Lunar Park
I projected shame emanating from him.
I could hear the dog saying: “You are f**ked up. You are f**king absurd.”
I realized that everyone was looking at me, expecting something.
The presence of the dog seemed to be a question answered, and this was followed by—I could feel it—collective relief.
“Look, this thing was not a golden retriever, okay? The golden retriever was outside barking its ass off. The golden retriever wasn’t even in the house. And that dog is not capable of knocking those doors off their hinges.”
Silence again.
And then Officer Clarke said, “Mr. Ellis, the dog was in the house—we found him in the kitchen.”
The officers were asking the children what they had seen.
When Sarah shyly turned away from them, I said, “Honey, you don’t have to say anything.”
Sarah told them she had seen “a lion.”
Robby shrugged, uncertain. When asked by Officer Boyle if it could have been the dog, Robby kept shrugging. Robby did not look at me when he made this gesture. Robby did not look at me when he confirmed that what had invaded the house was not human but an animal and that it could have been the dog. But, Robby stressed, it was dark and he had kept his eyes shut during most of “what happened.”
I realized I was the only witness at this point.
Officer Boyle asked me, “Have you had anything to drink tonight, sir?”
Push the trapdoor open. The gulls are squalling. The wind gusts toward you. Your father is standing on the walkway of an interstate overpass.
“Pardon me?”
You heard him, the writer hissed.
Boyle moved closer and, lowering his voice, asked, “Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”
“I don’t have to answer that question. I’m not operating a motor vehicle.”
(I realized I had never used the term “motor vehicle” in any sentence I had spoken or written during my entire life.)
Marta was still holding Sarah as she listened carefully to this exchange.
I was also highly aware of Robby’s presence at this point.
Look at how dignified and sexy you are, the writer said. Quite the dad you turned out to be. Drunk and spazzing out over some kind of monster in the hall. What a guy.
The officers were becoming less concerned and more remote.
“Listen to me, whatever this was came in from the woods,” I pressed. “And it was not our dog.” Helplessly, I turned to my son. “Robby, tell them what you saw.”
“Dad, I don’t know what I saw,” he said, anguished. “I don’t know what I saw. Stop asking me that.”
“There was a half-empty bottle of vodka on your nightstand, Mr. Ellis.”
I didn’t know who said this.
“And you think this is evidence of—what?” I managed.
“Mr. Ellis, are you on any medication?”
“Yes. I am. Actually, I am.” This was answered in the defensive manner of the guilty addict.
“What is it that you’re taking?”
“It’s really none of your business, Officer, but I’m taking very low dosages of Klonopin for an anxiety disorder.”
(The irony: I had never felt more sober in my entire life than at that moment.)
The four officers looked sharply at one another.
“And you were drinking while taking this medication?” one of them asked.
“Look, I can see where you’re going with this.”
Officer Boyle was looking at me with a very basic and casual disapproval.
“Mr. Ellis, I think maybe you should call the doctor who is prescribing this—”
“Funny. That’s really funny. In front of my kids. Great, guys. Really nice.”
“Why should Daddy call a doctor?” Sarah was asking Marta.
“Mr. Ellis, all I’m suggesting is that if this thing comes back, you should call your doctor—”
“I did not hallucinate anything tonight. Something—and it was not our dog—in fact it was something very undoglike—was in this house.”
“Mr. Ellis, calm down—”
“Listen, um, thank you, Officer O’Nan and Officer Boyle and Officer Clarke and”—I gestured at the fourth—“whoever you are and you’ve all been a fabulous help and I’m—”
“Mr. Ellis—”
“Look, something invaded my home tonight and attacked me and my kids and scared the living shit out of us and you think I hallucinated this thing? You’ve been a big help. You can all go now.”