The Stairway to Summer
Breakfast was brief; something pulled out of the dark of the sparsely stocked pantry. The man no longer bothered with labels, it was too dim to see and his eyeglasses had worn down to two cracked, smudged lenses long popped out of their frames. The can was rectangular with a pull-top, no dents. Bacteria not time causes spoilage ran the comforting refrain he remembered from his 10th grade science teacher. Although he figured six (eight?) years was pushing things.
The man wolfed his portion down in two bites, swallowing hard, trying to keep the vileness from touching his tongue. Thankfully, his sense of taste and smell had long abandoned him. Days earlier he had crabbed the last of the desiccated coffee grounds from the sides of the last instant coffee jar, so he had to chase that morning’s mystery meat down with the impure rain water.
By some blessing or curse the rain had kept coming throughout, gray and bitter, surely poisonous. The man collected it in a wide milk jug with the top cut off, ominously blackened from years of buildup. What it had been doing to his insides he didn’t dwell on. The one time he’d tried bathing with it his skin had itched for days, with no salve. Now he let the grime cake on his skin. When bored he would claw it away, leaving fingernail shaped rivulets of pale flesh on his arms and legs. Oh what he wouldn’t give for one more hot shower.
“Come and get it, Oscar.” The Shih Tzu walked stiffly over to eat what the man had shaken onto the unclean tile floor. “Good stuff here, Oscar,” he said, idly scratching the dog’s greasy, pointed head, gently knuckling the little knot of a tumor. Hardship had winnowed the short-backed little thing to skin and bones. Oscar’s natural persona was friendly and frisky, the more people around the happier. It had been a lean, lonely time. “You’re a special dog, Oscar,” he whispered in Oscar’s ragged ear (and was again grateful his olfactory senses were shot). “A special dog,” he repeated, until he got a tail thump.
The spark in the dog’s little brown eyes remained. Oscar had not been eating well lately, perhaps due to the new tumors weighing down his undercarriage, adding to his collection. But the dog, like the man, was a survivor, living on the toxic air every morning and every night. They each had the other, and so far that had been just enough.
The man’s own bones protruded right on the surface of his skin, like an ill-made doll with wires poking through. He couldn’t bear looking at the haggard old man in the mirror. The less said about his clothes the better: Two tattered robes alternated every morning, five hole-ridden socks. The underwear had been torched long ago, a mercy killing.
The only times he felt sharp were in his dreams, expertise acquired sleeping in the “guest bedroom” of his folks’ house, Oscar curled atop his cold feet. He had become a professional level dreamer, in a specific genre. Once asleep he would float up the staircase to the house’s second floor where the layout more or less corresponded with his waking reality. Then up to a fantasy third floor and upward (depending on when his cold feet signaled that Oscar had risen). Oftentimes an antiquated birdcage elevator whisked up and down through a central oculus.
Yet he always took the stairs, tireless feet never touching ground. The balustrades and carpets and interiors changed at the turn of every flight, Romanesque to Gothic, curved to rigid, an endless vertical run that defied time and geometry.
Unusually, his dreams had temperature -- warm and breezy. Some flights were simply open terraces. Vast mullion windows allowed in oodles of bright natural light. A structure with no obvious purpose. Approaching the overgrown windows, he could look down and see the mass of black cloud below him, the blue sky before him. The vastation had invaded his dreams, yet he stayed above it, rising further and further above it with each turn of the stairs.
No one else was there. Not even Oscar, though somehow he knew Oscar was safe somewhere. No food either, surprising for someone who in real life was slowly starving.
xxx His waking life was He lit the lantern and pawed through the pantry. Yep. Couldn’t put it off any longer: Time for another round of light housebreaking for undented cans. Over time he had cleaned out a six-block radius of the surrounding houses taking mental notes on which were empty of food and which contained decomposed bodies. Out of necessity, he had stopped feeling guilty about rooting through dead people’s belongings.
Oscar whined behind him as the man unbolted the door. “Sorry, boy, you’re staying here. I’d have to carry you anyway. And you get scared, remember?”
He closed the front door, watching as the door sliced the view to the hallway to nothing. The last thing he saw was Oscar’s weak wagging tail.
He blinked in the dim, fuzzy world. Should have brought his lenses to hold up to his eyes, but honestly the world looked better this way.
During previous jaunts, the dog’s eagerness to get out of the house had quickly withered; instinctively Oscar had clung to the man’s legs, shrinking away from the bleak surroundings -- the overgrown patches interspersed with the scorched, cindered outlines of houses that had caught fire and been left to burn. He knows the world has gone bad.
Every morning, the man would examine Oscar’s brown eyes to check that that perverse spark, that questioning concern, that willingness to wag through another day of pain, remained. Every morning, he had decided Oscar wanted to keep hanging around.
And if it came to pass one morning that the spark had died? His father’s pistol currently lay among the dust balls and ancient Playboys under the old man’s side of his parent’s old bed. The weapon’s mechanism had not been tested, but it only had to work once.
Twice.
Twelve bullets in the brittle paper box, none in the chamber: He wasn’t that proactive, or that eager, frankly. Oscar was frail and trusting and would hold still. And whatever feelings the man had afterward would not endure too long.
And if the man himself didn’t wake up one morning? Don’t stand on ceremony for me, buddy. Though the man wouldn’t make much of a meal these days.
Regretfully he looked at the rusted bicycle propped by the garage door. It had been a godsend in the early years, but too much rain and whatever else was in the atmosphere had rusted it stiff, and he didn’t have the heart or the arm strength for the strenuous task of manually pumping the deflated tires up.
He began walking, and again experienced the feeling that the windows of the surrounding residences were glaring at him. The sensation was no less unpleasant for being ridiculous. He knew no one was alive inside.
Years of neighborhood ransacking meant he’d been forced to widen his radius. Fortunately, between broken windows, decayed doors, or lack of action by the now-absent owners, access was usually easy. If not, there was usually a brick or chunk of sidewalk to facilitate things. Though he’d never gotten used to the sound of shattering glass.
But he came up dry on the new block. Of fourteen houses, nine were accessible, three with desiccated corpses. None had usable canned food; his only treasure was a spare can opener.
He considered pushing on an extra block. Which really meant two extra blocks, counting the return trek.
Pretty soon you won’t be able to walk at all, he reminded himself; do it today.
Groaning inside, the man pushed down one more street, and the universe tossed him a nickel at the fourth house down -- no bodies, and a stack of Dinty Moore ready-meals in the pantry, no dents, expired eight years ago. They’d be fine, probably.
Stuffing the loot into a garbage bag, he threw the bag over his shoulder and left the house by the window he’d come through. He fancied returning home like Santa Claus to Oscar, whose tastes admittedly were not gourmand.
By now, the dog would be working out his agitation by sniffing around the doors as if looking for the one into summer, back to the sun and warmth he surely missed in his puppy bones. Me too, buddy.
Pretending his knees didn’t hurt, he tried to pick up his pace.
The catastrophe itself had roared and passed in under 100 hours. Then the real enemy had taken the field, an invisible one that had offered no terms. It manifested in chapped lips, lumps and sores, vomiting, burnt red skin, organ failure, then blessed death. Somehow he kept skipping the death part. As if he was being kept around, cold, sick, shivering, for giggles. Though he rather doubted any cosmic entity was sadistic enough to still tune in to he and Oscar’s sad little show.
Tired, feeling hurried, he took an unpleasant short cut, the sad, cemetery-road route that passed the swing-stilled playground. He stepped around a blurry, stinking trail of what he deduced were carcasses of dead crows and hawks. Food for the coyotes, which had survived the blasts along with cockroaches, earthworms, snakes, and the occasional mutated squirrel. “Lucky bastards,” he said reverently as he passed the cemetery. His aunt resided within, but he didn’t turn.
On that ordinary Wednesday years ago he’d abandoned his desk (blueprints still up on Zoom) and pressed his little Honda, stiff from months in a Philadelphia garage, northwestward on the old state roads he knew, while the less-knowledgeable city escapees followed frantically loaded GPS maps right onto the clogged arteries of I-80 and I-78. He’d plucked that disbelieving old aunt from the outskirts of once-Wilmington; the smoke and smell of the city’s cinders made him lament his last box of pandemic-era masks back at his apartment.
Arriving at his mother’s shingled two-story home outside Altoona, her grumpy sister and his second-best laptop in tow, he tried to convince them, and himself, that the world wasn’t ending.
Days later the aunt fell ill; within two weeks she was dead. She had been interred in the cemetery, after a ceremony attended by himself, his mother, a preacher, a gravedigger, and an insane woman.
His mother had lived nine weeks longer. He had buried her in the backyard, alone. He had scrawled a tribute on a smooth stone to mark her grave, words soon smudged to illegibility by the ubiquitous rain.
Where was he? Squinting at a knocked-over street sign, he guessed a right turn; soon the layout looked familiar again.
The internet had hung on for a time, becoming a decentralized rumor mill after all the major cities and news bureaus were ashes. Then the power went, leaving just him, the dog, and a steadily decreasing knot of neighbors, at first helpful, then hostile as the weeks went by and it was clear no betterment was on the horizon.
Eventually his outside world whittled itself down to the occasional psycho or ragged family, either moved along by the click of his father’s old handgun or put off with a few cans of potted meat. For years he’d been the last human on the scene.
Still, he locked up the house each night, in case the coyotes had evolved opposable thumbs. It filled time.
‘Til when?
But he knew. He had a responsibility. A small, old, smelly responsibility.
During his previous visits to Altoona, the man had not totally taken to the dog. Not an animal lover by nature, it annoyed rather than charmed him when the stubby-legged pup would run up the stairs and bark to be carried back down. Sometimes the game involved a sausage toy that Oscar had somehow not ripped to shreds, which squeaked and had a ringer inside.
It had been up to the man to fetch the dog down, for his mother suffered arthritis and couldn’t manage the stairs. Once the sunlight had beamed in through a bathroom window and made Oscar a shadow at the top of the staircase. Nowadays the sky was always gray. But Oscar carried on the staircase game, even as every step up came with a little yip of pain.
What did Oscar call his ragged human companion? Bruce? Paul? Beardo? Stickman?
He tripped on the sidewalk and almost face-planted.
Asshole, that’s your name. Pay attention! The last thing he needed would be to twist his ankle and be unable to get home.
He stepped over the crack, then stopped dead; a strange object had crept into his peripheral vision. He bent forward, squinting; his heart froze at the sight of the gray snake draped across the sidewalk…before it resolved into a thick sheaf of twisted steel, a wire that had fallen from the overhead pylon.
Just when he’d calmed down, a scuttling sound came; the blurred form of a large dog crouched 10 yards down the sidewalk -- but the only big dogs these days were coyotes. This was the closest he’d ever been to one. Usually they came out at night.
Beneath the panic he realized this was the most danger he’d been in since everything began.
The man couldn’t see the animal clearly, but he could well enough imagine the face tapering down to the slavering, dripping jaw. His life depended on how hungry the beast was.
(Oscar will never know)
Without breaking gaze or dropping his precious provisions, the man knelt and picked up the end of the power line. He snapped the wire, hoping it would undulate in front of the coyote like a snake. But it wouldn’t curve; too heavy and stiff.
Run? Don’t run? No googling. The low, ominous grunts suggested the beast wasn’t there for a belly rub. With no more garbage to raid for food, they had to chase down the world’s strange new squirrels -- or failing that, the frail old humans.
Does he know I’m an endangered species?
Shifting the bag, agonizing over whether to abandon it, desperation led to inspiration. Setting it down carefully behind him, he knelt down, fumbled into the black sack, and retrieved one of the cans of Dinty Moore. He cracked it open (Beef?) and threw it so it splattered on the sidewalk a few feet in front of the coyote.
As the coyote greedily licked the instant meal off the sidewalk, the man swerved around it and into the street, carrying the bag in front of him to prevent it from swinging him off balance. He listened for the thudding cavalcade of nails and snarls behind him; they didn’t come, and when he reached the next turn he started slowing, not daring to turn. You’re fine. Just don’t have a heart attack now.
Returning, he put his hand to the door to catch his breath. He put his ear to the door to see if he could hear Oscar’s whimper on the other side. He had the odd urge to tell Oscar about his little adventure over some Dinty Moore.
He heard nothing. He pushed the door open, clapped his hands, called out “Oscar!”
The hush lingered. He dropped the bag of food in the doorway.
“Oscar!”
The man peered up the dark staircase. He took up the lantern, lit it with shaking hands, and heaved himself up the stairs. Two steps from the landing, he halted.
The lantern revealed the form lying there, brown eyes looking right at him, glinting and like marbles in the light. He lifted the stiff chin. “Oscar?” He queried, one last time, but the answer was clear.
The light was out for good.
The man crawled up onto the landing, lifting Oscar’s frame to his chest. Uselessly he untangled the matted strands of the still-soft, still-warm fur. With spread fingers he lowered the eyelids. Sometime later he was able to cry, staring up at the ceiling while clutching the small body, sobs that bellowed and died without echo. Not a crier, he sounded strange to himself.
He realized something. His arthritic mother couldn’t possibly have gotten up the stairs – yet she had never had to go upstairs to fetch Oscar.
Meaning that the dog had invented the staircase game for him.
By the time he hauled himself up and checked outside, the moon was up. Responsibility had kept the man going, perhaps further than anyone else. Now there was nothing left to be responsible for.
Well, a couple more things.
He found the least ratty bedsheet in the closet, wrapped Oscar in it and carried the body downstairs. He undid the locks, ventured outside with his burden and a trowel, and scratched a hole in the dirt, not far from his mother’s grave. Lack of sun had kept the ground soft and dank, but the effort still exhausted. The man buried the dog deep, hopefully beyond the reach of beasts.
Something’s missing, he realized, too late. Oscar’s rubber sausage with the bell inside.
He exhausted himself looking throughout the house, to no avail. He went back outside and tamped the dirt over Oscar, then swept through the wild weeds until he found a smooth stone to mark the grave. The gesture felt hollow. Very soon, there would be no one left for it to mean anything to.
He cracked open all the cans he’d collected and spilled the contents on the street. Have at it, folks.
Perversely he comforted himself with thoughts of the gun. Quick and easy, straightforward and direct -- a last positive action. A ready escape. After one last sleep, one last dream of high floors and sunny windows flung into summer. Maybe Oscar would show up now.
He crawled into bed, an automatic call for Oscar! dying on his lips.
He figured he wouldn’t be able to sleep, but when his head touched the mattress he submerged instantly, which made it all the more disorienting when a rare noise called him up again, lying stiff under four blankets, back face-up on the shivering slab of reality.
Ringing.
Oscar’s toy. The man fetched his lenses, hobbled to the door and undid the locks.
The toy, or the remains of it, lay in gummy shreds on the walkway. Doubtless ravaged by a coyote (maybe the same one) who’d hoped it was real meat, not vulcanized rubber with an embedded bell.
But the spilled food was still on the sidewalk, which seemed wrong.
And he found no bell in the shreds of sticky mess.
The moon, gibbous or crescent (he now would never learn the difference) had floated into a gap within the ubiquitous cloud cover. The cataclysm had browned the sky, blotted the stars, and given the moon a sepia tone, but tonight it had a more traditional sepulchral appearance.
Tonight. His last night. He looked at the moon, white and clear. Were any other humans looking up at that same moment? Would he be the last?
He tried to force something more profound, but it was hopeless. He doubted he’d have anything new to say about the moon. All his life had been by feel, which explained why he had never tried to explicate his dreaming to himself, had never risked breaking the spell.
The moon disappeared. The resulting dark felt darker. No stars. No anything.
Nothing to see here, folks.
One task left.
He went to his parents’ bedroom to retrieve the necessary items, getting down carefully to his knees and digging under the bed.
He secured the gun, but when he reached for the box of bullets he felt soggy paper instead. The lantern confirmed the box had been all chewed up, and he could scrape no bullets out of the shag carpet. Dammit. Somehow Oscar had gotten into it. Looking for food? His creaky old dog had somehow launched a raid for bullets in the one room in the house he’d never pooped in? Confounding.
Just like the squeaky toy.
He needed another plan. But not right then. He was wrung out; the strange happenings had disoriented him. He sipped some poison water and crawled back onto the collapsed bed.
“Goodnight, Oscar,” he said. Not “Goodbye.” He didn’t have to accept the reality, even though his feet were cold and the bed too light without the displacement the dog’s scrawny frame had offered.
And then the ringing intruded again, louder, shriller.
What was Oscar trying to tell him?
Nothing, silly. Oscar’s gone. It’s just the muddled part of your brain trying to make you let go for good.
The sound was louder now, almost unpleasant. Yet he would not answer the call, though he knew the sane part of his psyche desperately needed him to. In the baroque game being played inside his head, to acknowledge the call would be the first step in admitting the caller was elsewhere.
A farewell call.
So let the bell ring within his fevered brain, let his psyche crumble. Who was left to admire his precious sanity anyway? Not him, certainly, not for long. He’d think of another way. Wasn’t there some old weed killer in the garage?
Then came the tiniest other sound: A plaintive descending note, drifting down from above.
Upstairs.
A whining pup.
Out of bed he got. Up the stairs he crawled.
On each step the man paused, listened for the sound again, muting his own ragged breath for fear he’d never heard the sound again.
There it was again, nearer, louder.
Something in his chest was spreading, making it even harder to breathe. At the same time something in the air was spreading, lighting up the way.
Three more steps, two -- and then he was floating, heedlessly moving toward the sunlight streaming and casting a familiar shadow on the stairs. He didn’t dare raise his head, didn’t risk breaking the spell.
When he reached the final step (no longer gasping) the carpet shone so bright he had to blink. The shadow cohered into a compact form; he bent effortlessly to touch it. The dog sprung up, licked his hand. The clean warm fur was shiny and unclotted, the eyes no longer questioning and vulnerable, but alert and assured.
“Hey, boy.”
Of course. Oscar hadn’t wanted his buddy joining him with a hole in his head. Somehow, Oscar had broken into the bullet box. He examined the dog’s newly lithe little limbs, tried to make it make sense, knowing it didn’t and never would.
The man had built a stairway to summer in his dreams. And Oscar had found it.
The dog kept bouncing up a set of bright yellow stairs, like he knew the way. “Where are we going, Oscar?”
The dog didn’t reply, which felt real enough, just looked back expectantly. The man followed, untiring, higher and higher.
No one can say how high they would go, or where they were going, or where they would get. But there would never be any room between them ever again.
Oscar and Mr. Man.
Clay Waters lived in Florida until the age of four and recently returned to find it hasn't changed a bit. Three of his six memories from that first stop involve the alphabet, which in retrospect was a bit of a tell.
