Lessons in Chemistry(41)
The friendly Formica countertop was gone too, as was the old ceramic sink. In their place, she’d crafted a countertop template using the plywood she’d purchased from the lumberyard, a template that she’d then taken in pieces to a metal fabrication company, which had created an exact stainless-steel replica, bending and cutting the metal to ensure a perfect fit.
Now atop these gleaming countertops sat one microscope and two used Bunsen burners, one courtesy of Cambridge—the university had given it to Calvin as a memento of his time there—and the other from a high school chem lab that was shedding equipment due to a lack of student interest. Just above the new double sinks were two carefully hand-lettered signs. waste only read one. h2o source read the other.
Last but not least was the fume hood.
“This will be your responsibility,” she told Six-Thirty. “I’ll need you to pull on the chain when my hands are full. You’ll also need to learn how to press this big button.”
* * *
—
Cal, Six-Thirty explained to the body below on a later trip to the graveyard. She never sleeps. When she isn’t working on the lab, or doing other people’s work, or reading to me, she’s erging. And when she isn’t erging, she’s sitting on a stool staring off into space. This can’t be good for the creature.
He remembered how Calvin often stared off into space. “It’s how I focus,” he’d explained to Six-Thirty. But others had complained about the staring too, grousing that on any given day at any given hour, one could find Calvin Evans sitting in a big fancy lab surrounded by the very best equipment, music blaring, doing absolutely nothing. Worse, he was getting paid to do absolutely nothing. Even worse, he won a lot of awards this way.
But her staring is different, Six-Thirty tried to communicate. It’s more of a death stare. A lethargy. I don’t know what to do, he confessed to the bones below. And on top of everything else, she’s still trying to teach me words.
Which was awful because he was unable to give her any hope for the future using these words. Besides, even if he knew every word in the English language, he still wouldn’t have any idea what to say. Because what does one say to someone who’s lost everything?
She needs hope, Calvin, he thought, pressing hard against the grass in case that made a difference.
As if in reply, he heard the click of a safety being released. He looked up to see the cemetery groundskeeper pointing a rifle at him.
“Ya damn dog,” the groundskeeper said, lining Six-Thirty up in his sights. “Ya come in here, ya mess up my grass, ya think ya own the place.”
Six-Thirty froze. His heart pounding, he saw the aftermath: Elizabeth in shock, the creature confused; more blood, more tears, more heartache. Another failure on his part.
He sprang forward, knocking the man hard to the ground as a bullet sailed past his ear and plowed into Calvin’s tombstone. The man cried out and reached for his gun, but Six-Thirty bared his teeth and took a step closer.
Humans. Some of them didn’t seem to grasp their actual status within the animal kingdom. He sized up the old man’s neck. One bite to the throat and it would all be over. The man looked up at him, terrified. He’d hit the ground pretty hard; there was a small pool of blood now forming just to the left of his ear. He remembered Calvin’s own pool of blood, how large it had been, how it had gone from a simple ooze to a little pond to a big lake in a matter of moments. Reluctantly, he propped himself up against the side of the man’s head to stanch the flow. Then he barked until people came.
The first on the scene was that same reporter—the one who’d covered Calvin’s funeral—the one who was still covering funerals because his desk editor didn’t think he was capable of much more.
“You!” the reporter said, instantly recognizing Six-Thirty as the non–Seeing Eye dog, the one who’d led the pretty nonblind widow—scratch that, girlfriend—through the sea of crosses to this very grave site. As others ran up and made hurried plans for an ambulance, the reporter took photographs, composing the story in his head as he posed the dog here, then there. Then he heaved the bloodied animal into his arms, carried him to his car, and drove him to the address listed on his tag.
“Relax, relax, he’s not injured,” the reporter assured Elizabeth as she swung open the door, crying out at the sight of a blood-matted Six-Thirty in the arms of a vaguely familiar man. “It’s not his blood. But your dog’s a hero, lady. At least that’s the way I plan to spin it.”
The next day, a still-shaken Elizabeth opened the newspaper to find Six-Thirty on page eleven, sitting in exactly the same spot he’d sat seven months ago: on Calvin’s grave.
“Dog Mourns Master and Saves Man’s Life,” she read out loud. “Cemetery Dog Ban Lifted.”
According to the article, people had long complained about the groundskeeper and his gun, including several who reported he’d shot at squirrels and birds right in the middle of funerals. The man would be replaced immediately, the article promised, as would the grave marker.
She peered at the close-up of Six-Thirty and Calvin’s ruined tombstone, which, thanks to the bullet’s impact, had lost about a third of its inscription.
“Oh my god,” Elizabeth said, taking in the chipped remains.
Calvin E
1927–19