Just Bill

by Barry Knister

  A seam, a sharp-edged broken white line blinks and is gone. He spins and runs back through the house, seeing the girl a second with the toy in her hand before he scuttles, hindquarters low, back into the mister’s bedroom. He flattens himself and pulls with his front paws, still working his bulk under the bed when it comes. Whining, he keeps working as thunder batters—falling, dropping like the big barrels for trash but much worse, terrible. Fully under the bed, he feels no safer. He feels safer when the mister is here, saying something in his calm voice, saying it’s all right, hold on, Bill, it’ll be over soon, just a squall, nothing to worry about, hang in there.

  What do they know? Nothing of the man who shot bottles behind the kennel, his rifle making just that sound. Or the one who cut logs with something angry and loud—the same one who put weaker pups or mistakes in a sack and carried them to the lake. Except when he was curious. That’s why Bill was spared, a mistake, yes, but big—who could say how big? Not all Lab, but maybe a good retriever, a dog for home use instead of sale. Keep him and see.

  The noise of rolling thunder stuns him. Somewhere the baby is crying. Bill tries to flatten even more, knowing he has done a bad thing. Nowhere to go, nothing to stop the sound. Once more it moves the whole house, rattles windows and again he feels himself doing the bad thing. Just because the mister always comes back, how can you say he will this time? Thinking that is worse than remembering the woods, cold and gray. Chased from garbage cans and dumpsters, boys throwing rocks, handsful of gravel. No, this is worse. The noise of it, but mostly the not knowing—

  “Where are you?”

  The wrong voice. Not the mister or missus. The girl. But any voice at all gives relief, and Bill whines in answer. The thing they keep on the bed is raised. She is lying on her side, on the floor, looking at him. Still she holds it up. “Are you scared?” He wishes she would leave, let go of the cloth and leave him in darkness, not stare at him. But she goes on looking at him, saying nothing.

  Then the girl does something even the mister never has. With the noise going on—so loud he can’t help the bad thing each time it comes—she now covers herself with the bedspread—and stays there. On her side next to the bed, she lays her head on the carpet facing him. She says nothing, no quiet words in the soft voice of the mister when it’s like this. Even the missus knows how awful it is for him, getting down and raising the bedspread, saying poor guy, I don’t like it either. But then she drops the cover and leaves.

  Not the girl. She stays. And as the baby cries somewhere, still Ruby studies him. This has never happened. For a moment he almost forgets the thunder. It’s something in her face. Like the Gilmore woman last night. Twice Glenda came outside, crying but silent, circling the pool. Hotspur was at her side. The woman’s eyes were like those in front of him now. Under the bed it’s dark, but he can see Ruby looking at him.

  Frankly, I don’t see any point in walking him now.”

  “Honey, it’s just a little pee. It’s because we left him alone.”

  “He wasn’t alone. There were four people here. Five with the baby.”

  “Honey—”

  “Oh fine, go on, you always do what you want anyway. Go walk your dog.”

  When she is like this, the missus always says your dog. But hearing walk and dog, Bill is very happy. After the thunder stopped, the girl dropped the bedspread and left. Bill stayed where he was until the garage door rumbled. They came back, he thought. They’re here. He pulled and twisted himself free and ran to the entrance. When they came in he scolded them—where were you! why went you!—it was his right and the mister knew it. But then the missus found the bad thing, leading from the doorwall and trailing in spots to the bedroom.

  She made the mister move the bed. Saying nothing, they changed clothes in the separate little rooms where they each keep things. Now, as Bill and the mister look in, the missus is on the floor, working on the rug.

  “We’ll walk Hotspur. Back in less than an hour.”

  She says nothing. On the way out, the mister stops outside the TV room. “Anyone want to take a stroll?”

  Ruby shakes her head. She is on the couch working the toy. Bill remembers her on the floor with him, her eyes like Glenda Gilmore’s. Her brother is seated before the set and doesn’t move. The girl looks over. “Is he in trouble?”

  “A little bit. Grandma likes things nice.”

  “So does my dad. That’s why he got divorced.”

  Her grandfather waves and they leave. He closes the heavy front door. “It’s rough.” They move down the drive. “Her mother calls twice a week, isn’t that nice? I don’t know. I try to stay out of it. I just feel sorry for Ruby and Ron.”

  He doesn’t understand, but the mister has spoken softly. He has other soft voices—for praise or fatigue or talking to himself. This tone he uses when speaking just to Bill. Overhead float a few big, puffy thunderheads. All of them are white, the air still smelling of rain and lightning-charged ozone. Water has gathered in small depressions on either side of the street. Bill doesn’t care, it’s good again. The storm has passed, the mister is back. Bill moves next to him with pride, having forgiven.

  Golfers have resumed play. It’s early afternoon. Birds once more sound in the tall pines between houses. A plane drones, a police siren. Now comes the funny clink of someone teeing off. Instinct sets the dog’s muscles, but he knows better and relaxes. His first walk here, Bill chased one of the balls. Forgetting everything from the nights in the gym with other dogs, on hearing the clink and seeing something flying, he took off. Hearing Vinyl’s shouts but riveted on the white thing bouncing down the inviting sweep of grass, he raced after, retrieved it, brought it back and dropped it at the mister’s feet. People in the carts laughed as Vinyl returned it. After that, he began taking the dog to the course early, before the golfers, on a lead. The mister said “Stay!” each time before hitting. It was hard, Bill kept running. You couldn’t just watch a ball fly, you had to go. But each time, the long lead jerked him back, Vinyl standing on it as he hit. They had done this until the dog understood. It was hard, but he mustn’t run, because he wanted to be the best dog, the one the mister had stopped for and fed.

  They reach the end of the street and turn onto Donegal Boulevard. Across the median are three women and two carts, on the fairway. A fourth woman is off from the others, looking down, searching. Humans do this a lot, even when the white balls are right there to smell and see.

  Glenda Gilmore had to drive to Fort Myers to see Cliff’s lawyer. She called before leaving and asked Fred to walk Hotspur. As they reach her house, Bill hears the collie. There are many barks, some to gain attention, others to express anger, still others to signal a wish to play. As they walk up the drive, Bill hears a bark of fear and confusion. Border collies bark very little, using eye contact to intimidate whatever they herd. Now, as dog and master step under the entrance canopy, something wrong is happening—the collie is clawing the front door, scratching, calling.

  “Okay, buddy, that’s okay, just a second—”

  The mister cracks open the door. “Hold it hold it—” The collie’s nose is jammed in the opening, the dog still barking as Vinyl grabs for the collar. “Yes yes—” He has it and shoves in. Bill waits, follows. The mister moves in, holding the collar until he can shut the door. He lets Hotspur go but still the dog barks.

  “Jesus—”

  He walks into the house, Bill behind. It’s the same as his own—bedrooms and TV room in front, the vaulted central hall leading back to the big room. As the freed collie jumps and barks, Vinyl stops. “What a mess.” Pillows have been torn apart, a dining chair lies on its side. Next to it rests a wooden salad bowl. There are napkins and napkin rings, a shredded newspaper, the smell of blood.

  “The storm.” Vinyl begins picking things up. “You guys really hate hurricane season.” He carries the torn paper and pillows into the kitchen, then comes back. “We’ll call the lawyer and give Glenda a heads-up on this. You’re not helping matters much,
Hotsie.”

  —I peed, Bill says as Hotspur passes him. —They left me during the storm.

  —The storm is bad, that’s not it. Circling furniture, Hotspur passes again. —What can I do? She’s crazy, she’s making me crazy. She thinks he died, she keeps going on about not being there. Hotsie passes again. —He’s out there, I know it. He’s not dead, nothing’s wrong. He has no car. He’s waiting for her, what’s she doing? She’s here crying and talking to me, always talking. Her mind’s gone, I don’t know why. All I know, Glenda is wrong and I’m going crazy. Cliff and I have our schedule, he knows me, we do things—

  The collie stops before the glass, looking out at the pool and fairway. The glass is smeared with blood and saliva. The dog whines, turns and again circles. —I’m this certain kind of dog, he knows it. We go to the beach, we do the Frisbee, all the time, every day we’re doing something, jobs, we have a schedule—

  “Okay, guys, let’s go.”

  The mister is back with the lead. When Hotsie circles in front of him, he grabs him and clips it on. “No, you don’t like it, but that’s the way it’s got to be—” As Hotspur pulls toward the front door, the mister’s arm jerks. He looks down. “And you behave yourself, hear me?’

  He does. Walking next to the mister, Bill is anxious to make up for the bad thing earlier, knowing to listen, obey, to be the best dog. Especially now, with Hotsie straining, coughing.

  “Jesus, look at this door—”

  They are out now, heading down the walk. Still Hotsie pulls. “I don’t know, buster. You better hope Glenda can pick up the drill. Maybe some Valium might help you too—”’

  —See? Hotsie lets up some, looking back a second at Bill, trying to relax and walk, not pull. —I like her, he says in Dog. That’s what’s wrong. She comes to the beach, at night she throws tennis balls, they both do. After dark we do it on the course, against the rules but we do it. After they drink wine, letting me know to be quiet, which I am, why would I ruin a thing like that? See? Breaking rules to give me some work. I don’t know—

  Watching the collie walking now, more or less the right way but staring ahead at nothing—not at something he’s herding and locked on, but at nothing—it’s confusing.

  —She lies on the bed. With the box of paper. She doesn’t know he’s waiting for us. I’m going crazy and she just lies on the bed.

  —Do you bring the lead? You have to sometimes, for them to know it’s time.

  —The lead, the Frisbee. Tennis balls, golf balls. I’m up on the bed looking down at her, giving her my stare. She lifts the arm off her eyes, she says, ‘I’m so sorry, Hotsie, but I just can’t.’ Like that.

  —Maybe your mister is gone.

  Hotspur sees something out on the course. So fast, Bill thinks as the collie, somehow knowing in the instant what to do jumps, seizes the lead in his teeth and snatches it from Vinyl’s hand.

  “Dammit—”

  He’s gone, across the street to the median, leaping there to clear plants. Bill is gone now too, the mister yelling as his big dog barrels forward but swerves, Bill knowing as he nears that the plants are too tall, tall himself but no jumper, no Hotspur. Dodging left, he finds where a croton has died. Out the other side, he sees the collie has already reached the golfers. Barking on the fairway, circling the women, the dog lunges one way, then the next. The women make sounds and run to the carts. As they do, the dog spins and races toward the lone woman still looking for her ball. Bill lopes across the course as she straightens and sees Hotspur coming. He veers, racing at her. She screams, running now clumsily toward the carts, an old-lady run. The collie circles her, barking, nipping—back and forth, pure herding instinct and method.

  Bill comes to a stop. He watches as the three other women huddle behind the carts, afraid. The running woman reaches them, crying as Hotspur barks, keeping them there.

  —Smell it?

  —What?

  —In there. The thing that got Randy—

  Bill looks out at the hanging grey-green mass of foliage. Many smells reach him from the jungle rough. Rot, dead and live birds, snakes, the scent of possum and raccoon, squirrels.

  —I don’t smell it.

  —It’s there, Hotspur barks in Dog. The mister is shouting, trotting from the road. —I have to keep her from going in. Because of the thing that got Randy. For good measure, the collie begins circling the carts. It works—the women stumble aboard. They are all talking at once, Vinyl calling “It’s all right! Don’t be afraid!” He chases the lead, stepping and missing, missing again.

  If Bill were as smart as Emma, he might later mark what’s happened this afternoon—the storm, doing the bad thing under the bed, chasing after Hotspur—as the starting point. Who can say which moments of smallest consequence still shape and direct the future?

  Finally Vinyl manages to step on the collie’s lead. He apologizes to the ladies and drags the dog back to the road. “And you’re in deep doo doo,” he says to Bill, frowning. His dog looks away, ashamed, once more where he belongs, trotting at the mister’s side. A mistake, he thinks. Please, no leash, it won’t happen again. If he walks straighter than ever, slows perfectly and sits even before the command at each corner, maybe Vinyl will see his dog is sorry.

  Hotspur?

  Mission accomplished, he is walking now like old times with Cliff Gilmore. The collie has a spring in his step, eyes alert. The mister has the lead wrapped around his wrist. “No more funny business,” he says.

  The collie keeps walking, eyes straight ahead. —I suppose there’s no chance of Frisbee. No beach.

  —The only time my mister does the Frisbee is in the pool.

  —He thinks I just felt like scaring the women?

  —I don’t know. Emma calls what you’re doing something.

  —What’s that?

  —You change when your mister is gone. You do things you shouldn’t.

  —You didn’t smell the thing? The woman was next to their swamp. You can’t see them unless they move. They look like logs. Cliff sees them on the course, he showed me one. That’s what got Randy.

  They walk on in silence, feeling the pavement warm under their pads. Some smells here are the same as smells in Michigan, some different. More of the tall pines rise on the right. Through them can be seen a white scoop of sand, like the beach. Beyond the sand trap stretches another broad fairway. It flows into the distance and looks misty. There are houses, and the aroma of grilled meat. Brown needles carpet the ground under the trees. On walks when coming to this point, Bill often thinks of the Michigan lake, and the woods. He slept on pine needles, curled and hearing wind high up. He was sick, too sick to chase food. He ate grass and threw it up.

  —Cliff knows me, Hotspur says. We’re a team.

  The collie is still walking in his regular head-low, high-stepping way, but the stare at nothing is back.

  —I’m thinking and thinking, he says. All day. He’s not at the clinic, he’d come back by now. He’s at the beach. Glenda still thinks he’s dead. Someone took him to Naples pier and left, he has no car. All this time he’s waiting, wondering where I am.

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Emma, lying next to her mistress, is listening to half a conversation about what happened.

  Madame is taking the call in her bedroom, propped on the bed and being polite. “Well, it would scare you, wouldn’t it? Unless you know Hotspur, how could you be sure?” Seeing her own dog looking at her, she winks. “Yes, he’s a very nice man. He was walking them both, so I’m sure he felt responsible—”

  She makes the talky-talky sign with her hand. Emma slips off the bed and walks into the front room. She sees the day has deepened almost to evening. If she asked to be let out—gave the signal—Madame would oblige. But she doubts others are out. The ground will still be soggy, and owners don’t like dogs coming in wet. She turns away and moves through the house. No meal is cooking. That means they are going out. It’s why Madame is resting up. She said the son was a pony, whatever that is. Just now,
he’s in the study, typing on his computer.

  The wife is sitting in the TV room, off the front entrance. That’s where Madame drinks her evening martini, where she watches the news or Masterpiece Theatre. Most evenings she falls asleep, waking when Emma noses her hand. The poodle thinks TV serves her mistress the way the clock she put in her new puppy’s box had served. As a source of company, like a heartbeat.

  But the daughter-in-law isn’t watching TV. Dressed for going out and strongly scented, she is reading. Next to her are papers like the one in her hand. Not a book, something with pictures.

  It would be hard to explain why or how the daughter-in-law knows that Emma neither likes nor trusts her. The poodle has never bared her teeth or barked at the woman—but she does know. She senses the dog’s presence and looks over. “You’re going to be a problem. If you were smaller, that would be different. They all have weight restrictions. And you’re long in the tooth, too. I don’t see any way around it.”

  The woman puts down the brochure and stands. She smooths her dress and moves into the hall. “Where are you?”

  “In here.”

  Heels hard on the cypress floor, she walks to the study. They are talking. After a moment, the dog steps into the TV room. She jumps up on the couch to see and sniff the brochures. Pictures. People playing cards, eating at tables. Others are swimming in a pool, still others getting on a bus, waving. A woman sits in a sunny room, before a window crowded with dolls. On her lap rests a cat.

  Real? Unreal? In the photo opposite, a man sits on a swing, like the ones outside the Donegal clubhouse entrance. At his side and looking up at him is a breed of dog Emma doesn’t recognize. It’s small, something like the Yorkies, but different.

  She can’t know the brochures concern assisted-living, something Madame often talks about. “A little memory trouble,” she’ll say, digging weeds. “So now it starts. Oh, they won’t work a hard sell, Emma. Nothing pushy. Not at first, anyway. They’ll just insinuate the notion. The plausible, logical idea. Which it is. The size of my house, all the service people involved. What happens in hurricane season if the air conditioning goes out. ‘All this lightning, mother, it’s no joke, we worry.’” Madame, smiles, smoothing out the mulch under a gardenia bush. “What do you bet they’ve set up some visits?”