The Pet

by Charles L. Grant

  "Tar's dead," Don said flatly.

  "Yeah. What a bitch." He shifted, belched, ran his hands over his hair.

  "Cheerleaders have nice legs, you ever notice that? I mean, when you're not talking to the animals, you ever notice that cheerleaders have interesting legs, son?"

  Don didn't know what to say, and so said nothing.

  Norman took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. "You're probably wondering what I'm doing out here, right? I'll probably catch pneumonia and miss the game which, considering the relative importance of this week, is not the proper thing to do."

  The smell of bourbon was not quite a stench, his father's hair not quite untidily mussed over his forehead.

  "Well, I'll tell you, son. I'm waiting for your mother."

  Don winced, but Norman didn't see it; he was staring at the lawn and turning the glass around and around between his fingers. Finally he lifted his chest as if taking in a sigh.

  "You remember that goddamned rude question you asked us a few days ago? You remember that, Donald?"

  He did. With a clarity that made him take the inside of his cheek with his teeth and bite down, hard.

  "Well, I suppose you deserve an answer. After all, you are my sole surviving heir. You are soon to launch yourself upon the unsuspecting world and start your own goddamned life." He lay a hand on Don's knee and gripped it, massaged it, pulled the hand away. "You know, your grandfather used to tell me, when he was busting his hump down there in the mills and getting nothing for it but a kick in the ass, even when he became foreman, he used to say that you ought never to plan for your own future because that road you're walking is made of shit. Some of it hard enough to go over, some of it soft enough to drop you in up to your ass. But it's still shit. He said you should make a future for your kids, like he was doing for me. He said it's the only way people are going to remember you.

  "He was right, you know, so don't look so shocked. It's all shit, Donald, and I'm telling you that like my father told me. Of course, some of it, you learn to live with it, if you know what I mean. And some of it can actually do you some good, you know?

  "Like Falcone. He's shit. He wants to take his dumbass teachers out on strike and he would have done it first thing Monday morning, but you know what that stupid ginzo did? Aside from pulling that stunt with your grades, do you have any idea what that jackass did?"

  Don looked away, hoping that by swallowing hard enough he wouldn't have to cry. He was beginning to understand why he thought the bourbon smelled sour.

  "Oh," Norman said. "Oh, you saw them."

  He nodded.

  "Dumbest thing I ever saw." Norman laughed sharply. "He actually ran out of the school and into his car. His car, mind. And there she was, all dressed up like Greta Garbo, like nobody would know who the hell she was. The mystery woman in Harry Falcone's life, you see what I mean?

  Well, that was dumb, Donald. Dumb. Because now he can whistle Dixie naked on the boulevard and he ain't gonna get one teacher to follow his ass.

  "Good shit for me, bad shit for him."

  "Dad, please."

  Norman set the glass on the edge of the step between them; Don grabbed it before it could fall and put it on the porch.

  "Yes," Norman said.

  Don looked at him.

  "The answer to your question is yes. I probably knew that the day Sam died and your mother blamed me because we went camping instead of farting around at the shore like she wanted. At the shore they had hospitals. Camping has trees, and if your mother thinks I don't miss him, she's dumber than I think."

  Don stood, but Norman froze him with a sideways look.

  "You don't like to hear me talk about your mother that way, and to tell you the truth, I don't like to hear me say it. She's a hell of a woman, Don, a hell of a woman. So when she gets back from wherever the hell she went with that slick, greasy idiot, I'm going to put it to her—make a choice, Joyce. You either got to stick with your family, or stick with him." He shook his head slowly and sucked at his teeth. "I think it was my news that made her do it though. I got to give her that. Up until now she was keeping it all quiet and careful. My fault, I guess."

  "What news?" Don whispered.

  "I'm going to quit at the end of the year."

  "What?"

  "Don't shout, boy. I'm your father."

  "Quit? You mean ... quit school? Your job?"

  You're drunk, he thought; you're drunk, you're drunk!

  "Damn right. Told her this afternoon. Falcone, the board, they can take the school and every kid inside and shove it where the sun don't shine, you'd better believe I'm quitting."

  "But why?"

  "My father told me that the only way you can make it in this world, walking on shit the whole time, is by making money. And he was right. You can't live like a human being unless you have money. Lots of money. I sure as hell ain't gonna make it as a principal, now am I? No way in hell."

  Don tried to find a way to breathe and leaned hard against the railing.

  "What are you going to do then?"

  "Ah, you haven't been listening to your mother, son. You haven't been watching the way Garziana's been treating me lately."

  "Garziana? Mayor Garziana?" Punch drunk; somehow he was punch drunk; he had to be, or else he wouldn't feel like laughing.

  Norman nodded, looking at his hands as if expecting the glass to still be there. "I'm going to run next fall, Don. Your mother thought I was kidding when I told her the first time. But I've been thinking about it, thinking hard, and I've been taking a look around to see what Garziana has for himself. He has it good, son. He has it damned good for a little shit town like this."

  Don took hold of the railing and pulled himself to the porch.

  "She thinks I'm crazy. She made a good point though that the real money won't start coming until I've been in office a few years. Means a little sacrifice here and there; the job itself doesn't pay shit, but it'll be worth it in the long run, no question about it. I got it straight from the horse's mouth."

  "School," Don said hoarsely. "What about ..."

  "You got any prospects for scholarships?"

  "Oh, no, please, Dad. No, please."

  "Y'know, I think ... I wouldn't be surprised if she thought I clobbered that poor kid last night for what he did to my car."

  Don looked wildly to the front door, looked back and saw his father watching him. "You were in my room!" he accused, not caring how drunk Norman was.

  "Damn right I was. I got nosey. It's my goddamned house and I wanted a closer look at all your little buddies in there, try to figure out where the hell your head is at. I got to admit I still don't know, but I do know you're not very smart, Don. You shouldn't have left those keys on your desk." He turned slightly and leaned an elbow on the top step. "I'm not stupid, Donald. Don't you ever think I'm stupid. I don't know what you were thinking of when you didn't tell me about Tar, but I know you thought I was going to kill that little sonofabitch. Why did you do it? Were you going to do it yourself?"

  Don turned away from the laughter that began as a chuckle and ended in choking. He opened the door, dizzy and wanting to run for the bathroom.

  "Were you?" Norman persisted. "Jesus, I hope you aren't starting to believe all that crap about being a hero. You know as well as I do you didn't do it."

  He gasped, but didn't look back.

  "Nope," Norman said. "That wasn't you. That was a crazy kid, not my kid. Five seconds of crazy doesn't make you a hero."

  Don wanted to faint, to get away into the dark.

  "You go on in," Norman said kindly, thinking the pause was a wait for him. "I'm going to sit here and sober up a bit. Can't go to the big game like this, right? It'd make a bad impression. Folks don't like their mayors drunk in public. Besides, maybe your mother will come home. Maybe not. Personally I hope she—"

  "Shut up!" Don yelled. He whirled around, his books scattering in the foyer, ripples of faint red at the corners of his vision. "You shut up!"

/>   "No, you grow up!" Norman yelled back. "It's about time you grew up, boy, and stopped thinking that your daydreams are going to make things better around here." A finger pointed spear-like at his chest. "I'll tell you something, son if you don't break out into the real world real soon, you're going to be in serious trouble. All that crap about taking care of those poor helpless animals, all that wailing like a two-year-old just because your mother cleaned some baby toys out of your room, you better grow up, Donald. You better open your eyes and learn a few things about what it's really like, out here in the real world."

  Don slammed the door. He kicked aside a book that nearly tripped him and plunged up the steps, slipping twice, falling onto the landing and yanked himself up into the hall. He leaned against the wall and stared down it at his parents' room, at his room, looked over his shoulder at Sam's room, and he sobbed.

  "Don?" Norman called from the bottom of the steps.

  "Leave me alone!" he shouted. "Just leave me alone!"

  "I just wanted you to know there's sandwiches on the counter in case you want to eat before you leave for the game."

  "Jesus Christ," he screamed, "will you leave me alone!"

  He fell into his bedroom and picked up the desk chair, held it over his shoulder while the tears drenched his cheeks, threw it against the wall while his knees grew rigid.

  "Leave me alone!" he said loudly.

  An arm swept books and pencils off the desk.

  "Leave me alone," he whispered.

  He grabbed a stuffed hawk from a shelf and tried to wring off its head, then hurled it at the window and winced when the pane cracked and the bird bounced back to rock slowly in the middle of the floor.

  "Leave me alone. Just ... leave me alone."

  Footsteps in the hall that neither faltered nor paused. The shower drummed. The toilet flushed. Something made of glass shattered on the bathroom floor.

  Ten minutes later the front door slammed, and Don jumped up from the bed and ran into his parents' room, pulled aside the drapes, and looked down at the street. Norman, in slacks, sweater, and sport jacket, was turning onto the sidewalk. He didn't look back, didn't look up, and stopped with hands out when Chris backed the red convertible out of her garage. They exchanged words. Norman shook his head politely. Another exchange with Chris flashing her best smile. When he shrugged, she waved briskly at him and grabbed her pompons from the front seat, dropped them in back and leaned over to open the passenger door. Another wave, and Norman shrugged, walked around the back of the car, and slid into the passenger seat.

  When they drove off toward the stadium, Chris had both hands on the wheel and his father was staring off to his right.

  Don backed away from the sill and returned to his own room, picked up the hawk and laid him gently on the bed.

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  Downstairs it was dark. After switching on the living room lamps and the small chandelier in the foyer, he saw the note tacked to the inside of the front door.

  Don, don't forget to eat something before you leave. And I drank too much. Stupid and drunk. Sorry if I hurt you. Don't forget your key.

  He reached out to touch the piece of paper, pulled his hand back, then grabbed the note and tore it in half, in half again and tossed the pieces on the floor.

  "Sorry doesn't cut it, Father," he said as he walked into the living room and stared at Norman's chair.

  A string of cars drove past the house, horns sounding, music loud and tuneless.

  He looked to the ceiling. "Why?" he asked, his throat raw and burning.

  "What did I do wrong?"

  In the kitchen he poured himself a large glass of milk and took the sandwiches one of them had made. After standing at the table making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, he sat, and he ate, and he stared at his transparent reflection in the back door, half expecting to see his mother walk through and shake out her hair, give him a smile and her cheek to kiss, then walk to the sink and fill it with hot water, dump in the dishes, and stand back to inspect it as if what she'd done was a work of fine art.

  When he was finished, he rinsed out his glass, cleaned his plate, and turned off the light. At the table in the downstairs hall he stopped and watched his fingers curl around the handset. He dialed Tracey's number and held his breath.

  She answered, and he sagged to the floor, unable to speak until she let loose with a harsh string of Spanish that startled him into saying "What?"

  "Don, is that you? Hey, I thought it was an obscene phone call."

  "Yeah, it's me. God, what did all that mean?"

  She giggled. "You don't want to know, but it sounded good, didn't it?"

  "Scared the hell out of me."

  "It was supposed to. One of my father's bright ideas." Her mother yelled shrilly at her sister, and her father yelled at them all. "What's up? Oh, lord, something else happened?"

  He nodded, then said, "Yes."

  "I ought to be a priest, you know."

  "Huh?"

  "A priest. The last few days everybody's been finding a place on my shoulder. I'm getting pretty good at it. I should get paid, what do you think?"

  He stared at the mouthpiece.

  "Don," she said solemnly, "that was a joke."

  "Oh. I'm sorry."

  "Don't worry. Hey, look, I'm going to be late. And if I'm late, I'll have to turn in my flute and they'll strip my epaulets off." She paused. "That was a joke too."

  "Yeah. I know."

  Her father shouted something in Spanish, and her sister shouted back; a second later he heard the unmistakable sounds of a slap and someone crying.

  "Don—"

  "I heard."

  She whispered, "I'm sorry. It really was a joke. See you later?"

  Before he could answer she hung up, and he twisted the cord around both palms and pulled it taut. Now, he thought; I need you now, Tracey, goddamnit.

  He sat on the couch and tried to guess the time, every few minutes going into the kitchen to check his accuracy with the clock. He was wrong.

  Every time. And every time he left the room he knew his mother wouldn't be back before he left. If he left. He wasn't sure he would go. All those people, all those faces, all that noise keeping him from thinking.

  He went upstairs and into Sam's room.

  His mother's sewing machine was on the floor next to Sam's single bed with the Winnie-the-Pooh sheets; in the far corner she had put a small table where her art supplies were piled when she wasn't using them; the wallpaper was dusty, columns of cowboys and Indians and cactus and stagecoaches. The shade was down. There was no pillow on the mattress.

  He looked around and tried to remember what his brother looked like, what his brother had said and done to make his mother remember him so clearly.

  "Sam," he said, "you're a bastard, you know that? You're a goddamned bastard."

  Tracey hurried down the hill toward the stadium's street entrance, feeling like a jerk in her uniform when all the kids she passed were dressed for a good time, a warm time, and wouldn't have to go home to change once the game was over. Besides, she didn't care about the game, or the music, or how she looked on the field; she was worried about Donald, about what was happening to him, and why, when she spoke with him earlier, the sound of his voice hadn't caused her to tremble the way it used to.

  Then someone called her name, and she turned just in time to see Jeff rushing after her. She smiled, and waited, and laughed when his cleats skidded on the pavement and he tumbled onto the grass.

  "Nice," she said, walking over to help him up. "That's the secret play, huh?"

  He stared at her morosely, sighed loudly, and reached down to retrieve his helmet. "I tried to call," he said as they walked toward the entrance, "but the line was busy."

  "I was talking to Don."

  He said nothing.

  She looked at him, and looked away, and felt a constriction in her chest that had nothing to do with the rapidly cooling air.

  Inside the short tunnel h
is cleats were loud, and echoing.

  "Trace?"

  They stopped on the track. There were already people in the stands, and the band was off to the left, listening to last minute instructions from their leader. On the far side she could see members of the team slowly filtering into the low concrete clubhouse.

  "There's something the matter with him," she said quietly.

  He took her hand and squeezed it, and didn't let go.

  "I don't know." A trumpet blared, and the bandmaster shouted an order.

  She looked over, then looked quickly at Jeff. "He scares me," she admitted, to him and to herself. "I don't know what's the matter with him, and he scares me."

  And the look then on his face almost made her kiss him; concern, and anger, and frustration merged and dark.

  "Look," he said at last, "why don't we meet later, okay? After the game? I'll walk you home or something, and we can—"

  "I can't," she said. "I'm going to see Don."

  "Oh."

  "He needs to talk, and I guess I'm-"

  "But you're afraid of him, Trace.

  You just said you were afraid of him."

  "I know. But he's a friend, too, you know?"

  Then she squeezed his hand and released it, waved him on and watched him break into a trot around the track toward the clubhouse. Poor Jeff, she thought, and frowned at the way the words suddenly confused her. It was Don she was supposed to feel sorry for, not Jeff; it was Don she had kissed the other day. But it was Jeff she wanted to kiss now, or hold onto, or just stand beside and listen to his mocking deflation of the game his father had forced him into.

  Jeff. Don.

  And she wondered if maybe she shouldn't see Don after all. At least not alone.

  She hadn't been lying, he scared her.

  The telephone rang.

  He took his time getting down the stairs, thinking that if he hurried, it might be his mother and he wouldn't know what to say to her except come home, please come home.

  It was Sergeant Verona.

  Don hung up without answering a single question and took his jacket from the closet.

  He couldn't stay now. If he did, the cops would be around, asking him about Tar, asking him about the Howler, not letting go when they knew it was all over. Staring at him like Hedley, seeing into his soul and knowing what he was like, and what he had become since the nugget exploded. They wouldn't give a damn that his parents were splitting up and he was going to be alone.