by Jay Nichols
* * *
It was time.
Actually, it wasn’t anywhere close to time yet, but Mike could wait no longer. The melodies and smells wafting from the house had invisible barbs that hooked deep into his solar plexus and pulled him forward on gossamer threads. He was the fish, and the maker of those delightful scents and sounds was the angler. He fought the temptation for as long as he could, but ultimately he proved the weaker.
My God, that’s beautiful, he thought while crawling under the section of chain-link fence he had earlier pried loose and rolled up like a sardine can. Behind him, he dragged Huey by his stumpy leg.
In the backyard, Mike lifted Huey and carried him. Tommy, per usual, led the way. As the trio advanced across the lawn, the tincture waxed in magnitude, eliciting Mike to shiver and almost drop the ailing bulldog. At the last second, he squeezed Huey to his chest, saving him from a fall.
When they arrived at the porch, Mike swerved right and went to the window, where he knelt and allowed the aroma to rush into his lungs on the air conditioned breeze that spilled from the gap. He shut his eyes in order to better taste the syrupy blueberries and buttery crust. He could almost taste the music, too. The piano chords reverberated his soft palate and jaw, the bottom of the latter he now rested on the window’s crumbling sill.
"I want some," he whispered in Huey’s floppy ear. "Wanna see if we can grab a piece?"
Not sure whether he was referring to the music or the pie, O’Brien crept along the side of the house and depressed the screen door’s button. The instant the door escaped its jamb, a chime went off inside and Mike let go.
He turned, jumped the steps, and ran—Tommy following. Once back in the forest and sure no one had followed him other than the Doberman, he rolled the fence down and squatted in the shadows.
Was that some kind of alarm? he wondered, watching a hazy form move behind the door’s drawn shade.
The form was the woman, and what he had heard wasn’t an alarm. Someone had rang the doorbell on the front side, and she had gone to answer it. Now she was in the kitchen, because she thought she’d heard something, or someone, opening the back door.
"She thought it was Hector," Mike told Tommy’s eyebrows. "We’re still safe."
With the excitement over, Tommy sat and settled in for another wait. As to how long that wait would be, it was up to the human to decide. What happened a minute ago had been a false start, something Russell Whitford—a person whom Tommy had never officially met—would have called a Mulligan. He just hoped that the next time he had to slink into the yard it would be for real. No more games.
"Huey…Huey, wake up!" Mike nudged Huey’s pudgy body, but the dog didn’t move.
Sleeping.
“Tommy”, he whispered. "Who do you think it was?"
No answer.
A titter of laughter inside the house.
What’s so funny in there?
Mike peered at the shade, where the shape rotated and walked away from the kitchen door, only to be replaced by another shape that soon disappeared in the same direction as the first.
"Who is that?” he asked Tommy.
A raise of tan eyebrows but no answer.
Mike aimed an ear at the house. Then he smiled.
"I know whose voice that is, boy. That’s the girl."
Tommy lifted his head and sighed.
"The girl Rusty likes…"
Crickets.
Mike rubbed the dog’s head. "Oh, I forgot. You don’t know her."
Inside, the voices swelled and laughter spilled into the night.
Somebody must have told a good one. I bet it was the girl.
As the laughter neared its climax, Tommy brayed three raucous barks.
"Tommy!"
Mike clenched the Doberman’s muzzle shut with both hands. "What are you doing?" he rasped in the dog’s ear. "Tryin’ to get us caught?"
Tommy struggled desperately to escape Mike’s grip, but the harder he fought, the firmer the human’s hands bore down on his jaw. He tried kicking at him with his back legs, thinking maybe he’d be able to claw him that way, but when he tried that, Mike fell on top of him, pinning him to the ground.
"You better do as I say, ya hear me?"
Tommy whined.
"That’s right. Don’t ever forget who’s boss."
Mike let go of the dog’s muzzle, and when he did, a pair of headlight beams swept over his and Tommy’s bodies. O’Brien ducked, and since he had Tommy in a loose headlock at the time, Tommy ducked as well. With their faces mashed into the pine needle carpet, they waited for the engine to die. A car door opened, then slammed shut like a gun shot.
Hector.
What’s he doing back so soon?
Mike peeked over the grass line and saw Hector shuffling toward the back door.
Climbing the steps, Hector’s love handles jiggled in the orange light. Mike had to stifle a giggle with the back of his hand.
"He’s so fat, Tommy," he whispered, "he can barely climb stairs."
When Mike looked back up, Hector was gone and the back door was in the middle of slamming shut. Mike stuck his fingers in his ears, but he was too slow.
BAM!!
"What a temper," he said, stroking Tommy’s head. Then: "I’m sorry I had to wrassle you a second ago, but it was for the best. Everybody’s gotta know their place. Things just work better when people know that."
They listened—and watched—as Hector yelled behind panels of wood and glass. Mike was able to pick up bits and pieces of his friend’s garbled speech, but the walls distorted much of what Hector said. There were lots of swear words: fucks, shits, motherfuckers, and the like. Mike even heard his name thrown out a few times, and that caused him to smile all the more, because it just affirmed what he already knew: Hector Graham was predictable.
The lady and the girl yelled, too, but Mike could tell that their yells were of a different nature. They pleaded, while Hector ranted. There was a difference. Any idiot knew that.
The dog and his master heard doors slam, fists strike walls, rubber-soled sneakers screech across linoleum flooring. Then they saw the back door open and spill Hector back into their world. He greeted the night with a deafening scream of rage.
"FUUUCK YEEEEW!" the fat slob shrieked at the open rectangle of light. "I DON’T CARE! BOTH YOU BITCHES CAN ROT IN HELL!!"
Hector slammed the screen door shut behind him—or tried to, rather—and stomped down the three shallow steps to the yard. In his left hand, he carried a white plastic grocery bag. As to what was in it, Mike could only guess (beer, cigarettes…); Hector was too far away and moved too quickly for Mike to scrutinize the bag’s shape.
"Hector! Come back here right now."
That was the lady. She had burst through the door and was following her son to the short metal gate. When she arrived there, she stopped and hollered, "Come back here right now or I’m calling Price!"
Hector laughed as he climbed into his Jeep. "Wrong, Ma! Price can’t do shit to me now. He got the boot, remember?"
He laughed some more, then pulled the Jeep’s door shut. The engine roared to life and the headlights came on, throwing the lady’s stick figure shadow across the barren, parched lawn.
Tommy and Mike ducked—once again caught in an exposing double shot of light—and waited for Hector to pull out of the driveway. Together they listened to the tires howl down the entire stretch of Pritchard Street, and then down the length of another street, until the sound died away and was replaced with the ubiquitous creaking of summer crickets.