Astronomical

by Jim Meirose

Grant Ofstedahl

Frieda, tell me why, said Ben. Why?

Frieda looked up at her husband Ben across the dinner table. His gut pushed out as he tapped a fork on his roast beef plate. His words had also swiveled the eyes of their three children — Whitney, aged ten, Morgan, aged eleven, and Justice, aged twelve — toward him, and they just stared at him chewing, the four of them all chewing as he went on after forking a large cut of red meat into his mouth; he spoke as he chewed, as was his habit.

I shouldn’t have become a lawyer, Frieda. I shouldn’t have.

Why are you saying that? said Frieda — you never said anything like that before. What—

He swallowed deeply as he went on, saying, After a day like the one I’ve had today, Frieda — I don’t know if I should tell you about it — after all, the kids.

What is it the kids can’t know? said Frieda — what?

Yeah, what Dad? said Whitney from inside his plaid shirt.

Dad — tell us, chorused Morgan from her dress.

As Morgan’s feet tapped the floor, Justice’s narrow eyes said to Ben, Come on, we’re not babies. What happened today?

Yeah, Ben, what? said Frieda lower, lower, lower in tone, so as not to spook her husband; some husbands, many husbands, every husband actually — they all are easily spooked. Like dogs on a walk; they need to shit; but won’t squat just anywhere; wrong noise, wrong movement, no shit. Men are much too easily spooked, yes, much too particular about where to shit. But Ben was not spooked, he went on.

Okay, here it is. They brought me a case today about dogs.

Dogs?

Dogs on a walk need to shit — how’d he hear me —

Yeah, dogs. Some people bought a big dog — I can’t remember the breed, but it was a big dog — and they didn’t know this dog had been some rich guy’s attack dog, and was brought to the shelter when the rich guy died. The dog is like, six years old. And an attack dog. I swear to God what happened what ended up happening, what? They’re suing him, is what, and the shelter for like — an astronomical amount of money.

He looked down and plunged his three-tined fork deep into the thick red bloody slab of meat before him; a weapon it had become. Astronomical; it was a weapon stuck in the bloody meat of the one hated, maybe, thought Frieda — astronomical — the fork is stuck in the bloody red meat and she thought, Pull it out, pull that weapon out, astronomical, and just go on with the story, tell us more — like telling the dog never mind this and that — just go ahead and shit astronomical. This spot is good as any other; so, shit.

Like, what’s astronomical? asked Morgan. Million dollars — five million, ten million?

Yeah, what’s astronomical? chimed Whitney.

Yeah, what? oozed Justice. Frieda never thought they should have named their oldest Justice — after the drinks in the restaurant they decided that name went along with Ben being a lawyer; seek Justice, Ben always said. In every situation, follow the fork in the road that leads to justice. There are many forks in the road, he had said blearily, slowly rotating his wine glass and staring into the dull red. Did you know a professor of mine said that all the time, did you know that, Frieda, or did I never tell you that?

No, but just go on with the story, Ben — tell us more, said Frieda with some effort, trying, to get the fork; the deadly form fork in the road yanked out pulled out — what’s the story, Ben? Go on and shit already; astronomical.

Frieda’s words provoked from Ben a torrent of a story from the gut, like puke, like cleansing puke after which the headachy hangover feels almost livable, after the cleansing puke that starts bringing you back to life, fades down the headache, turns down the volume knob to zero, shuts you all off. Ben came to life, and it flowed out across the table in its stench across the food, and all, and they all stared at it flowing as something runny, suddenly runny, flowing from him just like flowing astronomical, from a dog’s straining anus.

Anyway, to make a long story short, these people didn’t know this had been an attack dog and they brought it to the dog park once and again and again, and they got to know the people there and the dog acted fine just ran and played like it was just a regular dog.

He paused for breath. He stabbed at the blooded meat, exhaling, inhaling.

Yes? said Frieda — so come on! What happened at the dog park?

Uh, well, one day I guess the dog got too hot, and too excited and all these people who know each other by this time and whose dogs all know each other — well one of them said something that was the wrong thing; some word that the rich guy set up to trigger the dog; and the dog turned attacked and tore apart three other dogs, bit three people, and being so large —

God almighty!

Yeah, God almighty is right, you ought to picture this: the dog being so large they couldn’t stop it so they all ran from the dog park, some with their dogs, and some without, and the dog was inside the fence running wild after the few dogs that were left but, long story short, somebody called 911 and the cops came and ended up shooting the big attack dog dead. But it had already killed a lot of dogs and bit a lot of people so the people whose dogs died and who were bitten are suing the owner of the dog, and the shelter that didn’t tell them it was an ex-attack dog, and as a matter of fact, they want to sue almost every official in the county — they are gone stark raving nuts yelling screaming crazy. So that’s what came across my desk today. That’s the kind of evil shit came across my desk today — oh sorry kids for cursing I really didn’t mean to — but it’s bad. Bad.

The three children set stock still, forks set down, blanched in their faces, hair stuck on end, and Frieda looked into the face of her poor suffering Ben, who had to talk; he needed to talk so he went on to say, You know, that’s what comes of choosing the wrong dog at the shelter. Choices, he said. Life’s all choices. In my job you find out that people almost always make the wrong choices. You know what I mean, Frieda? Do you know what I mean?

With that he glared at her, his eyes bulged from his beet-red face, waiting to see what she thought of the story; he rammed more meat in his mouth and chewed mouth closed waiting, and as he waited she thought as she often thought when she watched him eat, how does he get such huge gobs of food into his mouth? Look how much is in his mouth! Cheeks out, big head, I don’t know about the dog; I don’t know but his chewing and his bloodshot eyes and his big head bulging pulled the dog almost out of sight, but she opened her mouth to get it back.

Yes, I suppose they do, she said — pick the wrong dog, pick the wrong time to look away when you’re driving, pick the wrong time to hit the road in a storm — pick the wrong spouse, pick the wrong person to hire — to fire —

Pick the wrong place to walk a dog and —

Yeah, he said stabbing up his fork. That’s a big one, honey — pick the wrong person to hire. Pick the wrong person to fire. Pick the wrong dog to join the family. Pick the wrong person to join the team — pick the wrong job to take, pick the wrong profession to pursue, pick pick life is always making you pick. Enough already you know — you know, kids? You hear me? Life will make you pick and pick every day, so be careful — be careful — when you get my age you find out that’s all life is really about from beginning to end. Picking and picking and picking.

The children’s empty plates lay before them, below the stares flaming out from them, going into their Father, they and he both fascinated. Father never talks this much, thought Whitney; I don’t really know what Father is talking about, but I sort of do in a way, thought Morgan; and Justice, the only one of the three still chewing his last bit of meat, thought nothing but Father has a really, really big head. I never noticed that before; but it’s true, really true. His head is twice the size it needs to be for his body. Why was he born that way? Why was he born —

Anyway, Ben — whose lawyer are you? asked Frieda, touching the rim of her plate — did the people who lost dogs and got bit come to you or —

His arm shot up.

Or the other, you ask? Sure, it’s the other. It’s the stupid jackass got the dog from the shelter. I’m defending him against a big lawsuit. You see, I usually am the lawyer for the one suing but this time the guy being sued came to me for defense. A pal of mine who does our investments pointed this jackass to me. And what the hell is there to defend here? This guy is clearly at fault —

But if he didn’t know the dog was dangerous how is it his fault?

He should have chosen more carefully at the shelter, sputtered Ben — he should have asked more questions he should have known, you know — what’s reasonable is what he should have done. And he didn’t. He didn’t. The dog should never have been adopted. The shelter knew. The dog should have never been advertised as adoptable. It’s a mess of wrong decisions, Frieda. Well though, now, enough of that — is there more of that meat? Is there enough? I want more of that meat. It’s delicious, honey. You sure know how to cook a big slab of meat. Hah. That’s funny — big, big slab of dead meat. Ever think of it that way, Frieda? Kids? You’re eating dead meat. Dead meat — comes from the slaughterhouse in big, steaming bloody slabs; and what’s on the table goes in and comes out, like on the lawn in the grass when the dog gets done.

Ben, okay, that’s enough, Frieda said — as her eyes flicked toward the children trying to tell him watch it, Ben, the children. This is pretty strong stuff for the children — tell you what, look on the stove; there’s a serving of meat left, Ben. Let me give it to you.

She rose and stepped to the stove, reached and gripped the meat pan handle, and a thrill of pain like an electric shock came up her arm and further up: hot! Too hot! screamed her brain. Much too hot it shot into her, a long thin sharp dart of pain that pulled her hand back and brought the other up to grip it.

God! she exclaimed — I forgot the potholder, I forgot this was so hot. God damn, God damn! Shit it hurts!

She never cursed. The children flushed wide-eyed as she went on further.

I burned my hand let me see I burned my hand let’s see oh it hurts —

My God, let me see, said Ben. She came to him and he examined her palm of lines; all the lines, the lines, in her palm meant something; the lines came into her eyes, trying to replace, soothe, salve the pain in her hand; and with Ben’s grip tight on her wrist and his blazing eyes locked into hers she remembered a book she had read when she was just a little bit older than her children, about how to palm read. Every line meant something; every line and every fork in the lines and then forks in those forks and so on; she took her hand from him. Again someone somewhere magic behind the scenes turned down a volume knob toward zero and everything disappeared forward past that moment of pain, looking to find the next one.

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Jim Meirose’s work has appeared in numerous magazines and journals, including Offbeat/Quirky, Permafrost, North Atlantic Review, Blueline, Ohio Edit, Witness, Alaska Quarterly Review, and Xavier Review, and has been nominated for several awards. His e-book “Inferno” was published by Underground Voices, and his novels “Mount Everest” and “Eli the Rat” are also available. For more information, visit www.jimmeirose.com.