by Sal Conte
“Maybe she ran away from home,” Ariel suggested.
He moved out into the backyard, Pam and the kids trailing him. The morning air seemed fresher back there. Birds were singing in the trees.
“Queenie,” he called.
There was immediate rustling in the shrubbery off to the side.
“She’s over there, Daddy,” Jackson said, pointing into the low shrubbery toward the rear of the yard.
“Queenie?” Harry called softly, squinting into the brush.
The tiny, mechanical dog emerged from the shrubbery carrying something in her mouth.
“She’s playing fetch with you, Daddy,” Ariel called, sounding delighted that her dog hadn’t run away from home.
Queenie began trotting toward them.
“What is that?” Pam said, trying to make out what was in the dog’s mouth.
“Looks like spaghetti,” Ariel said.
It did look a bit like spaghetti, stringy and dripping of red sauce.
As Queenie got closer, Harry saw that it wasn’t spaghetti dangling from between her teeth. “Get the kids in the house, Pam. Get the kids inside, now!”
“Why? What is—”
“Go!”
Hearing the alarm in Harry’s voice, Pam corralled Ariel and Jackson and ushered them inside.
Queenie stepped up to Harry and dropped the thing she’d been carrying at his feet. Lying on the soft grass before him was the eyeball of a small animal, ripped from the socket, dripping blood, and dangling nerves, tendons and sinew. It was a fresh kill, wisps of steam rising from it in the early morning air. Harry’s stomach turned over at the sight of it. He wondered if Queenie had found the eyeball in the bushes, or had she ripped it out herself? It didn’t matter. Queenie wasn’t a real dog, Queenie was a computer, and computer dogs didn’t bring home road kill.
*
“I’m sorry, but Archibald Galdensen no longer works here,” the woman on the phone said. Harry could tell from the sound of her voice she was young, maybe just out of college.
“Then maybe you can help me. I have a question about a dog I purchased about a month ago.”
A brief silence. “Umm… okay, I guess.”
“You guess?” annoyance flared up in his gut.
“I want to help you, sir. It’s just that I’m new here, so I don’t know as much about the K9-233s as Mr. Galdensen. But I’m here to serve,” the young lady said doing her best to sound eager and pleasant. “My name is Beth, by the way. How can I help you?”
Okay, Harry thought, here goes. “Are the K9s capable of speech?”
“Excuse me?”
“I was just wondering, can my dog talk? My son insists our dog spoke to him.”
There was another brief silence. “It’s a computer, sir. They’re smart as a whip, but a K9-233 talking would be like your toaster talking.”
Harry again sensed himself getting annoyed. “But you said you were new. Maybe it’s something you don’t know about.”
“That could be true, sir,” Beth replied, back-peddling. “Why don’t I check with my supervisor and get back to you on it?”
“That would be fantastic. One more thing. My son was feeding the dog table scraps, and Archie told me they don’t eat.”
There was yet another silence.
“Is this a test?” Beth asked.
“What?”
“You work for the company, don’t you? You’re trying to see how I handle difficult customers.”
“No, Beth. I assure you this isn’t a test, and I don’t work for the company. My K9-233 has been acting very strange lately, and I’m trying to find out why.”
“The K9s don’t eat, sir. They don’t have a stomach. They’re an expertly engineered plastic shell. Those are the exact words they told us in training. Besides, they’re programmed not to respond to food. Talking, eating—I think your son is having a joke on you.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Maybe.” He didn’t tell her his son was five-years-old, or about the eyeball Queenie had brought home earlier.
Beth took down his contact information, and promised to look into his question and get back to him—although she suggested Harry have a talk with his son. Harry assured her he would, and hung up.
*
Pam never liked the idea of owning a pet, partially because she didn’t like the way some people treated their pets, as if they were small children who had forgotten how to speak. Dogs weren’t children, or brothers, or sisters. They didn’t need to wear hats, or booties, or silly sunglasses. They were dogs, and dogs were cool all by themselves. No need to turn them into children or sideshows.
Another reason Pam never wanted a pet was because unless you were pretty darn old when you acquired your pet, you were guaranteed to outlive them, and Pam didn’t like the idea of looming loss.
A mechanical dog could outlive her, could outlive her children, and if its parts ever went bad they could be replaced, just like the worn out hose on a vacuum cleaner. A mechanical dog seemed a safe bet, which is why after years of pet doubt, she reluctantly bought into the idea when Harry brought Queenie home. Now she wished she’d listened to her inner voice.
The events of the morning had shown her just how wrong she’d been. It was one thing for Queenie not to like her, which—as crazy as it sounded—she knew with a certainty. It was another thing when your mechanical, programmable dog ripped out the eye of a squirrel and brought it home in a lurid game of fetch. And okay, maybe Queenie wasn’t the one who’d ripped out the eye, she still brought it home, and when there’s an eyeball dripping more than tears onto your lawn, it’s time to draw the line. It was time to tell Harry Queenie had to go.
Harry had always wanted a dog. She’d known it for as long as they’d been married. She should have allowed him to have a dog a long time ago—a real dog.
Looking back, her being so adamant about not having a dog earlier in their marriage seemed selfish. And now that she’d allowed Queenie to become a member of their family, Pam knew getting Harry on board about sending her packing was not going to be an easy task. It was something that had to be done, though. Queenie was dangerous. She had to think of their children—they both did.
Harry had spent the morning holed up in his office. He’d once again put Queenie in the garage, but Pam would be picking Jackson up from Kindergarten in an hour, and once he was home, she had the sneaking suspicion Queenie would mysteriously find her way out of the garage.
“Knock, knock,” she called as she gently rapped on the office door, keeping her voice soft and sweet. She’d made Harry a sandwich—tuna on rye, one of his favorites.
“Yeah,” Harry called from the other side, his voice muffled, sounding a bit annoyed.
“I brought you some lunch. Sustenance,” she said, her tone turning playful.
“You said the magic word,” Harry called back. “Enter,” he said in a mock regal voice.
Harry wasn’t at the computer when she came in. He was seated on the beat up leather sofa that had once been in his bachelor pad living room. She knew just because he wasn’t at the computer didn’t mean he wasn’t working, yet she got the sense he’d been taking a nap.
She set the sandwich and glass of lemonade on his desk, and Harry got up, stretched.
“How are things going?” she asked, knowing she couldn’t launch right into let’s get rid of the dog.
“I’ve been kicking around a new take for the show, turning the pirates into soldiers of fortune.”
“That sounds good,” she said, wanting to push past the small talk.
“Thanks.” He bit into the sandwich. “Thanks for this, too. It’s the first thing I’ve eaten all day.”
“I know.” He opened the door, she thought. The reason he hadn’t eaten breakfast was that after Queenie’s little surprise, the sight of food threatened to turn his stomach. Now was the perfect time to bring up Queenie going bye-bye... but she didn’t. “I’m going to be picking Jackson up from school soon.” And I don’t want Queeni
e in the house when he gets home.
“It’s that late already?” Harry asked as he devoured the sandwich.
“Yeah,” she said, knowing she should be saying a whole lot more.
“I’ve been thinking about Queenie.”
“Oh?” she said, trying not to sound too hopeful.
“The kids would really miss her if she were gone.”
“I know, but—”
“Still, I think I should take her in for a check-up. Let the K9-233 mechanics, or whatever they call themselves, adjust her back to how she used to be. It may take several days, and I have no idea what it’ll cost, but it’ll be worth it. Give us some peace of mind getting her back to her old, sweet, lovable self, don’t you think?”
Pam nodded, even though it wasn’t anywhere close to what she was thinking.
“Good. Glad you agree with me. I’ll take her in as soon as we get back from our time in the mountains.”
The next thing Pam knew, she was on the other side of the office door holding an empty sandwich plate and a lemonade glass. She wanted to kick herself for being such a weenie. She had to admit, she was as bad as Harry when it came to confrontation.
Queenie spent the rest of the day in the garage. Pam was sure the children noticed, but neither of them asked for her. They each played alone in their rooms. At dinner, Harry announced he’d made contact with the guy at the network, Barry Anger, and that he’d be meeting with him in a few days. He also told the kids they’d be taking them up to the mountains after the meeting.
At first they weren’t enthused, but Harry had a way with them, making the trip to the mountains seem like another trip to Legoland. By the time dinner was through, both Ariel and Jackson were both clamoring to go.
“Is Queenie coming with us?” Jackson asked.
Harry and Pam shared a nervous glance. Jackson picked up on it.
“We can’t leave her in the garage. She’ll be scared!” he whined.
Pam started to remind Jackson that Queenie was a mechanical dog, incapable of fear, but she knew that would be a waste of her breath.
“Of course Queenie’s going,” Harry replied. “She’s the family dog. She goes where the family goes.”
Pam sat silently steaming, feeling blindsided by her husband. Why did he say that without talking about it with me first? Harry knew how dangerous Queenie could be. Why? But she knew why he’d said it—because Harry enjoyed being a hero to his children, and had no problem casting her in the role of the villain. It was always Mommy who punished them, Mommy who said “keep it down in there.” It was Daddy who told the jokes, who at the drop of a hat would turn into the tickle monster, chasing them around the room threatening waves of tickles. And who was she? She was Voldemort, threatening to take away all the magic.
Pam was pretending to be sound asleep when Harry came to bed that night.
“Pam? Babe?” he called, and she snored louder.
Harry got the message. Minutes later, he grabbed a pillow and left to spend the night on the couch, or maybe he’d be sleeping in the garage with his precious Queenie. They deserved each other.
*
Mommy and Daddy were fighting. Not out loud the way some mommies and daddies did, but fighting all the same, with cabinet slams, and deep sighs, and silence. Ariel knew they were fighting about Queenie.
Mommy didn’t like Queenie. Ariel didn’t know why, but she could tell. Queenie was such a great dog, perfect, really. She didn’t see how anyone couldn’t like her. Queenie had done a bad thing bringing home the eyeball, but that was a mistake. Ariel had it all figured out. Queenie had run into the bushes looking for the tennis ball like she always did. She saw the tennis ball, but it was lying right next to the eyeball, and she wasn’t looking carefully when she picked it up. That kind of stuff happened to her all the time, like the time she went to pick up her Fluttershy My Little Pony doll and grabbed the Rarity My Little Pony doll instead. It was an honest mistake.
Ariel wished Queenie could talk like Jackson said she could. Then Queenie could tell them herself. Ariel was certain that if she told her parents what really happened they wouldn’t believe her. Parents never believed little kids.
Ariel couldn’t sleep because all she could think about was how cold Queenie was out there in the garage all by herself. She made a decision. She wasn’t going to take Queenie out of the garage. That would be wrong. Instead, she was going to cover Queenie with a nice, warm Princess shawl. The Princess shawl and a loving kiss would keep Queenie warm until morning.
Ariel eased out of bed. The house was quiet, but she heard voices. Maybe Mommy and Daddy were talking again. That would be good. She got the shawl from off the low shelf Daddy had built in her closet, and opened her bedroom door the rest of the way.
Across the hall she could hear Jackson. He wasn’t asleep. He was talking. When Ariel was little she used to talk to herself all the time—still did sometimes. Jackson’s talking to himself was quite ordinary.
She was about to tip toe down the hall when she heard the voices again. There were two sets of voices coming from Jackson’s bedroom. At first she thought it might be Daddy talking to Jackson, but the voice was scratchy and she’d never heard Daddy talk in a scratchy voice before, even when he was playing with them.
So Ariel eased across the hall to listen at Jackson’s door. She’d done this on many occasion. Mommy called it snooping, but she was just being protective. Ariel put her ear to Jackson’s door and could hear the other voice clearly now. The scratchy voice was talking to Jackson about Mommy and Daddy. It was telling him they weren’t being very nice, and that it would protect him.
Ariel wanted to push the door open, go inside and see who was saying the bad things about Mommy and Daddy, but she was suddenly afraid. Very afraid. Too afraid to go inside. Too afraid even to take Queenie the shawl out in the garage. Ariel stood outside Jackson’s door, frozen to the spot for several minutes. Once she was able to move, she went back into her room and closed the door all the way.
Chapter Six
Taking a leisurely bath and thumbing through celebrity and fashion magazines was not something Pam could readily do with small children in the house, which is why this evening was turning out to be a rare blessing.
Harry had taken both children off her hands for the night, taking them to dinner at good old Mickey D’s and then the arcade. She knew it was an apology of sorts for Queenie, and while she wasn’t ready to let him off the hook so easily, she was inclined to take advantage of the night off.
She added a lavender and honey bath soak to the steaming water. The fragrance of luxury and relaxation wafted up to her, as she sat soaking, reading, and lamenting that she couldn’t do this more often. The children took up so much of her time. She wasn’t sorry she’d had the children. She loved them, and would do anything to keep them safe, but facts were facts—leisurely baths and small children did not mix.
Pam was on her third magazine, the one with the latest royal baby on the cover, when she saw the bathroom door creeping open in the bathroom mirror.
“You guys back already?” she asked, her spirits sinking. They couldn’t have been gone for more than an hour. Her first thought was that Jackson had thrown a tantrum in the restaurant, and rather than deal with it, Harry chose to bring the kids back home to her. She was about to get annoyed when she noticed the door had stopped opening. “Harry?” she called.
When no answer came, she started to lean back. False alarm, she was telling herself when the door began opening again.
“Harry? This isn’t funny. Harry?” she called, this time really getting annoyed. The opening door stopped again. Pam stood, bath water cascading down, reached for her towel and wrapped it around herself. That’s when a chill began to dance in the pit of her stomach. “Hello?” she called.
She tried telling herself it was a breeze that had blown the door open. But then why did it stop opening when I called out. She tried dismissing the idea that someone might be out there on the other side
of the door, lurking, but she couldn’t help herself. The thought would not be dismissed. She was at home alone, and naked. The perfect target.
Her mind began racing, conjuring up all sorts of scenarios of rape and murder, and fighting to the death, each scenario worse than the previous one. “You’re being silly, girl,” she said out loud, hoping the sound of her own voice would ease her rampaging mind… or at least, frighten off the intruder. She began looking around for a weapon.
There was small scissors in her top drawer and a plunger behind the commode. Neither were very formidable, but at least with the scissors she could stick the intruder, hurt him. She took a deep breath and climbed from the tub, sloshing water onto the floor. She eased over to her drawer, opened it, and grabbed the scissors. Her hands were trembling.
“If someone’s out there, I’m coming out, and I have a knife,” she called, all the while telling herself she was sounding silly talking to an empty house. She cinched the towel around herself and headed for the door.
Chapter Seven
As much as Pam wanted to believe she was alone, her intuition (or vivid imagination) told her that she wasn’t. Someone was on the other side of the door. She clutched the scissors in her hand, brandishing it as she yanked the door open.
“Ahh,” she cried out as she leaped out into the hall, hoping to catch the intruder off guard.
The house was quiet. The corridor was empty. This should have been a relief, and yet the skin along her arms began to tingle, raising goose flesh. The silence that greeted her wasn’t a relief at all. It was scary.
A sound.
Just then, she thought she heard a soft sound retreating down the hall. That’s when she smelled the air freshener used to cover Queenie’s caustic odor. Had the odor been there all along? Had she gotten so used to the smell she hadn’t noticed it until now, or had Queenie gotten out of the garage? Again.
“Queenie?”
She heard something else. This time it sounded as if the door leading to the garage was opening.