Marvel and a Wonder (35 page)

The dog was on its feet now, wary of the boy’s swift motion before him.

“I am every bit your inferior, oh kind and wonderful dog.”

The dog made a sound, its teeth bared tightly together. It began growling, head lowered, massive shoulders going tense.

“I only wish to pass through your domain safely.”

The boy was at least a good ten yards from the opposite side of the fence. The dog began barking louder, inching forward slowly, head still lowered.

“I bow to your greatness, oh dreadful and benevolent beast. You are ruler of all you see. I am only a speck in your glorious kingdom.”

Then the dog was in motion, a cruel flash of black and brown, the boy seeing the shape hurtling toward him, moving as fast as his legs would let him, feeling the animal gaining, the sound of it pouncing behind him, its paws padding quickly over the dirt, the scrape of its nails as Quentin darted left, lifting the gas can high, liquid spilling recklessly from its yellow rubber nozzle.
Now what?
he thought.
Now what?
He could smell the animal’s stink, the ruinous decay of its yellow teeth, breath like hot garbage; he felt the dog nip at his calf, missing, then leaping and missing again. He made the mistake of turning to glimpse the animal, and in doing so slowed down and stumbled over his own shoes, only a foot away from the fence, the dog taking the moment to strike again, burying its fangs into the soft meat of the boy’s right leg, snarling, snapping its head right then left, the boy screaming, howling girlishly, then remembering the metal gas can in his hand, swinging it back boldly, bringing it down hard upon the crown of the animal’s wide head.

Boy and dog were both a little dazed, lying a few paces apart, the boy whimpering, pulling himself to his feet, mumbling as he made his way up the fence, lowering the gas can to the other side, blood darkening the right leg of his pants.

* * *

Back in the truck and down Covington to Catalpa, then a few more left turns, then a right, Rick pulled up beside the Pentecostal church, which at this hour on a Saturday evening, somewhere past seven p.m., had its doors propped open, an organ playing a lament, a grayish voice crooning out a prayer at the height of evening service. Beside the storefront church was the old house, which was the exact same color it had been when he’d left—sneaking off in the middle of an argument. He did not know why he expected the house to be a different color. It still had its white and blue trim, the gray roof still missing a few shingles, though now there was a worn-looking plastic Big Wheel out front, overturned, and a pair of metal roller skates lying near the front steps. He placed his hand against his left eye, which was a dried mess of blood and pus. He would need to drain it if he was going to see out of it anytime soon. And there was no way he could drive the ten or so hours back to Plano in the dark night, with only one good eye. And so here he was.

He parked in front of the old house, Fannie’s house, and stared from the driver’s-side window, taking it all in, wondering if she would still be there, knowing that she would be, as the phone number had not changed, and he had recognized her voice the night before. He wondered what color her hair was, how she looked, what she would say when she saw him. He did not think on it too long, as the more he considered the possible expressions her face might make, the more uncertain he began to feel, remembering the time when—on her birthday—he had offered her a pawnshop ring and said the words he had thought would appease her but hadn’t. She had just thrown her head back and laughed, laughed, laughed, right in his face.

He was gathering his thoughts now, or attempting to. He tried the radio for some encouragement but got only got a religious program. Someone was shouting about penance. He switched the radio off and lit another cigarette. When he was ready—not ready, but afraid that if he didn’t move now, he might not ever—he threw open the driver’s-side door, cleared his throat, fixed his hat atop his head, fixed it again, and then strode up the cracked pavement leading to the front steps.

He climbed over the roller skates, the Big Wheel, pausing once more on the porch, his knees knocking a little, midsection cramped like he had some stomach rot from south of the border. He pressed the doorbell and stepped back, blinking his good eye over and over again—a nervous habit. She came to the door in a yellow robe, bleach-blond hair—nearly white—piled up atop her luminous, almond-shaped head, face appearing just-washed, cigarette burning in the corner of her mouth, fighting with her left flip-flop which must have come off on her way to the front door.

In that moment, Rick wished he had never stepped out of that truck, had never pulled off the highway, had never answered the ringing phone Friday morning when old man Bolan called with the location of his granddaughter’s whereabouts. Because Fannie was, and had always been, the one thing that could undo him. There was just something about the way her head happened to sit upon her neck, crooked at an angle now, poring over him—or what she could do with a disapproving expression, because that was the face she was making now—lips downturned but still smirking, eyelashes flashing over the blue eyes which weren’t actually blue but gray, taking a long drag on the cigarette, ashing it right on the carpet, the moment awkward and yet sort of sweet, her squinting at him, taking in the sight of his rounder face, sloping shoulders, hair which had begun to thin. The two of them stood silent for a good while before, looking disappointed now, she said, “I oughta spit in your face.”

He readjusted the hat on his head and said her name, the sound of it on his lips intimate, pleasurable, as luscious as a kiss: “Fannie.”

He touched a finger to his bad eye, stepping into the light, the eye itself appearing a little greenish, Fannie making a sound, clicking her tongue, saying, “What did you do to yourself this time?”

* * *

The boy limped along the street toward the pickup, finding his grandfather asleep inside. He leaned up against the passenger-side window; the old man’s hat covered his face, his long legs stretched out into the space in front of the driver’s seat. The boy stood there catching his breath, watching the old man to see if he was still breathing. He was, his blue flannel rising slightly, his nostrils fluttering with each breath. The boy sighed and crept around the side of the truck where he forced open the tiny metal door, unscrewed the gas cap, slipped the yellow nozzle in, and poured the gasoline inside, the fluid dripping along his bare hands and down the side of the vehicle. When it was empty, he put the gas can back in the bed of the truck and sat down on the curb, sucking in his teeth as he inspected his bloody leg. He rolled up his pants and saw his sock was pink and red, and there were two whitish wounds along the side of his calf. The fact that the wounds were white, that they were deeper than he had thought, made bile rise up into his mouth. He started to whimper, poking his finger at the wound, once again feeling as if he might vomit. The pain was now creeping up his entire leg, past his groin, his hands growing clammy. He looked up and noticed his granddad standing over him now, the shape of his narrow shoulders and wide hat, still as a ghost. Then the grandfather helped the boy up from the curb and into the passenger seat of the pickup truck. Both of them were soon installed back inside the cab. The boy handed the grandfather the truck keys, frowning once the grandfather had started the stricken-sounding engine. Quentin held the sore spot on his leg, sweaty forehead pressed up against the passenger-side window, making angels on the glass.

* * *

The girl sat outside the manager’s office, hands folded in her lap, her fate as yet undetermined. The security guard sat silent on her left, mopping his bald head with his uniformed wrist. On the other side sat an elderly black woman with enormous tinted glasses, overstuffed bags of groceries sprawled near her feet. The old woman smelled strongly of rosewater and ointment, the odor of which reminded the girl of her grandfather. Propped between her legs was a long, metal red-and-white cane, which had been marked with several dark indentations.

The manager, a harried-looking fellow with a beard and bifocals, finished arguing with a supplier on the telephone and approached the old woman first. “Miss Parkson, we don’t have anyone to take you home right now. If you want to wait an hour or so, Billie’ll be in.”

The old woman clamped her jaw and muttered, “I don’t like her too much. Too nosy. But it don’t look like I have much of a choice. How long did you say?”

“About an hour.” The manager turned and surveyed Rylee. “What about her?”

The security guard sat upright. “I caught her drinking from a bottle of milk.”

“And?”

“And she don’t have the money to pay for it.”

The manager lifted his glasses from his face as if this particular intrusion into the private workings of his professional life was more than he could bear. The girl took notice and quietly spoke up.

“My purse. I was robbed. Someone took the money from where I was staying at. You can search me. It was an accident. I thought I had money when I came in.”

The manager replaced his glasses. “Are you from around here?”

“That’s Angel’s girl,” the old black woman said. “The younger one. She’s from down my way.”

“Do you know Miss Parkson?” the manager asked.

The girl did not know how she should answer. She nodded her head slowly, just once.

The manager groaned. “Seeing as this is the first time this kind of thing has happened, I’d be willing to let you go with a warning. Call it bad circumstances. But don’t let me catch you in this store without money again.”

The girl nodded in relief.

“And if you’d be nice enough to see Miss Parkson home, I’d appreciate it. But I want you to remember: we’re not running a charity ward.”

The girl stood and shook the manager’s hand. The old woman also climbed to her feet and gently put a palm on the girl’s shoulder.

“Hold on a second and let Reggie get your picture,” the manager added, then disappeared back into his office.

The security guard pulled an old Polaroid from his desk and raised it to his eye. “Say cheese.” There was a sharp flash and the photograph shot out. He shook it, wrote down the date, and taped it on a wall of other offenders outside the manager’s office.

Before they had made their way back through the electric eye, tottering together, the old woman remarked, “Never much cared for this place myself.”

* * *

In the silent arrangement of the Nashville night, as the sky turned the color of faded steel, of gunpowder, of dolomite, the horse stood patient in its silver prison, snorting at the muggy air. A cloud of mosquitoes had settled in the stall, buzzing around the horse’s head with a grim, primeval viciousness, the horse flicking its ears, stamping a little, tail snapping about, turning its head this way and that to get clear of them. The sharp drone of their paths—darting in the near darkness—made the mare edgy, but finding no room to turn, it once again settled down, its eyes patient, resigned, the mosquitoes landing upon its skin, proboscises sinking in, beads of blood rising like red moons along the animal’s white flesh.

* * *

The grandfather staggered into the brightly lit pharmacy, boots shuffling loosely across the tile, taking in the smell of antiseptics and adhesives, of toothpaste and bandages, the steady whisper of the pharmacists and the soft monotony of an instrumental song congregating in the air like a chorus. He did not know what he was looking for exactly, only that he would know it when he came upon it, his shoulder feeling as stiff as it ever had, the left arm dangling there like a broken branch, stopping a little to lean against a box of disposable diapers, then forcing himself to walk on. He was in the wrong aisle, and then, limping on, he found the bandages, all sorts and sizes, cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, Mercurochrome, iodine. He placed his hand upon a bottle of iodine and felt a shudder of pain, dropping the plastic bottle to his feet. He knelt there, shaken, ears ringing. When he finally got his hearing back, he tried to stand and felt a hand upon his shoulder. He looked up, unnerved, face still tightened into a frown, and saw a woman in a white coat standing there with thick round glasses, the frames of which were purple. There was a name tag on the woman’s coat, though Jim could not focus to read it. He did not need to look much closer than her mouth to know it was Deedee.

“Did you need some help, sir?” the woman asked, and Jim smiled, stunned by the shape of her face all over again.

He gathered his wits, adjusted his hat, and motioned at the bottle of iodine in his hand. “My grandson got bit by dog. Which one of these is for dog bites?”

The pharmacist turned to face the shelves of antiseptics. “A dog bite’s pretty serious. Maybe you oughta bring the boy to the doctor.”

The old man peered down again at the brown bottle in his hand. “We’re not from around here.”

“Well, there’s a hospital with an emergency room not two blocks down the street.”

“I guess I’ll just take this,” he said, afraid to meet her eyes, and held up the brown bottle of iodine. He reached for a box of white bandages and some medical tape, then held them against his chest before walking away, feeling her still standing there, slender, all in white, the color of her eyes soft blue, like hyacinth; he knew that if he turned to look back again, she would be gone; or worse, he would fall apart right there, which is how it always happened in the Bible.

By the time he made it back to the pickup, the boy had rolled up the leg of his pants and was poking curiously at the twin red indentations along the calf of his right leg.

“It might be rabies,” said the boy.

“Did the dog have a tag on it?”

“Huh?”

“Did it have a collar? Did it have tags on it?”

“I don’t remember.”

“We’ll have to take you in soon as we get home and get a distemper. We’ll clean it up and put a bandage on it for now. Does it hurt any?”

“No,” the boy said, hoping the answer would make his grandfather proud. “It’s just sore is all.”

“Here,” the old man said, leaning over, the driver’s-side door open, the boy’s leg outstretched across the bench seat. He uncapped the small brown bottle of iodine, dabbed at the two small holes, the red dots brighter than blood, and hunched over, blowing at his grandson’s wound. The boy was surprised, watching his grandfather do something like that, the gesture seeming somehow beneath him, matronly. The grandfather saw the curiosity in the boy’s eyes and smiled a little, screwing the stopper back in place. “Don’t know why you’re supposed to do that. It’s what my mother always did.”