Vincent Gallo - Tasya

Hugh returned to his entrance way and slid his key over the electronic keypad. The door beeped and chirped for a few seconds and the lock disengaged. Hugh pulled the door open thinking that the unlocking process was a bit too long and that lock makers made it so because they were so proud of the sound effects and wanted to show it off to others.

Entering the building, Hugh bound up a small flight of stairs and took a right down a corridor that led to the elevator.

As soon as he made the corner, two tiny dogs pounced on his legs with tails wagging and wide eyes that begged for cookies and belly rubs. The first dog was a gracile Yorke with oily and weighed down fur that said it was long overdue for a bath. The second was a stout and plump Westie that would have looked right at home in a child's toy store on a rack for premium stuffed animals. They weren't big enough to topple Hugh, but their nails threatened to a hole or two into his trousers.

Hugh gave each dog a generous pet atop the head and maneuvered himself towards the elevator and out of clawing range. The dogs dropped to their front paws and straightened into a sitting position, their heads craned upward, and eyes trained on Hugh the entire time. Hugh could hear the swishing and pattering of their tails on the tiled floor behind them, their bright-eyed stares and fractional head tilts striving to tell Hugh that they were not only good dogs, but the best of the best.

Hugh backpedaled from the loving looks that only a dog could give, reached for the elevator button, but forced his hand to fall to his side.

Hugh was in a hurry, knowing that the black-haired girl was waiting for him to return, but he couldn't bear to leave the dogs alone and unattended.

Keeping watch on the dogs, Hugh stood on the first step of stairs and looked up through the spiraling staircase in search of a soul seeking their lost pets. From Hugh's vantage point he was able to spot two pairs of legs on the second floor. He readied himself to call out to them but the content of their conversation, which had been drifting like snowflakes of white noise but then crashed down on him like an avalanche, glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth and bridled his lips against the formation of words.

“Oh my! That's terrible news.” The first set of legs said in a hushed tone.

“I can't believe it myself, they found him dead, all alone in his apartment.” The second pair of legs added, fruitlessly trying to stay quiet in a stairway that echoed the faintest of noises.

“I feel for his family – a wife now a widow and son fatherless.” The first pair of legs expressed her condolences.

“May he rest in heaven.” The second pair said

The final word echoed down the staircase and slammed into Hugh's gut like a battering ram, sending butterflies fluttering and pools of acid swirling in his stomach. Hugh stumbled down the stairs from the rising nausea and doubled over. He slapped one hand over his mouth to prevent that which was bubbling deep inside from spilling out.

“Hugh, sweetie. Come and sit down with me.” A familiar and sad voice said from the down the corridor.

Despite his mounting queasiness, Hugh whipped himself around to face the voice that he knew was his mother's.

The corridor was empty save the two dogs. Hugh propped himself up against the wall and tightened his seal over his mouth. The fluttering butterflies had melted into the acidic stew that was now churning in his stomach, and Hugh knew that something was trying to escape.

“You haven't done anything wrong Hugh. We need… To have talk.” Hugh's mother said again. This time Hugh was able to locate the source of his mother's speech. It was coming from the Westie.

“Sometimes in life… We need to be strong, not physically… But emotionally.” Although the Westie was speaking with the voice of Hugh's mother, the dog wasn't addressing Hugh. It was solely fixed on its canine compatriot—the Yorkie. “Can you do that for me sweetie? Be emotionally strong?”

The Yorkie lowered itself to ground into a laying position, resting its disheveled tiny head onto its paws, and looked up at the Westie.

“I can.” The Yorkie said meekly.

The Yorkie’s voice was that of a four-year old Hugh.

“Your dad… It's about him.” Hugh could hear his mother choking back sobs and nose harassing sniffles. Despite the emotion in his mother's speech, the Westie didn't wipe away tears or lift a paw to blow its nose. It merely stared at the Yorkie and performed the role of a record player that projected Hugh's mother's speech through its maws. “Hugh… My sweet boy… I've got some bad news.”

Hugh heard his mother’s words echo in his ears – “I’ve got some bad news.” It echoed in his ears five more times.

Each echo was a repeated dose of medication that reduced the turnover in stomach and the urge to vomit. After five rings of the phrase in his ear, the echoing stopped. So too did Hugh’s nausea.

“Did something happen to dad?” The Yorkie asked, acting a record player to project sound just as the Westie had.

“Dad… He’s… He’s gone to heaven.” The Westie said.

“When is he coming back?” The Yorkie asked and the audio recording ended.

The Yorkie stood up and both dogs plopped down into a sitting position. Their tails resumed wagging and innocent eyes blinked back at Hugh.

Hugh stood up straight, rested the back of his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

His hallucinations were typically strange visions fitting for the realm of fiction, fantasy, and the imaginary. Never had they been so personal and related to real events that had transpired in his life.

Never had they touched upon his childhood.

Masha had told him not to think about the past, but, as evidenced by what he had just witnessed, that lonely kingdom of time in his life would not relinquish him. Hugh couldn’t understand why. He didn’t want to live in the past because he hated and loathed that his father had passed away, that the double burden of motherhood and employment had strangled his mother, and that. as a result. he was left in a childhood of loneliness.

“Sir? Are you okay?” Hugh heard someone ask him. “Come back to reality. Sir.”

Hugh opened his eyes and saw an old lady with a worried expression standing before him.

“Pardon me. I was just lost in thought.” Hugh said dreamily.

“Lost in thought, eh?” The older lady shot him with a suspicious look. “Well, you must have had the greatest idea of the modern era because my barking dogs couldn’t bring you to your senses. Honestly, I thought you were on drugs. I was about to call the police. I cannot be certain that you are not on drugs at this very moment!”

“Ma’am, I apologize for worrying you, and thank you for not calling the police.” Hugh said. “You can ask the neighbors on my floor about me. They will confirm that I'm a normal person.”

“Poppycock! You were standing here like a scarecrow on the unemployment line! I can already confirm that you are anything but normal.” She said and adjusted her sunflower patterned headscarf. “But, truthfully speaking, no person on this Earth is normal. So… you are okay with me.”

“Thank you very much,” Hugh said and smiled, a bit charmed by the old lady's affirmation. “You are also okay with me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She said dismissively and turned towards the entrance door with the Yorkie and Westie trotting behind her. “But no drugs! You hear me!”

“Yes ma’am. Of course.” Hugh said, but he was sure she hadn't heard him. She and her dogs had vanished around the corner and were probably outside already.

Out of habit, Hugh looked down at this watch. He didn't know at what time he had entered the building nor how long he had spent with the old lady's dogs, but he knew that he had wasted too much time. He needed to grab the spade from his apartment and bring it back to the black-haired girl. She had been sassy before and Hugh could only imagine how she would be now that he was late.

Even before arriving at his door, Hugh had already plucked his keys from his pocket. With a concentrated and fluid motion he inserted the key into the lock, pulled the door handle down and dived into his apartment. He made no effort to collect his keys or close the door.

First he checked under the bed but found only old boxes from gadgets of years past.

He swung open closet doors, but only found hanging shirts that he had forgotten that he owned.

In the kitchen, behind the sofa, above the TV, in the bathroom, he checked everywhere but could not find his grandmother's boxes.

Hugh started to worry that he may have thrown out his grandmother's belongings, or even worse, he may have all the long imagined being in possession of them.

Hugh dragged a chair into the corridor, jammed it up against the fridge, leap onto the chair, and investigated the cupboards tucked away there.

He found the boxes, resting peacefully on the cupboard's middle shelf. Hugh extended his arms to grab the boxes, but they were a few centimeters out of reach. Hugh propped his left elbow onto the top of the fridge, gave himself a boost in height by standing on his toes, and flicked the edges of the boxes with his right pointer finger until they slid into grabbing range.

After precariously rocking the chair on two legs to the point of almost crashing to the ground, Hugh finally retrieved the boxes. With them in hand, he jumped down from the chair, rushed to the kitchen and placed them on the kitchen table.

Hugh ripped into the boxes, tearing stained tape, and shredding flaky chunks of cardboard. Inside he found rusted knitting and sewing needles, thimbles, crusty paintbrushes and palettes, old beaded jewelry on fine string, tiny cast molds that could shape wild animals, a handmade ceramic Halloween pumpkin, dark room photos of her husband in youth, and a myriad of other things that widened Hugh's perspective to the creative and artistic nature of his grandmother.

She had always been grandma to him, but as Hugh handled these belongings her identity diversified and multiplied into something more. She was a grandma, wife, mom, knitter, painter, craftswoman, photographer and much more.

At the bottom of the second box, Hugh located the much more that he had been seeking – grandma as the gardener.

With spade in hand and warm thoughts of his grandmother in his heart, he sprinted out the door and descended the staircase two steps at a time.

Hugh threw the entrance door open and sprinted out the building. He stopped short as a car whizzed by with no regards for pedestrians as it searched of a parking spot. Hugh accelerated back to a sprint and charged towards the flowerbed looking like a pretend knight ready to pierce a soil and dirt dragon through the heart with his gardening spade.

Hugh reached the flowerbed and scanned the benches, the playground, and the paths leading around the fortress.

The black-haired girl was nowhere to be seen.

Small piles of soil, poorly dug holes, and a lone stick were all the remained of the girl.

Hugh inspected her handywork and noticed that he could see only holes. There were no dirt mounds that one would expect to see after planting seeds. On two occasions he had witnessed her hard at work in the flowerbed and even though she had been using first her fingernails and then a stick, she should have made some sort of progress on planting seeds. All that she had accomplished was the unearthing and tossing of soil.

Hugh shifted the spade from one hand to another.

Even if planting seeds had been just an excuse for her to sit and dig aimlessly, Hugh wished that he had returned and given her the spade.