THE DEBT

by

Rebecca Marshall-Courtois

Marco is surrounded by caged souls. Wherever he aims his flashlight, eyes reflect back at him. They peer out at him from corners, and pause to blink at him lethargically. The pacing paws of big cats offer a humble drumbeat in counter-point to the snores of their cubs. Wolves belt out hungry cries. Bears growl the blues. Birds squawk, owls hoot, monkeys chat, and beavers clap tails on man-made water holes. And from Marco's belt loop, dangling keys jingle in time.

The nightshift at the zoo isn't all that different from his previous job as prison guard. It has advantages though. For one, he doesn't have to deal with colleagues. The first thing he did after changing jobs was name the animals as if they were the old inmates. There's a turtle who has Derikson's neck, a snake who lisps like that skinny kid Alberto, and an old bear who lies around farting just like Barry from the East Wing. And just like prison, he prefers to talk with Curtis. The Canadian wolf is the image of his old best friend. The wolf really listens. After all, they're buddies. For life. "Idiots, all of them ! Told me I was too buddy-buddy with you," Marco complains to Curtis. "Just because I didn't fit in with the rest!"

Inmates made perfect conversationalists - they had little to say, lots of time to listen, nowhere to go if they grew tired of him. Curtis even seemed to enjoy listening to his monologues. A graying black man with a purple slug of a bottom lip that he pulled into a snarl of a smile whenever Marco came around to his cell, Curtis was different. The others used to spit and curse at Marco, daring him to take a step closer to their cells, but Curtis had always respected him. Thanks to Curtis, they started treating Marco differently, and even made an effort to chat with him on occasion. But they were just mocking him, Marco knew. Curtis was the only one he could count on.

The animals aren't all that different. Marco is no longer sure where he works or with whom he chats - everything has somehow blurred together in his mind. It's easier that way. "It ain't my fault they fired me, Curtis," he tells the wolf. "Bunch of jerks! Weren't for them, you and me would be living it up, huh? Never liked any of those guys. Offered me three months severance pay. I told them to keep it. Don't need it anyway. I got me one million, five hundred forty-six thousand, two hundred and fifty-three dollars stashed away for my early retirement, huh, Curtis ole boy? Thanks to you, of course. Don't worry - I haven't forgotten about your share, buddy! And my promise. Just got to get me a plan, you know?"

The wolf glances at him. Just the edge of his mouth curves upward, exposing iridescent slivers of teeth.

"You know, Curtis, sometimes I wish I'd never met you." Marco feels an old familiar shiver, looking into the icy eyes of the animal.

The wolf turns, walks to the wall and then turns to face him again. His ears remain pointed and alert, but his expression is one of indifferent tolerance. After a moment, the wolf turns away from him again and paces back toward the wall he's come from. The tip of his tail twitches from left to right accentuating the animal's snub stride. "Attitude," the inmates called it. Marco has never mastered it.

"I know, I know, I owe you. We have a deal," Marco stammers. "Buddies are supposed to take care of each other, right? Just like you said. You'll be getting out of here one of these days, and we'll be all set." He watches the wolf guarding his territory as if he has something to lose. "All my life I wanted to be rich, to have enough money to put my feet up and quit the nightshift," he says, chuckling. "But I guess my body's gotten used to sleeping all day and working all night. Can't sleep until the dawn creeps up on me. And what would I do all night if I didn't work, huh? Watch fishing programs? Who would I talk to, huh?"

Marco lets out a nervous laugh and the wolf takes a seat to pant at him. A string of spittle dangles from his mouth, and the silver-tinged fur on his back feathers up into spikes. But the smile never fades from the canine's face.

"Can't help thinking about things--about that night. Haunts me. I know you're right - I owed you. I know that buddies like us, buddies for life, have to help each other out, and that sometimes that means we've got to do things we might not really feel like doing. I understand, and I was there for you, right? Didn't I do good? I know a perfect crime means you leave no traces. And, like you said, he was a good-for-nothing guy anyway. We ended his misery, and ended ours. But funny thing is, I can't bring myself to spend a dime of that dough. Still stashed in the Chevy's trunk growing mold. Maybe I just need company, huh? Someone to travel with, dine with, you know? When you get out, we'll be living it up. Just like you promised, huh Curtis?"

But Curtis has been sentenced to life. Marco's pulse rises to his ears. The incessant pounding flushes out all other sounds. He shakes his head, wishing he could shut it off.

"It ain't fair, huh? Me out here and you, well,-- but you'll get out of here. I'll take you over to that fancy French place," Marco tells him. "That joint upstate. Chez Georgette. Get us some kind of shrimp thing in pastry with a buttery sauce as a starter, then roast duck. The only thing is I'd want to eat that bird with my fingers and lick off the sauce. Can't do that in a place like that. I know you don't go for that French stuff though. You'd want one of those thick slabs of meat. Prime Rib. Soon we'll be living it up. Promise you! I just got to find that plan, a perfect plan. The thing is, Curtis, I just can't do what I did that night. Never again."

The wolf lifts the corner of his upper lip and Marco's flashlight catches his teeth. They gleam. Curtis' shadow is tripled, extending darker monstrous versions of the wolf into the trees beyond his den. It's like a pack of angry Curtises, ghosts of formerly betrayed souls, are waiting for him to come clean. Marco aims his flashlight at his feet and the wolf circles his way into a ball in the corner of the den.

"Sweet dreams, buddy," Marco says with a wave. The wolf raises his head, licks his chops contentedly and then settles back down again. Marco notices how lazy the old guy has become. Canadian wolves are supposed to hunt at night - it is written on the sign in front of Curtis's cage. Above the description a photograph of a slick cousin of Curtis' is lacquered onto the wood. The wolf is walking majestically through a snowy forest, grinning a Curtis grin at the photographer.

"Freedom," Marco says to the sky. Marco's never felt free. He supposes he was once, before that July night when Curtis told him, "I like you, Marco. You and me could have been buddies, you know, out there? That's why I stick up for you when the other guys get on your case. I help you out, you know. But I'd like to do more for you. Buddies do that, don't they? Help each other out."

Marco laughed at this.

"I'm serious. You got it hard, I know. You deserve better for yourself." And Curtis came to the bars and twitched his head to let Marco know he was to come closer. "Psst, buddy?" Curtis said. "How'd you like a sure fire plan? Big bucks. You can't lose. You could quit this dead-end job, take off to see the world?"

"Oh, come on, Curtis. I never even stole a stick a gum as a kid. Besides, look where your plans got you?"

"This is different. No risk involved. But you aren't up to it, I guess. Yeah, you too honest. A good boy. Look where it's gotten you? You're not right for this job, you know? Guys like you get beat up in places like this. Killed. They'll be after you, you know. In a couple of years time. When they get out. They'll find you. They always do. And then, who's going to be around to protect you, huh? Face it, you aren't much better off than me. But I thought we were buddies. It's no big deal. I understand. You don't need me, right?"

"So what's this plan?"

"I know this guy. Used to work with him. Used to be a buddy, like you. Betrayed me." Curtis spit into the corner of his cell. "He's out there, rich and happy, and here I am, paying for the both of us."

"You want me to talk to him?"

Curtis' laugh came from his gut, and exploded on the cement, rattling the bars and Marco's nerves. "You too good, buddy. You a real buddy. Trust, you see, it's all about trust. Two things can kill a guy - greed and betrayal. This guy got both. Got to put him out of his misery."

"You don't,--"

"Hey, buddy. It's my dough. I'm being nice. Figure a deal's a deal. I help you out, you help me out. And if you help me out, I give you half. We share, like buddies should. It's come time to set things right, is all. We take care of each other. Right? We're buddies, aren't we?"

A week later, Marco came face to face with death. Not his own, although he often wonders.

A man gets this look on his face when he knows he's done - actually it's a series of looks. First, his eyes bulge, his mouth rounds out. And then, muscles relax and a peace comes over that same face - wrinkles disappear, lids grow lazy. At night when Marco is at that in-between stage, almost asleep but still alert, he remembers that guy's face. Marco will never forget the look he had. Not once in his life has Marco ever felt the way that man seemed to feel before Marco's finger curled around the trigger. It was almost as though the guy found peace in the last seconds of his life - the way Marco feels just before he finally nods off. Things make sense to Marco then, in that semi-conscious state. Only then.

"Two things can kill a man," Marco repeats to himself over and over. "Betrayal and greed."

Marco spends the rest of his shift wandering from cage to cage, but there's no escaping his own imprisoned soul. The moon is just a sliver shy of being full. Its spectral glow alters colors. It looks as though a grayish violet dust has been sprinkled over everything. Even the skin on Marco's hands has been coated with it. They glitter an eerie shade of dusk, of death. Tomorrow the moon will be full.

Marco hates full moon shifts. Kids climb the fence on dares when the moon's full, disrupting the already anxious animals. And some animals break out of their cages. Not the dangerous ones of course, not the high security inmates, but the birds, for one. Like classy babes out on the town, they ruffle their feathers at Marco to tease him and make him run circles after them all night. Just before dawn, they slip back into their cages to gaze at Marco, their gentle eyes bewildered at the sight of him struggling to catch his breath. One night, his anger got loose, that dark stranger that dwelled in him was so fed up with their antics and squawking that he tossed an innocent, stick-legged flamingo into the tiger cage. Better than cable TV, that show. But he knew he shouldn't make a habit of it - it might cost him his job.

And then what would he do all night? Let his mind wander to those places, down roads that come full circle again and again? He circles around the cages again. He can feel the tension approaching. The air the night before a full autumn moon hurts when you inhale a big burst of it, as if it were filled with suspended bits of ice that embed themselves in the sides of your lungs. This is something that happens, he's heard, in parts of Canada.

Everything feels like that Canadian air - suspended and frozen. Odors linger. That decaying stench of wild beast and excrement encompasses him. The prison corridors had the same smell to them, and he remembers how the inmates hung arms and noses through the bars of the windows to try to escape it.

The animals are as stilled as the air. Most of them. Other things twitch in the shadows. They're out there. Marco can smell their sour coffee breath on the back of his neck. He won't run. He grips onto his flashlight to steady it, and watches the shadows out of the corner of his eyes. But they're tricky rascals, flitting away just when he turns around. Marco swings back around to Curtis' cage, but he finds him curled up in the corner of his shack. "Sleep tight, buddy," Marco whispers. "Sweet dreams," he whispers a bit louder, hoping to wake Curtis up, but Curtis doesn't move. Marco knows better than to wake Curtis up on purpose.

The gentle sway of sleepers breathing is ominous, forewarning. Marco guzzles coffee. His senses wake up more than his body. Ideas come to him. Rather than shake them off, he dwells on them. This is what happens to him when he is about to fall asleep. But instead of sleeping, he remains locked in this in-between phase when everything seems plausible and where things have a strange way of connecting. And around and around he runs. Until he begins to see a side road that he's never noticed before. It may be a dead end, but it's an end, an end to all this circling, in a world that stands still, waiting.

The next night, when the sky turns an ashy violet and the moon lights everything up like a flood light, Marco retrieves the duffle bags full of cash from the trunk of his old Chevy and goes to work. The bags bring to his office an odor of mold and stale tobacco that they've sponged up over the years. Marco uses them as footrests and watches the surveillance cameras for a spell, pounding slugs of a fifth of Scotch he'd added to one of the bags. When he leans back in his swivel chair far enough, he has a clear view of that ball of wax stuck in the sky. He would have liked to have been Armstrong, he thinks then, imagining what it would be like to be weightless. Would it feel like falling in a dream? That's bliss. He takes another slug of Scotch, in search of similar sensations. Marco lugs the two bags and the bottle down the path, one last circle. There's no need for the flashlight - the moon lights the way. The noise is unyielding. Yelps and yaps compete with one another in different octaves.

Marco pauses by the lion cage to take another sip of Scotch. "Benny boy!" he lifts the drink to the feline who stops pacing and takes a seat in front of Marco. "How's the wife?"

The lioness sneers at Marco from the back of the cage. Benny gazes back complacently. "I can relate, I sure can relate!"

"Arrrrrroowww!" Benny grumbles.

"Here's to you, Benny!" he shouts, toasting his companion. "Best of luck."

Marco moves on. Now too drunk and tired to carry the bags, he finishes off the Scotch and tosses the empty bottle at one of the bears. Then he drags the duffle bags along by the straps. When he arrives before Curtis's den, the bear's enraged growl still lingers. He spots movement in the trees, and the glow of Curtis' roommates' eyes before they dart away.

But Curtis is waiting for him, his winter coat fluffed, his ears alert, his muscles flexed and his eyes piercing.

"It's pay back time, ole buddy," he tells the wolf.

The animal raises his snout in acknowledgement.

Marco flings the first bag over the fence and it lands with a burst at the bottom of the cage. The wolf approaches the bag, bats a paw at it, then takes a few steps back, approaches it again and sniffs at it. Satisfied, the wolf emits a low gurgle before snatching it up in his teeth and tossing the bag into his shack.

"I went to the funeral, buddy. I know, I know. You told me not to. No one saw me though. I shouldn't have been there. That guy you told me I'd put out of his misery? He had a wife, kids. Why didn't you tell me that?"

Curtis pauses to glance at him before sinking his teeth back into the duffle bag.

Marco is still standing on the ledge, his sneakers tucked under the fence, his head nestled between two bars at the top of the fence. He has seen children stand like this, on his rare off-duty visits to the zoo. It's unnerving but actually, there isn't much risk involved. A window of Plexiglas still separates Marco and Curtis.

He's a good sport that Curtis, Marco thinks. He puts on quite the show by shredding the bag, scattering the ground and surrounding brush with hundred dollar bills. From where he stands, Marco can smell that tingly odor of money that has somehow remained fresh after all those years in the back of the Chevy. But then, he's never so much as unzipped the bags. He hopes they're all watching. He's sure they're there, hiding a bit further back in the brush tonight. That'll show them. They'll think twice about him, regret how they all treated him. He laughs.

Marco tosses the other bag over the Plexiglas and the wolf looks up at him. For but an instant, Marco is allowed the thrill of catching Curtis off guard. He watches the wolf as he calculates the scene, the brief expression of confusion overtaking that familiar austerity. Curtis prances back to the front of the cage, and takes a seat just below Marco's feet, beckoning him.

Marco makes his way over the bars. With his face plastered against the Plexiglas, his Scotch scented breath dizzies him. Or perhaps it is seeing just how steep that drop-off is that makes his head spin. The bottom of the cage is maybe eight or ten feet deeper than the walkway surrounding it. Safety codes about dangerous animals, Marco knows. They never had codes like that at the prison - those guys could reach between the bars and grab him if he got too close.

Underneath him, Curtis flashes him his best puppy dog smile and goes about washing his paws. But his pet-like behavior does nothing to overcome the effect the smells have on Marco. When his chin hooks over the top of the Plexiglas, he is taken aback. It is as if death has already occurred down there. Flies buzz around Curtis's leftovers, uncooked and partially decomposed, at the far side of the cage. Curtis has been saving his appetite for prime rib. He's always known that the wolf understood.

"Betrayal and greed, you said, buddy, can kill a man. Remember?" Marco says, struggling to pull his leg over the slippery barrier. "But buddy, there are more than two things that can kill a man and there's more than one way to kill him." The wolf offers Marco one last crooked smile.

§ § §

Rebecca Marshall-Courtois left Westchester, New York behind when she fell in love with her French boss twelve years ago. She now lives in Buxerolles, the French equivalent of modern suburbia. She has three young daughters and works as a college English teacher and freelance translator while completing her postgraduate studies in literature.

Despite her hectic schedule, she always finds time to write and run, her two addictions. Her fiction has recently appeared in Love Words, The Sidewalk's End, Moondance and E2K. She has written several dozen other short stories and three novels that are all awaiting publication.

You can reach her at: rebecca.courtois@wanadoo.fr .

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