Hiss of Death

Why don’t they hurry up?” Pewter paced on the kitchen counter, her food bowl depressingly empty.

“She’s got a bee in her bonnet,” Mrs. Murphy explained. “The poor man can’t shave in peace. She’s perched on the toilet seat, yakking away.”

“I don’t care if she’s late for her breakfast. I want mine on time.”

The brass pendulum with the large rounded bottom swung in the old railroad clock. Harry loved that clock because it was so easy to read and because it came from the old whistle-stop in Crozet. Her mother saved the clock from the pretty little brick station when it was phased out.

Tucker looked up at the rhythmic swing.

Harry, old large T-shirt serving as a nightshirt, padded into the kitchen in her elk-skin slippers. She could have snuck up on a human, but the three animals heard her.

“Where’s my breakfast?” the gray cat demanded.

“Who said you were first?” Tucker grumbled from the floor.

“Pewter, shut up. I’m getting to it.” Harry slapped down a can of food but did not yet open it. First, she washed out the cat bowls, followed by the dog bowl.

“I don’t care if the bowl is clean.”

“I do.” Mrs. Murphy quietly waited.

“You’re a priss.” Pewter kept bumping Harry’s elbow as she washed.

“Pewter, leave me alone. I have half a mind not to give you canned food.”

“Never! Never. I will exact a revenge more terrible than you can imagine,” the gray threatened, but she did stop bumping.

Dressed for work, Fair came into the kitchen. “Thinking about what you said.”

Harry walked over to the coffeepot, which she’d set up the night before, now pressing the on button.

“Don’t make coffee. Feed me!” Pewter howled.

Finally, Harry took the manual can opener and opened the can, the aroma of chopped beef filling the room. She bypassed electric can openers because she thought they wasted electricity, but also she wanted to use the muscles between her thumb and forefinger. A manual can opener gives them a workout.

“I’m feeling faint.” Pewter wobbled.

“Give this cat a scholarship to the American Academy of Dramatic Arts.” Mrs. Murphy had had about enough.

Harry filled the two bowls. Pewter immediately shut up. Then Harry opened a can for Tucker and put the food in her ceramic bowl.

“Thank you,” the corgi politely responded.

“Peace and quiet.” Harry poured her husband’s coffee.

“You didn’t want eggs, did you?”

“Honey, no,” she said. “Cereal’s good.”

He’d put down two bowls before asking, so now he opened the fridge, took out milk, and poured some in a striped ceramic pitcher.

As they settled at the table, Fair returned to the conversation in the bathroom. “Steroids used by equines are usually in bottles about the size of a pint of milk. Glass. It would make no sense to put a glass bottle of steroids, whatever the type, in one of those cylinders. Plus, there wouldn’t be enough money in shipping just one bottle at a time.”

“That’s what Coop said about cocaine and prescription drugs. The cylinders are too small, but Fair”—she put down her spoon, lightly smacking the table for emphasis—“the cylinders are not a coincidence. They mean something important.”

“Honey, they might. But whatever it is, I have no idea. Those cylinders are perfect for shipping sperm. I don’t know if they are perfect for anything else.”

“Okay, back to steroids. Is there a lot of money to be made?” Harry asked.

“Not so much in the equine world. There are laws against using them in flat racing. Enforcement is another problem, but you can use them in other equine sports and—unless there is blood testing at the events—you can get away with it. Steroids, I mean.”

“Fair, you look at a horse and you can tell.”

“You can. I can. A person assigned by the government to draw blood, maybe not. They aren’t always vets. I hate to say this about my own profession, but someone offers twenty-five thousand dollars to shut up at that event, someone else might just take it. Or you take a sample of blood that’s clean and substitute that for the blood of the horse loaded up on steroids. Kind of on par with urine testing for humans. Before the authorities cracked down, you could use someone else’s urine or someone else’s blood. Now you pee on command.”

They both laughed.

Then Fair continued, “But the thing about steroids is if you give them to a yearling, the animal develops a robust musculature. But the bones aren’t completely set, especially at the joints. And I do not believe they are at two, but we race them at two, and you know how I feel about that, so I’ll shut up.”

“I feel the same way, but this has as much to do with a tax structure that mitigates against agricultural pursuits. The way things are now, a breeder, an owner, needs to put the horses on the track way too early. You just can’t afford to keep them that extra year while they continue to mature.”

“That’s why I love sitting with my beautiful wife at the breakfast table. You’re off and running.”

“I know.” She lowered her eyes for a moment.

“Trainers are so sophisticated these days about when to use steroids and when to drop off, even I have difficulty telling sometimes. But if I’m looking at a two-year-old that looks like a perfectly conditioned three-year-old? Steroids, no doubt. Beyond that, when they’re older, if I don’t draw blood, I don’t know, because the musculature is consistent with age. And it’s the same for humans. Steroids give any competitor an edge.”

“Especially in strength sports or sports where you take a beating.”

“And there is a fortune in selling them. But using cylinders to ship? No. I’m no help to you. I’m frustrated, too. I guess you could ship contraband diamonds or emeralds. But we haven’t seen any jewelry around here.”

“It’s driving me crazy.”

Fair savored his coffee, then set the heavy Bennington pottery mug down. “Let it be. You have more important things to focus on, like your recovery.”

“I feel fine.”

“Harry.”

“Okay. I don’t feel fine after radiation, but then I come back. I feel good right now.”

“And you still have your hair.”

“Haven’t had enough radiation to lose it. Boy, when you see what happens to the people who get the one-two punch, chemo and radiation, it’s amazing they can stand up.”

“Speaking of steroids, doctors give steroids to help patients with the effect.”

“Back to legal and illegal drugs. What would you do if I lost my hair?”

“Sweep it up.” He smiled.

“I’d just shave it off, what was left. The hell with it. I’d wear a hat or something, but I’d make a preemptive strike.”

He rubbed the top of his blond head. “If I were losing mine, think I’d do the same thing.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it? People are sexually attracted to each other because of their looks, and then you lose them one way or the other: illness or age.”

“You will always be that gorgeous girl I fell in love with when you were a junior in high school. Don’t care if you’re one hundred.”

“Ha!” She loved it, though.

“He’s smart,” Mrs. Murphy noted.

“Hey, he keeps her happy.” Tucker adored Fair.

“If he doesn’t keep her happy, some other man will,” Pewter, finished, declared.

“You are such a sourpuss,” Mrs. Murphy said.

“No, I’m not. I tell the truth. That’s the way humans are. They need to pay constant attention to one another or else. One cat’s observation”—she puffed out her chest—“but what a cat.”

Mrs. Murphy made a gagging sound. “I’m going to throw up.”

Harry stood up, grabbed a paper towel. “You eat too fast, too much, and then you drink water.”

“It’s Pewter. I’m fine.” Mrs. Murphy jumped off the counter and exited through the cat door to the small screened-in porch off the back door.

Then she went out the pet door in the outside door and trotted to the barn.

“It can now be said that you can empty a room.”

“Oh, shut up. She’s acting like an old Virginia biddy.” Pewter snarled at the dog.

• • •

Three hours later, the chores were done and the cats and dogs were returning to their normal good humor—or as good as Pewter could manage. Harry lifted the hatch on the Volvo, and the cats jumped in.

On her hind legs, Tucker put her front paws on the car’s back end.

“Upsy-daisy.” Harry lifted Tucker’s hind end, and the dog was in.

First Harry stopped at her husband’s clinic. He was in the lay-up barn, checking on a patient who had a twisted gut. Fair had operated in time: No portion of bowel had atrophied or become necrotic. He removed the knot, and the animal would make a full recovery. The trick was in keeping the horse calm while the incision healed. For a time, that meant administering a light sedative.

While he was in the barn, Harry plucked a yellow shipping cylinder from the storage room. She didn’t tell Fair, and he didn’t know she was there.

Her next stop was Heavy Metal Gym.

At 10:30 A.M., the place was much quieter than it was when she worked out. The lunch crowd—looking for a fast workout—would trickle in starting at 11:30 and fade out by 1:30 P.M. Then, at 5:30 P.M., people would come in and the gym would be full until about 8:00 or 9:00 P.M., depending on the day. The late-night crowd wrapped it up at 11:00 P.M.

Another perfect day at seventy-two degrees. Harry, following one of her odd hunches, put the windows down two inches for the animals and grabbed the cylinder. “I’ll be right back.”

The three said nothing, but as she left, Mrs. Murphy said, “I wish she hadn’t taken that cylinder.”

The other two nodded in agreement.

Out on the floor, Noddy was spotting for Annalise, flat on her back at the bench press.

Waiting until Annalise finished her exercise, Harry walked over. “Hey, what are you doing here at this hour?”

“My day off. It’s nice and quiet now. I don’t have to listen to that awful music the men play.”

Noddy replied, “Yeah, it is awful, but they love it. Unfortunately, there are more of them than people with good musical taste. Cock rock, as I call it, does nothing to make you lift harder and better. But it’s one of those myths that will die hard. They believe it, so therefore it helps them.”

Annalise laughed. “True. Still, it might be hard to work out to Mozart.” She noticed the cylinder. “What do you have in there?”

“Nothing. It’s used to ship horse semen.”

Annalise’s hand fluttered to her breast. “Glad you said that. I’d be worried if you’d come in here for the guys.”

Harry laughed. “They give it away for free. If it belongs to a horse, you pay and you pay a lot.”

At this, the three cracked up.

Noddy asked, “Need something?”

“Oh, I dropped by to ask you if you think steroids could be shipped in this. Fair says they come in big bottles and you couldn’t ship enough in this cylinder.”

“Harry,” Noddy said evenly, “if I tell you I know where to buy steroids, even what the stuff comes in, then I’m compromised. Every serious gym owner in America has to be extra-careful.”

Chagrined, Harry apologized. “Noddy, I’m so sorry. It never occurred to me.”

“Well, there’s no one here but us, but Jesus, Harry, don’t even ask me anything like that in public. Do I know about the stuff? Of course I do. Is it sold in my gym? I’m not selling it, and no one is selling it inside these walls. I’d lose everything I’ve worked for and my good name to boot.”

“Again, I’m sorry, Noddy.”

“Is it sold outside?” Noddy shrugged. “I have no doubt, but I don’t pry. However, anyone can go to any serious gym, and I emphasize ‘serious gym’—not the matching-leotard-and-top kind of gym—and find their way to better living through chemistry.”

Annalise seconded this. “That’s the truth.” She looked at Harry. “You know what our drug laws do? Screw up everybody but those on the take. We can’t stop drugs. I don’t care if it’s cocaine or steroids. So why don’t we grow up and consider these substances something to be controlled, like tobacco and alcohol? For one thing, it would stop a lot of suffering. For another thing, it would devastate organized crime. And if you quote me, I will say you are making it up. Our drug laws have turned me and most doctors into hypocrites. Actually, they’ve turned most Americans into hypocrites.”

“That and sex.” Noddy now sat on the bench next to Annalise.

“If a fifteen-year-old kid playing linebacker on the JV football team was considering taking anabolic steroids and they were controlled but legal, he could talk openly to a sports doctor. And that doctor, if he or she was responsible, would inform the kid that yes, they will improve his performance, but at his age they could have terrible consequences for his health later. For one thing, they could really damage his liver, and for another thing, there can be unpleasant emotional side effects while one is taking them.”

Noddy nodded vigorously. “She’s right, Harry. As it now stands, that fifteen-year-old reads some studies, Googles information from bodybuilding sites that show muscle growth through chemistry, and the kid learns to buy stuff on the black market. He then takes powerful drugs with no supervision. I see it more than most. A kid like that always takes too much.”

Annalise jumped in again. “The other thing, Harry, is what if you have a bad reaction to an illegal substance—any illegal substance? You’d be afraid to tell your doctor. Instead, you’ll wait and hope it passes. What if it doesn’t, and you overdose? The policies we have now are cruel, flat-out cruel, and bloody stupid.”

“Noddy, did you ever take them?”

“Harry, you go right for the throat.” Noddy shook her head. “Yes. When I was young, I was very, very lucky to find a doctor—call him crooked if you like—but I followed instructions, never went over the line, and stopped when I’d achieved my goal. My competitive days are long gone, and I stopped shall we say ‘chemical enhancement’ years ago. There’s nothing in my system.”

“Wouldn’t you be stripped of your bodybuilding titles like that Olympic sprinter?”

“Yes. More than one athlete has been stripped, but you’re referring to Ben Johnson,” Noddy said, naming the great Canadian athlete. “And the ones prancing about saying it was unfair competition, that when they ran they were clean. I don’t believe one word.”

“Come on, Noddy. Some athletes are clean,” Harry argued.

Annalise said, “It’s true. Not everyone takes those things, and not everyone is a liar, although I think most are. They have to be.”

“If they didn’t take the drugs, who would pay to watch baseball, football, or basketball?” said Noddy. “We’ve become accustomed to fantastic performance. Really fantastic, in all professional sports. We’d be bored. When you get right down to it, the reason all this goes on is because more people want it than don’t.”

“I opened a can of worms. I’m sorry.” Harry looked at the cylinder, still no closer to her objective but full of information about other things. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Noddy meant it, too.

• • •

Later, about 3:30 P.M., way in the back with her sunflowers, Harry reached into her hip pocket for her cellphone. What was going on had hit her like a bolt of lightning. It was obvious, but before now she couldn’t see it. Nor could anyone else. Well, something is obvious once you know.

The animals tagged after her as she headed for the barn, where she’d left her cell in the tack room.

In the distance, she heard the crackle of wheels on the dirt road. She ran for the tack room. Too late.