Free In Persuasion Nation by George Saunders Page A

any reason, crossed the schoolyard,
then, believe me, there is not a dog in the world, no matter how
crazy—
    And
my wife felt the same way and had not come out of our bedroom since
the tragedy.
    So
Father you are saying no? said Uncle Matt. You are refusing?
    I
pray for you people every day, Father Terry said. What you are going
through, no one ever should have to go through.
    Don't
like that man, Uncle Matt said as we left the Rectory. Never have and
never will.
    And
I knew that. They had gone to high school together and there had been
something about a girl, some last-minute prom-date type of situation
that had not gone in Uncle Matt's favor, and I think some shoving on
a ball field, some name-calling, but all of this was years ago,
during like say the Kennedy administration.
    He
will not observe that dog properly, said Uncle Matt. Believe me. And
if he does notice something, he won't do what is necessary. Why?
Because it is his dog. His dog. Everything that's his? It's
special, above the law.
    I
don't know, I said. Truly I don't.
    He
doesn't get it, said Uncle Matt. He wasn't there that night, he
didn't see you carrying her inside.
    Which,
tell the truth, Uncle Matt hadn't seen me carrying her inside either,
having gone out to rent a video—but still, yes, I got his drift
about Father Terry, who had always had a streak of ego, with that
silver hair with the ripples in it, and also he had a weight set in
the Rectory basement and worked out twice a day and had, actually, a
very impressive physique, which he showed off, I felt—we all
felt—by ordering his priest shirts perhaps a little too tight.
    Next
morning during breakfast Uncle Matt was very quiet and finally said
well he might be just a fat little unemployed guy who hadn't had the
education some had, but love was love, honoring somebody's memory was
honoring somebody's memory, and since he had no big expectations for
his day, would I let him borrow the truck, so he could park it in the
Burger King lot and keep an eye on what was going on over at the
Rectory, sort of in memory of Emily?
    And
the thing was, we didn't really use that truck anymore and so—it
was a very uncertain time, you know, and I thought: Well, what if it
turns out Merton really is sick, and somehow gets away and attacks
someone else's—so I said yes, he could use the truck.
    He
sat all Tuesday morning and Tuesday night, I mean not leaving the
truck once, which for him—he was not normally a real dedicated
guy, if you know what I mean. And then Wednesday night he came
charging in and threw a tape in the VCR and said watch, watch this.
    And
there on the TV was Merton, leaning against the Rectory fence,
shuddering, arching his back, shuddering again.
    So
we took our guns and went over.
    Look
I know I know, said Father Terry. But I'm handling it here, in my own
way. He's had enough trouble in his life, poor thing.
    Say
what? said Uncle Matt. Trouble in his life? You are saying to this
man, this father, who has recently lost—the dog has had trouble
in his life ?
    Well,
however, I should say—I mean, that was true. We all knew about
Merton, who had been brought to Father Terry from this bad area, one
of his ears sliced nearly off, plus it had, as I understood it, this
anxiety condition, where it would sometimes faint because dinner was
being served, I mean, it would literally pass out due to its own
anticipation, which, you know, that couldn't have been easy.
    Ed,
said Father Terry. I am not saying Merton's trouble is, I am not
comparing Merton's trouble to your—
    Christ
let's hope not, Uncle Matt said.
    All's
I'm saying is I'm losing something too, said Father Terry.
    Ho
boy, said Uncle Matt. Ho boy ho boy.
    Ed,
my fence is high, said Father Terry. He's not going anywhere, I've
also got him on a chain in there. I want him to—I want it to
happen here, just him and me. Otherwise it's too sad.
    You
don't know from sad, said Uncle Matt.
    Sadness
is sadness, said Father Terry.
    Blah
blah blah,