Curtains (2 page)

“Want some more grits?” she asked. Robert
shook his head and finished the coffee. She looked at the fork in
his hand and saw that it was quivering.

Sandy Ann ran away when Alison moved in.
Robert stayed up until after midnight, going to the door and
calling its name every half-hour. He’d prowled the woods with a
flashlight while Alison dozed on the couch. Sandy Ann turned up
three days later in the next town, and Robert said if he hadn’t
burned his phone number into the leather collar, the dog might have
been lost forever.

Sandy Ann was mostly Lab, with a little husky
mix that gave its eyes a faint gray tint in certain light. The dog
had been spayed before Robert got it at the pound. Robert’s mother
had died that year, joining her husband in their Baptist heaven and
leaving the farm to their sole heir. Sandy Ann had survived
thirty-seven laying hens, two sows, a milk cow, one big mouser
tomcat that haunted the barn, and a Shetland pony.

Until today.

Alison’s appetite was terrible even for her.
Three slices of bacon remained on her plate. She pushed them onto a
soiled paper napkin for the dog.

“Four’s enough,” Robert said.

“I thought you could give her one piece
now.”

“It’s not like baiting a fish. A dog will
follow bacon into hell if you give it half a chance.”

Robert finished his plate and took the dishes
to the sink. She thought he was going to enter the cabinet for
another shot of bourbon, but he simply rinsed the dishes and
stacked them on top of the dirty skillet. His hair seemed to have
become grayer at the temples and he hunched a little, like an old
man with calcium deficiency.

“I’d like to come,” she said.

“We’ve been through that.”

“We’re supposed to be there for each other.
You remember April eighth?”

“That was just a wedding. This is my
dog.”

Alison resented Sandy Ann’s having the run of
the house. The carpets were always muddy and no matter how often
she vacuumed, dog hair seemed to snow from the ceiling. The battle
had been long and subtle, but eventually Sandy Ann became an
outdoor dog on all but the coldest days. The dog still had a
favorite spot on the shotgun side of Robert’s pick-up, the vinyl
seat cover scratched and animal-smelling. Alison all but refused to
ride in the truck, and they took her Camry when they were out doing
“couple things.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Alison asked.
She had tried to draw him out. In the early days, Robert had been
forthcoming about everything, surprising her with his honesty and
depth of feeling. Despite the initial attraction, she had thought
him a little rough around the edges. She’d been raised in a trailer
park but had attended Wake Forest University and so thought she had
escaped her breeding. But Robert reveled in his.

“Nothing left to say. Maybe later.”

“We can go down to the farmer’s market when
you get back. Maybe we can get some sweet corn for dinner. And I’ve
been looking for a philodendron for the living room.”

“I won’t feel like it.”

“Robert, I know it’s hard. Talk to me.”

“I am talking.”

“Really. Don’t shut me out.”

“Never have.”

She slammed her fist on the table, causing
her flatware to jump and clatter. “Damn it, don’t be so stoic.
You’re allowed to grieve.”

Robert wiped his hands on the kitchen towel
that hung from the refrigerator handle. “Thanks for breakfast.”

He went past her to the hall. She heard him
open the closet door and rummage on the upper shelf. One of the
snow skis banged against the doorjamb. She had convinced Robert to
try skiing, and they’d spent a weekend at Wintergreen in Virginia.
He’d twisted his ankle on the first run. He said skiing was a rich
kid’s sport and it had served him right to try and escape his
breeding.

Robert came back to the kitchen, the rifle
tucked against his right shoulder. A single bullet made a bulge in
his pocket, the shape long and mean.

“Have you decided where to bury her?” Alison
had always thought of Sandy Ann as an “it,” and had to consciously
use the feminine pronoun. Alison wanted to show she cared, whether
her husband appreciated it or not.

“She’s not that heavy, or I’d do it near
where I was going to bury her. I’m figuring behind the barn. She
loved to lay in the shade back there.”

Alison hated the back of the barn. It was
full of barbed wire and blackberry vines, and once she’d seen a
snake slither through the tall weeds. The garden lay beyond it, and
she tended a bed of marigolds there, but she associated shadows
with unseen reptiles. Sandy Ann would sometimes watch from the edge
of the garden while Alison worked, but the two rarely communicated
when Robert wasn’t around, though Alison often left bacon for it by
the back steps.

The grease from breakfast coated Alison’s
throat, and her chest ached. Robert went through the back door onto
the porch. Alison followed him, trading the heavy smells of the
kitchen for the tart, dry October morning. The mountains were
vibrant in their dying glory, umber, burgundy, ochre.

Sandy Ann was sleeping in a hollowed-out
place under the steps. The dog lifted its head at the sound of
their feet. It must have smelled the bacon in Robert’s hand,
because its dusty nose wiggled and Sandy Ann dragged itself into
the yard.

The sun glinted in the tears that ran down
Robert’s cheeks. “Good girl,” he said, giving the dog a piece of
bacon. The dog swallowed it without chewing and ran its rough
tongue over its lips, ears lifting a little in anticipation of
more. Robert moved the bacon to his rifle hand and scratched the
dog on top of the head.

“Come on, girl, let’s take a walk.” He headed
toward the woods.

Sandy Ann looked back at Alison, eyes dim and
hiding pain, brown crust in their corners. She held out the bacon
in her hand. Unlike the other pieces she had fed it, this one
wasn’t sprinkled with rat poison. The dog licked its lips once
more, exhaled a chuffing sigh, then followed Robert, the yellow
tail swinging gently like a piece of frozen rope.

Robert led the way across the yard, holding
the bacon aloft so the dog could smell it. He and Sandy Ann went
through a crooked gate and Robert leaned the rifle against the
fence while he fastened the latch. He looked back at the porch.
Alison waved and bit into her own bacon.

They started again, both of them stooped and
limping. They reached the trees, Robert’s boots kicking up the
brittle leaves, Sandy Ann laboring by his side. The last she saw of
him was his plaid flannel shirt.

She should chase them. Maybe she could hold
the bacon while Robert loaded the gun. After all, she had cooked
it. And, in a way, she was replacing Sandy Ann. If Robert ever got
another dog, it would be Alison’s home and therefore it would be
the dog that would have to adjust, not the other way around. She
didn’t think they would get another dog, not for a while.

Sandy Ann was just a dog, and Alison wasn’t a
dog person. She was the practical one in the relationship. She
could have driven Sandy Ann to the vet, even at the risk of getting
dog hair in her car. The vet would have drawn out a nice, clean
needle and Sandy Ann could drift off to sleep, dreaming of fast
squirrels and chunks of cooked meat and snacks by the back porch of
home.

Maybe Robert needed the catharsis of
violence. Perhaps that would be his absolution, though surely he
couldn’t view the dog’s infirmity as his fault. After all, it would
have aged no matter the owner. Sandy Ann, like all of them, would
die and go to whatever heaven was nearest. Robert’s way might be
best after all. One split-second and then the pain would end.

Alison went inside and poured herself a half
cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, looking through the
window. The sunlight was soft on the stubbled garden. Some of the
marigolds clung to a defiant life, their edges crinkled and brown.
Collard leaves swayed in the breeze like the ears of small green
puppies. The shovel stood by the barn, waiting.

Her coffee mug was to her lips when the shot
sounded. The report echoed off the rocky slopes and the hard,
knotty trees. Alison didn’t know whether to smile or pout against
the ceramic rim. The house was hers.

When Robert returned, she would have tears in
her eyes. She would hug him and let him sag onto her, and she would
lead him to the couch. She would remind him of all the great
memories, and let him talk for hours about the dog’s life. She
would kneel before him and remove his boots and wipe the mud from
them. He would have no appetite, but she would cook for him anyway,
maybe something sweet, like a pie. If he wanted, he could have some
more of the Jack Daniels. She would turn on the television and they
would sit together, the two of them in their house.

Her house.

Alison finished her coffee. The remaining
bacon was covered with a gray film of grease but she ate it anyway,
her stomach finally unclenching.

She washed dishes, a chore she loathed. She
rinsed the pans with hot water. Later in the evening, she would
vacuum, try to remove the last traces of Sandy Ann from the living
room carpet.

Something clicked on the porch steps. She
wondered if Robert had decided to come back to the house before he
began digging. Either way, Alison would be there for him. She would
shovel until she raised blisters if he would let her. Alison wiped
her hands on her bathrobe and hurried to the door, blinking rapidly
so her eyes would water.

The scratching sound was at the door now, as
if Robert were wiping his boots on the welcome mat. She braced
herself for Robert’s crestfallen expression, the caved-in look of
his eyes, the deep furrows at the corners of his mouth. She would
never have inflicted such suffering if it weren’t for the best.

Alison opened the door. On the porch, Sandy
Ann stood on bowed legs, working her dry lips. The dog lifted a
forlorn paw and dropped it with a click of nails. There were
spatters of blood across the dog’s snout.

One shot.

Robert couldn’t have missed.

Not from so close.

Could he have . . . ?

No, not Robert.

But it was the kind of choice Robert would
make.

His only choice.

A dog person to the end.

“Robert?” she called, voice cracking, knowing
there would be no answer.

Alison’s ribs were a fist gripping the yolk
of her heart. Her legs were grits, her head popping like hot grease
on a griddle. Her spine melted like butter. She sagged against her
house and slid to a sitting position. Sandy Ann whimpered, limped
over, and ran a papery tongue against her cheek.

The dog’s breath reeked of bacon and poison
and unconditional love.

###

DEAD AIR

I leaned back in my swivel chair, my
headphones vice-gripping my neck. The VU meters were pinned in the
red, and Aerosmith had the monitor speakers throbbing. I turned
down the studio sound level and pressed the phone to my ear, not
believing what I'd heard.

"I've just killed a man," she repeated, her
voice harsh and breathless.

"Come again, sister?"  I said, pulling
my feet off the console. My brain was a little slow in catching on.
I was two hours into the graveyard shift, and the before-work beers
were crashing into my third cup of cold coffee like Amtrak
trains.

"I've just killed a man," she said for a
third time. She was a little calmer now. "I just wanted to share
that with you. Because I've always felt like I could trust you. You
have an honest voice."

I potted up the telephone interface and
broadcast her live to my loyal listeners. All three of them, I
chuckled to myself. In five years at WKIK, The Kick, I'd come to
accept my humble place in the universe. The only people tuned in at
this hour were hepped-up truckers and vampire wannabes, the
unwashed who shied from the light of day. I'd long ago decided that
I might as well keep myself amused. And now I had a nutter on the
line.

I flipped my mic key and the red "ON AIR"
sign blinked over the door.

"Yo, this is Mickey Nixon with ya in the wee
hours," I said, in the slightly-false bass I'd cultivated over the
course of my career. "I've got a talker on the line, she's there to
share. Go on, honey."

"I just want everybody to know that I killed
someone. This man I've been dating got a little bit too aggressive,
so I blew his damned brains out. And it felt good," she said, her
words pouring out over the monitors through the warm Kansas
air.

My finger was poised over the mute button in
case I needed to censor her. By station rules, I was supposed to
send all live call-ins through the loop delay. But since I got so
few callers, I usually took my chances. Plus I liked the razor edge
of spontaneity.

"I want to tell you that the steam off his
blood is still rising. He's lying here on his apartment floor with
his pants around his knees and his brains soaking into the shag
carpet. If any of you guys out there think date rape is a laughing
matter, I'm sharing this little story so you'll think twice."

I gulped. This was really wacky stuff. I
couldn't have written it in a million years. I'd paid friends
before to call with outrageous stories, but they always sounded a
little too rehearsed. Now here was some dynamite, and it was
exploding at no charge.

"Wait a minute, woman," I said, playing the
straight man. "You mean to tell us you're standing over a warm body
right now with a phone in your hand, confessing murder?"

"It's not murder, it's self-defense. I may be
a woman, but I've got my rights. Nobody touches me unless I let
them. Besides, I've done this before, I've just never felt like
talking about it until now."

"So maybe it's what you would call a
'justifiable' homicide. Have you called the police?"