by R A Watt
“Well, her dad and my dad are friends from work, and I get the feeling he’s not fond of his daughter . . . you know,” Sybil answered, looking sheepish for once.
Rachel’s phone beeped and she checked it. “Shoot, I gotta go, sorry guys. My mom has supper almost ready. You’re welcome to join us,” she said, looking at Sybil.
The girls got up to leave. “Enjoy your weekend, boys. And if either of you wants to join me tomorrow, the service is at eleven. Jermaine has my number.” Rachel said with a smile.
Sybil nodded her goodbye as they left.
Jermaine looked lost in thought, staring off at the road.
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“About what?”
“That girl—Alyssa. If what Sybil said it is true. Stupid reason to not date someone.”
He shrugged. “For such a so-called progressive state, sometimes it makes me wonder,” he said almost to himself as he stood up. I got the feeling he didn’t want to discuss it any further.
“You want her number?” Jermaine asked.
I played dumb. “Whose number?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I wonder who. I can see how you look at her. She’s beautiful. I get it.”
Was it that obvious?
“Well, I’ve been meaning to get some religion into my life,” I joked. “Maybe I should get her number, just in case.”
Jermaine texted me her contact info. “I wouldn’t waste too much time on her; anything beyond friendship, anyway. She’s, like, super involved in the church and all that. She doesn’t date, and definitely nothing much before marriage, if you know what I mean,” he said, winking.
I could feel my face turning red. “It’s not like that at all.”
He smiled. “Sure, sure. Call me tomorrow if you want to hang,” he said, jumping on his bike. “I have a soccer game at two if you want to watch, or even join the team. We’re always short players.”
“Maybe. To watch, that is.” I shook my leg to remind him. “I suck at sports, but I might watch.” The truth was that I probably could play, but I was insanely uncoordinated—limp or not. It was always an easy excuse when I needed it.
The sky was filled with a bright red-and-orange glow as the sun dipped toward the western horizon on my ride home. Our place was about a quarter mile from the outskirts of town on a dirt road, and I found myself thinking back to the movie and ice cream. More specifically to Rachel, I guess.
There was just something about her, this weird positive energy or aura around her. She was always smiling, and her eyes looked right into you when she spoke. Not just at you, like she was waiting for her turn to talk. She seemed to truly listen.
The girls back home never seemed to care about anything besides selfies and their looks. They’d smile and laugh together, but as soon as their best friend left the gathering they’d pounce on her behind her back, making fun of her clothing or something.
I didn’t get the feeling that Rachel was like that.
Up ahead, at the end of our driveway, I could see the shape of Honey sitting there, waiting for me again.
Only as I got closer, I realized it wasn’t her.
It was the dog—or wolf—from the night before. It had gray and white fur.
Where was Honey?
I stopped my bike, unsure of what to do, with about two hundred feet between us. My stomach felt queasy. Honey should be out here barking.
The animal bared its teeth and snarled, sending a shiver up my spine.
I couldn’t get home; it stood between me and the house.
The wolf stood up, growling, and started loping toward me.
Chapter 8
Instinct kicked in.
I turned and biked left, toward the long and winding drive of our neighbor’s house—the Leclair house. If Jermaine was right and the wolf was Mrs. Leclair somehow, then I was done for. She was herding me off the main road to the private confines of her heavily-treed acreage, to feast on me as she pleased.
Which of course was nonsense. But the imagination has a way of getting the best of you when your life is at stake.
I had nothing to lose, and broke into my fastest ride down her winding driveway. An old, white and weathered farmhouse came into view. It had a wrap-around porch on the front three sides, and a truck parked nearby. Behind me, the beast was easily gaining; I could hear heavy breathing as it ran, having already rounded the turn from the main road onto the drive. It wasn’t sprinting, however. At least not nearly as fast as Honey could run, and she was almost eight.
My lungs weren’t used to riding so fast, and they burned with each breath. As I rounded the last bend, I could see someone on the front porch in a rocking chair with a book.
A slim woman with short brown hair.
“Help!” I screamed, coughing and pedaling as fast as I could.
She stood up calmly with her eyes on me. She reached for something that looked like a broom.
I got closer to the front steps of the porch, another twenty feet to go, but I could hear the loping wolf not far behind.
The woman turned the object up, pointing it at me. It was a rifle.
It was weird. In those few seconds, so many thoughts crossed my mind, but the biggest was: they won.
They’d successfully herded me off the road and into their yard. I was caught between a gun-toting vampire and a blood-thirsty wolf.
My legs started to give out as I leapt off the bike. I wasn’t going to make the porch. My weaker left foot caught a rock, and I was tumbling through the dirt faster than I could blink.
BANG!
The rifle’s shot rang out as I covered my face; prepared for the animal’s attack as well as her next bullet. As I curled up in defense, I thought for once my weak leg had saved me. Bought me about an extra second of time since I stumbled and she missed me.
The animal snarled and pawed at the dirt—maybe ten feet away. I peaked up through my arms; its teeth were bared with saliva dripping out. There was a look of hunger in its eyes as they bored into mine.
“You get!” the lady hollered. She was coming down the wooden stairs of the porch. The animal shifted its gaze to her and started to back up, growling at her now.
She reloaded and cocked the rifle.
“Go!” she hollered again. “Or you get the next one between your beady little eyes!”
The animal turned and sauntered off, looking back occasionally. Still cowering in a defensive position, I looked around to the old woman. Her eyes and gun were trained on the animal—not on me. I exhaled with relief. The wolf’s bushy tail disappeared into the trees at the far end of the lane.
“Are you okay, young man?” she asked with an accent.
My trembling nod turned into a shake. “I don’t know . . . I think so.”
I fought them as best I could, but tears welled up as my body relaxed from the complete and utter adrenaline rush. I felt like I’d been just inches from being mauled. Never in my life had anything so emotionally and physically intense happened.
“We’d better get you inside,” she said, bending down with her hand on my back.
I didn’t want her to see my tears—signs of weakness in a fifteen-year-old boy. With my head still down, I rubbed my eyes on my arm as best I could while standing up.
The woman held the gun in one arm, aimed toward the ground but still in the direction the animal had disappeared.
She wasn’t that old, with short brown hair, and she appeared very sweet. Though she’d loaded the gun and attacked without hesitation when the wolf and I had come around the bend. She looked to be in her early fifties? Maybe she was Mrs. Leclair’s daughter.
“Come in; let me get you something to drink. That wolf might be back, especially if he realizes this .22 is only good for shooting gophers.” She grinned with a smile that reached up to her eyes.
The inside of her house was clean and tidy, with expensive-looking old furniture made with red velvets and ornate wooden legs. Around the windows were heavy burgundy dr
apes.
Very old lady-ish.
Despite her friendliness, I felt a little nervous as she closed the door and turned on a light. “Goodness, excuse the darkness in here,” she said as she walked to the front windows and pulled the drapes open, letting the setting sunlight in.
Wallpaper covered the room. There were massive paintings bordered by heavy curled gold frames. Definitely foreign, I thought.
“I’m Geneviève,” she said as she returned to the front entrance, holding out her hand. “Geneviève Leclair. Are you from next door?”
I nodded quickly and shook her hand, enjoying the almost melodic accent she had and her perfume.
“Hubert’s grandson?”
I nodded again, surprised. She pronounced his name correctly, or at least how it was supposed to be said. Everyone just called him Hub, but Grandpa’s name was French, pronounced ‘Hue-bear’.
“And your name is . . . ?” she asked.
“Teavan,” I blurted out, louder than I intended. “Do you live here?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason. My buddy said you were old, that’s all.”
Her face changed into a friendly pout. “Old? I’m afraid he was right.”
I shook my head, not meaning it like that. “No, sorry. I meant like really old, more like a grandma. You don’t look that old, more like my dad. My friend said you guys were old is all, so I was expecting different.”
Geneviève smiled. “Ah, I see. Well, I’m not entirely sure how to take that. My late husband Luc was a little older than me, and your friend may have assumed we were the same age. Too much sun I guess! Why don’t you sit down and I’ll fix you a snack?”
Geneviève Leclair left the front room and disappeared into the next one. I did my best to brush off my jeans and sat on the floor against a chair, nervously surveying the room as I did. I didn’t want to dirty her expensive-looking chair with my dusty clothes.
She came back in with two glasses of water and a tin of weird-looking store-bought cookies.
They tasted better than they looked. Not like traditional cookies, but they were good. Two small vanilla wafers with a layer of icing between them.
“Luc and I were very fond of Hubert,” she said with a warm smile. “It was nice to move to such a remote town in America and have a bit of France next door.”
I nodded, mowing down my third cookie. My French background was something my father never really celebrated or pushed on us. “Where are you from?”
“France as well, but a different region.”
“Wow, what a coincidence.”
She shook her head. “Well, no, not really. Luc and Hubert knew each other many years ago, before we were married. They kept in touch over the years, since they had many similar interests. When Luc and I decided to move to America, Hubert suggested we come here.
“I must apologize to you and your family that I have not been by to greet you sooner. I heard you were in and welcomed the renewed activity next door. I’ve become a bit of a recluse,” she said, smiling more to herself than me. “My Luc died, and then of course Hubert last fall. I haven’t many other friends here, I’m afraid. Never really needed any.”
I shrugged, not sure what to say. Maybe she had a pack of wolf friends somewhere. “That's okay. My dad isn’t really that social, either. He’s writing a book. Pretty much always either writing, reading, or researching. He probably hasn’t even noticed, to be honest, Mrs. Leclair.”
“Please,” she interrupted. “Call me Geneviève. Otherwise it makes me feel old, and I hate formalities. Well, in any event, it is poor manners on my part. Though truth be told, I was surprised to see your family moving in instead of a For Sale sign going up. I thought that had always been Hubert’s intention.”
I shrugged again. “I don’t know; we found out Grandpa died from a lawyer. He said the will wouldn’t let us sell or something. Trust me, my sister and I fought Dad a lot over this move.”
She raised an eyebrow, sipping her water. “That’s odd.”
“Odd? Well, I mean this town is nice and all, but we moved from New York. We grew up there and loved it. Neither of us wanted to leave. Not that this town is terrible or anything.”
She smiled. “No, I understand that. I mean it’s odd about his requirements in the will.”
“Oh,” I said, understanding. “Yeah, my dad wasn’t happy. So, can I ask you something?”
She nodded.
“Please tell me that was a dog.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
I knew my dad was wrong.
“Honestly, we don’t get them very often; they’re not generally a problem to humans. But . . . ”
Leaning in, I waited. “But what?”
“Tell me, how old is your sister now? Suzanne, was it?” she asked.
“Yep. She’s seventeen.”
Geneviève leaned back on her red velvet sofa with sudden tiredness in her eyes. She took off her glasses and rubbed her face with both hands.
“Teavan, I’m feeling exhausted, and I need to do some thinking. It is important that I speak to you—both of you, tomorrow. There are things we should discuss.”
She put her glasses back on, and she was looking me directly in the eye with an air of urgency.
“I’ll drive you home, just to be safe. And I urge you to stay indoors tonight, and keep your dog inside too.”
Honey!
I’d completely forgotten about her in the chaos of everything. A sudden dread crept up my back as I stood. “Sure, Mrs. Leclair . . . Geneviève. I forgot about my dog Honey—she’s usually outside when I get home. We need to go; she could be hurt. Or worse.”
I didn’t want to think about the or worse as we stepped outside toward her pickup truck.
Scanning my driveway as we turned in, I expected to see Honey lying in a pool of blood, not moving. Anxious and frightened, I looked in every direction, calling her name out the window.
Nothing.
Mrs. Leclair stopped close to the house, and I ran out and bounded up the front steps and opened the door.
Honey was waiting and ran out, barking excitedly. For the second time that day, a wave of emotion rolled through me causing tears to well up. She licked me as I knelt and hugged her on the front step. Sometimes you don’t realize how much you love something until the thought of losing it suddenly becomes all too real.
Mrs. Leclair was standing at the base of the steps. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. She was inside, I guess,” I answered with a relieved sigh.
“Would you come by tomorrow? And bring your sister along?”
I nodded. “I’ll see what I can do; she can be difficult.”
“Let her know it is of the utmost importance,” she said, heading back to the truck that was still running.
“Umm, Geneviève? Thanks again. For your help.”
She cocked her head and smirked. “Any time, dear. That’s what good neighbors are for. N’est pas?”
Chapter 9
Of course, over dinner that night my dad thought I was blowing the story out of proportion. That my life had not been in any real danger. But he did at least listen to me and took it somewhat seriously.
Suzanne just used it as an excuse for us to move away.
Jermaine texted me back that he was glad he didn’t live so far from town and that I was screwed.
“Suze, I need you to come with me to the neighbor’s tomorrow.”
“Excuse me?” Suzanne responded as she and I cleaned the dishes; though mostly she was on her phone texting her old New York friends.
“Mrs. Leclair, the neighbor. She wants you and me to come by tomorrow. She has something important to say. She was friends with Grandpa and said she needed to talk to you, too.”
“Why can’t she just come here?”
I wasn’t sure, but after what happened I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Plus, I’d left my bike there. “Please, Suze? I don’t want to
go alone.”
Frustrated, she shook her head. “Fine. There’s nothing else to do.”
Clouds rolled in that night: the moisture of rain in the air, the buzz of an electrical storm brewing as the winds picked up.
Honey never did like thunderstorms, but I did.
The smell and that blanket of humidity in the warm air brought me back home. It wasn’t something I could put a finger on until I stood on the porch, watching the approaching lightning in the distance. It brought a distinct freshness to the night. A good soaking around these dry parts was something we needed.
Leaving the window open in my room was a tough choice; enjoy the sounds and smells of a storm, or risk the wolf coming back and freaking Honey out?
I hoped wolves hated storms and that it stayed in its den, so I left the window open to enjoy while I read. Sleep overtook me sooner than expected with the day’s events taking their physical toll.
A sharp crack of thunder woke me hours later. The red glow of the clock on the nightstand blinked 12:00 over and over. The rain was coming down in waves, soaking the sill and floor through the open window. The soles of my feet got wet when I got up to close it.
The room felt crisp and refreshing as I crawled back into the cozy warmth of my covers. The comforting presence of Honey’s stretched curled form was gone. “Honey”?
Only the sounds of occasional thunder and rain could be heard, along with the violent, howling winds. The big oak tree in the yard was flailing back and forth, looking like it could lose a limb.
“Honey?”
Listening for the familiar sounds of her padded footsteps, I was alarmed when I heard banging on what sounded like the front door. I almost jumped out of bed.
Who could be here, in the middle of a storm, in the middle of the night?
An uneasy feeling slid over me as I made my way to the hall, electing to keep the lights off so I could see out the windows.
Answering the door to our apartment back home at two in the morning usually meant some drunken idiot was at the wrong door and couldn’t get their key to work. But out here, there could be no mistake.
Maybe it was the outer screen door banging in the storm. The gusting winds would most likely rip it off its hinges if it weren’t pulled tightly closed. As I reached out to unlock the bolt, an unmistakable knock came from the other side, sending my heart racing.