Just Bill

by Barry Knister

  But if Emma doesn’t know any of this, she does know she dislikes the daughter-in-law. She hops down and steps into the hall. Passing the study, the poodle glances in and stops. The son and his wife are sitting side by side, on Madame’s loveseat. Seeing this tweaks the dog with a small, proprietary sense of violated territory.

  “Just the two?”

  “Just two.”

  “I wasn’t sure they’d tell you.”

  “I explained. I gave them my license if they wanted to confirm I was the son.”

  “I’m surprised there aren’t more.”

  “It’s not so bad, is it? Hell, two tickets in two weeks. That could just be bad luck. That could be you or me.”

  The daughter-in-law sighs. She picks up the crystal bowl with the gardenia and holds it to her nose. She puts it back. “You still think it’s wrong.”

  “I want her to have things the way she wants them for as long as possible.”

  “Sweetheart, who wouldn’t? Do you want her to break a hip? End up in a body cast? People don’t last that way, it breaks their spirit. I’m not the enemy here. It’s hard, but sometimes the hard thing’s the best thing.”

  She reaches again and picks up Madame Bovary. It’s lying face down, open to the page Madame likes best. As the daughter-in-law reads, Ken picks up the rose bowl and holds it to his nose.

  “Wasn’t this here last time?” She holds it out for him to see. He puts down the bowl and takes the book. “I remember hearing her reading to herself. That very passage. I’m telling you, sweetheart, it isn’t going away. Think about it. That passage, over and over. Who knows how many times? This is not rocket science.”

  Emma moves to the back of the house. In her room, Madame is no longer on the bed. She is in her walk-in, getting ready to be taken to the restaurant. She looks over. “Hello there. Where have you been? Someone called.” She is moving things on hangers. “It was about Hotspur, the Gilmores’ dog.” She turns to the second row and begins scraping hangers. “Something about chasing people.”

  Come the hot-weather months, dogs at Donegal eat much less. The same is true of their owners: less golf and tennis mean smaller meals. And shorter walks, fewer trips to the park.

  Not Bill. Because of the visiting grandchildren, he is eating even more than usual. When mealtime comes, he’s there and waiting in the kitchen, looking up and already salivating as the mister mixes everything—dry food with warm water and chicken broth. Any delay—a phone call, the missus calling the mister to come see something on TV—makes Bill whine and pace. The smell makes him drool, especially when something is being added up on the counter from the mister’s own food of the day before. Steak, half a leftover pork chop. He certainly knows what fish means. Twice he caught one in Michigan, wading out and against all odds plunging his big head just right into the cold, spring-fed lake.

  Vinyl always feeds him. It’s something the missus insisted on as a condition of keeping Bill. When he at last bends down with the weighted bowl, hardly has it touched the floor before Bill is snatching and gulping. In part this is simple instinct, but also memory of starving in the woods. Once, Ronald came into the kitchen to watch. When he approached, without knowing Bill made a sound.

  “No, Ron,” the mister said. “Stay away when he’s eating. Dogs are different.”

  The boy had gone out and come back with Ruby. “Look,” he said.

  “Gross. He doesn’t even chew.”

  “Their stomachs are different,” the mister explained.

  Every day they are in the pool. The boy never tires of faking the throw, making the big dog take his running leap. Or, Ronald braces himself on the deck and pulls at the rope toy until he either lets go or is pulled head first into the pool. That’s how strong Bill is. But careful. He understands what they are, that they are small and that he is expected to remember this.

  Against the missus’ protests (“What about the other day with Hotspur?”), Vinyl and his son have agreed to allow Ruby to walk Bill on the leash. The dog understands perfectly what this requires, what the mission demands. Even then, the girl never goes anywhere without the Game Boy. Inside or out, leaving to go in the car or ride the golf cart, she has it. He senses something is wrong. He knows their names, and hears them spoken often when Vinyl and the missus talk softly in their room. This happens at night, Bill on the floor at the foot of the big bed.

  “She seemed happier last summer.”

  “She had her daddy all to herself.”

  “You can’t blame the stepmother. Ronald seems fine.”

  “Blame is not the issue, honey. Ruby and her dad have always been kindred spirits. By the time she was five, she was really the wife. She ate with him, they went to movies. Her mother was never home, remember? It started falling apart right after Ron was born.”

  “And now another baby.”

  “Exactly. It’s not just the new mom, it’s the little rival.”

  He doesn’t understand, of course. Only the names register as he lies on the rug, ears shifting with each noise in the house—compressors, ice makers, a plane taking off at Naples airport two miles away that no one else in the house can hear.

  Or, he dreams. He never remembers, but wakes several times a night, aware of having treed a squirrel, of leaping at or cornering something with small eyes. Then, he gets up and wanders the dark house. Plug-in night lights glow here and there on the floor. They are new and must have to do with visiting pack members.

  At night, the two other big humans take the baby and close their door. But the room where the girl and boy sleep is open.

  When Bill looks in, sometimes the girl is still awake, on her back with the bedside light on, the Game Boy held above her head. She has light brown hair that looks red in sunlight. Her skin is pale, the result of her stepmother insisting she and her brother use lots of sunscreen. Her eyes are blue, and if he knew words, Bill would say they are soulful. Now, each time she looks at him he remembers her eyes from the storm. She has big hands and feet. Her grandmother says they have grown ahead of schedule and are waiting for the rest of Ruby to catch up. Just like her father, the mister says. Exactly the same at her age, remember? Two peas in a pod.

  IT’S THE FIRST of June, the end of the visit. The mister and missus have already started gathering things for their own trip north. Bill knows this from the way Vinyl is packing boxes, getting the crate down from the attic in the garage. When it’s finally time, he’ll put the crate in the van, swing open the door and clap his hands. Once Bill is inside, Vinyl will turn the crate, so the dog can see him and the missus. If he could, Bill would explain the crate isn’t needed, any more than the lead. He loves the road, especially on short trips to town. He loves it most when allowed to sit in the seat next to Vinyl, head out the window. It’s almost too much, the rush of odors, the flood of air. But crate or not, Bill will soon be happily sprawled, numb and sleepy from road vibration.

  In the morning, Vinyl rises early, walks and feeds Bill. He makes breakfast for his son, then they go out to the garage. The door rumbles. They get in the golf cart and leave. The new wife and the missus get up later. After breakfast with the children, they go next door with the baby. Ruby is to watch her brother. Often when alone, the two children fight. With pillows, the pool noodles, over toys and puzzles. At first, it bothered him. He barked and whined, wanting them to stop. This was before he was scolded, before he understood it was play of some kind.

  But this morning, Ruby refuses to fight or play. Learning her father has already left, she sits at the kitchen table in an oversized tee shirt, shoving her toaster waffle around on the plate. Once the two are alone, Ronald works a magnet toy as his sister pushes buttons and frowns. Soon tired of the magnets, he asks her to help him do a jigsaw puzzle. Do it yourself, she says. When he begs her to work the DVD player so he can watch Toy Story, she ignores him.

  He pulls open the doorwall, goes out on the lanai and looks at the pool. Both he and his sister are forbidden to go in unsupervised. He knows fr
om painful experience this order is not to be ignored. Denied and thwarted, he goes inside and puts on his sandals—his grandmother has warned about fire ants. Once more on the deck, he opens the reversed screen door and steps outside the cage. In the days since his family’s arrival, many more residents have left for cooler weather. The morning is silent, the fairway below verdant and peaceful. Not for the first time he wonders about the stretch of undeveloped property on the far side. Birds there are singing, a hawk floating overhead.

  Bill has followed him onto the deck, watching as the door’s pneumatic closer sighs. Aware of heat on his back, he watches Ronald outside the screen cage, walking. The boy reaches the brick path and moves down the slope to the fairway. Ronald looks to the right, shading his eyes, walking. Still moving, looking now to the left, he drops his hand. No father, or grandfather. Into this moment devoid of distractions, he reaches the fairway. Curiosity returns about the trees and dense undergrowth opposite. Back home, vacant lots in the subdivision where he lives hold many possibilities. Frogs, butterflies, chipmunks.

  As Bill watches, women’s laughter floats from the house next door. He turns and trots inside, back to the girl’s bedroom. On her back with the toy, Ruby looks over. After a moment, she says, “You have long legs, too.” With her back flat on the bed, dressed in shorts and polo shirt, she looks at the ceiling. She puts the toy on her chest, places her hands flat at her sides and raises her legs. They are freckled and smooth. She holds them there, wiggling her toes. “Dad says I’m going to be a long drink of water. Mom’s tall, too. She called last night. She quit smoking again. I asked her why she started in the first place. Dad says he smoked in college, but not since. He comes to my soccer matches back home. When he can.”

  Agitated, the dog comes to the bed. The girl’s eyes rest on him. She seems to be waiting for something, an act or sound. “You want to play ball.” Ruby touches his head. “Maybe later.” She lowers her legs and takes up the toy.

  Bill turns away and trots once more through the house. Outside the cage, on the sunny sweep of turf below, the boy is nearing the jungle rough. The dog barks and the boy turns. The dog barks again, but the boy faces away and resumes walking. Whining, circling the pool, looking out and remembering the women golfers, Bill goes to the door. He paws the frame. This works only from outside. He pushes and rattles the thin door, whining, looking out at the moving boy. The pack-leader collie smelled something, Hotspur knows things, he herded the women. Grandchildren are heaven, they walk Bill, the boy pets him the right way, no longer pulls his tail as he did at the lake. He belongs to the mister—

  Thick-nailed and big-shouldered after eighteen months of food and care, the dog claws the screen. It flexes, gives—a tear forms. He shoves head and shoulders through. Laughter comes again from next door as he pushes hard to free his hindquarters. Out and dashing now, taking divots the mister will later call them, Bill runs to the slope and down, barking, remembering Hotspur, racing over freshly mowed lawn.

  Hearing, Ronald turns. Although six and big for his age, he has no pet of his own. There are dogs in cartoons, there’s Big Red Dog in the video, and Lady and the Tramp. A friend has an English sheep dog, a big, floppy mop that mostly sleeps. Those are the dogs he knows. But Bill is coming so fast, much faster than the boy has seen him move, barking, with big teeth in a mouth that snatches food and once made a sound when Ronald got near—

  That’s all the boy knows. Bill reaches and passes him. He turns and goes on barking, jumping, grass clippings flying off big paws. The boy screams. It’s having seen him eat, having heard the sound, and the dog’s size, the way he can jerk Ron into the swimming pool. And because now, whenever the screaming boy moves it seems the dog already knows and moves as well, blocking him, knowing and intending something bad, otherwise why do what it’s doing—

  THAT SAME MORNING, Emma wakes smelling something. It isn’t unpleasant to her, but doesn’t belong in the house. She trots from the bedroom, into the kitchen. Madame is seated at the table. She hasn’t made coffee and is not dressed for gardening. This is odd, seeing her still in her nightgown. The smell comes from the counter.

  “A beautiful pork roast, ruined. I knew we were going out. I still put it in the oven. I must have pressed a garlic clove. I salted it, I used the pepper mill. I never set the timer, or turned it on. I don’t remember any of it. There it’s been for three whole days, ruined.”

  She gets up slowly, goes to the counter and reaches into the cabinet where Emma’s food is kept. She brings down a can, puts it in the opener and pushes the button. She takes it away and begins spooning food into Emma’s dish. “I don’t remember any of it. They found out about the tickets, how I don’t know. They said I could hurt someone. A child, a pregnant woman. It’s true, I could. What then?”

  It is enough to hear the tone of her voice to know Madame is worried. She puts the bowl down. “Ken has power of attorney, that’s just common sense for someone my age. He wouldn’t do anything selfish. Not on his own, anyway.”

  Emma eats. Her habits are not coarse like Bill’s. Often, she leaves much of what is there, coming back later. Madame watches her. “Without the car, I don’t see how I can stay here,” she says. “I told them I wouldn’t consider it without you. They said that wouldn’t be a problem, they know places that take dogs.”

  Emma goes on eating, concentrating on her food. Madame’s voice is not so serious now. “A child, Emma. Or a pregnant woman. But I just hate the idea, I’ve seen those places. The best of them are so sad. Little outings to the mall. Seniors Day at the zoo. Song fests, people with no talent brought in to play the organ. Magicians, faith healers.”

  She looks down as Emma moves to her water dish. “I suppose there comes a time. I’d just rather it were later than sooner.”

  “What’s up, old timer? What did you do now?”

  The garage door comes to a stop overhead. Bill’s tail bangs the parked car as the mister drives his golf cart in. He comes to a stop. “Why’d she put you out here?”

  “Ron’s crying.”

  The son swings off the cart and walks to the entrance. The door closes as Vinyl turns off the motor. “I hope you didn’t pee again. That does not go over.” He gets out, Bill waiting for the mister to enter the house before him. The missus had come running, the stepmother standing on the grassy slope with the baby, calling, It’s all right, Ronnie, everything’s all right! Reaching the boy, the missus knelt and held him, smoothing his back, hugging him. Leading him by the hand, she had then grabbed Bill’s collar and pulled him with surprising strength across the fairway, up the incline. Bad dog, she kept saying. Stupid mutt.

  Inside, the crying is louder, coming from the parents’ room. Having given the baby to the missus, the stepmother is trying to comfort the boy. She is ignorant of what took place as she and the missus ate coffee cake at the neighbor’s. She can’t know that, however fearful he might have been, Ronald is now exploiting the moment. In fact, his fear of the dog ended seconds after the missus held him. He broke off the crying to have a frozen fudge bar, but then resumed it in anticipation of his father’s return, to ensure his sister would get what she deserves for having refused to insert the Toy Story DVD earlier.

  It’s working. The Game Boy has been taken away, and there will be no TV for the rest of the day. And no pool.

  Watch it!”

  Glenda stops for the Segway. Expressionless and leaning forward, the security officer nods as he glides past.

  The scooter caught her by surprise, her heart’s pounding. She just bought a magazine at the airport gift shop. It had a border collie on the cover, and as she walked away all three of them were out on the eleventh fairway. It was night, cloudless, nothing but stars. They had the radio on, dancing.

  As she resumes crossing the broad concourse, Cliff lets her go and reaches down. He grabs the tennis ball, straightens and flings it, all in one graceful motion. Hotsie takes off, and Cliff again embraces her. The song on the radio was in fact, she now remembers
, Embraceable you.

  Outside stretch acres of white concrete. She squints from the glare, walking, feeling exposed. When she boards the plane in two hours for Cleveland, she’ll feel confined. Angling to her right, she can sense it already. In all the years she modeled, planes made her claustrophobic. For some reason he never explained, Cliff wanted to be cremated in his hometown, Cleveland. There was no autopsy and his body was flown back last week.

  She’s here much too early. Graciella drove her. She left Cliff’s Explorer here, and took a cab back to Naples. Graciella cleans and cooks, a very good person. She’ll take care of Hotspur. After Cliff divorced his second wife, Graciella came to work for him. Since wife number three had never kept house or cooked, Cliff kept his housekeeper. Glenda protested, but was grateful. I’ll look after you, he said. You look after me, and Graciella will take care of everything else.

  So much time to kill. As she nears the ramp to security check-in, it now seems all wrong that Cliff is there already. In Cleveland. It just seems wrong. But tomorrow she must be there to take the urn with his ashes. He wasn’t religious. In his living will he said no to any memorial service, he was specific about it. Glenda is sure his Donegal friends will think this is her doing, one more damning piece of evidence.

  No, she isn’t ready to go through security. Glenda stops, turns. Along the wall next to the gift shop is a cocktail lounge. She secures her shoulder bag and starts back. It’s not even two, but so what? The cavernous airport feels chilly. Glenda has on one of the few dresses she owns, to meet the sister in Cleveland. Stupidly she packed her sweater and feels goose bumps. When she modeled, bars in airports brought release from the long flights. How many? She starts adding them up. Lounges and bars in several Pacific rim countries. In Israel on the Dead Sea, all over the Caribbean, American Samoa, Rio, Australia—