by Tobias Wade
Instead, she removed her glove and offered a hand to help me up.
“Oh, dear, took a bit of a spill did you?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah, sorry.” I didn’t know why I was apologizing. It just came out.
She laughed, accentuating the deep lines of her face, and I was surprised by how warm and grandmotherly she looked. “Here, let’s get you up. Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
I let her help me to my feet and put some tentative weight on my twisted ankle. It was a little sore, but nothing that wouldn’t wear off in a day or two. Mrs. Grady watched with an astute purse of her lips. After she was satisfied that I could support myself, smiled.
“Seems you’re ok,” she said. I nodded. “You’ve been running a lot lately; I see you almost every night now.”
“Yeah, training for the track team at school,” I replied. It was an idea I’d been toying with, so it wasn’t a total fib.
“That’s real good, to keep busy after such a loss.”
I hadn’t expected her to mention my dad’s death at all, much less so bluntly. I just shrugged and looked down at my feet, trying to subtly swallow the lump that sprang into my throat at the thought of him.
“He was always so nice,” she continued, “and so proud of you.”
“Y-you knew my dad?”
“Of course!” Mrs. Grady said. “We lived near each other for almost fifteen years: hard not to trade the odd hello. He’d stop by every now and again on his way home from work and check up on me. He was always talking about his little Calla.”
Tears filled my eyes, and I wiped them across the back of my hand. Dad never mentioned speaking to Mrs. Grady, but I guess it made sense. Mom wouldn’t have liked it much.
“If you need anything, to talk or just get away for a while, you can always come by, alright?” Mrs. Grady gave my arm a quick squeeze.
“I don’t think your dogs would like that much,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. It cracked anyway, both from the raw pain of my dad’s death and the unexpected kindness from this woman who was practically a stranger.
“Snicker and Doodle? Oh, ha! They’re just a couple of old hellhounds. They won’t give you any trouble, don’t you worry.”
Hellhounds. The term of endearment seemed suitable for the noisy, territorial pair. I thanked her and turned to start jogging home. She stayed where she was, watching me with that same grandmotherly smile.
While I appreciated her offer, I hadn’t really thought I’d take her up on it. I figured I’d stop on my way past sometimes if she was outside, just to check up on her like Dad had, but that was all I was expecting. And that’s all that it started as, the occasional pause in my run to trade a few minutes of small talk. Those few minutes started to stretch though, and our curbside chat moved further and further up the driveway until we were sitting in her garage on a couple of folding chairs, sipping iced tea.
Mrs. Grady became like the grandma I’d never had, right down to the sage advice and sugar cookies that she liked sending me home with.
I still never saw Snicker and Doodle. They remained locked in the backyard behind their tall fence, but instead of barking when I came up the drive, they’d whine happily and Mrs. Grady would give me chunks of rare beef to toss over for them.
“They’re good boys,” she’d say with such affection, “but it’s best they stay back there. Never know what kind of trouble a couple hellhounds might get into if let loose!”
My visits to her house were my happiest times in the months following Dad’s death. They offered me an escape from the outside world, from my house and mom and uncle. I could forget my role as the perfect, straight A, involved-in-every-activity-possible, rich girl that everyone expected me to be.
Mrs. Grady was understanding, patient, and quirky. She really didn’t fit into the mold of our little neighborhood, and that was exactly what I needed. Our little visits didn’t go entirely unnoticed, however. Mom had started to pay attention to where I was disappearing off to and, to my surprise, she wasn’t entirely displeased when she confronted me.
“This is great,” she said, cornering me as I came inside after a visit to Mrs. Grady. “How close have you gotten to her? Have you gone inside?”
“What? Why?” I tried to push past her, but she stayed in my way.
“What’s the condition of the house like? Still good? I’d hate to have to put a lot work into it because that old bat hasn’t been keeping it up.”
“What are you even talking about?” I demanded.
“Your uncle and I have been talking, and we think a bigger house would do a world of good for all of us. You know there isn’t a bigger one than her’s in this community. Your father’s life insurance payout would more than cover whatever she could ask for.”
I stared at her incredulously. “She’s not selling.”
“There’s more than one way to get a person out of a house, Calla,” Mom said.
The look on her face, some dark mix of greed and determination, made my skin crawl. I finally got around her and hurried up the steps to hide out in my room. I didn’t know what my mother and her skeevy brother were planning, but I was sure nothing good would come from it.
They didn’t make me wait long to find out.
Their first attempt came in the form of animal control. I saw the big white van with the city’s logo at the end of our street when I got home from school. I was quick to change into my running clothes so I could head down. The animal control officer was just walking out of Mrs. Grady’s house, cookie in hand, when I arrived. She smiled when she saw me and invited me to join her in our usual spot for some iced tea.
“What was he here about?” I blurted out gracelessly.
“He couldn’t remember,” Mrs. Grady said pleasantly.
“Seriously,” I said. “Are the dogs ok?”
“My old hellhounds? Of course, why wouldn’t they be?”
“Because...animal control?”
She clicked her tongue and handed me a glass. “I told you, he couldn’t remember why he’d come by. Nice man, bit of a sweet-tooth.”
No matter what I asked, her story didn’t change. It didn’t really make sense either; how could an animal control officer forget why he’d come around? Mrs. Grady just chuckled.
“Must be my little old lady magic, huh? Makes it so nobody wants to pick on us.”
That night, Mom all but confirmed that the officer’s presence hadn’t been a mistake.
“I know neighbors have been complaining about those mutts for ages,” she sniffed dismissively. “It was about time someone did something.”
Uncle Blake huffed in agreement. “They shouldn’t be allowed here. It’s too nice of a neighborhood for big, mean dogs.”
It didn’t take them long to realize, however, that their first attempts at making Mrs. Grady pull up stakes hadn’t been successful. I found them muttering about it over glasses of Dad’s whiskey, but they fell silent when I came into the room. Whatever their next step, they were being careful not to let me in on it.
Shamefully, I didn’t tell Mrs. Grady what they were trying to do. I was too afraid it would damage my relationship with her and I’d lose my sanctuary in her garage. It was selfish and self-serving, and I prayed her little old lady magic would hold up enough to ride it out. In the meantime, I did my best to make it up to her in other ways by helping around the yard and bringing her trash barrels in and out.
Every week for the next few weeks it seemed my mom and uncle had some new and devious trick to pull. Cops were called with noise complaints, the HOA was called for any minor infraction they could think of, the city received complaints about the supposed state of her house. Inconvenience after inconvenience, all done to make Mrs. Grady feel unwelcome, threatened, and intimidated.
All done in the hopes that it would become too much for her and she would move away.
The final straw was the social service w
orker who showed up with complaints that the elderly Mrs. Grady couldn’t take care of herself anymore.
I was helping Mrs. Grady trim back the roses when the worker pulled up. Mrs. Grady didn’t look the least bit shaken or surprised when the woman introduced herself and explained why she was there.
“Can we go inside?” the worker asked.
“Sure,” Mrs. Grady stood and motioned for her to follow.
I sat back on my heels, the clippers clutched in both hands, and watched them disappear behind the front door.
They emerged again barely a half hour later, laughing and chatting like old friends, and I was able to relax. Mrs. Grady waved the worker off and waited for her car to turn back down the lane before turning to me. Her smile had faded into the shadow of an expression and, while she still spoke as sweetly as ever to me, there was a hard edge to her words.
“Do you know why she was here, Calla?”
Slowly, I shook my head.
“Apparently there’s been some concern about my ability to live on my own.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I said.
“Isn’t it?” she tugged her gardening gloves back on and knelt beside me again to continue pruning. “Will you do me a favor, dear?”
“Y-yeah,” I agreed, suddenly nervous.
“Tell your mother and that brother of hers that I’d like a word. They can come over anytime.”
“My mother?”
“Yes,” she met my gaze. I averted my eyes to the ground. “I know what they’re doing.”
I looked up again sharply, then sat in stunned silence. I wanted to protest, but I knew in my gut that it would be useless. She knew, there was no doubting it; I could see the cold certainty in her face. Finally, I just quietly asked, “How did you know?”
“My little old lady magic,” she answered cryptically.
My lower lip trembled and I bit down on it. “I’m so sorry!”
“Oh, dear, shh, shh,” she pat my knee. “It’s not your fault, you didn’t do anything. We both know what kind of people they are. They’re cruel and selfish and think only of themselves; they don’t care who they hurt. I prefer to deal with their kind in person.”
Considering my mom and Mrs. Grady had never spoken, I wondered just how she knew. I didn’t ask though, I had a feeling I already knew the answer.
Little old lady magic.
Mom and Uncle Blake made every excuse under the sun not to meet face to face with Mrs. Grady, until I finally called them out on their cowardice.
“We’re not avoiding her, Calla,” Mom scoffed. “We just have no reason to speak with her.”
“Because you know she’s going to call you out on your bullshit,” I said.
Mom gaped at me, rolled her eyes in disbelief, and gaped again, until Uncle Blake stepped in.
“Fine, we’ll go,” he snapped. “We have nothing to be ashamed of.”
We piled into Mom’s Mercedes and drove slowly down to Mrs. Grady’s house to where she was watering her garden. She watched us pull up from beneath the brim of her straw hat and, once we were parked, set her hose aside. Snicker and Doodle were oddly silent as we stepped out.
“My niece said you have a problem with us,” Blake said with his usual tact.
Mrs. Grady removed her hat with all the grace of a practiced hostess and inclined her head politely. “I believe it might be the other way around.”
“What are you implying?” Mom asked sharply.
“I’m not implying anything, dear. I’m saying that you have an issue with me.”
“Why would we give two shits about you?” Blake demanded.
“Are you really going to make me say it out loud?” Mrs. Grady sighed. “Fine. You want my house.”
Blake tried to loudly deny it while Mom whirled on me, hand already raised. She brought it down with a resounding slap against my cheek, then another.
“What have you been telling her?” she hissed.
Before I could react, Mrs. Grady physically stepped between myself and Mom and took hold of Mom’s wrist.
“Calla didn’t tell me anything,” she said. “She didn’t have to. Now, before you make any more of a fool out of yourself, why don’t we go inside and discuss things further.”
I could see the naked, hungry greed in Mom’s eyes spark almost instantly. She’d been waiting for ages to get a glimpse inside Mrs. Grady’s home, and now was her chance. She wrenched her arm from the older woman’s grasp and straightened her blouse with a single nod. Blake followed suit. Mrs. Grady motioned for them to head for the door, but when I moved to follow, she gently stopped me.
“I’m going to take care of this. You have nothing to worry about anymore.”
I tried to argue, but she gave me a firm shake of her head and told me to go home.
“But, my mom—”
“It’s fine, Calla. I’m going to take care of things.”
I stood on the walkway, staring after her and feeling a bit lost. Mom and Blake were whispering back and forth while Mrs. Grady pushed open the front door, completely unaware of and unconcerned with leaving me behind. An odor drifted out from inside the house, like sulfur and old fire and rotten eggs. Mom put a hand over her nose, but still stepped past Mrs. Grady when she invited them in.
“Smells like shit,” Blake said as he crossed the threshold.
From deeper in the house, out of sight from the door, I heard a pair of long, rumbling growls that vibrated down to my bones even from that distance.
Snicker and Doodle, Mrs. Grady’s dogs, the ones she always called her hellhounds, were inside.
Mrs. Grady started to close the door.
“What the fuck is tha—” Blake tried to say. It turned into a scream that rooted me in place, making it impossible to move or cry out.
Mom soon joined.
In the sliver of doorway that had yet to close, I saw Mrs. Grady turn her head toward them. As she did, her mouth started to open, and open, and open…
Like a snake about to consume its prey.
The front door clicked all the way shut, and the sounds of screaming, snarling, snapping teeth and tearing flesh were swallowed up. I was left alone to stand in the silence that followed and the fading afternoon light.
My Brother’s Voice
I should have known better than to pull off on an unlit, backwoods road. It was my first instinct when I noticed my car pulling to one side with the telltale limp of a flat tire. I groaned, hitting the heel of my hand against the steering wheel. I could change a flat without a problem, but after so many hours of nonstop waitressing, I was exhausted and did not want to be fiddling around in the dark.
I wanted to drive the rest of the way home, still another half hour, on an increasingly flat tire even less. With my phone’s flashlight leading the way, I reluctantly got out to inspect the damage. Mercy, my poor old girl who ran half on gas, half on divine power’s good grace, was lilting obviously to one side in the back.
“How did I not notice that when I got in at the restaurant?” I kicked the tire grumpily and trudged to my trunk for the jack and spare.
I was bent over the spare, struggling to get it out, when headlights from behind illuminated my car. I half turned, one hand lifted to shield my eyes, and tensed as someone pulled over behind me and stopped.
“Kerri?”
The driver’s familiar voice put me immediately at ease. I waved, enthusiastic and hopeful that maybe I wouldn’t have to do the work alone. Greg, the restaurant’s bartender and everyone’s favorite drinking buddy, came over with a concerned frown. “Everything ok?”
“Got a flat, probably from the construction over on Hamilton.”
“Need any help?”
“Sure! Could you get the spare out? It’ll be good enough to get me home and over to the shop tomorrow.”
I turned to move the jack out of the way when the first blow came down, hard and fast, on the back of my head. I didn’t even really re
gister it before the second came and everything went black. I faded in and out for a while after that; there were slashes of red light, the sound of wheels on gravel, the smell of stale cigarettes and booze. I was in a small, dark place. My head was pounding. I felt around clumsily, not yet realizing what was going on. Everything was painfully loud. Was that wind rushing by? Was I moving? My thoughts were hazy, still half scrambled, and in a dreamlike fog I started to piece together what had just happened.
“Greg?” I croaked, my throat dry with fear.
I was getting more coherent by the second and the panic was setting in. I tried to stretch out, to sit up, to move, but I couldn’t. I was completely enclosed. The trunk, I thought numbly. I’m in the trunk. His trunk. I lay very still, my breath coming in quick, shuddering gasps, and tried to think. The pain, the noise, the fear—all shadowed my thoughts, consuming rationality and reason. The only clear thought was of my brother Leo. A conversation I’d had with him once, a long time ago while at our parents’ house.
I didn’t even remember how it started. Just that we’d been watching TV, maybe a true crime show. Maybe that’s how it came up. I’d laughed, I remembered that, and said, “If something ever happened to me, you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”
He looked at me then, and there was no trace of humor in his usually bright face. Somehow, in the span of a single sentence, the warmth and softness that I had always known in him had hardened into iron wrought by a decade behind the badge. “I’d take the case. I’d find you.”
I paused, still half joking. “You couldn’t. Conflict of interest and all that.”
“I’d take the case.”
There was such a finality in his tone, an unshakeable certainty that dared someone, anyone, to challenge him, that I could only nod. It was the only time I’d ever seen him as Detective Cooney and not my older goofball of a brother.
Tears burned in my eyes at the thought of him. Large, loud, impossible to ignore, a good cop and a better man. I wished with everything in me that he could be there with me, to protect me as he always had. He couldn’t, not this time.
