The Monsters of Heaven

The Monsters of Heaven

By Nathan Ballingrud

This is how it happened:

They were taking Dodger for a walk. Toby liked to hold the leash – he was four years old, and gravely occupied with establishing his independence – and more often than not Brian would sort of half-trot behind them, one hand held indecisively aloft should Dodger suddenly decide to break into a run, dragging his boy behind him like a string of tin cans. He probably bit off more profanities during those walks then he ever did changing a tire. He carried, as was their custom on Mondays, a blanket and picnic lunch. He would lie back in the sun while Toby and the dog played, and enjoy not being hunched over an engine block. As some point they would have lunch. Brian believed these afternoons of easy camaraderie would be remembered by them both for years to come. They’d done it a hundred times.

A hundred times.

On that day a kindergarten class arrived shortly after they did. Toby ran up to his father and wrapped his arms around his neck, frightened by the sudden bright surge of humanity; the kids were a loud, brawling tumult, crashing over the swings and money bars in a gabblings surf. Brian pried Toby’s arms free and pointed at them.

“Look, screwball, they’re just kids. See? They’re just like you. Go on and play. Have some fun. »

Monsters of Heaven. Photo by Elena

Dodger galloped out to greet them and was received as a hero, with joyful cries and grasping fingers. Toby observed this gambit for his dog’s affections and at last decided to intervene. He ran toward them, shouting. “That’s my dog! That’s my dog! » Brian watched him go, made eye contact with the teacher and nodded hello. She smiled at him – he remembered thinking she was kind of cute, wondering how old she was – and she returned her attention to her kids, gambling like lunatics all over the park. Brian reclined on the blanket and watched the clouds skim the atmosphere, listened to the sound of children. It was a hot, windless day.

He didn’t realize he had dozed until the kindergarteners had been rounded up and were halfway down the block, taking their noise with them. The playground was empty. “Toby? Hey, Toby? »

Dodger stood out in the middle of the road, his leash spooled at his feet. He watched Brian eagerly, offered a tentative wag.

“Where’s Toby?” he asked the dog, and climbed to his feet. He felt a sudden sickening lurch in his gut. He turned in a quick circle, a half-smile on his face, utterly sure that this was an impossible situation, that children didn’t disappear in broad daylight while their parents were right there. So he was still here. Of course he was still here. Dodger trotted up to him and sat down at his feet, waiting for him to produce the boy, as though he were a hidden tennis ball.

“Toby?”

The park was empty. He jogged after the receding line of kids. “Hey! Is my son with you?” Where’s my son?