“What?” Fraser Mackay bellowed from the living room.
“You left him because of a cartoon?” asked her grandmother. Her expression was characteristic of someone whose parents were related by more than marriage.
“No, Gram.”
“Well, you said …”
“He was having sex with a redhead in my bed!” Kelly exploded in frustration. She had a powerful urge to grab her grandmother by the shoulders and shake some understanding into her. “And if that isn’t bad enough, he was using my …”
“In your bed?” asked her mother.
Fraser Mackay stormed into the kitchen, angry as a castrated bull. Kelly saw his hearing aid was back in place.
“The howling welt is cheating on you?” he roared, his Gaelic tongue thickening as it always did when he became emotional. Da olean welt be chaitin un yir?
“He’s cheating on you?” shrieked Sarah, finally comprehending.
“Yes!”
“Is she pretty?” her mother asked warily.
“She’s fucking gorgeous, Ma!” Kelly burst into tears again.
Sharon moved beside Kelly and embraced her.
“The bastard!” said Sarah. “Had no use for him from day one!”
“You adored him, Gram! You’re the one who fixed us up!”
“Well, I guess that’s true. His parents are such nice churchgoing people. Maybe I was wrong.”
“Right, like that’s never happened before!” said Fraser, earning a glare that would have made Satan cringe.
“Is she younger than you?” asked Mother.
“He said she was twenty-one, but she looked all of sixteen.”
“That prick!” snapped Sharon Braun.
“You think?” said Kelly.
“I came here to ask a favor,” Kelly sniffed.
“What is it honey?” asked Sarah.
“I need to get away for a while. Would you mind if I went to the cabin for a week or so?”
“The cabin in New Hampshire?” Sarah asked.
“They only have the one,” Fraser reminded her.
“Only the one?” said Sarah, seemingly confused, but recovering quickly. “And it’s a good thing, too. The taxes nowadays are completely insane!” she added with conviction.
“Of course you can use the cabin!” Kelly’s said mother. “Stay as long as you need. I’ll get you the key.”
“I got it,” said Fraser. From the front pocket of his Dickies work pants—his standard attire, though he hadn’t stepped into the factory in over ten years—he extracted an impressive ring of keys, most of which probably served no purpose. He had always been the keeper of the keys—all keys. He probably kept keys dating back to nineteen-fifty-seven, as if expecting to eventually come across some forgotten lock, but in his defense, if he ever did, he likely would have the key.
“Don’t lose it.” He dropped a key on the table.
“Is it your only one?” asked Kelly.
Sarah barked a derisive laugh and said, “He’s likely got one for every day of the week tucked here or there.”
“If Friday’s was tucked up your arse you’d never know it,” Fraser countered.
Kelly stood up and hugged her mother, who rolled her eyes at her parents. She hugged both of the battling Scots tightly, neither of them missing a beat in the insult volley.
“Please don’t let Peter know where I am,” Kelly requested of them. “I’m so fed up with the jerk.”
“He shows his face here, I’d likely fankle his neck,” Kelly’s grandpa replied gruffly and retreated into the living room. Kelly watched him, feeling an affection she felt for few other man.
“Why can’t all men be like him?” Kelly asked just as Fraser Mackay released an explosive fart that probably raised shingles on the neighboring houses.
“I think they are,” Sarah said.
“Do you have vacation time?” Sharon asked.
“Plenty. More than I’ll need,” Kelly said, avoiding the subject. She wasn’t in the frame of mind for long explanations. “I’ve already packed.”
“Drive safely, okay dear?” Sarah said. She looked at Kelly’s powder blue tank top and snug denim short-shorts. “And dress warmly, your rear end is busting out and that shirt barely contains you. You dress like an expeditionist.”
“It’s exhibitionist, Gram.”
“I guess you’d know,” she said.
“It’s May! This style is in.”
“Of course the style is in, because your body isn’t.”
Kelly left not feeling any better.
4
As a child, the ride to her parent’s cabin had seemed like an endless and monotonous journey, but somewhere between hopscotch and scotch-on-the-rocks, the trip had transformed into a rare and comforting diversion that Kelly now looked forward to.
The weather was perfect, a carbon copy of the previous day. The sun flickered splendidly through the trees and even the Bronco’s washed-out finish couldn’t allay its dazzling reflection on the hood. Fresh spring air wafted lilac and pine throughout the Bronco’s open windows, strong enough to overpower the vanilla air freshener. She felt like things already started to turn around.
And then she nailed the dog.
She had been driving on Route 104 toward Meredith when it happened. She had been veering along the forest road, a master of the curves, each one as familiar as a lover’s touch to her body—and maybe as often traveled. She was thinking about Maxfield Parrish and his art, so reminiscent of the state he had loved. Rounding a particularly sharp curve, she caught a fleeting glimpse of something brown and white racing through the trees. Suddenly, the biggest Saint Bernard Kelly had ever seen bounded onto the road, directly in front of the Bronco. It had happened quickly, yet it seemed time had slowed.
The dog panicked and stopped.
Kelly panicked and slammed on the brakes.
The dog darted right.
Kelly swerved left.
The dog dashed left.
Kelly weaved right.
The dog leapt into the gutter.
Kelly careened into the gutter and creamed the sucker.
Stunned, Kelly sat for a few moments contemplating what had just occurred.
Okay, she reminded herself. Breathe evenly and don’t freak. Even if the head is twenty feet from the body, don’t lose it. She climbed from the Bronco and slowly moved to the front. Holding the bumper, she lowered herself and looked underneath the truck.
She couldn’t see anything.
Leaning even further forward, she reached blindly beneath and felt fur, and then a warm, wet gash.
“Oh my god, I ripped its fucking head off!” she wailed.
Nearly hysterical, she sprung to her feet, dancing about and shaking her wet hand. Backing from the truck, she shook and twitched as if she were infested by venomous centipedes. She looked about franticly for a place to wipe the blood from her and rid her of the guilt … and she noticed her hand in the headlights. She suffered another shiver that bordered epileptic.
“Oh, fucking yuck!” Kelly said. You dumb-shit, she scolded herself. You stuck your hand in its mouth.
No blood … just a thick coating of dog mucus.
She had momentarily thought about leaving the dog where it lay. It would have made matters a lot easier, but she didn’t have the heart to abandon an injured animal. Kelly returned to her explorations and discovered the dog pinned under her truck wore a collar. She envisioned some small child crying over the corpse of her dead dog. The least she could do was call the police, and it would be out of her hands.
Kneeling, Kelly reached under the truck and explored the dog’s head. Determining that a healing touch wasn’t one of her God-given talents, she grabbed one of its enormous paws and tried to pull the dog out, but it was firmly jammed beneath the front axle. Letting the bear-like mitt drop, she lay prone on the soft grass and felt along the animal’s form, finding its ample rump was the culprit.
“My god, you have an ass like my grandmot
her,” Kelly said.
Seeing no other alternative, she climbed back into the Bronco and slowly backed the vehicle off the dog.
Upon closer observation, there were no obvious wounds and it appeared the dog was still breathing, which—to her limited medical aptitude—was a good sign it may indeed still be alive. Another thing Kelly found disconcerting was the creature’s horse-like bucked teeth. They breached the dog’s lips, effectively making the animal not only intimidating, but also quite daft looking.
Kelly had purposely left her cellphone at home so Peter couldn’t reach her, as she knew he would try. It was easily a few miles to the nearest payphone and the sun had nearly set, so chances were she would never find the location again. She saw no other choice but to drive the dog to the police station.
Climbing back into the Bronco, Kelly reversed the vehicle so the tailgate would open near the dog.
“Okay, moose meat, let’s get you in the truck,” she said, and launched into a five-minute struggle to lift the behemoth inside. Kelly also learned during her dog-lifting endeavor that the beast was male; his teeth were not the only horse-like thing on him.
It wasn’t until she began driving that the fearful thoughts started: What if he’s rabid and comes to? What if he’s an attack dog? Those teeth could do some damage. She supposed these things were unlikely, since the collar suggested he was a pet. Who ever heard of an attack Saint Bernard?
Cujo …
… but that was ridiculous! Cujo was fiction. And rabies was … well, okay, that was real enough, but Cujo was different.
Small New England town … Big pet Saint Bernard …
“Okay, stop it, Kelly!” she reprimanded herself. The police department was less than a ten-minute drive. Considering the impact, chances were the dog wouldn’t come to … maybe ever again.
GRAAWNNN! It was clearly a dog yawn.
“Shit,” muttered Kelly.
A sudden blast of warm, fetid air hit the back of her neck, wrapped around her head, and assaulted her senses.
Dog breath!
Kelly looked in the rearview mirror. A giant jowl with an abundance of teeth eclipsed her view.
“Nice bit of driving there, Mario,” said the dog.
Kelly nearly rolled the Bronco in her haste to stop the truck. She jumped from the Bronco and backed away. The dog’s muzzle appeared at the driver-side window.
“Do you always put that much effort into running down animals?” he asked. Kelly could only gawk at him.
“What’s the matter, cat’s got your tongue?” he asked. “What does that mean? I never understood that one.” The dog appeared to be smiling, and he actually winked at her. A pickup truck sped by them with its horn blaring.
“Come on, Gabby,” he said, “it’s getting dark. Get back in the truck before someone who drives just like you comes along and takes you out.”
Kelly shook her head, otherwise not moving.
“Christ in the cradle,” complained the dog. “I’m dealing with Helen Keller here!” He rolled his head as if trying to remove a crick from his neck. “Damn, you put a hurting on me. Oh, wait … hold a minute.” He scratched vigorously behind his left ear with his huge hind paw. “There, that’s better. Hey! I can see you’re scared, but think about this. I’m a dog. Not the fastest one in the kennel, but faster than you. If I wanted to maul you, I’d already be using your head as a chew toy, right? When you were driving, I was close enough to turn your brains into Alpo, which I’m beginning to think would be an improvement.”
“What?” Kelly said, hearing perfectly, but not believing.
“Well kiss my ass and call it sweetheart. She talks!”
“Oh my god, this isn’t real,” Kelly said.
“You can do better than that old cliché … a double cliché, no less. You sound like a B-movie bimbo.” He pensively looked at her. “Come to think of it, you look like one, too.”
“Hey!” Kelly protested. “I do not look like a bimbo!”
“Busty, got looks but no brains. It spells bimbo to me.”
“I got brains,” Kelly protested, adding little weight to the argument.
“Yeah? Where do you keep them? If your boobs were brains, you’d be Einstein, but we can knock that assumption right off of the table.”
“I’m not the one who looks like a doofus.”
“I’m not the one standing in the middle of the street arguing with a dog! Get in the truck.”
“No. You get out of my truck.”
“You ran me down! My leg and ass hurt like hell, I have a ground-zero headache and you want to kick me out? Nice! No Nobel Peace Prize in your cards.”
“Are you hurt?” asked Kelly.
“I may need an X-ray or two, so how about a lift before I call the SPCA?”
“You can’t do that!”
“Yeah, and I suppose I can’t talk either. Get in … or stay out there. Your choice.”
“Fine!” Kelly sneered. “Get out of my seat.”
The dog obliged, moving to the roomier rear cab. “Sorry about the drool on your steering wheel,” he said.
“Oh, gross!” Kelly said. She climbed in, pulled some napkins from the center console, and wiped the offending slime from the steering wheel.
“Hey,” said the dog from behind her, his nose nearly touching Kelly’s ear.
“What?”
“Grrrr!”
Kelly squeezed away from him.
“Just kidding … bimbo.”
“Doofus.” Kelly said. She popped the truck in gear and pulled onto the road again. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Cliché.”
“Shut up!”
The dog retreated to the back of the truck, momentarily stuck his head out the rear window, and returned to center himself behind the front seats. He kept meeting Kelly’s eyes in the rearview mirror and looking away.
“What do you mean by doofus?” he asked irritably. He scratched at his ear again.
“Look at the choppers on you!” Kelly said, again meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror. “You could scrape paint with those.”
“Are they really that bad?” the dog asked, distressed.
Kelly started to respond, but paused, feeling mean-hearted and critical.
“Be honest.”
“Well, they’re not that bad,” Kelly lied.
She looked in the rearview again and watched as the dog’s teeth quickly receded in size, becoming normal canine teeth. Kelly nearly rolled it pulling to the side of the road. The dog scrambled to remain standing, tripped over the luggage, and crashed face-first against the sideboard window, leaving a long, glutinous smear.
“C’mon, not this crap again!” he complained. He rose and returned to the front of the cab.
Kelly couldn’t tear her gaze from the dog’s mouth. “Your teeth!” she said.
“Yes they are, and you can’t have them.”
“No. How’d you do that?”
“Ancient Chinese secret.”
“That’s not possible!”
“Don’t tell the Chinese that.”
“No, what you did with your teeth!”
“You’re telling a talking dog that something’s not possible?”
“What are you?” Kelly asked with more confusion than fear.
“Hungry! Now let’s find something to eat.”
“No, you explain what’s going on,” she said adamantly.
“It’s 2012. Gas prices are insane, the Republicans still hate Obama, and the Yankees suck.”
“They’re in first place.”
“They still suck.”
“I mean it!”
“Me too! A-Rod’s a …”
“No!” Kelly interrupted. “I mean, explain.”
“Ain’t gonna tell you.”
Kelly stared at him, unblinking.
“Don’t do that, it gives me the creeps!”
And stared …
“Cut the guilt trip, man! You’re making me feel bad!”
And stared …
“What are you, Catholic or something?” He complained without effect. “Okay! I’ll tell you, but not until after we eat. A dog my size needs food.”
“I don’t know.”
“Hey, you can trust me! I’m actually part of a faithful and compassionate breed.”
“Compassionate?” asked Kelly. “As a wasp!”
“Purely self-preservation. I promised, for cryin’-out loud!”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“Okay,” Kelly conceded with a dubious sigh. She pulled the truck onto the road yet again.
“And don’t do that pullover stunt again, okay? I’m not belted in. Are you … is this death-trap insured?”
“Yes, both it and I are insured!” snapped Kelly.
“Must cost a fortune,” he said and retreated to the rear of the Bronco.
Except for the hum of tires and sporadic scratching from the back of the truck, they rode the ten miles into town in relative silence.
“Where are you bringing me?” he whispered in Kelly’s ear.
Kelly jumped. “Stop sneaking up on me!” she snapped.
“Man, you’re uptight!”
“And my name is Kelly, not Man.”
“Bitchy too,” mumbled the dog.
“I don’t know where I’m bringing you,” Kelly said, ignoring his remark.
“What’s your name?”
“You can call me Max.”
“Where’s your home?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Where’d you get the collar then, Max?”
“Stole it. I liked the style.”
Kelly resisted the urge to argue.
“I tried staying with people,” Max said, “but it didn’t work out. People are jerks.”
“Jerks,” Kelly muttered thoughtfully. “I know what those are.”
“Are you trying to insult me?”
“No, but it’s not like you haven’t earned it. Why do you call them jerks?”
“They kept trying to feed me dog food!”
“How could they do such a thing?” Kelly said with feigned shock. “In case you haven’t noticed—or smelled your breath—you are a dog. I was going to get you dog food too.”
Inflictions Page 6
