PARALLAX

by Jerry Donaldson

1,200 words

On Tuesday morning at 10 a.m.  Al Crawford had his dog put down at the Hillside Veterinary Clinic.  Nearly 15 years old, Charlie was blind, arthritic and worn-out.  Al paid his bill and left.

Charlie’s had been a good life. Dogs usually die before their owners.  Some men might outlive four, five, six dogs or more.  Al would get a new pup in a month or two.  He’d gotten Charlie from the breeder six weeks after old, deaf Guido was killed in the next-door neighbor’s driveway.  Guido had been sleeping under the neighbor’s Pontiac.

Al Crawford was a dentist.  After leaving the vet’s clinic he’d considered taking the afternoon off.  There were some cleanings and check-ups booked, and Francine could have phoned the patients and cancelled.  But it’s good to stay busy, they say, so he had a coffee at Starbucks and then he walked to work.

“Hello, Francine,” Al said as he hung up his blazer in the closet behind the reception desk.

“Hello, Doctor Crawford,” Francine said.  “How are you doing?”  Francine and Al had worked together for 16 years.

“I’m a little down,” Al said, “but it will pass.”

“I know. I’ll miss Charlie too.  He was a good dog and I’m happy he’s not suffering.”

“That’s right.”

Then it was time for business.  “Your 1 pm cancelled, but we had a walk-in.  He’s in the waiting room.”

“Chart?”

“He’s from out of town.  His name is Eugen Parallax.”

“Parallax?”

“Odd name, isn’t it?  Here’s his personal information.”  Francine handed over the one page form each new patient filled out.  Al watched his hand reach out and take the page from her.  He stared at it.  He heard the autoclave humming in the back of the clinic.  He heard muffled street noises through the closed door.  A full minute passed.

“Doctor?” said Francine. “Al? Are you okay?”

Al handed the paper back to Francine.  “I’m fine,” he heard himself tell her.  “I knew a Parallax once.  I hadn’t thought about him for long time is all.”

He turned and walked on down the hall to the staff washroom.  He put on his white lab coat, brushed his teeth and combed his hair.  He washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel.  He stood and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Gene Parallax was dead and gone.  He’d died in the early hours of New Year’s Day, 1985.  Slipped off a subway platform and disappeared under the wheels of the oncoming train in a screaming tangle of arms and legs.  Al remembered clutching at Gene’s arm as he fell, a desperate, hopeless grab.

Al went into the examining room, walked to the foot of the chair and turned to face his patient.  It was Gene Parallax all right.  Handsome, blond and smiling, looking just as he had the day he died.

“Hello, Al. Long time no see,” said Parallax.

“A very long time, Gene,” said Al.  “But you’re dead.  I saw you die at the Davenport station.  You fell under the train.”

“Fell, or was I pushed?”

“I wouldn’t do that, Gene.  You were my best friend.”

“Wouldn’t you?  After Julie left you got a little weird there, brother.”

“I guess,” said Al.

Julie Field.  Julie and Al had been an item through all of undergrad and into dental college. They were going to be married.  Then one day she’d met him for coffee at a booth in Nick’s Café and told him she was leaving him, quitting dental school and moving in with Gene.  Julie had then gotten up and left the café.  Al had finished his coffee and after a while he’d walked home.

Al stood and stared at his patient.  “Yeah,” he said finally, “I guess I did push you, didn’t I?”

“Did you?”

“I’m pretty sure I did.  You and I were going home from Lastner’s party.  We were both drunk.  You were laughing, doubled over with laughter at something I’d said, and you were near the edge of the platform.  Too near.  I hated you, and I pushed you off.  No one saw me do it.”

“No one?”

“No one.  And then the train stopped and the driver was out on the platform.  Cops came, and paramedics, and they pulled you out from under the train.  There was lots of blood. They covered you up and I told them you’d fallen.  Then they took you away and that was that. Life went on.”

“Did it?”

“Yes, it did. Julie moved away.  I heard she never got married.  I graduated dental college and set up a practice.  I make a good living and I have a nice little house.  I have a dog. Had a dog.”

“What happened to your dog?”

“He died”, said Al.

“Died?”

“He just got old.  Old and sick and I had him put to sleep,”

“Nothing lives forever,” said Gene.

“I guess.”

Al took up his explorer pick and dental mirror.  “Shall we take a look, then?”

“Why not?”

Parallax had perfect teeth, all natural, no work done at all.

“Your teeth are perfect, Gene.”

“They are.”

“No troubles at all.”

“None.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You know why I’m here, Al.”

And Al put down his tools and straightened up.  Yes, he knew why Parallax was here. He’d waited thirty-five years for this moment, for the torture to end.  For as Parallax had slipped under the train back at the Davenport station so long ago, his eye had caught Al’s, and Al had heard Gene’s voice in his head, heard it plainly over the screaming, the screeching brakes and the horrified shouting of the other passengers.

“Thank you, Al,” Gene’s voice had said. “I will be there to release you when your time comes.”

“Yeah, I know why you’re here,” Al said.  “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

 

*   *   *

 

On Tuesday morning there was trouble at the Hillside Veterinary Clinic.  At 9:30 a.m. the vet’s young assistant, Kayly, came out to the waiting area to take that nice Doctor Crawford’s old dog Charlie in to be euthanized.  The appointment had been made a week ago.

Kayly found Doctor Crawford sitting in his hard plastic waiting room chair, stone cold dead. Charlie sat at his feet.  The old dog watched placidly as paramedics came and took Doctor Crawford away on a stretcher.

Later on, Kayly sat in the clinic’s lunch room collecting herself.  In the waiting room out front other patients waited with their owners.

Doctor Kimble, the veterinarian, came into the lunch room.  “Are you feeling well enough to carry on, Kayly?” he asked.

“I think so, Doctor Kimble,” she answered.  “Did you know Doctor Crawford very well?”

Doctor Kimble looked at his watch. “Not really,” he replied.  “Al was a good dog owner, had several dogs over the years.  Took good care of them and when their time came he did the right thing and didn’t let them suffer.”

“What will we do about Charlie, then?”

“He’s sitting in the back.  We’ll see him off, and then we’ll have to catch up with the afternoon’s appointments.”

“Yes, Doctor Kimble.