Say That Again

by Sasson, Gemini

  She swung her feet, not quite hitting the cupboards, but to create a rocking motion. “It talked.”

  “Aha. And what did it say?” Hunter opened a cabinet behind him and took out a box of cheese crackers. He dumped them on Hannah’s plate. She immediately started lining the little squares up, side by side. They’d once bought her animal shaped crackers, but they were not symmetrical and held no interest for her. She refused to eat them.

  “Listen,” she said.

  “I am listening, honey. What did it say? Good morning? Hello?”

  “It said, ‘Listen’.” She popped a cracker in her mouth.

  “That’s what I said to you when you woke up after ... after the accident. I said, ‘Hannah, listen’. That was me. Don’t you remember?”

  “Nope.”

  Hunter was sure she didn’t remember a lot of things while she was slipping in and out of consciousness. Still, she probably had heard him. “Did the bird say anything else?”

  Her back and forth movement changed to side to side. Normally, she would have kept at the same motion for hours, exhausting herself eventually. But there was a lot about Hannah that wasn’t like it used to be. Hunter recalled a distinct shift in his own perception of the world after the first time he had woken up from being transported to the hospital in an ambulance after having been declared ‘dead’. And then there’d been the day earlier that same year when he witnessed both his father and grandfather being crushed under the weight of a farm tractor and dying. Months went by before he would talk to anyone; years more before he spoke to someone outside his family.

  Hannah resumed rocking back and forth. “Don’t r’ember.”

  Hunter had to resist correcting her. Her speech had been perfect before, but Dr. Pruitt warned them there would be stumbling blocks, that things that used to come easily to her could be a challenge for a while. “That’s okay. I forget things that happened to me all the time. Yesterday I put my car keys down when I came in the house and couldn’t remember where. Your mom found them next to the computer. Silly, huh?”

  Abruptly, she stopped rocking. “Silly bird.”

  He let it go. Stuff was jumbled around in her head, that was all.

  “I r’ember what the fish said.”

  “What fish?”

  “In the water, silly Daddy.”

  “Okay. What did the fish say?”

  She sat tall and pointed a finger toward the ceiling, breaking into a toothy smile. “Listen!”

  “What are we supposed to listen to?” Jenn appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

  But Hannah had already withdrawn back into her private world to stare out the window.

  Hunter shrugged. “If I figure that out, I’ll let you know.”

  “Ah, the logic of a five-year-old.” Jenn winked. “What I wouldn’t give to live in her world for a day.”

  —o00o—

  From the kitchen window, Hunter watched as Hannah swung a leg over the low bough of the Crooked Tree, which stood between the detached garage and the horse barn. They called it that because, well, it was crooked. Its trunk was formed by the union of two thick boughs. One of them grew straight and tall with many solid branches, while the other bowed low to the ground before curving up. Hannah straddled the bottom bough, the fingers of her hands curled around the looped end of an imaginary set of reins. Kicking her legs against it, she bounced up and down. She spent half an hour like that, her mind taking her to faraway places.

  Spring was in full bloom now, green buds bursting from every branch, flowers pushing up through the dirt, songbirds returning. Today the sun burned brightly in a clear blue sky and one could finally go outside without a winter coat on.

  When he had finished washing the last of the dishes, Hunter dried his hands and went outside to join Hannah in the backyard. It smelled of lilacs and hyacinth. He stooped down beside Hannah, now sitting with her back against the tree, her pouty mouth weighed down with a frown.

  “What’s the matter, sweet pea? Did your horse get tired?”

  Her head swung back and forth.

  “Sad that Maura’s busy playing softball today and Mommy’s not here?”

  Again, she shook her head.

  “I’m running out of guesses. You’ll have to tell me.”

  Beneath wispy yellow bangs, she looked up at him. “Am I better enough now?”

  “Better enough? For what?”

  “A dog.”

  Oh. He’d entirely forgotten about that. To be honest, he wished he hadn’t mentioned it. It was an impulse. A desperate bunt to get her on track for recovery. But Hannah, with her mind like a steel trap, remembered the most seemingly insignificant details sometimes. And he couldn’t renege on it. However, there was one major problem.

  “Yeah, about that ... See, I haven’t talked to Mommy yet and I’m not sure how she’s going to feel about it. Remember the guinea pig?”

  Hannah averted her eyes. Last year they’d gotten both her and Maura guinea pigs. Hannah hadn’t liked how hers squealed. So she’d put it in a shoebox, carried it down to the basement, and piled more boxes on top when it continued to squeal to shut out the noise. Heavy boxes filled with an old set of stoneware dishes. Then she went outside to play. Two days later Jenn discovered the shoebox, squashed beneath the others. Afraid her guinea pig might suffer the same fate, Maura donated hers to her fifth-grade classroom.

  Then there were the goldfish. Because they looked hungry, Hannah had dumped half a container of fish flakes into the bowl, which caused them to overeat. Rescuing the last two, Jenn hid the fish food in a cabinet above the refrigerator, then explained to Hannah that they needed to eat just twice a day and only a pinch. That led Hannah to insist on setting an alarm for their feeding times and measuring out their food on a doll’s spoon. The big problem arose when the family was away at the fish’s designated dinner hour. Hannah would become very upset if the schedule was disrupted in any way to the point that she had a public meltdown in the shoe department at the mall.

  Pets had not gone over well and so Jenn and Hunter decided to forego any house pets — a bit ironic when you considered Hunter was a vet in Faderville. They had a few barn cats, still — all too wary of being held to go anywhere near Hannah — and a pair of retired draft horses that Jenn tended to. Although docile, they were big enough that Hannah kept her distance from them.

  No, it had been a bad idea to promise Hannah a dog. There was just too much that could go wrong. Maybe if he skirted the topic long enough, she’d forget about it.

  Hannah raked her fingers through the newly sprouted grass, a frown tugging at her rosebud mouth. A car turned in the driveway and rolled down the lane. A minute later, Maura jumped out, her softball knickers dusty and a big grass stain on the back of her jersey. Jenn got out and waved to them before herding Maura inside.

  When Hunter looked back at Hannah, she’d picked up a twig and was on her knees, drawing something in a patch of dirt.

  “What are you making a picture of, Hannah?” He moved to stand above her. “Can I see?”

  She sat back on her heels to give him a better view. To Hunter, it looked like a blob with sticks for legs, only slightly more elaborate. Like an early Picasso rendition of ... something. He was afraid to ask what it was supposed to be, but he was pretty sure he knew.

  “Is that a dog?”

  “Yah. My dog.”

  She wasn’t going to let go of this easily. He had to figure out how he was going to divert her from her obsession without breaking his word. He’d been so thankful of her recovery that he’d blurted out the one thing Jenn would never agree to. Even he knew it was a bad idea.

  Hunter held out his hand for Hannah and helped her up. Then he swung her atop his shoulders and carried her toward the house, the scent of lilacs growing headier with each step.

  As they went, he looked out over the hills and woodlands that had surrounded him since birth. Today, there was a special vibrancy to the greens of the grass and leaves, and a dappling of s
nowy white or pale pink where flower buds hinted at unfurling. Among the rugged hills, old tobacco barns squatted, a rustic reminder of another time. In patchwork pastures, cows meandered, mud splattered up their hocks.

  This was his home, in all its rough and backward beauty. He could never grow tired of the view, no matter how long he lived.

  chapter 12: Echo

  The view never changed. I was sick of it. If I had to spend the rest of my life staring at the same hills, the same woods, the same decrepit barn in the distance that looked like one strong wind would blow it over, I was going to go barking mad.

  When the Grunwalds turned me out from the mobile home, that tin can they called a house, I had taken great fascination in all that there was to see. But even your favorite meal, if served every day, loses its appeal.

  My existence had become more mundane than my sanity would allow. I’d long since grown bored of watching the birds and the squirrels, both more abundant now that winter was over. Even the twins had ceased to taunt me. The object of their teasing was now a spotted, miniature potbelly pig. Porkchop spent less than a week in the house, before he was banished to a small pen on the other side of the backyard from my doghouse. For several days, he squealed in my direction. I barked back, but that only invited angry words and the occasional stone flung at me from whoever happened to be closest to the back door.

  The collar they’d slipped on my head months ago was now so tight the links had rubbed my flesh open. It itched, but scratching only made it bleed. Soon, a repulsive smell came from the wounds, but in time scabs began to form. Scabs that turned to scars, which made the collar hurt more than before, if that was even possible.

  The pain was an aggravation that I lived with daily. It became a part of me, making me more and more irritable. I would have bitten Mavis when she came out to scoop up my waste with the shovel, but when I growled at her she swung it in my direction. I was smart enough to know when I was outgunned.

  In frustration, I began to chew at the board to one side of my doghouse opening. My intent was to gnaw it down to nothing, for no other reason than that it was conveniently there and they had never given me any other toys or bones to chew on. Gradually, though, it loosened, and I discovered a new purpose. The hook to which my chain was attached was sunk into that board. If the board came free, I was free. I would visit the pig first, then be on my way to some other life, more exciting than this.

  In hindsight, even the shelter was more exciting than this. At least there I was given things to chew on and had regular mealtimes and water that wasn’t stagnant and sitting in a rusty, scum-filled bowl. Then again, you should be careful what you wish for.

  I sank my teeth into the wood, alternately sawing with my molars and spitting out hunks of splinters. For days I worked on it. One day, Scowler filled up my water bowl, although she didn’t bother to clean it, and plunked down a plate of mashed potatoes mixed with a smattering of corn. The Grunwalds had long ago stopped giving me kibble. Too expensive, Mavis had complained. Instead, I was fed the same leftovers as the pig. Which would have been acceptable had they remembered to bring the food out before the fat in the meat congealed or turned rancid and the vegetables began to mold. It was eat or starve, and more than once I regurgitated my dinner, unable to keep it down. I should have learned to trust my nose better, but the stomach is a greedy monster. Thankfully, the mashed potatoes and corn were merely cold, but to me they were a king’s banquet.

  After filling my belly, I went to work again on the board. Porkchop squealed at me, as if he knew something was afoot. I took it as encouragement, but a part of me suspected he was tattling.

  One by one, the lights in the Grunwalds’ house went off, until there was only the pale blue flicker of the TV in Mavis and Earl’s bedroom. Finally, that window went dark, too. I chomped and chomped, my jaw muscles growing weary. Just when I thought it had finally loosened, I yanked, but the board caught on a pair of nails at the top. Frustrated with how long it was taking, I clamped my teeth into it and put my weight behind it, pulling, pulling, pulling, then twisting the board side to side. Determined, I bucked upward. The board, slick with my saliva, slid from my mouth. I tumbled backwards, rolling first onto my back and then flipping over, feet in the air.

  The chain jerked my neck forcefully and I heard a crack and a pop, followed by several clinks. But instead of the cold cut of steel into my skin, I felt an unfamiliar lightness. Carefully, I gathered my legs beneath me and stood.

  I was beyond the worn arc of dirt that had been my circumference, the extent of my world. Cool air brushed at my neck, lifting the fur, tickling me there. At my feet in a tangled heap lay the chain and collar. At its end was the board, a big jagged piece of wood with an eye hook screwed into it and that nasty length of chain attached. I turned around once, backed away slowly, expecting the links to trip me. But they were no longer an extension of me, no longer tethered me to the drafty doghouse with its dank straw.

  Now what? I was free, but what did that mean? Where would I go? What would I do? Things hadn’t turned out so swell before when I crawled from the river and wandered around, all on my own. This was all a bit overwhelming.

  A blood curdling squeal cut through the night air. I spun around to see the little spotted pig rooting at the bottom side of the hog panel that formed his enclosure. With furious determination, he dug his hooves at the earth.

  For a while, I watched, smug in my newfound freedom. But the more he pawed at the dirt and banged his pink snout against the metal bars, the more I felt a tug at my conscience. Independence, I decided, was highly overrated.

  So I went about trying to figure out how to spring him from his pen. I paced around it, testing each panel, scratching at the gate, biting at the latch. But Earl had built his fortress well. As far as I could see, it was impenetrable.

  Still, I tried. And when I had exhausted all options, I went to work digging on the outside. If eventually we met, it would form a tunnel, and then the spotted pig and I would race to ... somewhere.

  Somewhere far from here.

  —o00o—

  I hadn’t counted on the dirt down deep being so impossibly hard. Or there being so many rocks. Big rocks.

  When I finally lay down to rest, defeated, the night sky was lightening, a thin crescent of pink showing in the east. Of course, I had worked harder than the pig, but I didn’t hold it against him. Porkchop was young and not as strong and certainly not as smart as me.

  I resumed my efforts. Just when I thought we were getting close, my claws hit another rock. I scratched around it and dug at the dirt with my nose, expecting another rock that I would need to extract with my mouth. What I discovered was a rock so big there was no hope of moving it. We could have burrowed around it, but that would take more time than we had. Soon Earl would be up, tromping out the door to his truck. The side of the pen where we’d dug was in clear view of the path he’d take.

  Undaunted — ignorance is the haven of fools — Porkchop continued to push at the dirt with his snout. I watched in pity, my muzzle resting between my paws. Curious, the little pig came over to where I sat and pressed his flat nose between the bars. He sniffed at me, then snorted a breath.

  In the kitchen, a light snapped on. Familiar noises came from inside: the water pump humming, footsteps pounding, a skillet being set on the stove. Through the small kitchen window, I saw Earl go back and forth, a cup of coffee in his hand.

  Rain pattered softly upon the earth. I went up to the pig and inhaled his scent. His nose twitched. He wiggled his curlicue tail. I whimpered softly. It was the closest thing to saying ‘goodbye’ that I could manage.

  Before Earl could burst the back door open, I turned and ran, pausing once at wood’s edge to take one last look at yet another friend who I’d known only too briefly.

  —o00o—

  It wasn’t the rain that wore me down. It was the wind and the cold.

  The night had been reasonably warm, but by midmorning a stiff northern wind had ch
anged the weather for the worse. Chilled to the bone, shivers rattled my thin frame. A night without sleep had taken its toll and so, needing rest, I sought shelter in a barn. Gaps yawned between the planks and water dripped through the roof in several places to pool in puddles. An old rusted tractor with flat tires sat in the middle of the cavernous space, like some slain dragon of long ago.

  I found a spot behind a large feeding trough that was dry and out of the wind. Mud caked my belly and my fur was drenched through, but it only took a dozen breaths before I fell asleep.

  Would that I had placed myself more strategically. Somewhere that I could have seen anyone coming. Somewhere from which I could have escaped.

  The rope went around my neck as I still slept. I thought I was dreaming that Earl had slipped a chain on me again.

  When I started awake and saw the shadow standing over me, I bolted backward. My rump hit a stool, on which sat an old metal tool box. It toppled to the ground, greasy wrenches and screwdrivers spilling out. I jumped sideways, toward the barn opening. The rope went taut about my neck, gagging me, and I knew for certain this was no dream.

  My eyes followed the rope to its end. A man with a long red beard held it, his overalls smeared with oil. He studied me with dull eyes. My impression was one of kind indifference. But it was the rifle propped on his shoulder that threw me.

  I pulled with all my strength, even as the rope bit into the raw places in my neck. With a jerk, he lowered the barrel of the rifle ... then set it against the trough.

  Slowly, he reeled me in. I planted my legs stiffly, but he slid me across the dirt, inch by inch. He took my jowls in his calloused hands, tilted my head side to side to look into my eyes, my ears, and at my neck. Then he pried my mouth open. I twisted away and snapped my teeth shut, but he appeared to be done with his inspection. He was not, however, done with me.

  He hooked a bearish arm around me and carried me inside his house, where I got the first bath of my life. I should have hated every minute of it. But in truth, I liked it. Liked the warm water washing the dirt from my fur and cleansing the fetid sores on my neck.