Big Silence Read Free Page B

finished his sandwich and reached for the fourth one on the sofa next to him.
    He was a mongrel with no name, born in an alley, the only one of the litter of four to survive. He had no memory of how he survived. He never thought about it. For him, life was simply staying alive. There were no dreams, no goals. He did have a small territory in two alleys that he protected. One was behind a run-down transient hotel off of Lawrence Avenue. It had once been a respectable place to stay, even a nearly prestigious place. But that was decades ago, long before the dog was born. Now there was the remnants of discarded meals in the alley at night, put out by an indifferent staff. The dog protected his right to the garbage from homeless cats, large rats, and, occasionally, another dog. Sometimes, though, when the humans were more careful with their garbage, he would have to roam for dark miles with cautious eyes.
    The dog’s other main territory was behind an abandoned and boarded-up bread factory on Damen Avenue. It had been closed for years, and the neighborhood was so rundown that no one had any interest in bothering to spend the money to tear it down. There was a loose board in the building’s basement. The dog knew how to push it away so he could get inside and out of the worst of the winter cold. There were corners inside, small rooms, that were almost warm.
    The dog without a name slept during the day and roamed for food at night. He did not seek fights, but he did not hold back when he felt there was food or a female worth fighting for. He lived alone and had no instinct to find a permanent mate.
    He was a gray and black creature, a bit scrawny, and about average for dog height. One ear was almost gone, the result of a battle with a larger dog over a piece of hamburger. Were he ever brought in to the Humane Society, they would find it impossible to guess the many breeds that had gone into his creation, and there would be no chance that anyone would want the ugly creature.
    He saw humans abuse and steal from each other. He had seen them kill each other. They were the breed that ruled all space and time and were definitely to be avoided. On the two occasions when he couldn’t avoid them, when they had trapped him for sport or possibly to eat him, the dog without a name had attacked. He had badly injured a man with foul-smelling clothes, had bitten his face and neck. The man had run bleeding and screaming. The dog had never gone back to that place again. His other encounter with a human had been more dangerous. This creature trapped him in a dead-end alley and held something in his hand and that had made a cracking sound and had spit something small, hard, and fast at the dog. The dog did not know how to cower. He had attacked the surprised man, leaped on him, knocked him down, and bitten at the hand and the spitting thing it held.
    The man screamed. Others were coming. The dog stopped his attack on the bloody mass that had been the man’s hand. The man punched and tried to crawl away. The dog ran.
    People, the animals that ruled without sense or understanding, were to be avoided and hidden from during the day. That was the dog’s rule, and it had helped keep him alive. And now, in darkness, a chill October wind ruffling his fur, he wandered.
    It was nearly midnight when Rita Bliss, whose real name was Rita Blitzstein, cruised up and down Lunt in East Rogers Park just off Sheridan Road. She was tired. She was irritable, and someone had parked in the space for which she paid forty dollars a month. Parking in the neighborhood of six- and ten-story apartment buildings and older courtyard buildings three or four stories high was never good. At night it was nearly impossible. Rita had once spent an hour cruising for a space and finally parked in the gas station two blocks away and left a note on her windshield saying she’d be back early in the morning and pay for having parked there. The gas station proprietor, a Croatian immigrant,