By Annie Morford
As the sun rose, so did Roger’s beasts. Hoots and howls, roars and growls; a cacophony of animal cries to accompany the morning’s first rays of light. He didn’t want to wake up, though. Not today. It had been eight years today.
He ran a hand through his unkempt gray hair and sauntered into the kitchen to make breakfast. Roger ate his cornflakes standing up, leaning on the garish orange formica countertop. There wasn’t anywhere to sit, really—he had gotten rid of the dining table and chairs when Mary’s condition worsened a few years back. Family dinner was a thing of the past for the Greenwoods.
He tossed his dish into the sink, and poured an extra bowl of corn flakes to put on Mary’s bedside table. They slept in different rooms; Roger couldn’t stand the sound of her machines. His wife managed to sleep through the machine’s whirs and clicks as well as the animal ruckus; her medications made her a deep sleeper. Today, Roger was glad of this. When she woke, she would want to talk about Gene. She did every year when the anniversary rolled around. She wanted to talk about feelings and coping and how good he had been, how kind and selfless and brave.
But Roger didn’t want to talk about Gene. He didn’t want to think about Gene. He wanted to forget, to fall into a blissful oblivion free of the pain of Gene’s memory, of Gene’s death. Over the years, Mary had come to peace with the death of their only child. Roger never quite had.
After the accident that left his wife paralyzed and his son dead, Roger’s collection had truly taken off—under the table deals, a simple exchange of cash. He started with wolves, graduated to tigers and bears. It was something to occupy his time, to distract him from the unrelenting guilt. In the barn, Roger was in control.
He left the cornflakes on Mary’s bedside table.
_ _ _
Roger’s truck groaned to a halt in the Walmart parking lot. He was just stepping out onto the steaming asphalt when he was assaulted by a nasally voice: “Roger? Roger Greenwood?” Dammit. “Oh, my goodness, it is you.” It was shrill, unrelenting. He considered climbing back into the truck, throwing it into reverse and going home again—but he couldn’t do that. He needed to restock his supply of food, or the beasts would go without breakfast today.
Roger turned. It was a blonde woman, a cross necklace layered over her pink cardigan set. He vaguely recognized her from church.
“You know, Roger, we were talking about you and Mary just the other day—how are you both doing? I know that the anniversary is coming up. That must be so tough.” Roger grunted. She furrowed her brow sympathetically, pursed her lips.
“We’ve missed seeing you two at services. You know, I can still see Gene all dressed up in his Sunday finest. What a sight!”
He glowered. “Oh, you poor thing. You tell Mary to just give me a call, and feel free to reach out if you need anything. It’s hard, but I just know Gene is in a better place now.”
“Mind your own damn business,” he spat.
Her mouth dropped open, her eyebrows scrunched in disgust. “Well I never!”
He turned and walked into the store. Big-mouthed bitch.
It wasn’t too crowded this early in the morning, and Roger didn’t see a soul on his way to the pet food aisle. He located the food for Large Breeds, and began loading bags into his cart.
“Sir, would you like some help with that?” Beaming smile. Annoying, eager eyes.
“No.” He tossed another bag into the cart.
The girl’s smile faltered. “Alllll righty, then. Well, just come on up to the front when you’re ready to check out.”
Roger grunted as he lifted the dog food into his cart. He didn’t need help from a scrawny thing like her. He had five bags in the cart already, though these were likely to last him two weeks at the most. The bigger cats went through it like you wouldn’t believe.
Sweat beaded on his upper lip as he stacked the last bag, bringing the count up to fifteen. The cart squeaked as he hauled it up to the checkout line.
“How did you find everything today?” the girl chirped, leaning over the conveyor belt to count the bags.
“Fine.” And then, “There’s fifteen.”
She smiled nervously and continued counting.
“There’s fifteen, damn it,” he growled.
“Right. Of course,” she squeaked, flushing red.
He slapped a wad of bills down on the counter.
There were plenty of old pick up trucks in Lancaster, and Roger’s was just one of many in the Wal-Mart parking lot. He could always find his with ease, though—the state of Ohio required drivers convicted of driving under the influence to have yellow license plates, to identify them to their fellow drivers. Party plates always stuck out a mile away, broadcasting his supposed crime for the world to see. He hadn’t been drunk, not really. A few sips of whiskey versus a fast-moving semi—Roger wasn’t the one to blame here.
He loaded the dog food into the back, bag by bag, before giving the cart a rough push towards the cart return. The engine whined as he backed out; at twenty years old, the truck had seen better days. He fiddled with the radio dial as he drove out onto the main street.
The Prius came out of nowhere. He smashed into its back end, crumpling the front of his truck and positively crushing the rear of the tiny car. The world was muted, everything slowed down.
And then, “Are you stupid?” Roger roared, wrenching open the truck door. “Did you even look?”
The other driver climbed out. She was young, a new driver. Probably distracted by her phone or her music or her boy trouble. She put her hand to her head; her fingers came away bloody. She let out a pathetic whimper; cars around them stopped.
“Well?” called Roger. His breaths were coming short and fast. “What the fuck have you got to say for yourself?”
She backed away, stopped to take in the damage. “Oh, God,” she muttered.
“I don’t have time for this,” Roger snarled. “I’ve got to get home.”
“Wait,” she said. “You can’t leave. My god,” she trailed off. “I’m sorry, but I think I need to call the cops.” She was sniffling dramatically, her bottom lip wavering, up and down, up and down—anyone could tell that it was an act. She didn’t look sorry; if anything, she looked pleased with herself—pleased to have derailed his day, pleased to have ruined his truck, pleased to have pissed off an old timer. He knew that was what she was thinking: just an old man. Let’s have some fun. And then she had careened through the light before it was even green.
They wouldn’t believe him, he knew. Not with his yellow plates. He hurried back to the truck, got in, and slammed the door. She started to cry. “Sir!” she called. “I’m calling the cops!”
Roger slammed on the gas. He had a wife to care for, he had animals to feed.
They lived in a ranch-style house barely ten minutes from the Wal-Mart. It was on a large swath of land, with a tiny apple orchard in the front and each side bordered by meadows. Gene had loved the meadows; in the spring they bloomed to life in magnificent color: flowers and berries, long grasses that swayed like dancers when the wind was just right. The back of the property held a shed and two very large barns, which were home to Roger’s animals.
He pulled up the driveway, tires crunching on gravel, and shuffled inside, dropping his keys in a bowl by the door.
“Roger? Roger, is that you?” called a voice.
He grunted. “Just me, darlin’.”
Mary lived in the back bedroom, where she had a view of the meadows beyond their property. She liked to watch the deer. Another reminder that Gene had always had more in common with his mother.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“Store.” He leaned on the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Has anyone come ‘round?”
“No. Did you remember to pick up my medicine?”
“I just got some the other day.”
She kneaded a blanket between her wrinkly fingers. “That was weeks ago, Roger. I’m out again.”
“Dammit, Mary. If you had just told me, I could have gotten it today.” He closed his eyes and sighed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, shrinking. “I thought I reminded you.”
“You didn’t. You didn’t remind me.” Mary let out a breath. Her big, brown eyes were apologetic, and Roger instantly felt guilty.
“How are you today?” she asked.
“Please, Mary.” He was exhausted. “Don’t start.” Here it was, the yearly barrage of questions and concerns. She wanted to talk. He wanted to forget.
“I miss him, Roger.”
He was silent.
“Roger, I know you miss him too. He was our boy. Please, can you just talk to me?” She was crying now, shiny tear tracks rolling down her cheeks. “Can’t you see I need to talk about this?”
“Stop.” Please, stop.
“I want to be there for you. I’m trying to be there for you, Roger.”
He got up and turned to leave.
“Roger!” She was sniffling, voice raw. “Roger, please, I need you!”
He eased the door shut behind him. Coward.
His bones creaked as he dragged the bags to the feed shed. Excited yips and growls echoed from the barn. He carefully measured out the food—one cup for the little guys, two cups for the big ones, and ground beef on top for the carnivores—and hauled it into the barn next door. He had redone the barns a few years prior, clearing out the wooden stalls and replacing them with metal barred runs, which were loosely organized by species. He had splurged at the beginning, when the money seemed infinite. He had been able to afford it then, after winning a lawsuit for wrongful termination—it was a doozy of a case, and the Greenwoods had relied on that money for years. Now, though, it was starting to run out.
It had been eight years since Gene’s death, and so it had also been eight years since he had bought his first timber wolf in an under the table transaction. He hadn’t expected the collection to grow beyond the one wolf, but then Gene died and he had needed something more. He hadn’t had Gene’s love the way that Mary had, had never connected with him quite so easily—so where was the hole that had suddenly needed filling? Roger wasn’t sure. What he did know, though, was that the animals were his own; a secret from the world. An escape from the constant reminders of his only son. His world had been out of control, but in the barn he was very clearly the master.
_ _ _
Mary knew that he had wild animals, but she didn’t know just how many there were. She assumed that there were maybe four, five at most—she had even known the first few by name, would ask, “And how’s my Lucy doing?” Her paralysis made it impossible for her to check, though, and Roger wasn’t exactly eager to tell her. He would say, “Grand, Mary, she’s grand. You know I can’t bring her in here, though, don’t you?” Truthfully, he had lost count of them all after a while, but he had to be pushing fifty.
Each morning when he came to give them their feed they would pace back and forth in their runs, eyes following him. Stalking him. They were greedy, deadly—even now, after so many years, the lionesses would sometimes test him, rushing the door and slashing their big claws at his chest. He would have to wait—hours, sometimes—for them to settle back down. On bad days, they would do it again and again and again, each time he approached to slide them their food. Days like that were hard for Roger.
The hard days, though, reminded him why he did it—here he was, a mere man, keeper of beasts who could tear him apart in seconds. But he was in control. The cages were strong, practically unbreakable. No matter how hard they strained, the animals were staying put. They were in the cages, and Roger was on the outside.
He often came out to the barn when things got to be too much. When Gene’s presence was strong, when Mary had a bad day, when the alcohol couldn’t quite free him from his guilt. He’d sit outside Lucy’s cage—she had been his first, after all. She was wild, now, but he always sensed that she loved him more than the rest. She had gotten more time with him as a baby. Roger got her a week before the accident, when Gene and Mary were visiting his mother-in-law without him. He had slept out in the barn, cuddling the eight week old tiger, easing her cries throughout the dark, cold night. They had a connection.
_ _ _
Roger sang to himself as he collected empty bowls from each cage. He held a very large stick, to drag the bowls to the door. He had to be ready, on his toes, in case they were riled up and went for an attack. He had just finished retrieving bowls from the big cats when he heard the sound of tires on the gravel driveway. He paused. They weren’t expecting company. He stacked the bowls and cautiously made his way to the barn door. He peaked out to see a cop car out front of the house. Fuck.
This was it. He already had one drunk driving charge on his record, and now he was being framed for an accident—he had left the scene, sure. But it wasn’t his fault. Mary wanted to talk to him, the church lady wanted to harass him, the cop wanted to arrest him, and Gene—well, Gene probably just wanted to be alive again.
Roger walked out and closed the door behind him, wearily approaching the vehicle. A short, balding police officer climbed out. Roger eyed his gun.
“Can I help you?” he huffed.
“Roger Greenwood?”
“Yes,” he growled. Fucker.
“You left the scene of an accident this morning.”
“Yes. My wife is sick. I had to be home. She relies on me.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s a first degree misdemeanor. We need to take you in right now.”
Roger said nothing.
“The young woman you hit was hurt. That makes this very serious.”
“I don’t want my wife to be upset. I’m in the middle of making her lunch; she can’t make it herself. She needs to eat.”
“I understand that, sir, but we’re going to need you to come in to the station.”
“Please, let me feed my wife and I’ll be in.”
“You’ve got fifteen minutes. Do I need to come inside with you?”
“No, sir. I’ll be right out.”
“Who was that?” asked Mary as Roger came inside.
“Oh, no one. Just the neighbor, looking for their dog.”
She clucked her tongue.
“Mary,” Roger started. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe it would be best if you went and stayed with your sister for a little while.”
“Are you not coming?”
“No,” he snapped, closing the drawer. He stuck his hands in his pockets.
“I don’t understand. Did I – did I push too hard?”
“I just need a break from this place.”
“And you can’t take me with you?”
“No, Mary. I can’t take you with me.” And then, “Forgive me, Mary. Forgive me.”
He left through the back door, limped back to the barns. The accident was playing on repeat in his head.
He had been driving to the airport, to pick up Mary and Gene after a week at his mother-in-law’s house. He was tired, exhausted from making their newest family member feel at home. Lucy was small, fragile—and she didn’t expect quite as much from him as the others did. They were shivering outside of the baggage claim, suitcases on the ground next to them. “There’s my boy!” Roger had called. “How was it, you two?” They had grinned, laughed, and told him about the fabulous time they’d had. He smiled bitterly as he loaded their things in the truck. Within minutes, Mary and Gene had both drifted off to sleep, tired from their travels. Roger had rubbed his eyes, tried to focus on the road ahead of them. Looking back, he wasn’t entirely sure when he too had drifted off. All he knew was that the semi came from the right, and he awoke to its frantic honking just before it slammed into the side of their vehicle. The truck seemed to slow down, and Roger had looked back just in time to see Gene’s eyes opening, filling with shock and fear. And then the semi hit, and they went flying.
Mary was paralyzed, and Gene died within an hour, never to make it past 18.
Roger’s hands quaked as he fumbled with the key ring—not from nervousness, nor excitement, but age. Losing Gene had aged him considerably.
The locks were rusted and feisty and left angry red streaks on his fingers as he tugged away at them. One by one, he unlocked the doors, leaving them in the closed position. The animals must have sensed his nervous energy, must have known to keep their distance. They were good, even the lionesses. Fifty some cages later, he stood at the end of the barn. He threw open the tall, wooden doors. And then, a snarl. The cages began to creak open behind him.
