Finally, we reached what was obviously his house. His yard.
“HEY! Come HERE,” I commanded him. I stopped at the edge of the yard, and I could feel the cape fluttering down around me.
The dog stood in the middle of the yard, tail wagging frantically. Come get me.
If I moved toward him, I knew he’d run. Maybe crawl under the porch, or into some hiding place he’d created under the shrubs. I wasn’t in a mood to crawl, not someplace where I’d find spiderwebs and dead mice and heaven knew what all else. More than that, I didn’t want Barker dragged through a bunch of filth. Mom could wash him, but he wouldn’t be the same after that. Wouldn’t smell right. Wouldn’t be right.
Unsure what to do, I stood with my hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath. The wind picked up a little, and I could feel the cape lifting behind me again, floating on air.
The dog took a step backward, and the security lights kicked on.
One of them shone right on me, like a spotlight.
Luckily, it was kind of a cheap light, or I would have been blinded. As it was, I stood there blinking for a minute, growing more and more angry, outraged at that stupid dog and his stupid owners – furious that they’d let him run around loose, so he could do this. So he could break my little brother’s heart.
He kept wagging his tail. Because he thought we were playing.
And he decided I’d won. Or he had. Or something. Either way, tail whipping from side to side, he came trotting over to me and dropped Barker at my feet, then sat down proudly and grinned that doggy grin at me. He was ready to go another round, I supposed, like he’d been doing with the Frisbee.
I was afraid that if I reached for the toy, he’d lunge in and grab it back, but he didn’t. I was supposed to throw it, I understood, and then we’d be off and running again. Instead, I tucked Barker in close to my chest, protected by my arm and Aunt Nora’s marvelous cape, and as I took a step back I told the dog, “Don’t even think about it.” Then I took another step, and another, and walked out of his yard.
I didn’t dare look back. That would have been an invitation for him to follow me. He might well follow me anyway, I figured, but I kept walking, hoping that his doggy mind would start thinking about food, or his own toys, or being let into the house to lie down in his favorite spot and take a nap. I didn’t hear him behind me, and he didn’t move up alongside me, and the farther I got the more I let myself believe that yes, I’d won.
By the time I got back to the park, I was limping.
Cam and Lily were there on the road behind the trees, scanning the neighborhood, and they came running when they saw me. Lily let out a shriek of relief when she saw Barker, and I let her take him from me because he’d started to feel too heavy to carry. She cooed at him as we walked, and resurrected a wad of tissues from the pocket of her lab coat so she could bathe the real dog’s sticky drool off Barker’s fake brown fur.
“Did you see yourself?” Cam asked, hovering alongside me, plucking at the cape. I swatted him away, and he settled for keeping pace arm’s length from my left side. “I mean, holy crap. You were like, absolutely freaking incredible.”
“I ran after a dog,” I said.
“Dude,” Cam said. “There’s video. I’m pretty sure there’s video.”
I stopped walking, even though something in my head told me that I might not be able to convince my body to start moving again. “Swell,” I told my cousin. “Another slow news day in the big city.”
“He’s right,” Lily said.
“About what?”
Lily and Cam exchanged a long look.
“What?” I said.
“Okay,” Lily said. “So maybe it’s kind of dark? And there’s things like optical illusions or whatever.”
Groaning, I started walking again. I would have sat down on the ground – heck, I would have curled up in the fetal position on the ground, and waited for somebody to come get me, preferably with a stretcher – but the thought of returning Barker to Jon as quickly as possible kept me going. Lily and Cam kept up, hovering on either side of me, very dog-like. Faithful. I wanted to be glad they were there, but my feet felt like they were on fire. When I was finally able to take those boots off, I knew I’d find at least half a dozen nasty blisters.
“You were flying,” Lily said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Your feet. They totally left the ground. I mean it. You were flying.”
That was seriously kind of crazy – even though I remembered not being able to feel the ground. I’d been tearing up turf, that was all. Running as fast as I could, so I could catch that stupid dog.
“You were flying,” Cam said softly.
The two of them moved in closer, and they each looped an arm around my waist. Lily handed Barker (now somewhat cleaner) back to me, and I held him against my chest as we walked, with that cape floating in the air behind us, held up by the breeze. As we moved back into the park, past the trees, people started to applaud. I heard cries of “Good job!” and “Good for you, honey!” as we crossed the park. And yes, people were filming us with their phones. Somebody with a camera took a bunch of still pictures.
Small town, you know. For us, pretty much every day was a slow news day.
“You know what?” Lily said close to my ear. “D.J. Tanner would be impressed. Heck. They’d all be impressed. They’d probably bake you a cake.”
Run-run-run-BOUNCE, I thought. Run-run-run-BOUNCE… and you take off and fly.
I got back to my brother to find him weeping in my mother’s arms. She was doing her best to comfort him, to calm him down so he could breathe, stroking his back and his hair and crooning to him. Around him was a pile of offerings from neighbors and friends: blankets, stuffed animals (one of them a huge turquoise pig, the best prize the game booths had to offer), a couple of little cartons of milk, some jackets. My dad was there too, distraught, and he’d popped all of his balloons – or someone had. He wouldn’t have been able to get close to Jon with all of them still inflated.
Cam and Lily let go of me, and I stepped up to Jon’s chair and knelt down.
“Hey, J-man,” I murmured. “Hey, buddy. Look who came back.”
At first, he didn’t respond. Then he turned his head a little and looked me in the eyes. He didn’t seem to understand that Barker had come back, so I lifted him into Jon’s line of sight.
“Thank God,” my mother said. “Oh, honey, thank God.”
She took Barker out of my hands, sniffed him quickly and wrinkled her nose, then pressed him into Jon’s grasp.
For what seemed like a long time I watched my brother drip tears into Barker’s matted brown fur. Then I sat down on the ground and pulled Aunt Nora’s cape around me. It was getting cold out, and I felt chilled right down to my bones. I shivered a couple of times, then Cam wrapped one of the donated blankets around me and gave me a hug. Lily followed suit, and after a minute it turned into a game: seeing how completely they could bury me in blankets and jackets and the laundry from Jon’s chair.
Half an hour later I was shoved up onto the party’s little makeshift stage so I could accept an award.
Mr. Sims from the hardware store had run over to grab a trophy out of the little stock he kept “for occasions like this,” he said. The Halloween party always offered prizes for Best Costume, Most Creative Use of Household Items, Funniest Costume, things like that – but they’d never had a need for a prize for something like this.
Like me.
He hadn’t had time to engrave the tiny plate on the base of the trophy, so he’d carefully penned something on a piece of masking tape: SUPERHERO. When he pressed the trophy into my hands, all I could think was Good grief, overkill, much? – then I caught sight of my brother, sitting in his chair in front of the stage, clutching his toy dog to his heart. He was seven years old that Halloween, well past the age when most little boys give up on stuffed animals… but Barker was the only pet he was able to have, the only one his fragile health would allow. Bark
er was his best friend, his confidant, his comfort in the middle of the night.
Fly?
I would have swum through molten lava to get that dog back for him.
I still felt like getting a trophy for what I’d done was… unnecessary. Kind of silly, really. I hadn’t flown, not really. And I hadn’t run all that far. I hadn’t done anything my mom and dad wouldn’t have done, if they’d identified the problem before I did. Cam and Lily would probably have made that same run, along with any number of other people. What I’d done didn’t make me anything special.
But I saw my brother looking at me, smiling through his tears.
And I felt like a hero.
Like I could fly.
* * *
Note from the Author
People often ask, “Where do you get your ideas from?” Sometimes there’s no answer at all. Sometimes the answer is close to what a friend told me years ago: “There’s a movie playing in our heads, and we just write it down.”
This particular story comes from my life. For my first Christmas, my parents gave me a stuffed dog I eventually named Fuffy – a loyal companion I put through every sort of difficult trial during my childhood. (I tossed him out the car window; dropped him into a bucket of mop water at the supermarket; dragged him around by his ear.) No matter how rough I treated him, my parents were well aware that Fuffy was something to be guarded and protected at all costs.
So, when a neighbor’s dog grabbed poor Fuffy out of my grasp and took off running, my mother said she briefly thought, “Stay with the baby, or chase the dog?”
She chased the dog. And (*cough*many*many*) years later, I still have him.
This story is for Mom, who left us four years ago, with thanks for understanding that sometimes – even when it makes you look like a complete idiot – you have to run after the dog.
CarolDavisAuthor.com
Twitter
Facebook
E-mail: [email protected]
Mailing List
Lucky Chance
By Wes Davies
A phone rings.
Luke stumbles out of bed, bedraggled, and wades through a catastrophe of dirty clothes and rotten pizza boxes.
Fumbles for his phone.
The call display says Art Redford.
Dammit. Today can’t be the day. Can it?
He answers the angry phone, sliding his thumb across a cracked screen.
“Wrong number, pal,” Luke says, rubbing his eyes.
“Not a chance, Luke,” Art says on the other end. “Today’s your big day. Peel your ass outta bed and make sure you’re at the courthouse by noon, or your ex-wife’ll have your hide.”
Luke shakes his head. “No. Not today. Today’s no good for me. Honestly, Art. Things are pretty rough right now.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Art says. “Neither will Julia’s attorney. If you want to see your kid before next Thanksgiving, you’re gonna be on time and prepared. You understand me, buddy? You haven’t left the house in three days. What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t pay you to be a hard-ass,” Luke says.
“You don’t pay me at all. But we’ll talk about that later. Now, you gonna be ready?”
Luke looks around the piles of clothes on the floor. Wonders if he has anything clean.
“Luke, I asked you if—”
“No, I’m not going to be ready,” Luke says. “That’s what I’m telling you. Ever since I had that weird dream last week, things have been going off the edge for me—”
“Do you hear yourself, man? I’m starting to get worried about you. It’s time to pull yourself together and see if you can turn things around. I’m your friend, and your lawyer, and both sides of me are insisting that you move it, pal. Get your ass in gear. This is your last chance. I’m not bailing you out again.”
A click.
Luke slams the phone down onto his lumpy mattress.
Mutters under his breath, and wonders what friends are for, anyway.
He stumbles into the kitchen and grabs a sack of coffee beans—100% Arabica—and loads a handful into his grinder.
Flips the switch.
A roar, a sputter, and BOOM!
His face, and the kitchen, are covered in fine brown mist.
A tendril of smoke escapes the defective grinder.
He picks it up, about to throw it against the wall.
Thinks better of it.
He tosses the unit into the recycling bin, grabs his jacket and heads for the door.
Wipes powder off his face with his sleeve and steps outside.
Let’s get ready for another one, folks. Come on, baby. Let’s ride this all day long.
++++++++
Luke smears a piece of toast around his plate, absorbing pools of egg yolk, liberating the sticky goo from cheap porcelain.
“With the coffee, that’s $8.75, Luke,” Betty says.
Luke looks up at Betty, marvels at her jumpy orange hair, and smiles at her extravagant application of makeup—two levels deep. But behind the eyeshadow are kind, sympathetic and trusting eyes.
Luke reaches into his pocket. Pulls out a fiver and shrugs.
“You know, Betty. I’d sure love to, but can we put it on my tab today? I need the five for cab fare. Heading over to Newtown.”
Her lipsticked facsimile of a smile turns upside down. She leans in close.
“You haven’t paid your bill in over three months,” she whispers. “My manager is wondering about you. I wanna help you out, but a line has to be drawn somewhere, sweetie. We’re gonna need you to settle your debt before the end of the day.”
Luke closes his eyes. Decides that maybe Art is right.
He needs to turn his life around. The tide has to start turning his way.
He decides to try his luck. Test his dream theory.
“Alright. I’ll do you one better. I’ll pay you double before noon.”
Her eyes brighten, but her hands shoot to stocky hips.
“Now, I don’t need you telling me no lies, Luke. God’s honest truth is the only way to a happy life.”
Luke notices a well-dressed woman, red coat and black boots, distraught, in a booth against the wall. She’s crying, and alone.
“Hey, Betty, who’s that?”
Betty looks over. Lowers her eyes.
“Poor soul’s been in here all morning,” Betty tells him. “Hasn’t even touched her breakfast. Bad breakup if you ask me. The way she keeps checking that fancy phone o’ hers.”
As if in reaction to unwanted attention, the woman places a twenty on the table and walks to the door, pulling a hood over auburn hair. The door bangs shut as she exits.
“Betty, I’m gonna be right back with that money, alright?”
Luke heads for the door.
“Don’t go bothering that woman, Luke. This isn’t a slag bar.”
Luke steps out into the brisk autumn morning, leaves blustering across the sidewalk. He spots the woman, holding her jacket tightly and walking away in a hurry.
Luke matches her steps.
She turns a corner and leans against the wall of a convenience store, taking shelter from the wind as she makes a call. Puts the phone to her ear and waits.
“Listen, I’m sorry to keep calling,” she says, “but we need to talk. I—things didn’t turn out the way I wanted them to and—excuse me, can I help you?”
Luke jumps. The girl is frowning at him.
“Hey, mister, how ’bout you mind your own business?”
“Sorry,” Luke mumbles.
She turns her back to Luke and laughs into the phone, mirthlessly. “See, now there’s strangers wondering what I’m doing. I probably look like a nervous wre—”
Luke opens the door of the convenience store. Steps up to the counter.
“I’d like to buy a scratch-and-win, please.”
The clerk turns around, disinterested. “Which game?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Luke says. “You pick one.”
The clerk shrugs. “Here. This one’s got decent odds. Relatively speaking.” He hands Luke a card. “That’ll be five bucks.”
Luke reluctantly parts with his cab fare and turns to go.
“Hey, buddy,” the clerk says.
Luke turns around. “What is it?”
He grins. “You’ve got ketchup all over your shirt.”
Luke looks down. Red stains, at least a couple days old, dot his collared shirt. Guess it wasn’t as clean as he thought.
“Thanks, man.”
By the time Luke leaves the store, the girl is gone.
He takes her spot against the wall and pulls a dime from his pocket. Starts scratching the ticket.
A sound like a strangled animal meets his ears. He looks up to see the girl with the red coat. She’s sobbing into her phone, about to cross the street.
A bus rounds the corner.
She doesn’t see, and takes a step.
“Hey! Lady, wait!”
She turns at his voice and loses her balance, stumbling into the road.
The bus careens toward her.
“No!”
Luke leaps forward and yanks her back from the street. The bus screams past, sending a splash of slushy water up onto the curb. It honks a melodramatic horn and continues its route.
The woman’s phone has tumbled to the ground. She picks it up and glares angrily at Luke.
“You idiot! What did you think you were doing?”
“The bus… it was going to—”
“Get away from me!” she yells. “Or I’m calling the police.”
Luke backs away, politely, still clutching the lottery ticket.
“I’m sorry, okay. I thought… Never mind.”
He turns, feeling embarrassed, and someone yells out from across the street.
The Powers That Be: A Superhero Collection Page 3
