Buck Vs. the Bulldog Ants
Page 36
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
John stood when Marlene entered the drawing room. I thought, “Oh, brother,” after seeing her white dress that rose three inches above her knee and also exposed a plentiful amount of her chest. Her hair was coiffed in a fashion similarly to Beverly’s portrait. She turned her back to John and asked him to raise the zipper that was unfastened to her hip line.
Sylvester arrived with two glasses of red wine and the two adults each took a chair separated by an end table. I have to admit that she looked good, but I wanted to go bite Miss Kibble sitting there barely containing her volcanic estrogen level. Or maybe stride by her closely and suffer an attack of bad gas, but that would be disrespectful to Cassie. So I exercised great restraint and lay myself down at the side of John’s chair which thankfully blocked my view of her. Cassie saw me roll my eyes and she stood, pawed her cheeks one at a time in a sweep away motion, and strode in a runway model swagger toward me, taking great care to be noticed. She snuggled up next to me and whispered, “You available big boy?”
They talked about things in general, like what movies had captivated their interest recently, each other’s interest in the NFL and their favorite team if they had one. Marlene said she liked the Skins, and I thought, “Well I’m sure you do.” They talked about the weather and John pointed out that the forecast called for rain later on, and would she object if I spent the night in the basement with her. I could tell by her hesitation that she didn’t consider me her Casanova. And she would be right about that, for I’m more Redfordesque considering the approximate match of our hair color. But she consented and said that would provide for an early start tomorrow.
Sylvester appeared and said, “Your dinner is served on the veranda, sir.” I was tickled that Sylvester didn’t include “madam” in his announcement.
Cassie and I were let out of the house, but John had told us that the dining would be done on the veranda, which location afforded us the opportunity to sit at the rear of the house and hear the conversation of the diners. So we took our position nearby and were taken by John’s choice of dinner music, which was an opera rather than his normal love of contemporary easy listening.
Marlene swayed to the music at her seat. “You are an opera fan, John?”
“Occasionally. Do you know the name of this composition?”
“No, John, I can’t name it. What is it?”
“It is La Traviata, composed by Verdi. Are you familiar with the Italian language or what that title means?”
“No.”
“It means……the woman who strayed. A story of a woman who was conflicted by her loose way of living and her feeling of rejection by the chastisement of society, and then the chance to be truly loved by a suitor who had loved her from a distance. Though she found happiness and acceptance with her new lover, she abandoned him and returned to the debauchery and public ridicule. Toward the end of her life which was riddled in sickness, her lover returned to comfort her. She died with the shunned lover at her side. In the brief moment before her life ended she again experienced his love again, but it was too late, she would not recover.”
“Oh my, how sad. Is there a reason you chose that music for tonight, John?”
“Yes, there is. I think I’d enjoy hearing you guess why I chose it.”
Marlene laughed and said, “I would need a lot more wine to even venture a guess, but John, do you think I’m a trollop?”
“When we first sat at the bar I asked for you to tell me about Marlene. You simply said you lived in Virginia, and then told me what you did in your work, not about you. It is my hope you now tell me about Marlene. And no, you are not a trollop, but I would like to know more about you.”
“Wow, where to start.” She thanked the attentive Sylvester for the glass being filled. She gazed out toward the wheat field in the distance with the glass pressed to her lips. She remained frozen in that position for a good while, then turned to John with moisture in her eyes. “Why do you want to know, John?”
“It’s because, like Violetta, the straying woman, I am conflicted as well, and it would be my guess that you are too. It’s because we have both lost loved ones and have strong ropes of memories and devotion attaching us to the departed ones. Ropes cannot be cut by a child’s scissors, yet we know when someone is snipping and that either needs to gain access or be quickly dismissed. If you are snipping I want to know which way to go and I can’t do that without knowing who you are.”
I looked at Cassie and mouthed, “Wow.”
Marlene made no response. She looked at John without saying a word. Finally she said, “You are beautiful, John, and you are a good man aren’t you?”
“And you are a beautiful woman, Marlene. But beauty is a thin coating. It is a tragedy that the thin coat that opens doors often leads to something considerably less beautiful inside, like a coat of paint on a rusty nail. As for me being a good man, only you can answer your own question.”
John noticed that Marlene had been tapping her finger on the table. He knew her mind was travelling at warp speed despite the stillness of her body. She was finding no place to land, and that’s where he wanted her. Or she was playing the mystery card, a ploy that often attracts the prey into the web. And if she was, she was good at it. The thought occurred to him that perhaps she was here against her will. He might be looking at a good woman in a bad situation. He would watch closely.
“John, I am finished eating, and the meal was scrumptious. I had hoped for a ride in Beverly tonight but now I think I am going to retire. It’s been a long day since it started at two a.m.”
John guessed she didn’t reveal who she really was because she didn’t know herself. He also guessed that perhaps she was thinking that same thing about herself. But one should never discount the calculations of the female species. He did not consider tonight a victory because the battle had not yet begun. He helped her out of her chair and allowed her to again hug him. During the embrace, it dawned on him that he may have lost the skirmish, for the embrace sent a warmth through him.
“I can find my own way, John. Thank you for a beautiful evening and day. I’ll get started with Buck bright and early. John, can I have access to the secret room, the table and floor space in there is better than either of the other areas?”
“Of course, I will open it for you before I go to work. And Buck will be joining you before too long. Goodnight Marlene.”
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“May I please speak to Mr. Ophala, this is Rhonda of Rwanda.”
Code words, which only two knew. “Ophala speaking.”
“Yellowbird has landed and found no nectar.” Ophala made no response and hung up the phone.
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Cassie and I left our covert position and returned toward the kennel side of the house, which led us into Mozetta’s garden. We both had the same idea, and leapt over the double row of onions, which supposedly were intended to keep us out, and headed for the strawberries. I plucked one and held it in my mouth. She closed her eyes and took the small amount still visible into her mouth. We opened our eyes and then laughed hardily. We were very much in love, but not lovers, if you get my drift.
“Cassie, are you as confused as I am? John played her like a fiddle and almost had me believing him. What do you think?”
“Why ask me, Buck, I am only a female and that means I don’t know squat.”
I knew she was teasing me. “Do you think John was for real or what, and don’t play with me, I really want to know?”
“Ok, look. They were both testing each other, I think. John was attempting to draw her out by using his questions, and she was attempting to draw him in by using her sex. He was pushing, she was pulling, and because of that I don’t think either of them found what they were looking for.
“Stop it. Please, just hold on for a moment. Tell me about two people; John and Marlene. Give me straight
talk. Is John interested in her, or not?”
“Men.” And she walked away. And of course I would have followed her to the Moon had not John called for me. So it was my time to enter the abode of the Woman. Miss Kibble.
I made my way to the bottom of the stairs and peeked into the TV room. Sports Center. No woman. Briefly I watched the replay of Manning doing what he does, but was distracted by a noise to my right. I cocked my head, which by the way people think is cute, but it’s the canine’s way of listening in a better way, and I heard it distinctly, it was a soft crying from inside the bathroom. Cassie had said “Men”, and I thought, “Women”. Such is life. Either the Skins had lost or this was another episode of “Humans being Conflicted.” I went to bed on the tile floor and stared at the mahogany wall. Then the sound of an opened door and patter of footsteps. Cassie came to lay beside me. The blank page that started my day was at day’s end filled to the brim. Yet there was still a grand finale. I heard Cassie whisper, “I love you Buck.”
“And I love you, Cassie, you make me want to be a better dog.”