Death by Chocolate

(or Peace and Quiet)

      Don Batchelder gave a grunt and raised himself up slowly from his knees. He brushed dirt from his palms onto his blue jeans, and stood back to admire his handiwork. The tree sat squarely in its fresh patch of dirt. Don bent over once more to pull out a weed he missed earlier, then turned and walked back into his house.

      The house was made entirely of redwood, before redwood was expensive, and well before people cared about saving it. Don had made a few renovations himself, but nothing fancy. It was still a “quaint two-bedroom, one-bathroom house on the edge of a beautiful field,” as it was described in the newspaper when Don had tried to sell it, to no avail. He was glad he hadn’t sold it now, but that was when he was young and full of “foolish ambition,” as he described it. He enjoyed his quiet life with his golden retriever: gardening in the morning, walks and naps in the afternoon, a crackling fire in the evening; nobody bothered him.

      Don rinsed his hands in the sink, grabbed a glass and filled it up at the tap. He took a long drink, then wiped the bead of water trickling down his full, gray beard. He looked out the kitchen window at his accomplishments from the morning—turning over the dirt in his two flower beds, planting new carrot seeds, and the apple tree, still against the gray sky. And he still had the full day ahead of him.

      He put a cup of food out for Floyd, the retriever, then fixed himself breakfast and a pot of coffee. The phone rang.

      “Hello.”

      “Is this Don Batchelder?” the man on the other end asked.

      “It is. Who’s calling?”

      “I saw your dog wandering around town. He’s reddish with a white spot on his chest—”

      “I don’t know how he got out. Thanks for letting me know; I’ll go get him.”

      “You’re welcome,” said the caller.

      Don put down his cup of coffee and hung up the phone.

      “That dog,” he muttered to himself.

      He picked up his keys from a jar by the door and walked to his old red pickup. He didn’t drive it except when he had to, which was mostly just to get groceries once a week. It was about a ten-minute drive into town, down a steep hill and then out towards the ocean. Don knew where Floyd would be, hanging out behind the butcher shop.

      “That dog has about enough space in his brain for one thought—food,” he would tell his friends. Nevertheless, Don loved that dog to death.

      He spotted his dog from down the street, his rust color standing out against the grey of the day. His tongue was hanging out, wagging, in time with his tail. Don stopped the car next to him and got out. He whistled then waved a piece of toast from his breakfast at the dog. Floyd’s eyes lit up, and he was in the back of the truck in no time.

      Don tied him up, then went into the butcher shop and got some prime rib. He limited his meat intake, but he was craving something to dig his teeth into.

      Don decided to spend the rest of the day with a book. He read about the Arab invasion of the Byzantine Empire, and didn’t even notice the time go by. Lunch was skipped altogether, and the sun got lower in the sky. A soft light filtered through the western windows of the house. The clouds had cleared a little. The light slowly advanced across the floor of the house, towards Don, oblivious, and completely entranced in Constantinople’s fall. As the light reached his shoulder, Don looked up at the clock. He put down his book and rose, slowly. He got dizzy if he got up too fast.

      He put some water to boil and walked outside. Don breathed the fresh air in deeply. The apple tree would be producing apples in a couple years; Don was very happy about that. Floyd lay in the garden, his chest rising and falling slowly.

      “Lazy dog,” Don called to him, and laughed.

      The light was fading fast now. Don stood on the deck watching the yellows turn into oranges and reds, and the reds turn into purples. A wind blew back his bristly hair, and he smiled.

      “Maybe I’ll shave my beard,” he thought.

      He went back inside and served himself dinner. He read while he ate, and when he was done he picked up a razor and walked into the bathroom and shaved his beard of three years without thinking. He stood in the bathroom examining his face. He had grown older since he had last looked at it. But the wrinkles fit him, he thought, and he liked being able to touch his skin.

      Don cleared the table and washed his dishes. Then he called for Floyd to come inside. He stepped onto the deck and whistled.

      “I don’t want to have to come looking for you,” he yelled out. This was one of the perks of living far away from other people; you could say anything you wanted. “Get in here!”

      Don took a piece of bread and put in into Floyd’s dish, hoping the sound of the food would attract him. He waited, then went back inside, put on his shoes and walked out into the garden. Floyd lay where Don had seen him earlier that afternoon. He walked over, calling his name softly. As he reached him, he bent over and put a hand on his chest. It wasn’t moving.

      The tears came slowly at first for Don. He hadn’t cried in a long time. He hadn’t had a reason to cry. But then the tears came in a torrent, as if all the crying he hadn’t done was being released now. His tears dripped off his freshly shaven face onto Floyd’s fur, matting it down. He lifted his head, and scratched him behind his ears. Then suddenly his crying stopped. He wiped his eyes. Don picked up Floyd and carried him into the house. He set Floyd down on his dog pillow, and arranged him like he was sleeping.

      “Tomorrow is another day,” he said as he undressed. He climbed into bed and turned off the lights. “I’ll take care of this tomorrow.”

      Don woke ten minutes before his alarm clock was set to go off. He made himself coffee and sat, looking out at the sun, which was just peeking over the mountain. He took his mug with him and wandered outside. He tried not to think about Floyd; he walked through the rows of his garden, bending to smell the flowers and stroking their petals. He bent over to pick up a piece of trash that lay between the hydrangeas and the Queen Anne’s lace. It was a wrapper from a chocolate bar. “Extra dark” it said on the outside. “70% cocoa.”  A few crumbs were left inside. In a second he understood what had killed his dog; he didn’t have to go to the vet now.

      Something was scrawled on the inside of the wrapper, and Don opened it up to read it. “You should take better care of your loved ones.” Don recognized the words from somewhere, but he couldn’t place it: a book, or a film, maybe. Nevertheless, someone had killed him.

      Don called the sheriff and reported the murder of his dog.

      “There’s conclusive evidence that there was foul play,” he told him. “I’m holding it in my hand right now.”

      The sheriff promised to have a car come around during the night to “make sure everything is all right.”

      “Great,” Don said as he hung up the phone. “That’ll really help me out.” He put his head in his hands and took three deep breaths, a habit he had picked up when he used to get stressed.

      Don put Floyd and a shovel into his wheelbarrow and took him into the field. He started digging, stopping periodically to catch his breath or stretch out his back. As the sun started its descent towards the sea, Don slid Floyd out of the wheelbarrow and into the hole. He pushed the dirt over him with his hands.

      “You were a good dog, Floyd,” he panted, still out of breath. “I’m sorry you were taken away from me.”

      Don hadn’t dealt with death for a long time, not since he had retired. Maybe it was the reason he had left his job as a forensic psychologist, but Don didn’t think about it that much. Death was something Don didn’t like to think about. He went inside and sat with his head in his arms.

      Don dreamt of his old office in San Francisco. He dreamt about how he worked on the third floor, but there was no elevator, and how the stairway seemed to get steeper every time he climbed it. He dreamt about the people that would come to visit him with their tales of woe, and about how patient he was, listening to every word they said. But the stories also got longer every time. He dreamt about having to testify in court, about his ritual before going up on the stand: pee in the last urinal, wash your hands, have a cigarette, chew a piece of gum, drink water from the fountain. Then, when the stories got too long and the stairs got too steep, he left.

      Don woke up. He remembered. The words written on the chocolate wrapper, he had said those words. Don got up and paced back and forth trying to put a face or a name to those words. He could see himself sitting in his office chair saying it, but he couldn’t see whom he was speaking to.

      “Goddammit!” he yelled. He kicked the armchair. “I moved to get away from everything. I don’t want trouble looking for me.” He poured himself a glass of water, but spilled as he raised it to his mouth.

      Don looked over at the tree he had planted yesterday; one of its branches was broken. He was almost glad, it gave him something to do. Don tied it back to where it had been broken off. He knew that sometimes the broken limb could graft back. He gave the branch a support and stood back to see if everything was at the right angle.

      Don thought about calling the sheriff again, but reconsidered when he took the phone off the hook. There wasn’t much more the sheriff could do, and besides, Don didn’t want to explain everything.

      “It’ll be fine,” he told himself.

      Don made himself the prime rib. It had been a good idea to buy it. He was sitting down to eat when there was a knock at the door. As he went to open it, he saw a man that didn’t look like the sheriff he was expecting. Instead he was slightly overweight and starting to grey. He wore a plaid shirt over a T-shirt and jeans. Don looked him over.

       “Hi,” Don stuttered.

      “Hey,” the man said. The voice brought it rushing back to him. Domestic violence case, back in ’97: Dad beat the kids; Mom stole them and ran to Alaska; Dad filed for custody. Don was called in as a special witness. This was Dad.

      “Come in,” Don said. “Have a seat. I hope you don’t mind me eating, I just sat down to dinner.” Don did his best to recall the psychologist act he put on, but it was buried deeply.

      Dad shook his head and took a seat. Don sat across from him, plate in his lap.

      “What can I do for you?” Don asked. His hands were shaking.

      “You know who I am?” Dad demanded.

      “I never forget a face.”

      “I need to talk to you. I need to tell you something.” Dad was moving in his chair.

       “You’re making me nervous,” Don said.

      Dad pulled a gun out of his jeans. He held it sideways at Don.

      “I’m making you nervous? Is that what I’m doing? You made my life into hell. You took my kids away from me; I lost my job because of you!”

      “Put the gun down. Put it down,” Don spoke like he spoke to Floyd when he wouldn’t give back the ball. “I can’t talk with a gun in my face. You’ll have to put it down.”

      Dad stood up. “I did enough talking to you, and all it got me was misery. I’m done talking.”

      Don knew it was coming; he could feel it. It was as if the world was holding its breath around him, waiting for the explosion. Don threw his plate into the air and tumbled onto the floor. The shot from the gun shattered the plate and sent the steak across the room. Don grabbed Dad’s legs before Dad could realize that he hadn’t hit Don.

      Don pulled him to the floor, surprised at his strength. The gun fell out of Dad’s hand as he hit the ground. The whole house shook. In a split second Don was up, with the gun pointed at the man on the floor. Don was dizzy and had hurt his back, but he was alive.

      Don’s door opened and he turned his head. The sheriff entered, gun drawn. Don wheeled around.

      “Put the gun down,” the sheriff yelled.

      Thoughts raced through Don’s mind, about how the situation wasn’t what it seemed, and how the man on the floor was the killer, and that the sheriff didn’t know what was going on, but Don couldn’t get any words out of his mouth.

      “Put the gun down,” the sheriff yelled again.

      Don could feel Dad moving behind him. He turned again to make sure he wasn’t going to attack him. Three shots rang out from the sheriff’s gun. Don was dead before he hit the ground.