by James Newman
The way my ex-wife reacted, you would think I had informed her that I never wanted to see our little girl again. That I wished to sign away my paternal rights altogether.
“Sometimes you can be so selfish, Andrew,” she hissed into the phone. “I swear to God.”
She always called me Andrew when we argued. As if she were scolding an ornery brat instead of her former husband. Any other time I was “Andy,” to Karen as with everyone else.
“Jason and I had plans this weekend,” she said, “but I suppose we’ll have to cancel everything now because of your precious manuscript.”
“I just need to switch weekends with you, Karen,” I said. “That’s all. It’s not like I’m asking you to—”
“He finally got his boat, you know,” she reminded me. As if I hadn’t heard all about Jason Burke’s wonderful new boat every fucking time I had spoken with my ex-wife the last few weeks. I felt like I knew it inside and out, as if I had cruised around the world on it once or twice, though I had never even seen the damn thing.
“We’ve been wanting to try it out on Lake Jocassee,” Karen said. “We haven’t had a chance to do that yet, with the new school year coming up, Jason’s workload and all. I guess we’ll have to hang it up this time, too, won’t we?”
I said, “The book is due in six weeks. I have to knock out four or five chapters this weekend or I am screwed.”
“I don’t know, Andrew. We’ve been looking so forward to this…”
I sighed, tried to keep my frustration in check. Failed miserably.
“I’ll make it up to you, Karen. I promise. After I finish this novel, Sam can stay with me as long she wants. Hell, I’ll take her for a week or two. I’d love that, in fact. Then you two can cruise to China in that frigging boat, for all I care.”
“Being a smart-ass won’t help your case,” she said.
“I don’t understand why you can’t take her with you,” I said.
“Maybe Jason and I would like to spend some quality time alone. Have you thought about that? Do you realize how long it’s been since we got to do that?”
“Probably around the time he was sodomizing you in our bed.” It was out of my mouth before I considered the repercussions. I knew it was a mistake, but I didn’t care. Because it felt so damn good.
“That was low,” Karen said.
“If the shoe fits.”
She made a little “hmmph” sound in the back of her throat, as if she had never met anyone more difficult in her life.
I cleared my throat, deciding it might be wise at that point to engage in a bit of damage control.
“Look,” I said softly. “This isn’t worth fighting over. Sam’s old enough to keep herself occupied. It’ll be okay. She can play with her Barbies while I’m in the office, or keep Norman company outside—”
“No,” Karen said, a stern finality in her tone. “Just forget it. Forget it! If you don’t want to spend time with your daughter, that’s fine with me.”
“Oh, please! Karen, now you know I never said tha—”
“She’s been begging to go for a ride in Jason’s boat anyway. You know he even named it after her, which just tickled her to death? I’m sure she will have a blast with us. She always does.”
And with that she hung up on me.
“Bitch!” I shouted at the dial tone. It mocked me, resembled a crude electronic laugh after a few seconds. I slammed the phone back down on its cradle. Then picked it up and did it a few more times. If there is one thing I’ve always despised, it’s someone hanging up on me. Especially her.
Once my tantrum had concluded, I stomped outside for the only thing that calmed my mind when I was having a bad day. I didn’t even bother grabbing my cell out of the office, something I never left behind. There was only one living creature on Earth that I wanted to talk to right now…
I grabbed Norman’s leash by the door on my way, tried not to imagine wrapping it around my ex-wife’s throat and watching her face turn blue.
Deadlines be damned, I decided. My book had waited this long. Another hour or two couldn’t possibly get me any further behind.
***
Norman was six weeks old when he came into our lives. I bought the Golden Retriever for Samantha for her eighth birthday, but he soon became mine by default when my daughter neglected to feed him and take him for walks. Lectures on responsibility aside, I didn’t mind taking over her duties. I think Norman and I both knew all along that we belonged to one another. That dog stole my heart the moment I first saw him gazing out at me through the big bay window of Patty’s Pet Shop on the corner of Fifth and Main. He wagged his tail so hard I remember thinking it was sure to fall off any second.
I named him after Norman Bates, the title character from Psycho. He was such a beautiful beast. His golden fur resembled waves of living sunshine as he frolicked about our property, his tongue lolling out as if the retriever remained in a state of perpetual astonishment at the wonders of the world around him. He was the most loyal sidekick a man could ever have. Sometimes, especially when we were alone, he would act more like a person than any canine I have ever known. He possessed a distinctive personality, communicated with me in ways that seemed too intelligent for a dog, and it was often hard for me to believe that he hadn’t been a member of our family forever.
He was my best friend in the world. The best I ever had.
On the day Karen hung up on me and I stormed out of the house wondering what good had ever come of our partnership—with the exception of a perfect daughter who resembled me far more than her cheating asshole mother by God—Norman rushed across the lawn to meet me the second I opened the gate to the privacy fence surrounding our backyard. He barked three times fast, paused, then barked twice more, his trademark way of saying “hello.”
“Hi, Norman!” I called out to him, jingling his leash in the air between us.
Norman’s doghouse was a miniature version of the old Bates mansion from Psycho. It had been a gift from my former brother-in-law, a carpenter by trade, the previous Christmas. If you looked for it you could even see the gaunt silhouette of “Mother”—a matriarch with long, floppy ears and a protruding canine snout—lurking in one painted window.
I bent to meet the retriever halfway across the lawn. My best friend panted excitedly, that dumb doggy smile never leaving his big golden face as I scratched behind his ears and allowed him one coarse lick at my chin.
“Ready for a walk, old buddy?”
He made a chuffing noise, barked once as if to assure me that he’d been born ready, now what the hell was I waiting for, and tilted his head to one side so I could attach the leash to his collar.
“Good boy. That’s a good boy… ”
At least my dog still loves me.
When that was done, I slapped him gently on one furry haunch. “Let’s go!”
I stood then, and allowed him to lead me out of the backyard, through the gate and down our driveway to the sidewalk lining Poinsettia Lane. I didn’t even scold him when he stopped to mark his territory on one of my Explorer’s new tires.
It was barely eight o’clock in the morning, but the sun hung fat and bright in a cloudless sky as blue as ocean waters. A cool breeze ran its invisible fingers through my hair. Across the street, a robin chirped at us from the feeder on Donna Dunaway’s patio, as if inviting my dog and me to join it for breakfast. Boyish laughter and a firecracker fusillade of cap-gun warfare filled the morning air as the Morgan triplets—Aaron, A.J., and Freddy Jr.—played Cowboys and Indians on their front lawn. As I walked, I slipped a pair of John Lennon sunglasses out of my breast pocket, put them on. I inhaled deeply, savoring the smells of summer: the strong scent of recently mown grass, the heady lilac aroma of Marianne Souther’s flowerbed next door, a hint of chlorine from the Pearsons’ new pool down the block.
“It’s going to be a beautiful day, Norman,” I told my best friend, forcing my troubles with the former Mrs. Holland out of my mind for now. “I refuse to let her
ruin it.”
The retriever made a wet, snuffling noise, as if in haughty agreement—he always did like me more than Karen—and we walked on, the furry exclamation point of his tail bobbing up and down to the rhythm of our stroll.
***
“How’s the hair-o business treating you, Mr. Writer Fella?” Sal Friedman called out, throwing up one bony, liver-spotted arm as I passed his home at 222 Poinsettia. He had just backed out of his driveway in his shiny blue Cadillac (the one with the vanity plate: HOLE-N1), and he appeared to be in a big hurry. Of course, Sal Friedman always appeared to be in a big hurry, despite the fact that he had been retired for the better part of twenty years and did nothing but play golf all the time. On the Cadillac’s radio, Tony Bennett crooned his heart out about how love found him just in time.
“I’m doing okay, Sal,” I replied, returning his wave. “How are you today?”
“Eh, can’t complain.” The old man reached to turn down the radio, and his Rolex winked at me in the sunlight. “Arthritis has been acting up a bit, but what else is new. Another day above ground, and all that. No way I’m gonna waste weather like this sitting inside on my keister—you know what I’m saying?”
“I certainly do,” I said.
“Well, my friend, eighteen holes are waiting.” The little pink ball atop his golf hat jiggled as Sal put the Caddy in gear. He licked his lips, offered me a lascivious, yellow-dentured grin. “Enough about those pretty young waitresses at the country club, though. I’ve got some golfing to do.”
I shook my head, laughed. “Take it easy, Sal.”
“You too. Talk to you later, Mr. Writer Fella.”
“Enjoy your game!”
The old man took off then with an uncharacteristic squeal of tires, like a macho teenager showing off in his Daddy’s brand new sports car.
Norman barked a hearty goodbye after the Cadillac, and we walked on.
As we strolled down the sidewalk, I listened to the retriever’s gentle panting in front of me. It was one of my favorite sounds in the world. From somewhere down the block came the bee-like drone of a weed-eater hard at work. The rhythmic tick-tick-tick of a lawn sprinkler. A mother calling out for Jamie to get inside and clean his room right this minute, young man. Not to mention the distant yip of a small dog (probably the Heatherlys’ prized Shih Tzu, Roosevelt). This last sound caused Norman’s ears to perk up for a second, but then he jabbed his shiny black nose into the air as if barking out a response couldn’t possibly be worth his time.
I loved it here, didn’t think I would ever want to live anywhere else in the world than in this neighborhood. Life was perfect here, or as close to perfect as life could get. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been in such a wonderful, carefree mood. I had even forgotten about my fight with Karen.
Along the way I caught more friendly waves from my neighbors: Todd and Patty Carstensen, Yvonne Morgan, Officer Keith Whitmire, Chad and Kimberly Rickman. Oh, yes… and I mustn’t forget to mention an effeminate fellow by the name of Dr. Tom McFarland. The doc wore a Yale T-shirt, matching shorts. Whitest legs I’ve ever seen. As he jogged past Norman and me on the opposite side of the street, I could hear the faint strains of Vivaldi in his headphones. It reminded me of the elevator muzak always playing in his office downtown. McFarland was my ex-wife’s gynecologist. At least, he had been when Karen and I were together. I suppose only Jason Burke knew where she handled such business these days.
“Andy Holland!” I heard a voice off to my left call out then. “How are you this gorgeous Thursday morning?”
I turned and saw Mona Purfield rolling a large plastic garbage can on wheels down to the end of her driveway. Her Siamese cat, Miss Pretty, followed closely at her heels.
Mona Purfield was an obese senior citizen who dyed her hair the brightest orange I have ever seen. When the sun hit it just right, her head looked like it was on fire. She always wore three or four times more make-up than necessary for a woman her age, dressed in flowery muumuus and neon pink flip-flops wherever she went, and spoke in the most nasally, obnoxious voice you can imagine. But Mona was also one of the friendliest people I ever knew. We all felt so sorry for her when her husband Jerry Lee passed away the Christmas before last. No one had seen it coming—one minute the guy is on top of his house, stringing up lights and strands of those plastic icicles, whistling “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” the next minute he’s sprawled out in his front yard with a broken neck, an unfortunate new centerpiece to his wife’s prized nativity scene.
“Hi, Mona!” I said, scratching Norman behind his ears as the old woman waddled toward us. “I’m doing well. How about yourself?”
“Oh, I’m just wonderful.” Mona’s hands went to her hips, and she made exaggerated kissing noises at my dog. “And hello to you too, Mr. Normy-Norman!”
Norman barked a friendly greeting. His tail transformed into a furious, wheat-colored blur.
Mona grinned so widely I was surprised she didn’t smudge some of that gaudy pink lipstick on her ears. “He’s such a good dog.”
She looked down at her cat. Miss Pretty tried to hide behind the garbage can, but her long black tail gave her away. It swished back and forth like an angry snake ready to strike at us if we dared step upon the Purfield property. “Don’t be shy, Miss Pretty. Say hello, now.”
Miss Pretty peeked out at us, meowed up at her mistress, but dismissed Norman and I with a glance that insinuated we were two of the most revolting creatures she ever had the misfortune of knowing. Norman barked a hello Miss Pretty’s way nonetheless. At least, I think he did. For all I know, he called her a stuck-up twat in animal-speak.
“Writing any new books lately, Andy?” Mona asked me.
“Always,” I said.
“Still that spooky-ooky stuff, I’m sure?”
I shrugged. “You know me. Guilty as charged.”
“I think that’s just wonderful,” she said. “I mean, I’ll be honest. I’m no fan of that Stephen King, blood-and-guts stuff. I’d be afraid it would give me nightmares, you know? But I have always thought creative people were so incredibly fascinating. Myself, I can barely write a letter.”
I chuckled.
“Anywhooo,” the old woman said then, in a singsong tone, “we’ll talk again soon, Andy. I’m off to watch Dr. Phil. I never miss his show!”
“Take care of yourself, Mona,” I said.
Norman barked once, as if he also wished Mona nothing but the best, and Miss Pretty darted for the house.
“Now, Miss Pretty,” I heard the old woman scold the cat as they headed back inside, “You know Norman wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
We continued down the block. I whistled as I walked. Before long I felt droplets of sweat beading upon my brow. I wiped them away with the back of one hand.
“Whew, Norman,” I said. “It’s gonna be a hot one today.”
It wasn’t until we came within a hundred feet or so from the end of the street, where Poinsettia Lane merged into Brookshire Boulevard, the highway leading into town, when my dog began to act… well, not like himself at all.
The retriever stopped in his tracks. His ears perked up. He sniffed the air, and a menacing growl rumbled deep in his throat like the threat of a storm on the horizon.
The hair on my arms and the nape of my neck stood up.
“Norman?” I said. “What’s the matter, boy?”
Up ahead, to our left, sat the construction site of a new home at 229 Poinsettia Lane. There wasn’t much to it yet save for a plot of thick red dirt, a concrete foundation, and the partial frame of what would soon be a fancy split-level similar to Doc McFarland’s place across the street. I’d heard a family with the same last name as a recent President had purchased the property (the Clintons? the Bushes? I was pretty sure it hadn’t been the Reagans), but for the life of me I couldn’t remember which one. A high wooden fence surrounded the site. To the left of the rutted driveway, which served as the construction crew’s entrance, a large sign with fancy lavend
er script proclaimed COMING SOON: ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL SUNN-FLOUER HOME.
Norman usually ignored the lot any time we passed it, even when it grew busy with dusty orange Brannon Bros. Construction trucks constantly coming and going, with sweaty men in hard hats hammering and sawing and pouring cement into the evening hours. That morning, the crew had not yet arrived to begin their work, which was why Norman’s behavior shocked me even more than it would have otherwise.
By the time we’d arrived within twenty feet of the place, Norman erupted into a mad flurry of barks. He lunged forward, standing on his hind legs when his leash did not allow him to go any further.
He nearly jerked my arm out of its socket wanting to get onto that lot.
“Damn it, Norman, what’s gotten into you?” I said. “Stop it!”
I picked up my pace, jogging behind him to keep a hold on his thin metal chain. I feared it might snap any second.
“Norman, stop!” I shouted it this time.
Still, he paid me no mind. He seemed to have forgotten I was there at all. His barks tapered off into harsh growls as we reached the construction site, and I stumbled through the gate behind him.
“God, Norman… what is it?”
Never before had I heard the retriever make such vicious sounds. He was always so well-mannered, the best dog in the world. Not even in the presence of my ex-wife’s new beau had he ever displayed such ferocity, and to say Norman hated that man would have been the understatement of the century.
My heart slammed in my chest as he tugged me across the lot, past a blood-red wheelbarrow and a trio of crooked sawhorses. As the skeletal frame of the Clintons’ new home loomed above us—yeah, that was it, the Clintons, but why did I remember that now, when I couldn’t possibly care any less?—I suddenly realized something that made me feel cold, even though the day blazed bright and warm…