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Show be angry." He wasn't angry, he was remembering. The dogs coming much too close to the fire. Looking for food, finding none. And in their hunger, and confusion, and perhaps for distraction, two of them mating in front of the Arabs. Philip put his knuckles to his eyes, blinked. It was nearly dark now and the air was thick. Above the cemetery, Jonathan's cloud had risen. Tonight there would be no stars. And remembers, the boy picking up the shovel, loading it with live coals from the fire. No stars and very little kindness. What was it that filled the night air? Philip raised his nose and sniffed. The wind had started to blow. It was the smell of ozone, the stench of change; something he had forgotten? Remembers, the boy sneaking up behind the coupled dogs, theatrically positioning himself behind them, depositing the shovelful of hot coals over them. The smell was the smell of hot burning terror. And Philip remembers the screams, so nearly human, as the dogs- still locked together-returned to the desert, dragging each other in turns, mutually imprisoned by their sex. The Arabs laughed. Philip turned away; and as his guests gathered with their plates around the grill, around the chicken, he went to the house to turn on the yard light. As he walked, dust rose at his feet. The wind carried it away to the south. At the house he stood perfectly still, listening to the sound of someone breathing behind him. |
