Transom? The oblong of glass, prevalent in houses of a bygone era, which could be adjusted by means of a sliding rod to control the flow of air.
Two. The air was funny. Peculiar funny. Highly peculiar.
Three. The bride had an assortment of puncture bruises at the crook of each forearm. “The kind you get at the doctor’s office,” Muriel explained, “when they stick you to draw blood.” She mimed this procedure, using a thumb and forefinger. “And Otis Clanton’s wife has a lot more than several,” she said, darkly. “What is he doing? Drinking hemoglobin?”
Four. The bride herself was fairly personable in a chinless, blinky sort of way, but she had the brains of a cuckoo clock.
Five. She called her husband “Mister Clanton” and was as subservient as she could get without falling flat on her face.
“Take it from me,” Muriel said. “She jumps before he can say squat.”
Muriel is observant, to say the least. And hard to defeat. In a flout of defiance she had plunked down the potted plant beside the front door and had stomped off. (The plant is still there. Dried to a clutch of broken stalks. The decorative once white ribbon now a gray draggle. The unwelcome welcome card blown away by a wind and lost.)
Not long after Muriel’s fiasco word got around that Otis Clanton’s wife had flown the coop with a gaggle of gypsies who had roved through our district. This was more conjecture than anything, but it fit. The gypsies had been hustled on their way by law officers and on the heels of their departure it became evident that Otis Clanton was once again alone. A simple deduction. The clothesline his wife had strung from the house to a scrubby excuse for a tree, and had draped with a slimsy wash on Mondays, now sagged empty Monday after Monday.
Once again, I began to fantasise about enticing Otis Clanton with an offer.
Somewhere along in there Mrs David Wiley, intending to leave my parking lot, put her mini van in drive instead of reverse, a mistake that considerably enlarged the gap in Otis Clanton’s hedge and transformed Lady, Mrs Wiley’s docile cocker spaniel, into a slavering idiot.
Mrs Wiley, having inspected the damage to the mini van’s paint job, honked me outside to give me her forcefully delivered opinion (which lost a great deal of clout due to her accent) that if I had a halfway decent, propah place to pahk her involvemunt with some scrungy ol’ bushes would nevah have ohcurred.
“Nowheah from heah to the moooon,” she shouted at me, “is theah an equal to this mingy, nex’ to nuthin, scrunched in . . .” words failed her.
She climbed into her van. Screamed at Lady to mind huh mannahs. Resumed berating me to the effect that I would receive the bill for the damages to huh cah, and drove off in a fury with Lady beginning to upchuck on the front seat.
Otis Clanton stood on his back porch wiping his hands on a limp kitchen towel . . . a silent figure of impending doom.
Visions of my livelihood being chopped off by a disastrous three square feet straight down the pike swarmed hydraheaded. I assumed a companionable attitude. Made my voice user-friendly. Assured him I would be responsible for the havoc my client had created.
No response.
I essayed an expansive gesture of good will and declared I would have Billy Williams attend to this matter pronto. I was the genial provider more than willing to make amends. I waited for his reply.
He let me wait.
I presumed he meant to make it clear that I was a damn nusiance and that he had not forgotten my infringement across his property line.
Then a faint, twisted smile licked his lips.
“Very well,” he said. “Billy Williams.”
The conversation, such as it was, had ended. He clumped back into his house. The door closed. The key grated in the lock. The chain rattled home.
From within came the shrill yip of a dog. A small one, judging from the sound and, again judging from the sound, one that had met with a misadventure . . . such as the sharp snap of a kitchen towel.
Not that I paid heed. I was too suffused with relief that my over-the-boundary encroachment, though shaky, remained intact. Hallelujah! Billy Williams here I come!
Turning to go, I noticed that further down the Clanton yard was evidence of a second burial site alongside the barely discernible first one.
So, the second dog had also died and Otis, unwilling to admit defeat, had gotten himself a third one. The grave was beginning to meld into the weedy surroundings and evidently had been there for quite awhile. I wondered what the dog had died of. Common ordinary distemper more than likely.
Ah ha! Perhaps I could temper my precarious relationship with Otis by an offer of free shots for his third dog? No. I had better relegate my dealings with Otis Clanton to a later, more auspicious occasion.
I loped off to contact Billy Williams whom I found spraddled on the bench at the bus stop, eating a Moon Pie, his unruly red hair at all angles, his splayed feet eased out of their work shoes to disclose a crooked toe poking through a hole in one sock.
Billy expressed his lack of enthusiasm for my job offer with a slanted glance at Otis Clanton’s dreary domicile.
“He bugs me,” Billy said.
“He bugs everybody,” I countered. “But – ” I explained my predicament and, when Billy shrugged (Your problem, man) I added, “You owe me one, Billy.”
He lifted astonished eyebrows. Said, in fake surprise, “I do?”
I replied, “Who loaned you the wherewith, over a month ago, for a sure thing in the ninth at some god forsaken racetrack?”
Billy took a bite of Moon Pie and let his gaze check the contours of a plump blonde who was entering Sam’s Deli.
“I’m not asking you to break your back,” I went on. “What’s left of that hedge is half dead. The actual work is a piece of cake. Name your price.”
Billy swallowed his mouthful. Took another bite.
I said, “Come on, Billy. Be a sport.”
Bingo! I had pushed the right button.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered. He straightened. “Awright,” he said grudgingly. “Awright. I’ll go have me a look at the thing.” His face took on a mulish expression. “Maybe I can fit it in. In my spare time.”
But we both knew it was a done deal.
I said, “Contact Otis Clanton. Try to make him happy.”
Billy gave a short laugh. “Otis Clanton happy,” he repeated. “That’ll be the day.”
The pay he wanted (no mention of reimbursement for the “sure thing” which I presume had dropped dead at the post) was a bit steep but my peace of mind was worth the outlay.
Otis Clanton did not put in a hedge. He decided instead to have Billy remove the hedge entirely and enclose his backyard with a chain link fence. At my expense.
Hanlon was fit to be tied when Charlie Evans at Ace Hardware phoned to verify the charge before he filled Otis Clanton’s order.
“The nerve!” she exploded. “Highway robbery! Sheer blackmail! He’s telling you to obey or you’re dead in the water! Who does he think you are? A weak-kneed, lame-brained, chicken-livered, wimp?”
“Weak-kneed and chicken-livered, yes,” I replied. “Lame-brained, no. A chain link fence beats whittling my parking lot down to the size of a postage stamp.”
“I’ll fix his wagon, somehow,” she said, augmenting the threat with a fisted thump on my desk.
“You stay out of this, Hanlon,” I told her. “O-U-T, Out. Hear me loud and clear. Understand?”
Hanlon expelled an indrawn breath. Bit the bullet. “You’re the boss,” she conceded. The term “wimp” that hung in the air between us faded in the manner of the Cheshire cat, but her chin was still set. She returned to her duties, only to reappear after a short-lived hiatus.
“Why does he overlook that boundary mistake?” she questioned. The question was purely rhetorical. Obviously, I had no clue. She was merely keeping her oar in.
She tapped her spectacles against her teeth. Pointed the stems at me. “One of these days we’ll find out,” she predicted, sharply. “Ther
e’s more to this than a free fence.”
Two weeks later, with the CLOSED sign in place, who should be standing at our rear exit but Otis Clanton. He was his usual stark, odoriferous self. Accompanying him was a small mixed-breed whose choke collar and stout leather leash seemed totally unnecessary for such a cowed little mongrel.
I stood riveted for a full count of three before I summoned a greeting and, stepping aside, allowed Otis and his dog entry.
Hanlon led the way, switching on lights, into the examining room where she adjusted her stance from Count Me In to Ready. Get Set. Let’s Go. Her countenance telegraphed a triumphant I Told You So.
Otis Clanton made no attempt to apologize for this after-hours, back door visit. He plunked his dog on the table and stated in a raspy monotone that he wanted her “gone over” to make sure she was “in shape”.
I removed the choke and the leash and began stroking her gently. Animals generally respond to this touch technique and, true to form, the watery-eyed little creature stopped quivering and tried to begin a quavery exhortation. Some dogs will do this. Their nervous yappings and yelpings being their method of telling you that they don’t like the situation one bit and will put up with the ordeal only because they have to.
Otis Clanton’s dog pulled out all the stops. Up and down the scale, her muzzle raised, her throat alive with sound. A condemned prisoner pleading for mercy couldn’t have done it better.
Her owner extended a blue-veined hand, gave her nose a knuckled rap and nodded, satisfied, when she hunkered down shivering.
Before Hanlon could protest I asked the dog’s name. I always do this with newcomers, but this time in haste to keep Hanlon at bay, explaining to Otis that my use of his dog’s name would help to allay her fears. I could tell from a change in his expression – minuscule but there – that he hadn’t deemed it necessary to give her a name.
For a moment he was at a loss. Then his mouth twitched as if fingered by an inward joke. He said, “Shem. Call her Shem.”
Hanlon got her two cents worth anyway. “Shame,” she said, letting the denunciation hang for a startled instant before she added, guilelessly, “What a curious name for such a harmless little girl. Mister Clanton.” She gave Otis a withering smile.
Otis Clanton impaled her with a narrowed look.
So did I and, in a decisive knock-it-off tone of voice, quickly corrected her deliberate mispronunciation. Hanlon, still bristling but mollified by her direct hit, resumed her role of assistant. From there on in our deportment was strictly professional.
I gave Shem a clean bill of health. Handed over a tube of ointment for her insignificant eye problem. Explained about shots. Suggested she be returned for these. Said, “No charge, Mr Clanton,” as if he had offered payment and, in a last ditch attempt at neighborliness, inquired how Billy Williams was progressing with the fence.
“He comes,” he said, sourly. “Off and on.” Mentally, he wandered into the middle distance visualizing Billy’s once-in-a-while approach. The ghost of a glint flickered in his pale, light eyes. He said, more to himself than to us, “He lets her have a piece of his Moon Pie.”
I chimed in with a hearty, “For all his failings Billy has a lot going for him.”
“Yes,” he said. “He does, indeed.” The glint flared up and vanished. “I’m going to have him build a doghouse.” He let his eyes rest on me. “You will agree to the additional expense?”
Yes, yes, yes. Certainly I would. Of course, of course.
Once more his usual taciturn self Otis put the choke on Shem, attached the leash and slapped her hindquarters to hasten her jump from the table to the floor.
Hanlon opened her mouth but, at a warning cough from me, with an effort allowed it to close.
Uttering a few banal amenities I escorted Otis out and returned to find a livid assistant about to burst a blood vessel.
“. . . poor cringing little thing . . . a choke collar and a strap heavy enough for an elephant . . . did you see how she tried to jump before he could hit her . . . you can bet your boots she’s had many a crack, not only on her rump but on her nose and by God that’s uncalled for . . . Shem . . . what kind of a name is that, unless its an acronym for She Has Emotional Maladies and no wonder . . . and tell me this, why would he want her ‘gone over’ to make sure she was ‘in shape’? In shape for what? One of his chemical experiments? . . . didn’t you hear her begging you to come to her rescue . . . as soon as she came in she started crying like a baby – ”
“Dogs don’t cry,” I cut in.
“Well this one did!” Hanlon said, her jaw defiant, her hands on her hips. “Furthermore – ”
“Furthermore be damned,” I interrupted. “What’s done is done. You may not approve but that’s the ticket. Got it?”
The ##%&@!! slam of the door as she stormed out was re-echoed undiminished when she stormed out again after storming back in to tell me that my attitude left much to be desired.
Billy Williams finally finished both the fence and the doghouse. Whereupon, after jacking up his price to include his desultory labor on the latter, he disappeared.
Word had it that:
One. He was on a monumental binge and, with his temperament, after his stint under the supervision of Otis Clanton he deserved all the whiskey he could drink.
Two. He’d been rolled by a bimbo and had slunk into hiding to recover his aplomb.
Three. Wherever he was he was in charge of the situation.
I could’ve tacked on number four. If I knew Billy he was off somewhere, testing a new location to determine its suitability for his line of work without infringing on his freedom of choice just because he owed somebody a favor.
In the meantime Otis Clanton got a fourth dog.
Hanlon broke the news and, at her insistence, I went out to view this oversized hulk of an animal that was “in dire need of medical assistance”.
Otis Clanton’s latest canine acquisition was weaving drunkenly around within its fenced enclosure. As Hanlon had said, it was an “oversized hulk” but I doubted if its need was “dire”. The thick coat (which indicated that a husky and a red setter had been among its many antecedents) was none too clean but was healthy in color. Its nose was moist, neither dry nor running. It was staggering about but it wasn’t lurching. My off-the-cuff diagnosis was that Otis Clanton’s fourth dog was recovering from a mild case of food poisoning, probably acquired by gobbling in somebody’s garbage can.
The tail of my eye caught a movement at Clanton’s back door and I laid a firm, restraining hand on Hanlon’s arm as Otis emerged and proceeded down the steps. He was carrying a bowl of what I assumed was dog food.
He was bound to have seen us, standing as we were at the edge of my parking lot peering through the chain link fence. He ignored us. We could remain there until Doomsday if it pleased us to do so. He was taking care of his dog, providing good wholesome nourishment that would help the critter overcome its discomfort. This was his dog and his property . . . including the three square feet I had usurped . . . and if I had a grain of sense I would depart. Immediately.
I took his silent advice, tightened my clasp on Hanlon and marched her along to the safe haven of the clinic. She forbore speaking her piece. She didn’t have to. The term wimp had arisen from the dead and its ghostly presence hovered in the air between us as I gave her my prognosis of the dog’s condition and a brief lecture on the rights of ownership.
Her resemblance to a battleship was pronounced at the end of my spiel. A battleship under wraps, but with its guns unspiked.
Outwardly, for the next few weeks, we continued to operate in unison while the big, red dog, fully recovered, carried on like a three-alarm fire whenever we came or went. (Even dog lover Hanlon shrank from his furious onslaughts.) Gradually, we attained a sort of truce.
Until one early morning when she caromed in, still holding the door key, so filled with anger she could hardly speak. She had discovered why Otis Clanton had wanted Shem “gone over”. And wh
at my A-plus rating had signified she was “in shape” for. Shem had come in heat and Otis Clanton had just put her in the pen with that . . . that . . . Goliath!
“To pair that defenseless little bitch with such a brute is inhuman!” she squawked at me. “And Otis Clanton is standing out there gloating!” Her forefinger jabbed at a target between my eyes. “Get up off your tush and go do something! Now! Right this minute!”
I got up, and moved out of reach to prevent her from seizing me by my necktie. “Now look, Hanlon,” I said, making soothing motions, striving for a measure of calm.
That was as far as I got.
She blew her stack. Her supply of descriptive hyperbole would have numbed a dock worker. Whereupon I lost my cool.
“You interfere over there and you’re fired!” I sang out, fed to the teeth.
“You’ll be too late,” she yelled, “because I quit!” With that she slammed my door key at my feet, whirled around, paused in mid-stride to snatch up the carpet-covered brick that serves as a doorstop, and was gone.
That did it. I had no other recourse. I lit out after her, stumbled over the wastebasket, wrestled with a stool, and arrived in Otis Clanton’s back yard as she was about to let fly with the door stop.
I was barely in time to shove her off balance. The brick clunked to the ground and we both pounced on it and grappled for control. Both dogs were in a frenzy, giving vent at the top of their lungs. Otis, who must have gotten the idea we were vying for the honor of beating him to a pulp, began, belatedly, to distance himself from the fray.
Hanlon gained possession of the brick, and stepped away wielding her prize. “Stay right where you are,” she commanded us. Her tone increased in menace. “Don’t either of you make a move or I’ll let you have it, so help me God.”
She meant it.
We didn’t argue. We stopped in our tracks.
Keeping us under surveillance she sidled to the pen, unfastened the latch with her free hand and opened the gate a crack.
“Come, Shem. Come,” she urged, positioning herself for the catch when the little dog dashed out, which it did. It also darted between her legs and took off like a bat out of hell.
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