The Pet

by Charles L. Grant

  She kissed him on the lips, once and quickly, so quickly he couldn't taste it. When they were through the door, he watched as Tracey went left, as Jeff grabbed her hand and pulled her to the right. She giggled; he hushed her with his head close to hers.

  A sandwich, he thought; Jesus Christ, a sandwich!

  greensparks and greenfire

  and the stallion's silhouette against the white of the moon

  "I wouldn't let him come up," Chris said, perching on the mattress by his hip. "He's acting like an asshole. Would you believe, even Tar thinks he's acting like a jerk?"

  Gratefully, and somewhat embarrassed, he turned his cheek toward her oncoming lips, and was nonplussed when she cupped his face in her hands, turned it back, and gave him a kiss he knew the doctor wouldn't approve of. She didn't seem to notice his bewilderment, only leaned away and slumped so that her man's white shirt bagged over her breasts under the fall of her hair.

  "I think he's jealous."

  "Brian?" That he could not believe. "You're kidding."

  "Well," she said, one hand leaning on his waist, "he's been drinking already. Smells like a brewery, and he can't figure out why the reporters won't talk to him anymore." A finger toyed with the sheet. "He said ..." A look without looking up. "He said something about Donny Duck to them, y'know?"

  "Wonderful," he said.

  "Oh, don't worry about it. Nobody cares. My god, you're a genuine hero, you know that? I mean, you're the kind of man that crap head only dreams about.''

  "Jesus, Chris." He looked to the window and wished she'd go away. No, he thought in a panic. No; just lay off the bullshit.

  "No, really."

  "God, knock it off, huh?"

  "Man can't take a compliment," she said to the wall.

  "Well ..."

  She laughed silently and pushed her hair back behind her ears, the movement half-turning her toward him so he could see, if he wanted, the flat of her chest where the shirt was creased back.

  "I guess you're all right though."

  The finger waltzed aimlessly, over the sheet, and he couldn't help looking at it without seeming to, watching it, mesmerized by it, and finally squeezing his legs together because of where it was heading.

  When he cleared his throat and pushed himself into a higher sitting position, the finger only paused before dancing on.

  "Yes, thanks."

  "I hear they're going to make a big deal at the concert."

  "Yeah, so I heard too."

  She smiled at him and winked. "Brian and Tar aren't going. He says you'll make him puke."

  "If that's true, I'll be there early."

  Her lower lip vanished briefly between her teeth before she leaned over again and kissed him, hard, surprising him so much he let her tongue in before he knew she was doing it, astounded him so much he opened his eyes and saw her staring at him. She laughed without pulling away, and the laugh was deep in his mouth, and he prayed neither of his parents would walk in, not now.

  She broke the kiss, but didn't move away. "Listen, after the concert?"

  He waited.

  "If your folks let you, I mean, you being in the hospital and all, they may not even think it's a good thing for you to go, but if they do let you, maybe we can go to Beacher's after."

  He laughed. "And try the Don Boyd Special?"

  "You know?" And she laughed, rocking slowly as her finger moved to his groin, traced the bulge there, and retreated. "All right! The Don Boyd Special it is!"

  All he could do was nod, and swallow, and watch the play of her buttocks beneath the skin of her jeans.

  Jesus, he thought; oh Jesus.

  someone was screaming and there was blood on his hands

  He closed his eyes and saw Jeff take Tracey's hand, and saw the promise in Chris's eyes, and felt someone in the room, watching him and not moving.

  Please, no, he thought, and opened his eyes with a soundless gasp.

  Fleet stood at the foot of the bed. His face was lined, his eyes red-rimmed, and his hands gripped the metal footboard while he examined Don's face.

  "God, you scared me," Don said, smiling.

  Fleet nodded.

  "Hey, you okay?"

  "I'm supposed to ask you that, m'man," Robinson answered, his smile only a pulling back of his lips. "Shit, you done it good, didn't you?"

  He shrugged. "I guess."

  "You guess?"

  "I don't ... I don't remember everything, exactly."

  "No shit?"

  "No shit."

  Fleet pushed away from the bed, and the light from the window put half his face in shadow.

  "Thanks," he said then, in a voice barely heard. "Thanks. For Mandy."

  Don didn't know what to say, nor did he know what to do when Fleet came suddenly around the bed and leaned close enough to touch. "I wanted that dude, Donny boy," he said, the words scraped out of his throat. "I wanted that fucker myself, can you understand that?"

  Don nodded, afraid that Robinson was going to hit him.

  Fleet nodded back as if a point had been made, straightened, and walked out without saying another word.

  Dr. Naugle came in, Joyce and Norman behind, and before Don could ask anything, there were reporters in the room. They were quiet but eager, and they had apparently agreed before hand on the rotation of questions.

  He did the best he could with some help from his father who sat on his one side while his mother sat on the other, and he tried not to squint in the glare of the lights or lose his temper when one of them suggested offhandedly that Brian's story was somewhat closer to the actual fact than the police report; he made a few self-deprecating jokes they laughed at politely, and just as politely he refused when a photographer wanted him to hold a bat like a club; a woman reporter asked about girlfriends and his running; a man in a tweed suit made his throat freeze up; and when someone asked how he felt about the medal, he said in a quiet voice he was pleased and didn't deserve it.

  They left without a fuss when Dr. Naugle called time.

  His parents left him alone to dress in the clothes they had brought.

  And when he was tucking in his shirt, the nurse returned with a wheelchair.

  "Do I have to use that?" he said, pointing with one hand while the other hurried to zip his fly and buckle his belt. "I can walk."

  "If you don't, I'll have to carry you."

  He grinned and took the seat.

  And there were more pictures at the hospital entrance, and while he was getting into the station wagon, and while the wagon pulled away slowly from the curb. He wanted his father to hurry, and didn't want to think that the smile on the man's face was meant for more than him.

  When they arrived home, there was a police car at the curb and Sergeant Quintero on the sidewalk. He opened the door for Joyce and took Don's hand when he climbed out weakly. The moment was awkward because he knew the man wanted to say something about the Howler, about Tracey, and he was rescued by Joyce, who hustled him inside after a quick invitation to the patrolman to come in when he could and have a cup of coffee.

  In the foyer he glanced up the stairwell and let himself be led into the living room, where he was put in on the sofa. A fussing over him he enjoyed and didn't care for, and with apologetic smiles his parents left him alone.

  He looked around, thinking things should be different, realizing with a start he hadn't been gone for even a full day. It unsettled him. Time shouldn't have stretched so far, shouldn't have had so much crammed in, yet his father's chair hadn't moved, and there was an empty cup on the floor beside it, folders on the couch, magazines on the end table. Nothing had changed, and suddenly he was convinced that somehow, this time it should have.

  They returned with steaming coffee, and a can of soda for him. He grinned as his father sagged loudly into the chair and kicked off his shoes, squirmed when his mother dumped the folders on the floor and knelt on the cushion beside him. She kept looking at her watch.

  "Well!" Norman said explosively, an
d took a sip of his drink.

  Joyce hugged him quickly and gave him an impish grin.

  "Are you all right, son?" Norman asked solemnly. "I mean, really all right?"

  "I think so," he answered truthfully. "A little shaky, but I think I'm okay."

  "Good," his mother said, retreating to her corner. Then there were tears. "God, I was so frightened!"

  "We both were," his father said when Don reached out a hand to touch Joyce's leg. "From the moment we found you gone, we were scared to death something had happened to you."

  The tone in the man's voice made him turn. "Oh," he said then. "Oh, shit."

  "Right," Norman said, sternly but not unkindly. "I got up to get a glass of water and I saw your door open. You were gone, Donald. It was almost midnight and you were gone. You can't imagine what we thought."

  "You ran away," his mother said. "I mean, that's what we thought—that you'd run away or something." Her smile was one-sided and her laugh was abrupt. "I was going to call the police, can you believe it?"

  "I couldn't imagine," Norman said tightly, "where you had gone. We took the car and started to look for you. We drove around the whole neighborhood trying to figure out what the hell you were doing to us, why you'd do something stupid like this."

  Don swallowed. "I couldn't sleep," he explained. "I went for a walk."

  "Without telling us?"

  "You were asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

  "You drove your mother crazy, you know that, don't you?"

  I'm a hero, he thought then; I'm a hero, don't you remember?

  Norman slumped back in his chair and covered his face with his hands, rubbed, pulled, then shook his head. "You could have been killed."

  Joyce started to cry.

  "But Dad—"

  "You could have been goddamned killed!" Norman said, his hands flat on the armrests. "We could have gotten a phone call in the middle of the night, and we would have had to tell the police we didn't even know you were gone. In our own house, our own son, and we didn't even know you were gone! Jesus Christ, Don, if you ever do that again, I'll break your neck!"

  Don struggled to understand—they were mad because they were afraid for him, afraid because he was their son; yet he couldn't help the rise of his own temper when he saw the expression on his father's face, a hard and murderous look untempered by compassion or relief. A glance to his mother she was drying her face with the backs of her hands, bravely smiling to show him he was right, and this was only their after-the-fact reaction.

  Then her eye caught the hands of the clock on the mantel and she uncurled with a loving pat to his knee. "I've got to get dinner," she announced. "There's only a couple of hours before the concert and ...oh, Lord, I'll never be ready in time. Never. Norm, would you mind peeling the potatoes. I've got to start-" She took a step toward her husband, looked at the clock again and rushed out of the room. "Lord!" she called. "Please, just three or four more hands, what do you say?"

  Norman laughed indulgently and winked at his son. "It's a big night for her, you know," he said. "For all of us."

  "Oh, god," Don whispered. "Oh, god, do I have to go?"

  "Do you feel up to it?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, if you don't, we'll understand." His fingers tented under his chin. "It would be nice, though. There are a lot of people grateful to you for what you did last night." The fingers folded into a double fist.

  "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I would have thought, to be honest, you didn't have it in you." He glared then to keep Don from responding. "You scared the shit out of me, son. Don't you ever do that again."

  "Dad, I'm sorry."

  He stood, shook off an instant of dizziness, and watched as Norman pushed himself out of the chair. They faced each other for several seconds, and Don waited for the hug.

  "The potatoes," Norman said with an uneasy laugh. "Your mother'll have my hide. C'mon, give me a hand."

  Don followed him into the foyer, but veered off to the stairs instead of the kitchen. When his father turned, he said, "I need to clean up, Dad."

  He wrinkled his nose. "I smell like disinfectant, you know? I'll be down in time for supper, don't worry I just ..."

  He gestured vaguely toward the second floor and Norman nodded, gave him a big smile, and went off, whistling.

  They were afraid for you, he told himself as he took the stairs slowly; they really are proud of you, really they are.

  In the hallway he hesitated, then turned into his room and stopped.

  Gasped. Held on to the jamb and felt his jaw working.

  "I went up to the attic after we saw you this morning," Joyce said behind him, her voice small.

  He didn't jump. He only nodded. And he walked slowly in with a grin on his face, giving silent greetings to his pets back on their shelves, to the panther on the wall over his headboard, and the elephants that once again flanked his door. There was a bit of dust on the bobcat, and a cobweb on hawk, but he didn't care as long as they were back where they belonged.

  "Don, I'm sorry."

  She hadn't come into the room, waiting in the hall as if for an invitation. He turned and smiled at her, ducked his head and shrugged.

  She was expectant, her hands twisting around her hairbrush, waiting for his reaction, waiting for absolution.

  Then he looked to the desk and the empty space above it.

  "Where is it?" he asked, more sharply than he'd intended. "I had a poster up there too. Where is it, Mom?"

  "What?" Joyce came in, looked, and nodded. "Oh. Well, I wasn't sure about that one, so I took it down and put it in the hall closet. I'll get it if you want."

  "But why?" he said plaintively as she started up the hall.

  She stopped, returned and swept an arm through the air. "Well, with all these animals and things around, I ... well, I didn't think you really wanted a picture of just some trees."

  Chapter Twelve

  Dinner was a hasty affair. Joyce spent more time waving her hands about and babbling than eating, Norman lost his temper more than once in an effort to be patient, and Don ate everything on his plate, had seconds, and seriously considered third helpings to satisfy his sudden, ravenous appetite. Yet his stomach bubbled acid, and a tic refused to leave the corner of his left eye. It was nerves, he decided, aggravated by his mother's self-propelled ascent into near hysteria over her participation in the opening ceremonies at the park tonight, and goaded by the return of his father's waspish tongue. The closer the time for leaving came, the more surly Norman grew, until Don finally excused himself and rushed upstairs to dress.

  With the door closed behind him he switched on the light and forced himself to look at the poster retrieved from the closet and returned to its place.

  The running horse was gone.

  He checked it only once, could not look at it again without seeing the stallion charging across the ball field, green eyes, green sparks, heading for Falwick because Don had commanded.

  When he looked out the window, he saw only the night.

  "Don," his mother called as she sped past the door. "Hurry up, dear, or we're going to be late."

  His fingers refused to work his buttons, tie his laces, do anything with his hair; his lips quivered as he warded off a sensation of winter cold that stiffened his arms and made bending over a chore; and his eyes were pocked with grains of harsh dust that sent stabs of white fire into his skull, fire that swirled and coalesced and formed a flame-figure of a horse.

  A dash into the bathroom emptied his meal into the toilet.

  Kneeling on the carpeted floor, hands gripping the porcelain sides, he heard Joyce bleating in the hall about something spilled on her dress, heard Norman complaining that the photographers would make him look like a corpse if he wore, as she insisted, his good black suit.

  Another surge of bile, and the acid tears that came with it before he gulped for air, flushed the toilet, and grabbed for a towel. From his position on the floor he dumped the terry cloth
into the sink and turned on the cold water, waited, pulled the towel out and slapped it over his face. His shirt was soaked, but the shock was a comfort; his throat was raw, but when he staggered to his feet and scooped a palmful of water into his mouth, the expected reaction didn't happen. The water went down, stayed down, and he smiled sardonically at his reflection, his face and hair dripping, and his eyes turning bloodshot.

  "Big hero," he mumbled. "You look like Tar after a three-day drunk."

  He dried himself quickly, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair; back in his room he changed his shirt and slacks, found a sports jacket he could wear, and hurried downstairs to wait, standing in the living room and looking out the window.

  The street was dark, and a light wind taunted the last leaves on the trees. A couple passing by huddled close together though they weren't wearing heavy coats. Mr. Delfield from across the road argued with his dachshund, who didn't want the leash, and when the dog slipped its collar, the old man shambled after it, one hand raised in a doom-laden fist while the other whipped the leash angrily against the sidewalk. The red convertible sped past, the top up and music blaring. The wind gusted, and there was movement in the gutters, an acorn rolled along the walk and dropped into shadow.

  Where are you? he thought, feeling the cold through the pane.

  There was no answer, and he had no time to ask the question again.

  Joyce was in the foyer, rattling the car keys and calling up to Norman, telling Don to leave on one light so they wouldn't break a leg when they got home, and wondering aloud what she had forgotten, what would go wrong, what people would think if the celebrations began with a thud, not a bang.

  He followed them out, and took a deep breath, saw Mr. Delfield rushing back to his house with his dog wriggling under his arm, and took the backseat without any prompting.

  He watched the street as they drove over and parked on the north side because there were no ready openings on the boulevard, Joyce complaining because they should have started earlier to get a decent spot.

  At the gates-similar pillars of stone that marked the other entrance, he hesitated and listened, and could hear nothing but the murmuring of a patiently waiting crowd, the slam of a car door, the heels of his mother's shoes cracking on the path.