of his fingers and sliced across the street like a thrown spear. Doc #3 ducked just in time, clapping one hand to McGovern’s Panama to keep it from flying off. The blue wedge skimmed two or three inches over that small, clutching hand and struck the front window of the Burry-Burry.
There it spread like some supernatural liquid, and for a moment the dusty glass became the brilliant, perfect blue of today’s sky. It faded after only a moment and Ralph could see the women inside the laundromat again, folding their clothes and loading their washers exactly as if nothing had happened.