Shadows Burned In

by Chris Pourteau

  As she turned onto Second Street, she saw an old lady bending over rosebushes in her front yard. The old woman waved at her.

  (come on in for dinner, honey, I ain’t had a child for dinner in ever such a long while)

  Elizabeth waved back and noticed how the old woman stooped when she returned to pruning her flowers.

  snip – snip

  Taking the dead blooms off.

  The old woman looked like the mimosa tree that drooped in the middle of her own yard. Elizabeth looked at the two of them, the tree silhouetted behind the woman, and her 3V voice laughed, saying, “The Hampshire Hunchback.”

  That wasn’t very nice, she chastised herself.

  “Oh, puh-leeze.”

  She walked on down the street and past the old high school, which was mainly used as a community recreation center now. Local kids of all ages still played sports there, and there were still statewide football, baseball, and basketball teams that competed against one another. But instead of school mascots, there were city and township teams now, still pretty much scaled into the A-system that once determined which teams played each other based on the size of the school’s enrollment. The sports facilities for old Hampshire High were kept in pretty good shape by city taxes, but the rest of the school had largely fallen into disrepair. Though sometimes, for nostalgia’s sake, the town would show old movies in the auditorium.

  Elizabeth walked around town for most of the day, just looking around and glad to be away from her computer screen while it was still daylight. She stopped at a convenience store to grab a sandwich and a Coke. When she came out and started walking again, she noticed a dog out of the corner of her eye.

  She was startled by it at first. The dog was not quite collie and not quite shepherd, but a deep silky brown, almost-black furred beauty that stood straight on all four legs, ears perked up, its bushy brown tail wagging gently in the air. It stood looking at her intently, and that made her stare back and stand stock-still.

  “Don’t ever try to pet a strange dog,” she remembered her mother saying a long time ago. “Strange dogs bite you.”

  The collie-shepherd just stood and stared back at her, as if to say, I see you too and I’m not sure I trust you either. Elizabeth took another bite of her sandwich, and the dog seemed more interested then, raising its head a little and sniffing at the air. She looked into its eyes, past the intelligence evident in them, and even from where she stood she could see large, brown pupils set deeply inside pumpkin irises. It was almost as if the dog had been carved from dark wood, so shining and perfect were the hues of its coat. All save for a patch of white that arced up from its belly and spread across its chest to disappear under its chin.

  Don’t ever try to pet a strange dog, her mother warned again.

  The dog’s brown-orange eyes entranced Elizabeth. So intense. So intelligent. So kind.

  “Would you like a piece of my sandwich?”

  The dog’s ears perked up at the sound of her voice, and it turned its head, curious. She broke off a piece and held it out in her hand. The dog sniffed the air again and wagged its tail slowly, interested.

  “Hungry?”

  It looked away then, as if teasing her and saying, I might be.

  “Come here.”

  The dog turned back to her and sniffed again. Then slowly it padded over, warily, eyes moving, as if looking for the trap beneath the food.

  Elizabeth knelt down, and at first the dog stopped. A-ha! I knew something was fishy about you, its stance seemed to say. But then, as Elizabeth held out the piece of sandwich, the dog’s hunger trumped its caution, and it came closer.

  “Go on,” she said. “Go on, you can have it.”

  (strange dogs can bite you)

  As it got closer, Elizabeth could see its fur was almost black, though really just a deep mahogany brown made up of many colors, but lighter around the eyes and muzzle. It was large for a collie but short for a shepherd. It came close enough to get a good sniff of Elizabeth’s hand and the prize she held.

  “Go on.”

  The dog put its nose right up to the piece, and Elizabeth readied herself to snatch her hand away at the first sign of her mother’s being right.

  But the dog opened its mouth and Elizabeth, reacting by instinct, placed the sandwich on its tongue and pulled her hand away carefully, slowly. The dog chomped once, twice, and swallowed. It opened its mouth to pant and seemed to be smiling gratefully, at ease already with its newly discovered food source.

  “Well,” Elizabeth said. “Aren’t you the friendly thing?”

  The dog stared at her again, panting.

  “Want some more?”

  Pant-pant. What do you think?

  Elizabeth broke off another piece, and the dog took it more easily. She rubbed its head this time, and it accepted the praise gratefully.

  “Whatever it takes to get another bite, huh, boy?”

  Pant-pant.

  “Hey, are you a boy?”

  Elizabeth stood up and walked around the dog, which followed her with its head and eyes.

  “It’s hard to tell with all that fur!”

  Pant-pant. I won’t freeze this winter, human.

  But the dog wagged its tail, and that gave Elizabeth the peek she needed.

  “Why, you’re a girl!” Elizabeth delighted herself with the revelation. “Here,” she said, “I’ll split the last bite with you.” She broke the last part of the sandwich in two, took the first bite for herself while the dog licked her lips, then handed the second bite down to her new friend. “Pretty good, huh?” she mumbled around chews.

  I’ve had better. Pant-pant. But not today.

  Seeing no more food in the offing, the dog turned and walked away.

  “Hey . . .” began Elizabeth dispiritedly.

  The dog turned and looked back, wagging her tail slightly, panting her smile.

  “Where are you going?”

  But the dog turned and walked on, stopping after a few steps and glancing back at her.

  Elizabeth started after the dog slowly, so she wouldn’t scare her. “Okay. Let’s make a game of it,” she said to herself.

  “This isn’t nearly as much fun as 3V.”

  Oh, shut up.

  The dog turned back once more without stopping this time, making sure that Elizabeth was ten or fifteen steps behind, then walked on down the sidewalk. As the wind picked up and the late afternoon breeze cooled down, the collie-shepherd picked up her own pace, her long fur flowing with the breeze. Elizabeth had to trot to keep up. Pretty soon the dog was playing a game with her, disappearing around corners. When Elizabeth made it around, the dog would be waiting there expectantly, looking up with her eyes shining. She’d get down on her front paws in front of Elizabeth, butt in the air, ready to pounce. As soon as Elizabeth started to giggle, the dog would jerk away and trot farther down the new path, and they played hide-and-seek around corners till it was almost dusk.

  “Where are you, girl?”

  Elizabeth followed the dog up a gravel driveway. She was ahead to be sure, but the failing daylight made it difficult for Elizabeth to spot her.

  “Dog?”

  She stopped and looked around, trying to find her new friend, but daylight was almost gone. Noticing the time, Elizabeth delighted in the thought that her mother must be frantic looking for her right now.

  “A-ha!”

  She spotted the dog standing in a dilapidated doorway. The old mosquito netting of a screen door askew on its hinges bounced lightly in the soft breeze. The dog looked tuckered out, but not quite ready to give up the game yet.

  “Okay,” said Elizabeth. “Here I come.”

  She walked past the brown rows that echoed an old garden long since abandoned, up the gravel driveway, and onto the back porch. The dog darted inside. Elizabeth stopped, not sure if she should go in or not. Looked innocent enough. No one lived here anymore. The partially opened screen door creaked on its one good hinge. Elizabeth cringed at the sound, but that a
nd the quiet crickets of the evening were all she could hear.

  Pant-pant.

  Almost all she could hear.

  “There you are,” she whispered. Elizabeth sidled inside past the screen door and was instantly struck by just how dense and thick a house without lights can seem after the sun goes down. “Okay, girl, it’s pretty dark in here. I can’t see like you can.”

  Pant-pant.

  Elizabeth’s eyes adjusted. She was in an old kitchen. Cabinet doors hung on their hinges. Roaches waking up for their evening patrols scurried one, then two across the floor, making reconnaissance between the old pantry and the cabinet under the sink. She curled her lip at the roaches, but the dog ignored them, passing through the doorway from the kitchen to the rest of the house.

  The dog woofed playfully from the other room.

  Elizabeth turned toward the sound and walked a few steps in that direction. She deliberately averted her eyes from the roaches, some part of her thinking that if she ignored them, they really weren’t there. She paused in the doorway to the house proper. Must be the parlor, she thought.

  Elizabeth decided that if she sat down, maybe the dog would come to her instead. She looked around. No roaches.

  They’re more afraid of you than you are of them, she heard her mother’s voice say.

  Hope so, she thought back.

  “Yeah, right,” taunted her 3V voice.

  Shut up!

  She felt her way carefully down to the floor, sitting cross-legged. The wood felt old beneath her hands. She was careful of splinters. “Come here, girl,” she said quietly. “Come here.”

  Pant-pant.

  Then she smelled it. The same thing she’d smelled when she and Michael had come here the other day at just about this time.

  (Old Suzie’s house)

  But how could that be? She would’ve recognized it . . .

  (from the front)

  But the dog had led her around the back. Had led her to the place she most feared in the whole damned, old, dead, decaying, smells-like-grandma town. The dog had been playing games, all right.

  (we play games in the parlor)

  Led her right here.

  “Girl?”

  Pant-pant.

  (come into my parlor)

  She felt something on her arm. Elizabeth tensed, sure the roaches had come for her.

  “So stupid to sit down here,” her 3V voice warned.

  Elizabeth summoned Elsbyth’s courage and looked down at her arm.

  Nothing.

  But there had been something. There had been the light down of hair rising on her arm.

  And there was fear. A sense of being trapped, smothered in a blanket of old. As if her fate were in the hands of someone else. Someone she couldn’t see. Someone who was not a good person.

  She started to uncross her legs to ready herself to get out of there, roaches or no roaches, screen door in the way or no screen door in the way.

  “D-dog?”

  Pant-pant.

  “Hello, little girl,” said a tired male voice from the darkness.

  Part 2

  (15 years ago)

  This place you say you’re looking for,

  That’s a place I used to know.

  Don’t know the number of the road,

  But I can tell you how to go.

  Head on down ’til the pavement ends,

  I used to go back there now and then.

  I used to know it

  Like the back of my hand,

  When I was just a boy.

  —James McMurtry

  “Vague Directions”

  Chapter 8

  “On your knees.”

  The boy was crying. He focused on the entryway floor.

  “Now.”

  The boy knew, either he would get on his knees on his own, or his father would put him there, so he maneuvered carefully to the floor, sitting on his heels.

  “You know better than that.”

  Internally the boy rolled his eyes, though he knew he didn’t dare show it. Showing sass would only make it worse.

  “And stop that goddamned blubbering,” his father said. “Learn to be a man early on, boy, and you’ll be better off for it later.”

  That was a laugh. How many times had he wished, begged God to make him a man so he could fight back? Somehow, he knew, this was supposed to make him tougher. But still he cried.

  “Knees against the wall,” said the old man. “I’m running out of patience.”

  The boy could already feel the cold tile of the floor digging into his knees. He wished he could burrow a hole through the floor, get away.

  “Now sit up straight. Ass off your heels.”

  He took a deep breath. Here’s what he’d been avoiding—the full weight of his upper body on his knees. He would kneel here for an hour. Praying at the altar of forgiveness, sorry he’d made his father mad once again and wishing God would make him old enough to dole out some divine retribution of his own.

  “I said sit up.”

  His father yanked the back of his shirt, the collar tightening around his throat until he pulled up straight. He wasn’t a thin boy, nor was he fat, but forcing his center of gravity onto his kneecaps made him gasp.

  Even in church, the kneelers have pads, he thought through the pain. He almost began to giggle, and a shock of fear coursed through him. It was bad enough to cry when punishment came. It would be much worse if he laughed. Much worse.

  “Keep that nose six inches from the wall, no farther,” his father said. His voice was low. These are your instructions for survival, the voice said. Screw it up and—well, figure it out. “Keep that back straight. Understand?”

  The boy nodded.

  “What?”

  “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

  “Mmmm,” his father said, nodding and turning to go. He looked at the grandfather clock behind his son. Turning to leave, he stopped, noting the boy had started to slouch already. “Up.”

  The boy immediately stiffened to attention despite the grinding in his knees.

  “And the next time I tell you to have the grass mowed before I get home, maybe you’ll have it done. You need to learn some discipline. You slouch your way through life, that’s all you’ll ever be. A slouch. Understand?”

  The boy just wanted him to go, to get out, to leave him alone, to quit gloating over another round of humiliation and let him get the punishment over with. Get out, get out, get out you motherfucking asshole! Leave me alone! Take your big arms and your discipline and your beer breath and your stupid weekend projects and your crappy job and your “Lazyass, get to work” and your “On your knees” and your “Mow the grass by the time I get back” and get the fuck out of here!

  “I’m talking to you, boy. You deaf now too?”

  “N-no, sir,” the boy said.

  His father grunted a sound that said he might not agree. Then he heard footsteps trail off into the other room, probably headed for the kitchen.

  Mix up another rum and something, he thought. Good. Maybe he’ll go to sleep soon. He’ll be out for hours.

  He let himself slouch a bit to take the pressure off his knees. He cocked his right ear toward the kitchen. Sure enough, he heard a chair at the breakfast table—his chair at the breakfast table—scrape slowly over the floor. The boy took some pleasure in the thought that the chair was marking up the floor, the same floor that was killing his knees at the moment. The little television they kept in the kitchen flicked on, and a sports commentator came bubbling forth, the excited murmur of the crowd behind him. He sat back on his heels. His father would be back in to check on him soon enough, but for now he had a reprieve.

  “Motherfucker,” David whispered in defiance. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.”

  All because he hadn’t had the grass mowed by the time the old man had gotten back from an emergency call from the company. Some power grid had gone offline somewhere. His father was on call, so off he’d gone in the truck. David had tho
ught he’d be gone for hours, but the repair had been quick. Even if he’d fired up the mower as soon as his father had left, he doubted he’d have finished the yard in time. In truth, he’d defied him by putting it off. I mean, don’t I have better things to do on a Sunday afternoon?

  Too long.

  (and look where it’s gotten you)

  A giddy rage boiled up inside David. He was helpless to do anything about the situation. He thought to himself, You moron. If you hadn’t pranced around making fun of him after he’d gone, you might’ve gotten it done instead of being here

  (on your knees)

  and facing the wall.

  He balled up his fists and relaxed them over and over again, gritting his teeth until they slipped and made an awful screaming, grating noise that sent worms wiggling up his spine. He felt like such an idiot, when a simple thing like mowing the grass was all his father had asked

  (you lazyass)

  and now here he was

  (on your knees)

  for no better reason than because he was an idiot.

  David felt the frustration bearing down on him, adding to the weight on his shoulders, pressing his knees into the floor. He closed his eyes, squeezing tears out of them like wringing water from a damp towel.

  (don’t cry, boy)

  Then he lifted his head and opened his eyes. Opened them wide. Used his thumb and first finger on each hand to spread the lids open till he felt the cold air on his eyeballs, till they felt like they might just roll right out of his head.

  (men don’t cry)

  He felt his nose running and didn’t spare a hand to wipe the mucous as it crept, warm and wet, onto his upper lip. But his eyes wouldn’t dry, no matter how wide he spread his eyelids. They stung as their liquid warmth met the cold air. He wiped at them with his knuckles, trying to squeeze them dry again, but that only made things worse. Now David’s eyes felt like they had something in them. All he wanted to do was rub them.

  Making things worse seems to be the only thing you’re good at, he thought.

  He cursed at God for playing such a cruel joke on him, for making him such an idiot. He couldn’t even kneel here and take his punishment like a man; instead, he sat back on his haunches