The Pet

by Charles L. Grant

  To watch as she slid out, long legs white in the streetlight, braids slipping and sliding over her chest as she turned toward him and grinned, grabbed her pompons from the backseat and rounded the back of the car.

  "Hi!" she said, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

  "Hi yourself."

  "Gonna celebrate?"

  "Damn right."

  "Me too. See ya."

  She ran up the walk, up the steps, and he didn't stop watching, knew what he was doing and didn't give a damn. Right now Joyce was fussing with her hair, her makeup, and beating herself to death over what Don had seen. It wouldn't hurt to wait a few minutes, to let her calm down.

  "Mr. Boyd?"

  He looked. She was standing at the open doorway.

  "Mr, Boyd, my father-" And she gestured inside.

  What the hell, he decided; a celebratory drink with a rich surgeon wouldn't hurt. Maybe a check for the campaign kitty if he played his cards right.

  He made a show of deliberation before nodding and following her into the house.

  Where the door closed silently, where the lights were all out.

  "Hey, Chris," he said, suddenly nervous.

  "I was going to say," she said softly, "that he was out of town, but wouldn't mind if I offered you something to celebrate the great game. Mother wouldn't either. She's in Florida for a vacation."

  They were shadows and half-light, and he reached for the doorknob, looked stupidly at her fingers when they caught his wrist and held it.

  For a second. For two. One by one lifting to release him, the rustle of the pompons as they dropped to the floor.

  "Chris," he warned, but didn't reach again.

  Dumb, Boyd. Dumb, you stupid asshole.

  "I have to change," she said, and walked slowly up the stairs he hadn't noticed on his left. She didn't look back, her hips and legs pulling him as if they were beckoning.

  He considered only for a moment what he was doing, what he was getting himself into, then decided with a sharp nod that being a saint hadn't kept him his wife, hadn't kept him his son, and wasn't it about time he took what he wanted, had what he deserved.

  So he followed, on his toes, and walked into a dark bedroom where he saw her on the mattress. In dim light, naked, her hands slipping across her breasts, across her stomach, spreading to either side and kneading the sheet.

  He stood at the foot of the bed. He unbuttoned his shirt.

  He almost stopped when he saw her smile and thought it was a sneer.

  "Celebrate," she said.

  He nodded, undressed, and crawled over her legs, held himself above her and looked into her eyes. In the dark they were dark, showing nothing at all; and the smile was still there, the upper lip curled.

  "I know what you're doing," he said in a whisper.

  She nodded and shifted to bring his gaze to her breasts.

  "It won't work."

  "Sure," she said, and grabbed for his shoulders.

  He resisted just long enough to show her he meant it, to show her who was boss, then lowered himself while she guided him, and heard himself gasp. Felt himself thrust. Looked up at her face and saw her staring at the ceiling.

  Falcone pushed in and closed the door, took Joyce by the shoulders and practically dragged her into the dark living room. "He found out, didn't he? The sonofabitch knows what's going on, doesn't he?"

  ''Of course he does!"

  "Jesus Christ!" he said, dropping his hands and turning to the bay window. "Joyce, what the hell were you thinking of?"

  "Me? All I wanted was someone to talk to. You were the one who couldn't keep his hands to himself."

  "I didn't notice you screaming rape," he said quietly.

  Streetlight reached weakly into the room, building shadows out of furniture, adding pits and slopes to his profile.

  "But you know what you do to me," she answered. "You know, and you shouldn't have."

  "Ah, Christ, don't give me that, okay? That's soap opera stuff. You're a grown woman and—"

  She saw his eyelids drop into a squint and she leaned around Norman's chair to look out onto the lawn. No one could see in without a lamp on, but he might have seen Donald coming up the walk; or worse, it could be Norman.

  "What?" she whispered.

  He pointed. "You got me crazy, Joyce. I could have sworn I saw some kind of animal out there."

  She laughed. It was going to be all right. Harry was making jokes now; it was going to be all right.

  "Look, Harry, this isn't going to work. I've got to get back to Norman, so why don't you—"

  "Damn, there it is again."

  With a smile she shook her head and moved to his side, looked out the window and saw it in the yard.

  Under the trees the slope of its back nearly reaching the lower branches. Around it a drifting fog, snaking through the grass and dropping from the leaves, blurring its outline but not the green glow of its eyes.

  "It's a gag," Harry said. "Plaster or something. A costume. Is this one of your kid's things?" His voice hardened. "Is that kid out there playing games with us, Joyce?"

  "His name is Donald," she said quietly, and gasped when its head rose and it looked straight at her.

  "Jesus," Harry whispered, his head shaking slightly.

  A foreleg pawed the grass, and emerald flame curled into the air, strands of green webbing that poked through the fog and reached for the house.

  "I haven't been drinking," Falcone said aloud to himself. "I swear to god I haven't been drinking. What the hell is it, Joyce?"

  But she was staring up at the ceiling, toward the back where she knew Don's room to be, remembering the poster and the horse that had been there.

  "It's a gag," Harry insisted, "and I don't think it's funny."

  She looked out the window, and could see the stallion's muscles bunch at the shoulders, shift at its haunches, and she barely had time to scream before it leapt from the grass and came through the bay window.

  She dove to one side, her leg cracking against the armrest of Norman's chair, a snowstorm of glass winking over her to the back where it bounced from the wall and fell to the carpet, tinkling like bells in the dead cold of winter. She twisted around as she fell and saw the stallion fill the room, saw Falcone backpedal to the hearth, where he snatched up the poker and brandished it over his head.

  The horse looked around and saw her pushing herself into the foyer. It snorted, and the room filled with fog; it lashed out with a rear hoof and Norman's chair was dashed into the corner, collapsing upon itself as it writhed in greenfire; it turned back to Falcone and he swung the poker at its head, missed, and was drawn off balance a step off the hearth.

  A wedge of glass dropped from the ceiling where it had been stuck like a knife blade.

  Joyce drew herself to her feet and sagged against the newel post as the stallion lifted its head, lowered it, and grabbed Harry's jacket with its bright long teeth. He screamed and tried to hit the beast again, but the horse shook him ragdoll side to side; the smoke-fog thickened, greenfire flared, and as Joyce shrieked and took the stairs, she heard the distinct sound of bones snapping, a spine breaking, Harry's body released and slammed against the wall.

  "Don," she whispered as she ran to the landing. "Don, save me, please save me."

  When she turned to run into the hall, the stallion was in the foyer, green eyes watching, the fog drifting up ahead of it and sweeping around her ankles, filling her with a chill that made her bones ache, that made her eyes widen, that slowed her when she ran to hide in her room.

  On the stairs then—hooves against wood, echoing, hollow.

  The pool in the oval was calm despite the wind, though every few minutes a gust would escape from the branches and send ripples across it, bobbing the dead leaves and sending some to the bottom. From the boulevard they could hear the continuing victory parade, but they felt no need to join it. Instead, they huddled together on a damp redwood bench and watched the black water.

  "Divorce," Tracey sai
d with a sympathetic shake of her head. She had changed into a shirt and jeans and was wearing a light sweater under her school jacket. "God, I don't know what to say."

  Don sniffed several times to keep back the tears, determined not to let Tracey see him cry. "They hate me, you know."

  "Don't be silly. They do not."

  "Well, they don't care, then. All they care about is themselves. Jesus, do you know ... I can't believe it, but do you know that last week Mom called me Sam?"

  Tracey pried one of his hands loose from between his knees and held it, rubbed it to drive away the cold. "And I'm crazy, Tracey."

  "Dumb."

  "No," he said earnestly, turning to her, leaning closer.

  "No, I mean it. I'm crazy." He kept her silent with a look and took a slow breath. Now was the time to do it, but the words he sought were impossible to order, and he shoved himself to his feet and began pacing the oval. Tracey watched him patiently, biting at her lips, lifting her shoulders when the breeze came again.

  He stopped on the other side of the pond and faced her, looking up at the trees and the dark above the leaves. "I don't get it," he said with a tremulous smile. "I mean, your folks fight, don't they? I mean, I know what your father is like and all, but they have fights, right? So why don't they get divorced? Why ... what's the matter with me that Brian can't leave me alone for one lousy minute?" His neck tightened, pulling his mouth down; he lowered his gaze and saw Tracey watching him, her hands deep in her coat pockets and forced together over her stomach. "I did something, Trace," he said softly. "I did something."

  She stood and walked toward him, but he held out his hands to keep the water between them. "What, Don? That nonsense about killing Tar?" He nodded.

  "That's stupid. You didn't do it."

  He nodded again, and put a hand to his forehead, massaged it, and drove it back through his hair. "You don't understand."

  "I understand you're upset about Tar, and Mandy, and now this stuff with your mom and dad. I can see that, Don, but you-"

  "No."

  The word was quiet, and as effective as a slap. She took a step back and turned her head away from the wind that engulfed them for a moment in a shower of dead leaves.

  And at that moment Don started around the pond toward her, hoping the raw edges of the leaves would cut him to shreds, would bury and smother him, and when they blew away, there would be nothing left but a pile of slow shifting dust.

  She met him and embraced him, and he almost decided not to say anything more.

  "Don?"

  "Tracey, look, let's go—"

  She pushed him away and glared at him, black hair fanning over her eyes and fanning away. "Jesus," she said, "do you think you're the only kid with problems? What the hell makes you so special that you're the only one?"

  "Tracey!"

  "You've never been called a spic, have you? You've never had someone try to feel you up just because you smiled at them."

  "Hey, Tracey, please, I didn't—"

  "You know why my folks don't get divorced? Because my father is a worse Catholic than the Pope, that's why. Because if it came to it, my mother and father would live together for the rest of their lives hating each other's guts, but god forbid they even think about divorce." She put a fist to her cheek and pressed it in hard. "I have to wear long skirts so you can't see my legs, and I have to wear baggy blouses because my father doesn't want you to know I have any tits."

  "Jesus, Tracey, I—"

  "It's like living in a convent, Don! I love him, don't get me wrong, but there are times when I want to bust open his head. So ..." She pointed at him, her hand trembling violently. "So don't you dare tell me you're the only one around here with problems, all right? Don't you dare, Donald Boyd!"

  "Tracey," he said, taking a step toward her, "I didn't mean that. I meant—"

  "I know," she said, suddenly smiling though there was a tear on her cheek. "I know. But you don't seem to understand there's nothing you can do about it. You can't run away, and you're too good to end up like Brian." She closed the gap and took his hands. "You have to live with it, Don. Like me, I guess. You have to live with it."

  She hugged him. She lifted her face and she kissed him, and he tasted the sweet of her, the soft of her, and for a second in that kiss he thought she was right.

  But it ended.

  And still holding her, he shook his head.

  "Tracey, you're wrong."

  "About what, Vet?"

  "I did something about it."

  Joyce dragged the bench from her vanity and shoved it against the door.

  Then she shoved it away and dragged the vanity over, toppling bottles of perfume and lotion, stands that held her necklaces, a lamp and a pair of china figurines, and she didn't make a sound when an ivory-handled hairbrush slipped and bounced off her bare foot.

  She was sobbing noiselessly, cursing the long hair that kept falling into her eyes, cursing Norman for not being here when she needed him.

  In the hall, hoof beats sharp, slow, and steady.

  An armchair was next. She couldn't move the dresser, couldn't move the bed and fell to the floor with her hands over her head, not wanting to listen to the thing moving toward the room, not wanting to see the slips and fingers of fog drifting under the door and over the carpet.

  Then she heard something else and her head jerked around, her hands dropped to her robed lap, her eyes widened while her mouth opened in a strangled, gurgling scream.

  A whickering, soft and low and deep; the thing in the hall telling her it was coming in.

  They were still by the pond, and Tracey was growing angry.

  "Now listen," Don insisted. "Just one minute, okay?"

  "Don, I'm trying to help. I'm not an expert, Jesus knows, but you—"

  "I asked you about wishing, remember?"

  Her eyes shifted side to side before returning to watch his face. "Yes."

  "Do you know ..." A hesitation while he waited for something he said to make enough sense to keep that flicker of fear from returning to her eyes. "A wish, I think, isn't just one thing. It's whatever you want it to be. It can be like wishing for a million dollars to fall out of the sky on you, or maybe getting all A's without doing any homework. Or it can be really wanting something with everything you've got—like you and your flute, y'know? You want to make records and do concerts and make the most beautiful music in the world, right?"

  She gave him a nod that was touched with confusion.

  "And I want to be a vet. I mean, what the hell's wrong with wanting to be a vet? I want it so bad I dream about it, I wear it, for god's sake, and the ... the only people who understand are my friends on the wall."

  He stopped and tried to turn away, but she wouldn't release him, only hugged him once and tightly to force him to go on.

  "I talk to them," he continued in an embarrassed whisper. "I tell them things. Everything. My stories, you know? And about Sam, and the folks, and about goddamn Brian and Tar, and even a little bit ... a lot about you."

  A hard look now, to see if she was laughing. She wasn't; she was crying.

  "I needed a friend, Trace. Things felt like they were falling apart and I needed a friend, so I picked one out. A poster. A horse. I ..." He looked over her head to the darkness beyond. "I made him come to me."

  He could see it then in her eyes, and the way her lips quivered though she tried to keep them still with the press of a finger. Then her eyes cleared, and he saw something else. She believed him now. She believed he had killed Tar.

  When he pushed her away, she didn't argue; when he snapped up a hand to stop her, she did; when he smiled at her to prove he was under control and she didn't have to be afraid, the smile he received in return was rigid and pale.

  "All right," he said.

  The wind strengthened, and above them, around them, branches clattered, leaves scraped, the surface of the pond distorted their reflections.

  West of town there was thunder.

  He l
ooked across the water and up the path, into the dark lane that led to the ball field. He wasn't sure if he wanted to do this, but it was too late to stop it. Tracey had to know or she would run away like the others, run back to Jeff and leave him alone.

  "Come here," he said gently, as if talking to a friend too shy to leave the night for the light that began to sparkle in the cold air.

  Tracey glanced toward the exit, her weight shifting to run in case he took a step nearer.

  "Come on," he said gently. "It's me, remember?"

  White globes danced in the pool to the wind, and there was a moment when the water turned in a circle, stretching his face and chest, merging his body with hers, vanishing in an explosion of pale blue when lightning forked above the trees.

  He waited.

  Tracey reached out a hand.

  "Come on, boy," he whispered, as if talking to a pet.

  Tracey blinked back a tear.

  It began in the thunder and he wasn't sure he heard it, not until he felt her suddenly at his side, gripping his arm tightly and looking wonderingly at his face.

  Slow and steady hoof beats at the far end of the tunnel lane, part of the thunder and continuing after, unhurried and hollow, iron striking iron.

  Tracey pressed her mouth against his arm when she saw it pass through the farthest pool of white. Darker than shadow. Sleek head bobbing, legs lifting as if prancing, fog and greenfire swarming up its flanks.

  "Don," she said.

  But he was too intent on watching the stallion, seeing it move through its own billowing cloud, seeing the curls and streams of greenfire from its hooves, seeing the greeneyes seeing him and knowing.

  The hooves echoed.

  The fog thickened.

  And when it reached the opposite end of the pool, it stopped and snorted and stamped a foot that lanced flame toward the lightning.

  "It's not a trick, is it," Tracey said, shifting until she was partly behind him.

  The thunder was louder, nearer, rustling the leaves.

  Don shook his head.

  It was there, and it was waiting, and it wouldn't take its eyes from him, didn't move a muscle, its mane untouched though the wind blew his hair like needles into his eyes.