Boo Hiss

by Rene Gutteridge

  Dustin had nursed the snake back to health as a baby and taught Bob and Fred how to live with each other. Though it was a small breed of boa, it had already grown to nearly four feet. He’d come home that fateful afternoon from the bookstore and found that the snake had somehow busted the Plexiglas off one side of its terrarium. He’d hardly gotten any sleep since it had vanished. He worried, wondering whether it was okay and where it might go during the day since it was more nocturnal and probably busy hunting food at night. But were Bob and Fred able to find food? He felt a lump form in his throat.

  As he sat on the steps of his front porch, a long shadow crossed his face, and he looked up. A tall, paper-thin man approached, and he didn’t look happy.

  “Are you Dustin?” He spoke in a squeaky voice and smelled like hamster pellets.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m Chuck. I’m the owner.”

  “Of what?”

  “Chuck’s.”

  “The pet store?”

  “That’s right,” he said in a stuffy voice as he crossed his arms. “And I’ve got a big problem.” “What’s that?”

  “We’re having a hard time finding rodents to feed our pets at the pet store.” “So?”

  “So my suspicions are that your two-headed freak of a friend is eating all the rodents in town.”

  “Look,” Dustin said, standing up and broadening his chest, “I’m doing everything I can to find Bob and Fred. As soon as they’re back home, your rodent problem will be solved. I mail-order them special mice, anyway.”

  Chuck cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so? Dustin, let me ask you something. And I want you to answer me honestly.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “How much are you feeding your snake?”

  Dustin frowned. “What kind of question is that? I’ve taken superb care of that snake! It would have died out in the wild because it can hardly decide which way to go in a life-threatening situation. I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “Son, just answer the question. How often do you feed it?”

  Dustin met this man’s sharp glare. “Once a day. So back off!”

  “You … you feed it once a day?”

  “Of course I do. What kind of pet owner would I be if I let my snake go hungry?”

  Chuck started tapping a nervous foot on the sidewalk. “Both of them?” he whispered.

  Dustin was about to punch this freak. Why was he acting so weird? “Of course both of them. What am I going to do? Only feed one of them?”

  “Don’t they share a stomach?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  Chuck swallowed so loud Dustin could hear it.

  “What’s wrong?” Dustin asked.

  Chuck said, “Boas normally eat once every week or ten days.”

  They both stood there silently. Dustin was calculating how much money he could save feeding them once a week. But Chuck looked angry. “Do you see what you’ve done?”

  “Yeah, spent a whole lot of money on food!”

  “You’ve created an eating machine. That snake is used to eating every day. That’s why there aren’t any mice around. It’s eaten them all!”

  “What will Bob and Fred eat next?” Dustin wondered aloud.

  Chuck was rushing away.

  “Hey! Where are you going?” Dustin yelled.

  Chuck hopped into his car. “To quarantine my kids’ pet rabbit!”

  CHAPTER 5

  “AND WHAT IS YOUR NAME, little fellow?” Lois threw her voice, but she sounded like a pig on steroids. Maybe more of a cow inflection with a little frog thrown in would work. “And what is your name, little fellow?” Eck. That sounded like a lifelong smoker attempting to sound sexy. She never knew puppets could be so hard. Maybe the pig puppet shouldn’t be the one to greet the kids. Maybe the horse.

  “Hello?”

  Lois popped her head up from behind the cardboard box she’d fashioned into a castle. “Sheriff!”

  The sheriff walked up to the stage hesitantly, like he was afraid a spotlight might catch him in its beam.

  “Come on up here, big fella!” Lois urged, dropping the puppets on the floor and greeting him center stage.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Practicing my puppet skills. Never knew it was so hard. My hands get hot and sweaty, which makes it hard to grip these animals’ mouths. Believe it or not, Reverend Peck wants to start a puppet ministry.” She wiped her palms against the back of her pants, just in case she felt the need to touch Sheriff Parker. “So, what brings you by?” She noticed the script in his hand.

  “Well, I read your play.”

  Oh? What do you think?”

  The sheriff stared at his boot-clad feet. “Interesting,” he mumbled.

  “You liked it?”

  “Sure. But I don’t want to play Sugar.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I want to play Bart.”

  “Barts the town sheriff.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be much of a stretch for you.”

  “But I like him. He’s a laid-back kind of guy, doesn’t fuss about much, and really has just a few lines. Plus, I like his loyal dog friend.”

  Lois tried to be tolerant. “Well, why not play Jefferson?”

  “The town treasurer? He’s a little nervous and tedious, isn’t he?”

  “Wouldn’t it be fun to play someone like him, though?”

  “No.”

  Lois sighed. “So are you saying the only way that you’ll be in the play is if you get to be the town sheriff?”

  The sheriff nodded.

  Lois smiled. “But you will be in the play?”

  He puffed out his ruddy cheeks and blew out the air, causing his mustache to do a little wave. “One question for you.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “Did you plagiarize?” “Plagiarize? Plagiarize what?”

  “I don’t know,” the sheriff said. “This story just seems familiar. And I don’t want to be a part of anything illegal.”

  Lois patted his broad shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about. I completely made this up, out of the deep places of my imagination and my life experience.”

  “Well, in that case,” he said, managing a rare smile, “I think I will do this. You know, with Ainsley gone I get a little lonely in that big old house. Why not do something like this?”

  “Why not? I’ll send you a rehearsal schedule soon. Just make sure you’re studying your lines, okay? There may be a few revisions here and there.”

  The sheriff nodded. As he made his way down the stage steps, he turned and said, “Lois, thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For giving me something to do with my time.” He paused and said, “Besides hunt down that snake.”

  Lois felt her heart skip a beat. But it wasn’t because of the snake.

  Martin tried to relax in his favorite overstuffed chair, but there was so much on his mind, he was having trouble concentrating on any one thing. He sipped some orange juice.

  His mother had always called him a worrywart—and with good reason. He was at his best when he was worrying. And he’d done his share of worrying about this town.

  But no matter how much he worried, the town had seemed to be in a state of perpetual trouble ever since Wolfe Boone decided to stop writing his horror novels. And truthfully, Martin was somewhat relieved not to have to deal with tourists anymore. Though they brought a great deal of money, they also brought a great deal of strain. They tended to be pushy and inconsiderate. Now the town was quiet, just a town.

  What Martin hadn’t mentioned to anybody, though, was the strange visit he’d received five months ago, from a handsome man in his late thirties. He’d made an appointment with Martin, showing up right on time carrying an enviable leather briefcase and wearing a starched button-down shirt in a shade of pink that Martin thought impossible for a man to pull off. But he did.

  His face was dotted with stubble,
but strangely, it seemed more an accessory to his look than an oversight. His hair was short, his sideburns longer than those Martin had worn in the sixties, and he talked in an easy, conversational manner.

  But the conversation was anything but ordinary. The man, whose name he couldn’t remember now, asked about property, economy, income level. Martin had answered all his questions—there was no reason not to. But Martin felt like he was discussing the private hopes and passions of his wife, had he been married.

  Now he was starting to see the things he’d discussed with this man come to life. He’d wondered about sports leagues. He’d pressed Martin for the coffee-drinking habits of the citizens. And he asked if the people liked to treat themselves to some luxury.

  Well, at the time, no. But Jack Hass had turned that around by opening his spa. The women loved it, and according to Jack, business was endless … and legit. Now, seemingly overnight, the small coffee shop that had been home to newspaper reading and gossip swapping, offered menu items peppered with the word gourmet.

  Yesterday, Martin had driven out to the soccer field and stood by the roadside, trying to imagine it filled with children. Skary didn’t even have a school. The children were bused to the next county over. What if they did have a school? What if the town was alive with children, like it had been long ago?

  Martin finished off his orange juice and fingered the pages of a script that Lois Stepaphanolopolis had dropped by earlier in the day. She told him she would like to consider him for the role of Gibb, a mayor of a small town, and one of the love interests of the story. Martin had laughed, but later on, the thought didn’t seem that bad. After all, a community theater could bring some life to the town, and the best way to support it would be involvement. He picked up the phone.

  And why not play the love interest? Sure, it was going to take some effort on his part to create a believable character, and he might have to start lifting weights, but there was not much in his life beyond this town that got him motivated.

  “Hello?”

  “Lois, it’s Martin Blarty.”

  “Martin! Hi there. You just caught me walking in the door. I’ve been working on the set of the play.”

  “You sound tired.”

  “No, not at all. I’m thrilled. I’ve already gotten most of the play cast, and even some people to work as stagehands and run the lights. I think the show is actually going to go on!”

  “Have you filled the part of Gibb, the mayor?”

  He could hear her chuckle. “I only see one person playing that role, mister, and that is you!”

  Martin couldn’t stop a grin from stretching across his face. “Sold!”

  “Oh, Martin! That is wonderful news.”

  “Lois, will you go out with me?” Martin was still grinning and laughing and feeling good about himself. But then there was silence on the phone, and Martin realized that he’d actually just said these words out loud. It was strange enough that he thought it, but then to say it? He groaned.

  “Martin? Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he whispered. “Lois, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Did you just ask me out?”

  Martin clawed his face. “Did I?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Out?”

  Her tone got stern. “No … I’m asking you if you asked me out.”

  Acid reflux was indicating that he indeed had asked her out. As it burned its way back down his esophagus, Martin was trying to remember the last time he’d had a date. He’d married his high school sweetheart, who turned out not to be sweet at all and incapable of graduating high school. He’d been single for twenty-five years and, that he could recall, hadn’t had a date. So what in the world would compel him to ask Lois, of all people, to go out? She was loud and obnoxious and smacked her gum … in the most charming way.

  “Ich spreche kein Englisch.”

  “Martin? Are you choking?”

  Now that was stupid. Since she didn’t speak German, she wouldn’t even understand he was trying to say he didn’t speak English.

  “I’m fine,” Martin managed.

  “Are you asking me out or not?”

  “Yes?” Martin squeaked.

  “Was that a question?”

  Martin looked around for some antacids. “Yes.”

  “Yes, you asked me out?”

  Did he have to say it twice?

  “Look,” Lois said, after he couldn’t answer, “if you’re wanting a different part, just say so. Sugar and possibly Plum are up for grabs. Personally, I think you’d make a great mayor, but what do I know? I’m just the writer, director, and producer.”

  Martin combed the dead skin off his bottom lip with his two front teeth.

  “But Martin, this isn’t Hollywood. You don’t have to go to such extreme measures to get the part you want. You can just ask.”

  Martin believed that in every man’s life, there would be a moment of truth, that one moment in time that would never return if you let it slip away, and you would never know what your life might have been like. His fingers wrapped around the leather of his armrest. So far, Lois had sighed three times.

  “Lois,” Martin said, “I meant it. I wanted to ask you on a date.”

  He leaped out of his chair, squeezed his eyes shut, and was pumping his arm. But on the other end of the phone was complete silence. He stood in the middle of his knockoff oriental carpet, his arms flopped to his side, listening for any signs of life.

  Was he on hold?

  “Lois?”

  “I’m here,” she whispered.

  “You are?” he whispered back. He wasn’t sure why they were whispering, but it had been a while since he was in the dating scene, so maybe this was the new thing.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Martin paused. Was she sorry she was whispering? Sorry she couldn’t go on a date with him? Sorry he’d asked? He didn’t have much time to continue on with scenarios, because then she said, “I’m just so shocked. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been asked on a date.”

  Martin smiled. This was a good sign. She was lonely and pathetic too.

  “I mean, sure, I’ve had a few men look my way. But I wasn’t ever sure they were looking at me, you know? Maybe I looked like a favorite relative. And most people just see me as overbearing, which I can be, I’ll admit it. I have a mouth like a faucet and a tongue straight out of the flapper era, but I have a good heart, and most pushy people can’t say that. I’m a bulldozer, I won’t deny it. But there is this laid-back, mellow side of me that most people don’t see. It’s there, and it really is quite enchanting when I allow it to come out and play. Listen to me! I sound like I have a split personality! But seriously, in Greek mythology, I’m what they call one of those sirens, except much more placid and not so noisy. Although I can make a racket if I feel passionate about something. I won’t stand down. You can’t tell me to sit and stay. My bite is like my bark.” Martin listened carefully for barking sounds.

  “So,” she continued, “I’m looking forward to you getting to know me, Martin.”

  “Me too,” Martin stumbled. “I mean, me getting to know you. Or you getting to know me. Us getting to know ourselves.”

  “Pick me up at eight, tomorrow? Let’s dine at that new bistro.”

  “What new bistro?”

  “Haven’t you heard? It used to be called Pete’s Steakhouse.”

  “What’s it called now?”

  “Peter’s House of Steak.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’m looking forward to an evening filled with surprises,” Lois purred.

  Martin cleared his throat of any suggestions he’d had about where to eat. Thankfully, Lois was on the ball, because five minutes ago he didn’t even know he was going to ask her out.

  CHAPTER 6

  “DAD? YOU OKAY?” Ainsley said, glancing at her brother, who was examining his steak knife and making it glint in the dim light.

  Her father was l
ooking around, his disapproving eyes pinched like he’d stepped into the bright sun. “What have they done?”

  Ainsley thought it was charming. There was an actual tablecloth on the table, centered with a votive, which replaced what used to be a napkin holder that conveniently held the salt and pepper on either side. The ketchup bottle had also been removed, and in its place stood bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The waitress, wearing all black, brought a fresh loaf of bread to the table. As she left, Butch said, “Is that Tammi?”

  “Tammi?”

  “From high school. Don’t you remember? Stringy hair, skinny, with glasses.”

  Ainsley glanced behind her. Well, in this setting, that look was working to her advantage. The place was beginning to remind her of that fancy restaurant Alfred took her to in Indianapolis when he was trying to transform her into the next Martha Stewart. She looked at her dad again, and he was trying to figure out what to do with the vinegar.

  “See,” Ainsley said, “you take one of these small plates, and pour oil first, then vinegar. Then you dip your bread in it.” The bread had melted cheese in the middle and smelled like garlic.

  “I’m going to have to talk to Pete about this,” her father grumbled. “I’ve been a patron of this restaurant since it opened, and now all of a sudden he goes and changes on me? It’s like what happens to your daughter from the age of twelve to thirteen. At twelve, she’s this innocent, beautiful child that adores you. At thirteen, she turns into a sophisticated ninny who is all dolled up. Everyone swears it’s just part of the progression. But suddenly there’s fancy clothes, an awful haircut, and makeup, all of which are supposed to improve her. But you know what? You just want the plain twelve-year-old back. She’s a lot less trouble, and perfectly dependable.”

  Ainsley found it slightly humorous that her father was saying this as if his daughter wasn’t on the other side of the table. “Dad, open your menu up. You’ll see all your favorites are there.”