A Haunting of Words

by Brian Paone et al.

  I look at Rufus. He sits on his backside, scratching with one hind leg at his wonky ear and using enough force to dislodge his brain. He is panting madly; his tongue lolls from the side of his mouth and flaps up and down with each leg movement.

  I laugh. The woman is not impressed, and I see her shoulders square up as she turns to face me.

  “He’s safe, don’t worry,” I tell her. “Rufus, here boy.”

  The dog stops scratching, overbalances, and sprawls on the floor in an undignified heap. He raises himself onto all fours, shakes himself down, picks up Pudge that Joe has dropped outside the gates, then bolts toward me, stopping, fortunately, just before he crash lands into my legs. I bend and reattach the leash, and together we walk toward a different part of the fencing.

  I stop some distance from the woman, who is back on her phone texting and sending dirty looks my way. I ignore her and watch Joe.

  My son is following every move the little girl in the park makes. He seems taken by her. I can see why—she’s a pretty little thing: long dark curls, flashing dark eyes, blue jeans on her long legs, and a pastel pink jacket with a furry hood. She has an air of confidence about her that Joe has yet to attain, but physically she looks to be around the same age.

  Joe climbs the steps of the slide behind her, watches as she arranges her legs in the correct position to slide down—a thing that Joe has sometimes struggled with—waits until she shoots to the bottom with a whoosh of speed and a heady giggle, then copies her every move, including the giggle as he lands on the mat at the foot of the chute.

  I smile at him, and he waves at me. “Did you see me?” he yells, delighted at his achievement.

  “I did! Well done!” I call back.

  The mother of the girl stares at me sharply. I ignore her and ruffle the top of Rufus’s head. He shifts and licks my hand. The woman looks away, but I am aware of her renewed interest in me. Her eyes slide toward me surreptitiously, and it starts to make me feel both awkward and more than a little angry. I have done nothing wrong. I have brought my boys to the park, and we will have fun!

  It is my turn to square my own shoulders, and I raise my face to studiedly look at her. It is her turn to look away. She raises her phone to her ear and speaks into it rapidly and too quietly for me to be able to make out what she is saying. I give a mental shrug. Who cares?

  Joe and the girl are now on the swings. The girl has the knack of aligning her bottom with the swing seat, walking backward, and then jumping up onto the seat, giving herself momentum she can build on to swing herself. This is another thing Joe has not mastered.

  I watch him carefully observing her, noting that she studiously ignores his attentions. Despite this, he does exactly what she did, and for the first time in his life, Joe is on a swing and moving under his own impetus. He watches the girl as she swings her legs forward and back, forward and back, then moves his own in the same rhythm. It takes a couple of attempts, but my son is soon swinging himself! I am so proud of him that a tear runs involuntarily down my cheek even as I laugh aloud.

  Rufus chuffs up at me and I bend to him. “Silly thing, aren’t I?” I say. “I’m so proud of him though. Look, he’s swinging by himself!”

  Rufus obligingly follows my gaze to the two children on the swings. The girl appears to be getting bored. Who knows how long she’s been in there? She scuffs her shoes against the ground each time the swing hits the low point, decreasing the range of the arc in the time-honored fashion, then I hear her shout, “One, two, three … jump!”

  I see her fly off the seat on the upswing, and my heart skips a beat until I see her land safely in a crouch on the rubber mulch that lines the ground. She stands, dusts off her jeans, and wanders over to her mother, who raises one hand to her, turns her head away, and concentrates intently on the conversation she is having.

  I shake my head in disgust, then turn back just in time to hear my Joe shouting, “One, two, three … jump!”

  “Nooo!” My heart is in my mouth as he flies off the seat without having slowed himself down first.

  He lands, not quite so neatly, but safely.

  “What is your problem?” the girl’s mother shouts at me.

  “He jumped!” I tell her. “He’s not old enough to do that!”

  “Don’t you tell me what my kid can do and what she can’t!”

  “What?” I am confused. “I wasn’t talking about—”

  “You just fuck off! Go on!” Her voice is shrill and loud. “Take that stinking bear with you and just fuck off!”

  I hear the clang of the gate and see Joe running toward me, his face white with fear. Rufus is now standing, his hackles raised, teeth bared, and a low growl emanates from the back of his throat. It is a chilling sound, and the woman backs off.

  “No, not you!” I hear her tell the person on the other end of her phone. “There’s some fucking nutter in here … No, I don’t want you to come down. She’s going now … Aren’t you?” She directs this last to me.

  I slip her the finger, grab Joe’s hand, and walk off as fast as his legs are able to. We follow the direction the elderly couple and the jogger had gone, my heart hammering in my chest and a metallic taste in my mouth. What had just happened?

  “Pudge!” Joe shouts just as we round the corner of the pathway. “I’ve left Pudge!”

  My heart sinks. We can’t go without the bear; Joe will be inconsolable if we leave it behind. We stop and I turn my head to look behind us and am amazed to see that the little girl is running toward us, followed a good way behind by her mother.

  The girl is holding the teddy. “You dropped this,” she says, shoving it into my hand, still ignoring Joe.

  “I … thank you!” I stammer.

  “Gotta go,” she says solemnly. “Mom’s mad at you, but I thought you needed the bear.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her again. “That was very kind of you.”

  She shrugs, turns on her heel, and runs back to her mother. I can hear her calling, “I was just giving her the bear, all right?” and her mother’s answering, “For fuck’s sake! Don’t you ever run away from me again, you hear?”

  I steel myself at the sound of the slap and tighten my grip on Joe’s hand. He stares up at me, his eyes still wide with fear. I say nothing. I simply pass him Pudge, tug on the leash, and the three of us make our way across the park as I make a mental note of what the woman and child looked like so that I could report her behavior later.

  It is not the right time to confront her now.

  At the other side of the park is another exit. If we go out there, we can visit the little shop that sells the extremely creamy ices that Joe so loves. It means a long walk home, detouring along the back roads, but it’s been a while since we’ve taken Rufus for a lengthy walk, so it won’t do us any harm. There’s no way in hell that I’m risking taking my boys back the same way as that woman and her daughter; the person she was talking to on the phone could turn up, and she had been so angry with me for some reason. I wasn’t going to take that chance.

  We catch up with the elderly couple and the Bichon Frise. It yaps at Rufus as we pass them. Rufus, being three times the yappy creature’s size, gives it a disdainful look and jumps over it. The little dog cowers briefly, then is up and yapping frenetically at our disappearing rears. I swear Rufus looks at me and grins. Joe definitely does. I relax enough to smile too.

  We turn left outside the gates into a leafy tree-lined avenue that has large expensive houses that are set back from the road. One hundred yards along is the shop. We make our way there, and I tie Rufus up outside as he is not allowed in.

  I bend and ruffle his ears. “We won’t be long. Be good!”

  His tail goes down, and his expression switches to one of mournfulness.

  “I’ll wait with him,” Joe volunteers.

  I think quickly. That won’t do. What if that woman has followed us? “No,” I say. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll wait with Rufus. You go in and get us three ice creams.”
r />   I reach into my pocket and pull out the correct change he’ll need and pass it to him. He looks as pleased as punch to be trusted to do this and slips into the shop behind a lad that has come from the other direction. A few moments later he follows him out again, a sad expression on his face.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  The lad ahead of Joe gives me a sort of semi-grin, paired with an expression of puzzlement. “Sorry?” he says.

  “Not you,” I say.

  He looks behind him, shakes his head slightly, and walks away from us back in the direction he came from.

  “The man won’t serve me. I don’t think he can see me at the counter,” Joe complains.

  “Come on, we’ll both go in then,” I say.

  I remind Rufus to stay, check that the knot on the leash is tying him firmly to the post provided, look around to check that the woman and her daughter are nowhere in sight, then Joe and I both enter the shop.

  A small bell tinkles as the door opens, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafts up my nostrils and makes my mouth water. I am tempted to purchase a loaf, and if I hadn’t promised Joe an ice cream, I would. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough cash on me for both, so ice creams it is. We make our way to the counter and wait to be served.

  “I think you missed my son,” I tell the attendant, an elderly man, who wears thick-rimmed glasses.

  He goggles at me through them, his eyes so magnified I can see the red veins in the sclera. He glances down, passes his vision over Joe, looks over the rest of the shop, and shrugs. “What can I get you?”

  “We’d like three of your vanilla cones, please,” I say, smarting at the slight to Joe. It really isn’t turning out to be a good day.

  “Three?” Joe questions.

  “One for you, one for me, one for Rufus.”

  “Ah! Thanks!”

  The attendant gives me a peculiar look.

  “Rufus is the dog,” I explain. “He’s outside.”

  “Didn’t like to ask,” the man says, handing over the cones as Joe slides the money onto the counter.

  He takes the cash and turns his back on us.

  “A thank you wouldn’t go amiss,” I tell him sharply, and he has the good grace to look somewhat ashamed of himself.

  “Sorry,” he mutters.

  I carry the cones to the door and stand back as the female half of the elderly couple from the park enters. She holds the door open for us and smiles at me. I smile back as I thank her, glad that she’s not angry about Rufus leaping over her little dog. She lets go of the door a little too soon, and it bumps Joe on his shoulder.

  “Ouch!” he complains, rubbing it.

  “It was just an accident, Joe,” I tell him, certain that the lady didn’t intend to hurt my son; her smile was too genuine, and she appears too well-bred for that.

  I smile at the elderly man, who is waiting with the Bichon Frise, which is yapping at Rufus again. Rufus is studiously ignoring it to the degree that he is looking the other way and yawning. I stifle a laugh.

  “It still hurts,” Joe says. “Can I have my cone?”

  “In a minute. Just hold on to them for me for a second, so I can untie Rufus.”

  “Okay,” the elderly man replies, reaching out for the cones.

  Surprised, I pass them over to him and automatically unleash Rufus. Joe simply stares at the man with his mouth open.

  “You’ll catch flies if you don’t close your mouth,” I tell him, then I laugh as both my son and the man close their mouths with audible snaps. “I didn’t mean you,” I tell the man, who laughs nervously along with me.

  He looks at Rufus, who is sitting beside the Bichon Frise and openly drooling for his ice cream, then he laughs properly.

  “I’ve got a thirsty one here,” he says cheerfully. “No chance of him closing that mouth while this is on offer!”

  “No,” I agree, taking the cones into my hands that now held Rufus’s leash tightly.

  I pass one to Joe and hold a second out to my dog. Rufus sniffs it, takes a lick, then swallows it whole, shaking his head as brain freeze performs its magic. His eyes cross and he burps.

  “He’s no gentleman!” the old man says, still laughing. “But he did enjoy that!”

  I nod, my own mouth too full of my own ice cream to answer properly. I swallow fast, say goodbye, and lead my boys back the way we had come, trusting Joe to stay to my right on the inside of the sidewalk. As we pass the park, I check for the woman and the girl, but they are nowhere in sight. For the first time since that incident, I relax and enjoy my ice cream and the sight of all the fancy houses. We wander along in companionable silence.

  It is so quiet we can hear the difference in the songs of the birds that are, in comparison, garrulous. As I swallow the final piece of my cone, I begin to point out the various calls to Joe, who is interested in anything to do with nature. I am passing on the knowledge that my grandmother gave me as a youngster, and I hope it sticks in his little head.

  “Is that a blue tit?” Joe asks, pointing toward a little bird that sits motionless on the branch of a cherry blossom tree that borders one of the gardens we pass. It has a blue back, yellow belly, and green and white markings.

  “Yes,” I smile, grateful that the impromptu lesson is sinking in.

  “What about that one?” He points to another, slightly larger that is more green than blue.

  “No, that’s a great tit,” I tell him. “They’re similar, aren’t they? They come from the same family.”

  “Like us?” Joe asks.

  “Like us,” I agree.

  “Why was that woman so cross with you?”

  I wait a second before I respond. “I have no idea, Joe. I think perhaps she just didn’t like me much.”

  “But she doesn’t know you, does she?”

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t think the little girl liked me much either,” he says frankly. “She wouldn’t talk to me.”

  I stoop to give him a hug. “Don’t worry about it. She doesn’t know any better, coming from a mother like that.”

  “I love you,” Joe says.

  “I love you more.”

  “I love you most.”

  Back home again we practically fall through the front door as Rufus shoves us out of the way so that he can get to his water bowl for a well-earned drink. His leash trails behind him as he sprints along the hall and into the kitchen, and Joe and I laugh at the sound of water splashing as he slurps his fill. We humans remove our coats and boots—I have to help Joe with his red wellingtons—and line them up neatly on the shoe rack that sits against the wall in the hallway, halfway between the front door and the stairs.

  Joe runs off to try to hang the coats on the back of the kitchen door while I stay and smile at the array of footwear: my adult size sixes beside his child’s size nines. Joe insists that the rack be displayed with a pair of mine next to a pair of his, squishing his tiny shoes into the smallest gap if space decrees that there is an odd number of pairs on a shelf. He’s always been this way, as if innately believing that a woman should have a man beside her.

  Joe is my man. My little man. The bigger Joe, for whom my Joe is named, did not get to meet his son. When I went into labor three weeks before the due date and, conveniently, whilst at a routine antenatal visit in the hospital, big Joe, in a tearing hurry to be by my side, ran a stop sign and was hit side on by a waste removal lorry; he wouldn’t have known what hit him. I was told an hour or so after little Joe made his way, kicking and screaming, into the world. It’s been me, little Joe, and Rufus ever since and goes, perhaps, some way to explaining why I am protective of my son.

  “I can’t do it!” Joe wails, dropping the coats onto the floor and turning to face me, hands on hips. “I’m not big enough yet!”

  “No problem. Thank you for trying,” I tell him as I hurry to curtail the tantrum that could very easily ensue.

  Joe likes to be independent and gets very cross if he can’t do what he expects
to. For a child who is sweet natured ninety-five percent of the time, the other five percent is breathtakingly the opposite and involves fists hitting walls and feet hitting whatever else is in the vicinity at the time. My legs have been bruised more times than I care to mention, so it is important to me that this tempest is averted.

  “Why don’t you go and get your toy box out before dinner?”

  “Can I get my bricks out?”

  I nod and shoo him on his way so that I can hang up the coats. Rufus appears in the doorway, his muzzle dripping small drops of water that clearly shows the route he took around the kitchen table to get to us. Both his ears are down.

  I bend to him, take his wet chops between my hands, and look into his soulfully deep, brown eyes. “Crisis averted,” I tell him as I scratch behind his ears with my fingertips.

  He sighs deeply. I kiss his silken head, stand, and make my way into the kitchen, avoiding the wet spots, to make a start on dinner.

  Later, after we have eaten Joe’s favourite meal—spaghetti bolognaise—and I have cleared away the mess, I give Joe his nightly bath, get him into a pair of his Sailor Sam pajamas, and take him into his bedroom. It is a typical little boy’s room; the walls are painted with big blue waves, topped with white spray leading on up to the night sky that adorns the ceiling. Stars, all lovingly hand painted by me, show miniature constellations, and the midnight-blue curtains match the star theme. Joe’s bed linen bears small images of boats afloat on gentle seas and is tucked into the room’s pièce de résistance; a wooden framed boat bed that a friend of his father built for him soon after little Joe’s birth.

  I remember how he sobbed the entire time he worked on it and how red his eyes were as he also constructed a treasure chest, made of two halves, that magically became bookcases. Another large chest that nestles beneath the window holds Joe’s toys—the lid seldom closes fully. Joe has yet to develop the knack of putting them away tidily.

  The room smells of him—little Joe, that is—a curious blend of sweaty feet, freshly washed hair, and the unique warm odor of his body. It is a smell I cherish, and I have been known to quietly sit in his room long after he is asleep, inhaling the smell deep into my bones and soul. I would know his own personal smell anywhere and could pick it out blindfolded if I were asked to identify him out of his class of forty at the kindergarten he attends. I am not sure whether I should be proud of this ability or not. But I could.