by Patti Abbott
“I beeped it. I’m sure I did.”
But she didn’t sound sure and what was the good of talking about it now anyway.
“Fuckin’ keyless locks. Sure it didn’t fall on the floor?”
“I looked everywhere. Even crawled underneath the car to check.”
“Why didn’t you mail it right off? Damn, woman!”
He hung up suddenly, cutting it off before he said anything more, cursing her only when he was sure she wouldn’t hear him. But it wasn’t all her fault. The post office, a two-person counter in Gasparillo, FL, closed between twelve and one for lunch. It was just one p.m. now. She couldn’t have dropped it off first.
The envelope he mailed each month held seven one-hundred dollar bills fanned out in a large zip lock bag—so they wouldn’t look lumpy. It didn’t sound like much but he’d been paying Overman off for almost a decade. He hadn’t seen him once in the last seven or eight years and he only ran into Buzzy when he was late. Coming up with the dough was getting damned hard now that he couldn’t work. Coming up with it twice this month would be impossible. For a split second, he wondered if this was what his wife had been excited about when she left the house. Was she scamming him by pretending the money was stolen, figuring he deserved it now that he couldn’t keep up his end? He decided against this discouraging thought, giving Marsha the benefit as usual.
Work. He robbed houses for a living. Mostly ones of middle-class people who were off at their offices. He took his time with each job, staked out the place, learned the routine of the house and the schedule of their close neighbors. Burglary wasn’t as popular as it once was. Jail terms had grown too long. Small-timers disappeared into the system every day. It was easier to sell drugs, steal cars or cheat people on the Internet than rob houses.
He rarely hit apartments because exits were usually more difficult. His escape that day, after he thought he’d heard a key in the door, forced him out onto a fire escape that gave way and dumped him two flights. He’d crawled to his car, muffling his screams until the windows were closed, his measly haul left behind. And that’s why he stood staring out the window all day now, a victim of the incompetence of the only doctor known to treat accidents for guys like him. Maybe he was an abortionist and had never set bones before. Maybe Bernie’s knee would never be the same.
Bernie still had a few weeks to find the money for Overman. He wasn’t going to fret over it yet; he’d been in worse spots. He picked up the binoculars just in time to see Hobbes stroll into the yard nest door. The kid was pretty cool today; he’d give him that. He barely looked up.
“Get yourself a dog,” Hobbes shouted to his son after a brief inspection of the yard. “Not these sissy-assed ‘phibians. A man wants a dog!”
The kid didn’t say a word. He never did and Bernie couldn’t decide if it was bravery, cowardice, common sense or experience that kept him quiet.
“You look like a pansy-in-training playing with these zoo creatures. Got half a mind….”
“You sure do have half a mind,” Bernie shouted from the window before he could stop himself.
Hobbes wheeled around squinting, looking for the source of the voice.
“You shouting at me from that house over there, old man?” Hobbes asked. It wasn’t really a question. “Why don’t you show my boy how a real man acts and come out here right now and say those words to my face?”
He was still squinting, sun-blinded, not sure where Bernie was yet.
It took Bernie a moment to get used to the idea that he was being called an old man when Hobbes seemed much older to him.
“Why don’t you show the boy how a real father acts and stop scaring the shit out of him?” he said at last.
It was a lame retort but Bernie never did think good under pressure. His first words, “you sure do have half a mind,” would have to carry the day. He repeated the words to himself, preparing to replay the scene for Marsha later—if he were still alive.
Hobbes waited, thinking more words were probably forthcoming, and when they didn’t come, he trotted toward Bernie’s window, having finally spotted him. He was surprisingly light on his feet for a big man. Bernie slammed the window shut and yanked the shade just in time. But the shade rolled right back up and he could see Hobbes laughing at him as he pulled it down again. Then he hobbled into the living room and turned the TV on, hoping Hobbes didn’t take it out on the kid.
It was hours before Marsha showed up and when she did, she was limping and had a large hole in the knee of her favorite jeans. She slapped some money on the table and took off for the bathroom. He heard the water running and only then did he limp over and add up the dollar count. Four hundred bucks. Marsha must have staged two accidents then. Damn, his girl worked when she had to. She hadn’t done this scam in years. And she hadn’t even hinted at her intention. Did she decide to do it before or after the theft?
“Where d’ya pull it off?” he shouted into the bathroom. It wouldn’t do to enter before he knew her mood.
“Fort Meyers. Then Naples.”
A sort of neutral tone. He pushed the door open a bit.
“Old farts?”
“Driving about ten miles an hour.”
He peeked in. Marsha was naked and leaning over the tub, pouring in bath salts. There were several other budding bruises on her body and he felt sick, though strangely aroused.
“First couple didn’t even touch me but handed over the two hundred without a whimper. I think they were on their way to the airport and anxious not to miss their plane.” She grimaced as she stood up straight. “But this old man in a rental Prius knocked me down good and hard. I misjudged his speed ‘cause I’m outta practice.” She paused. “I probably should’ve asked him for more. He knew damned well he out and out knocked me down.”
“Oh, baby,” Bernie said, mournfully. He wanted to hug her, but knew better by now.
“Hope nothing’s broken.” She looked herself over in the mirror on the back of the door, “cause I’m fucking not going to that butcher of yours. And I’m also retiring from this business. I lost the touch somehow.” She sounded sad as much as angry.
He backed out of the room and listened till he heard the sound of her slipping into the water.
Two weeks later, still short a couple hundred bucks, Bernie got his Smith and Wesson .22LR out of his bureau drawer and began to clean it. He never took it with him on house jobs, had actually not used it for several years, and never once on a person. If Buzzy came again, he wasn’t going to slap anyone in this house around. He loaded it and put it in the bedside table.
“What the hell are you planning to do with that?”
Marsha stood at the bedroom door, frowning. Things still weren’t entirely right between them.
“Nobody’s bending back anyone’s fingers today.”
She smiled slightly. “You heard he’s coming?”
Bernie shook his head. “But it can’t be much longer.”
“Well, you’re not going to pull that thing out.”
“Not use it—just have it ready.”
“What did the doctor say about that knee? Any chance you going back to work?”
He’d gone to the doctor’s office—if you could call a room in the basement of an import business an office—that morning.
The doctor, seeming half-lit, took a look at his knee and said, “Not healed yet. Give it another week or so.”
He shook his head now.
“You’re gonna have to go to a real doctor, Bernie. It might never heal otherwise.”
He shook his head again, stubborn.
“It’s been weeks since you fell. No one’ll put you and that fire escape together now.”
“Never mind the medical advice.” He limped over to the bureau and handed her an envelope. The usual one.
“Where did you get the rest of the money?” She felt the envelope up.
“It’s just the dough from the scam. Your contribution.”
She sighed. “I’ll take it to the p
ost office.”
“You can probably stick it in the mailbox on the corner. Can’t weigh more than a few ounces.”
“That’s okay. I have some errands to do.”
“Like what?” Didn’t she know they were broke?
“I got a life too,” she said.
He could only wonder what that meant. There’d be no more accidents though. She’d made that plain in the weeks since the last ones. They’d have to invent something else.
Hobbes showed up next door around three. Marsha was back home by then and in the living room watching Ellen Degeneres. Bernie could hear that damned dancing music Ellen put on every day. But his attention was drawn back to the window when he saw Hobbes standing at the gate, looking around for the boy. He called out something and Bernie strained to hear. Was it Billy? Willy? He still didn’t know the kid’s name. The house seemed deserted today— surprising because the mother was usually home by now, likely working some six to two shift at some plant or a diner.
And then something strange happened, and a chill traveled down Bernie’s spine as he watched mute. Someone had stuck a dog in the Hobbes’ yard—some ferocious beast like the kind you saw on the local news a few times a year. It crossed the yard at a good clip, circling the animal cages like the devil’s own sentry, looking hungry and mean. Bernie could imagine the beast clamping down on one of those baby gators the boy had brought home recently, shaking his huge head wildly as he swallowed it whole. The animal slunk around a corner just as the old man slipped the lock on the gate and stepped inside. For a minute Hobbes must have thought he was alone, that his chance to permanently destroy the menagerie had finally come. But then Hobbes’ eyes lit on the dog and he froze.
There was no more circling once the dog spotted Hobbes—just a straightforward attack. The dog was quick; Hobbes was not. Bernie’s vision of a small alligator in the dog’s mouth was played out, with it being a neck rather than a head between his teeth.
Bernie slammed the window to shut out the screams and nearly vomited.
“I think we better call the cops” he said, limping into the next room where Marsha was watching Ellen pass out Cat Powers’ CDs to the audience. He meant her, of course. That she should do something. He never talked to the law on the theory they might be taping all calls. “Hobbes is getting torn to bits over there. Some dog got into their yard.”
“In a minute.” She was examining a mole on her hip. “Think I need this fucker zapped?” she asked him, pointing.
“Come on now, Marsh” he said as the hollering grew worse. “What you waiting for?”
But she didn’t get up to make the call till the screams died down. Till the yard was silent except for the frenzied sound of an owl awakened early.
“Not every man wants a dog,” he whispered to himself as she finally dialed 911.
“Oh, but they do.” She looked at him oddly. “Cops are on the way.”
“I wonder what kind of dog that was anyway,” he asked Marsha, an hour after the emergency vehicles had come and taken the dead fat fuck and the muzzled dog away.
Nobody knew where the kid or his mother were but Marsha said not to worry about it—that probably a social worker had taken them under her wing. To be on the safe side, she put a plate of leftover hoppin’ john on their back step.
“I think it was a Rottweiler,” Marsha said, beginning to salt the pan for their dinner.
He watched her worriedly. Marsha considered herself a good cook and he didn’t like to correct her, but those chops would taste like leather before she dumped them on his plate.
“Didn’t your father raise Rottweilers, Marsh?” Damn, she was still salting the cast-iron pan.
She nodded and slipped the pork chops in. “When the money was there, he raised a few.”
They had fried potatoes and sauerkraut out of a can.
After dinner, they heard a loud knock at the front door.
“Bernie, you in there?” It was Buzzy.
Marsha scrapped the bones into the garbage and dragged a sponge smelling like Clorox across the counter.
“Got another dog?” Bernie asked, scared again.
She nodded. “Just tell Buzzy his money’s in the car. Fritz’ll be real hungry in there by now.”
THE SNAKE CHARMER
When Shannon hurried through the house smelling of her old Vera Wang perfume, Art put down the newspaper. She wpre eye makeup and heels he knew pinched. He continued to watch uneasily as she found her best coat in the hall closet and waved a silent goodbye. Hadn’t she mentioned seeing a movie with a girlfriend when she asked him to baby-sit?
Pushing the play button on the remote for his granddaughter, Art headed for the kitchen window. Outside, a car door closed gently. He cocked his head enough to pick out a splatter of lights on the driveway. His daughter was with Corey Kruse. It was starting again.
Before he could absorb this, a small sound drew his attention. He turned to find Zelda staring up at him.
“Eat?” she suggested, her Barney doll tucked tightly under her arm
“What happened with the video, kiddo?” he asked.
Zelda twirled a piece of dark hair silently. Art walked back to the living room where a video played. In it, a man dressed in a rabbit’s costume was fondling a woman in orange velour. A cap of green fringe covered her head. The rabbit nibbled at the woman with absurdly large teeth and she screamed, shaking her leafy hair wantonly.
“What happened to Barney?” Art asked, his heart doing a crazy conga in his chest.
Zelda bent over and retrieved a second video from underneath his chair. He could see Barney’s familiar face.
“Is that where you found this one?” he asked, pulling the porn tape out of the DVD player and waving it in the air. “Under Pop-pop’s chair?”
Zelda nodded. Wincing, he got down on his hands and knees, coming up with several misplaced toys as well as two more unlabeled videos. They might be Sam’s, but his son hadn’t been home in weeks. Of course, they might have been under there for months along with the dust on his hands. None of them even played cassettes since DVDs came along.
Art spent the evening watching the videos. The one Zelda had briefly watched was the least offensive. In the first frame of Peter Rabbit’s Revenge, the title character finds the green-haired carrot bound tightly with green rope and cuts the rope with a knife, violently grabbing the carrot and carrying her off. In the following scene, one Zelda had thankfully passed up, Peter uses a vegetable peeler to remove Carrot’s clothes. Later, other vegetables appear and the entire cast winds up in a glass salad bowl. The costumes were cheesy, the lighting poor, and it should have been funny. Except it wasn’t funny, in light of the blasted thing being watched by a one-year old.
By the time he’d finished all three— a wrenching ninety minutes later—he’d been treated to bondage, simulated mutilation, and acts he couldn’t even name. Hopefully, the plaid-skirted girls in School Lays were only dressed to look young. But why would girls in school uniforms turn on his twenty-one year old son? That seemed like an old man’s thing.
He dialed Sam’s number in Lansing, slamming down the receiver after four rings. The phone rang seconds later. Art heard the clatter of dishes in the background and realized his son had a guest.
“I’ll get right to the point, Sam. Was it your tapes Zelda found under my chair?”
“My what?”
“Tapes. Zelda found one there, mixing it up with Barney and the Teletubbies.”
“Might have left one at home,” Sam said.
“Peter Rabbit’s Revenge?” He heard Sam snigger. “It sounds a lot funnier than it was, Sam; it was hardcore porn.”
“Jeez. Well, they’re not mine, Dad.”
“Any idea where they came from?”
“Not a clue. Zelda watch much?”
“A minute would have been too much.”
Art hung up a minute later and spent some time walking Sam’s friends through his head. He came up empty; Art’s only real friend,
Stan, hadn’t been in the house in months.
Zelda woke up twice during the night and Art finally plopped her in his bed. They woke to find Shannon’s face peering down at them.
“Is it an earache?”
“Two ears,” Zelda informed her, pointing helpfully.
Shannon picked her up, putting a cheek to Zelda’s head. “She doesn’t have a fever.”
Groaning loudly, Art sat up. “Her ears are fine.”
But his neck felt like a rod had been jammed inside it. He got out of bed, stripped the damp sheets off his bed, threw them on the floor, and headed for the bathroom.
“Have a good time last night?”
Shannon was loading the dishwasher. “Um,” she said noncommittally.
“What movie did you see?”
“We went downtown to Mario’s.”
“Didn’t know Mario’s was still in business.” His feet grabbed a rung on the opposite chair and he dragged it close enough to use as a footstool.
She turned around. “That same waiter’s still there, Dad. He was still wearing that stiff old tux—it’s even shinier than last time.”
He raised his voice over the noisy rush of water, saying. “The same customers, too? How is Corey Kruse nowadays?”
“Nice segue, Dad.” She wiped off the counter, her back to him again. “He’s working for his brother up in Saginaw.”
“Living up north, huh?”
“He’s home for the week. His mother asked him to do some electrical work while she’s in Florida.”
“When did he get a license?”
Shannon made a face. “No license, but he’s good at that kind of thing.”
“Didn’t know you kept in touch.” He drained his coffee.
“Sometimes we run into each other. He’s still Zelda’s father.”
His back ached even more, his neck throbbed. “Has he been inside this house lately?”
Or inside you.
Shannon paused. “I don’t let him spend time with Zelda. Not until….”
“You’re not thinking of getting back together?” She shrugged. “Okay. I get it.” He wheeled around, “Say, that reminds me, do you know whose porn it was Zelda found under my chair?” He wanted to shock her and he did.
