The Pet

SEVEN

Don sat up suddenly, eyes wide, mouth open in a scream that never passed his lips. His arms were rigid at his sides, and his head jerked in clockwork degrees side to side until he felt pressure on his right shoulder. His head snapped around. His mouth remained open. There was a woman’s hand, long fingers pale as it tried to ease him back. His gaze traced it warily, found the wrist, found the arm, found his mother’s face puffed and wan.

“Don, it’s all right.”

He saw the lips move (the stallion rearing), heard the words (the Howler shrieking), and after several seconds he let himself be levered back while a dark figure at the foot of the bed cranked up the mattress until he was almost sitting again.

“Don, it’s all right, honey.”

The echoless scream died at last, the tunnel collapsed in upon itself, and once his vision cleared, he didn’t have to ask to know he was in a hospital room.

A nurse at his left side took his pulse; a doctor whose face was familiar entered and picked up the chart, read it, nodded, edged the nurse aside and pulled up a stool. His face was lean and creased with too many summers under the sun, his hair a thicket of unruly grey.

“How are you feeling, son?” Large hands moved — his brow, his chest, pressed through his hair and lightly squeezed his scalp. “No aches, no pains? Your back is probably sore though, right?”

“How’d you know?” Don asked hoarsely, still trying to bring himself back out of the park.

The doctor gave him a smile. “In bed this long without moving, it’s bound to be.”

“Can he go home now, Jerry?”

“Later this afternoon, I think,” Dr. Naugle said. He looked to Don. “Just to be sure, son, okay? I doubt we’ve missed anything, but just to be sure.” He looked across the bed to Joyce. “Suppertime.” A jerk of his head toward the IV stand and the fluid dripping into Don’s arm. “After what we’ve been feeding him since midnight, he’ll be starving.” A satisfied sigh, and he rose to his feet. “I guess that’ll be okay with you, son, right?”

Before Don could answer, he was gone, his mother hastening after him, the nurse behind. The dark figure finally moved out of the shadows.

“Dad?”

Norman tried to speak, then licked his lips and grinned as he took Joyce’s chair. He patted Don’s shoulder, his leg, stared blankly at the IV tubing and the tape on the boy’s arm. His hair was uncombed and appeared greyer in the dawn light that slotted through the window’s Venetian blinds; his eyes were bloodshot, the nose faintly red, the one visible hand jumping every few seconds.

Don was shocked — his father had been crying.

“Boy,” he said too eagerly, “I could drink a whole lake I’m so thirsty.”

Norman grabbed gratefully for the water pitcher on the bed table, poured a glass, and finally a second.

“How do you feel?”

“Terrible. No; just lousy.” He shifted, and felt the bruise on his thigh and the circle of hurt where the Howler’s knees had jammed into his spine.

Norman stood and walked toward the door and walked back to the chair. “Sergeant Verona will be here in a few minutes, I guess. He’s been waiting for you to … for you to wake up.”

“The police?”

Green sparks green fire

“They want to know what happened out there.” He clearly wanted to ask, and was just as clearly afraid to. “The reporters too.”

Don rolled his head to stare at the ceiling. “Reporters.”

“Well, you’re a hero, son. It’s already on the radio.”

He felt panic, and it was cold. “Dad, listen, I’ve got to—”

The door swung open and Verona walked in. His suit jacket was rumpled, his tie gone, a blade of wet grass clung to one elbow. Joyce was right behind him, and she protested when he suggested that the Boyds leave him and the boy alone. Norm took her arm; she glared at him, then blew Don a kiss on the way out. The door closed without a sound. The window light brightened.

He felt the panic again, but it subsided when Verona shook his hand warmly while taking the chair.

“That,” he said, nodding to their clasped hands, “is for now. Later, I’ll probably be cursing you from here to Sunday for what you did. Not that I don’t like you,” he added with a crooked smile, “but the papers are going to wonder how a teenage kid could dispose of the Howler when the police in two states couldn’t even find a clue.”

Don shrugged, and his stomach growled.

…there was blood, lots of blood, and the sound of trampling hooves

“So. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Tell him, Don thought; and told him that he had been unable to sleep, that he had gone for a walk to do some thinking and had ended up at the park. That’s where the man grabbed him, and that’s where he’d gotten away.

Verona didn’t take notes or have a tape recorder with him. He nodded. He listened. He asked more questions, and in the asking told Don what he needed to know.

It was the Howler. That grizzled old man was the man who killed Amanda. Tissue samples from the body matched those found under the girl’s fingernails, and his name was Falwick, an ex-army sergeant who evidently couldn’t fit into the system. They had been able to retrace most of Don’s struggles, but they still wondered about a few things. It couldn’t be a pleasant memory, Verona acknowledged as he mopped his face with a handkerchief, momentarily hiding his eyes, but they did need to know. Just a few things. Then he’d leave Don alone for some well-deserved rest. He would even keep the reporters off his back for a while. Just — why did Don beat the man so severely? So savagely?

Don didn’t know. “I was afraid. He was going to kill me.”

Verona made a clucking sound. Jerry Naugle, Don’s doctor, had suggested it was an hysteria-induced defense and certainly not uncommon. Instead of running away, Don had found the branch and used it to protect himself. He had known Amanda. Fear and anger, and perhaps a lucky blow, had knocked Falwick down. That’s when hysteria took over. Adrenaline fueled it. Luis Quintero had been at the scene of the accident on the boulevard and had heard someone shouting in the park. He found Don kneeling a few feet from the body, the branch still in hand, blood on it and the boy’s clothes. He was in deep shock and didn’t even answer to his name.

“I guess,” Don said. “Yeah. I guess.”

And it could have been, he thought. It must have been. If there had been a horse, they would have said so; if the horse had been real, someone would have seen him. It could have been him, because he remembered the rage.

Verona shook his hand again, and Don’s eyes blurred with tears when his parents returned.

Must have been. Hysteria, and shock, and maybe he wasn’t crazy after all. His friend had been summoned because of the fear, but Don had done it all on his own. He had blacked out and done it himself. No magic. No giant stallion. He had killed a man. All on his own.

He wept for nearly half an hour — loudly, then noiselessly, soaking his mother’s blouse while she stroked his hair and kissed his cheek and his father held his hand so tightly the knuckles cracked. He wept until Dr. Naugle returned and hustled the room clear, saying Don needed his rest if he wanted to go home to get something decent to eat. Norman was reluctant, but he went; Joyce embraced him once more and whispered, “I know you’re not Sam, dear. You’re my Donny, and I love you.”

Without a pill he slept soundly until well after noon.

When he woke the IV was gone and the nurse was there with a tray of food he ate without tasting. When he begged for more, she laughed and told him there’d be plenty when he got home; when he wondered about his parents, they were there and told him there was a mob of kids down in the waiting room eager to see him. A group of reporters too. It was, his father said in quiet excitement, as if the President were in town. Don was pleased and tried not to show it, embarrassed because the image of the stallion still darted through his vision, and anxious because suddenly all he wanted to do was go home and take a close look at the poster on his wall.

Maybe he wasn’t crazy, but he still had to know.

“And do you know what else?” his mother said. “Are you ready for this? The mayor wants to give you a medal at the concert tonight. A medal! Can you believe it?”

“Me? Me, a medal?”

A look to his father brought a proud nod; a look to his mother brought him another kiss.

“I can’t,” he said, fingers digging into the stiff sheet. “I can’t, Mom.”

“We’ll talk about it later, when you get home, dear,” she said quickly and softly. “We’ll send up the kids now, while I get you some clean clothes.”

greensparks greenfire

Don didn’t understand why Tracey was wearing jeans and an old jacket until he remembered that school was closed today, because of Amanda. Nor did he understand why Lichter had to come with her.

Tracey, after exchanging glances with Jeff, took the chair while he sat on the bed and grabbed for Don’s hand.

“The Detention Kid strikes again,” he said heartily. “Man, are you nuts or something?”

“Shut up, Jeff,” Tracey ordered gently, and leaned over to kiss Don’s cheek. Her hand found his and held it. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” he said. “I didn’t get hurt or anything. Your father — hey, easy on the merchandise,” he protested to Jeff, pulling free his hand and wincing in false pain. “I’m a black belt, remember?”

“I remember you’re crazy, that’s what I remember.”

“It takes one to know one.”

“Very funny.”

“Don,” Tracey said, “Brian says—”

” Shit on Brian,” Jeff mumbled.

“—my father was the one who did it, not you. He’s saying all kinds of crazy things, like he chased you home last night before you even got to the park.” Concern was then replaced by a smile. “But nobody’s listening.”

“Did they ever?” he asked without much humor, then swallowed the sour moment with an effort that made him grunt.

“You okay?” Jeff said quickly.

“Gas,” he said, patting his stomach. “It’s the food. Almost as bad as Beacher’s.”

Jeff laughed, slapped the mattress and looked to Tracey. She giggled, shook her head, and he told her to go ahead.

“What?” Don said, not liking the intimacy. “What?”

“Beacher,” Tracey started, then burst out laughing, shook her head and her hand and inhaled deeply to choke off the fit. “He’s named a sandwich after you.”

“He did what?”

Jeff nodded. “He named a sandwich after you and he’s serving it to all the reporters! God, can you believe it?”

“What is it, raw hamburger?”

“No. It’s …” Jeff stood and leaned against the wall to keep from falling down. “It’s grilled cheese and bacon, with lettuce and onions.”

“What?” Don yelled. “I don’t even like grilled cheese. What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Who the hell knows? But if you go in and ask for a Don Boyd Special, that’s what you get.”

It was prairie fire laughter that spread from one to the other, dying down, then roaring again, until his sides ached and his cheeks felt ready to split and his lungs refused to give him enough air. Jeff crumpled to the floor with his hands locked over his stomach. Tracey rolled in her chair until it slammed back against the wall and nearly skidded out from under her. The nurse looked in once, and saw them and grinned and winked at them to quiet down; Dr. Naugle came by and suggested loudly they calm down before they were all put in straitjackets.

Don sobered first, blinking away the tears and moaning while the ache faded from his ribs.

The nurse reappeared, arms folded over her chest, one eyebrow lifted to signal the end of the visit.

“Shit,” Jeff whispered, and shook his hand again, averting his eyes when Don saw the question there — did you really kill him with your own two hands?

“See you later,” Tracey told him before the question could be asked. “Take care of yourself, hero, okay? We’ll see you later, maybe tonight.”

She kissed him on the lips, once and quickly, so quickly he couldn’t taste it. When they were through the door, he watched as Tracey went left, as Jeff grabbed her hand and pulled her to the right. She giggled; he hushed her with his head close to hers.

A sandwich, he thought; Jesus Christ, a sandwich!

greensparks and greenfire

and the stallion’s silhouette against the white of the moon

“I wouldn’t let him come up,” Chris said, perching on the mattress by his hip. “He’s acting like an asshole. Would you believe, even Tar thinks he’s acting like a jerk?”

Gratefully, and somewhat embarrassed, he turned his cheek toward her oncoming lips, and was nonplussed when she cupped his face in her hands, turned it back, and gave him a kiss he knew the doctor wouldn’t approve of. She didn’t seem to notice his bewilderment, only leaned away and slumped so that her man’s white shirt bagged over her breasts under the fall of her hair.

“I think he’s jealous.”

“Brian?” That he could not believe. “You’re kidding.”

“Well,” she said, one hand leaning on his waist, “he’s been drinking already. Smells like a brewery, and he can’t figure out why the reporters won’t talk to him anymore.” A finger toyed with the sheet. “He said …” A look without looking up. “He said something about Donny Duck to them, y’know?”

“Wonderful,” he said.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Nobody cares. My god, you’re a genuine hero, you know that? I mean, you’re the kind of man that craphead only dreams about.”

“Jesus, Chris.” He looked to the window and wished she’d go away. No, he thought in a panic. No; just lay off the bullshit.

“No, really.”

“God, knock it off, huh?”

“Man can’t take a compliment,” she said to the wall.

“Well …”

She laughed silently and pushed her hair back behind her ears, the movement half-turning her toward him so he could see, if he wanted, the flat of her chest where the shirt was creased back.

“I guess you’re all right though.”

The finger waltzed aimlessly, over the sheet, and he couldn’t help looking at it without seeming to, watching it, mesmerized by it, and finally squeezing his legs together because of where it was heading. When he cleared his throat and pushed himself into a higher sitting position, the finger only paused before dancing on.

“Yes, thanks.”

“I hear they’re going to make a big deal at the concert.”

“Yeah, so I heard too.”

She smiled at him and winked. “Brian and Tar aren’t going. He says you’ll make him puke.”

“If that’s true, I’ll be there early.”

Her lower lip vanished briefly between her teeth before she leaned over again and kissed him, hard, surprising him so much he let her tongue in before he knew she was doing it, astounded him so much he opened his eyes and saw her staring at him. She laughed without pulling away, and the laugh was deep in his mouth, and he prayed neither of his parents would walk in, not now.

She broke the kiss, but didn’t move away. “Listen, after the concert?”

He waited.

“If your folks let you — I mean, you being in the hospital and all, they may not even think it’s a good thing for you to go — but if they do let you, maybe we can go to Beacher’s after.”

He laughed. “And try the Don Boyd Special?”

“You know?” And she laughed, rocking slowly as her finger moved to his groin, traced the bulge there, and retreated. “All right! The Don Boyd Special it is!”

All he could do was nod, and swallow, and watch the play of her buttocks beneath the skin of her jeans.

Jesus, he thought; oh Jesus.

someone was screaming and there was blood on his hands

He closed his eyes and saw Jeff take Tracey’s hand, and saw the promise in Chris’s eyes, and felt someone in the room, watching him and not moving.

Please, no, he thought, and opened his eyes with a soundless gasp.

Fleet stood at the foot of the bed. His face was lined, his eyes red-rimmed, and his hands gripped the metal footboard while he examined Don’s face.

“God, you scared me,” Don said, smiling.

Fleet nodded.

“Hey, you okay?”

“I’m supposed to ask you that, m’man,” Robinson answered, his smile only a pulling back of his lips. “Shit, you done it good, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t … I don’t remember everything, exactly.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

Fleet pushed away from the bed, and the light from the window put half his face in shadow.

“Thanks,” he said then, in a voice barely heard. “Thanks. For Mandy.”

Don didn’t know what to say, nor did he know what to do when Fleet came suddenly around the bed and leaned close enough to touch. “I wanted that dude, Donny boy,” he said, the words scraped out of his throat. “I wanted that fucker myself, can you understand that?”

Don nodded, afraid that Robinson was going to hit him.

Fleet nodded back as if a point had been made, straightened, and walked out without saying another word.

Dr. Naugle came in, Joyce and Norman behind, and before Don could ask anything, there were reporters in the room. They were quiet but eager, and they had apparently agreed before hand on the rotation of questions. He did the best he could with some help from his father who sat on his one side while his mother sat on the other, and he tried not to squint in the glare of the lights or lose his temper when one of them suggested offhandedly that Brian’s story was somewhat closer to the actual fact than the police report; he made a few self-deprecating jokes they laughed at politely, and just as politely he refused when a photographer wanted him to hold a bat like a club; a woman reporter asked about girlfriends and his running; a man in a tweed suit made his throat freeze up; and when someone asked how he felt about the medal, he said in a quiet voice he was pleased and didn’t deserve it.

They left without a fuss when Dr. Naugle called time.

His parents left him alone to dress in the clothes they had brought.

And when he was tucking in his shirt, the nurse returned with a wheelchair.

“Do I have to use that?” he said, pointing with one hand while the other hurried to zip his fly and buckle his belt. “I can walk.”

“If you don’t, I’ll have to carry you.”

He grinned and took the seat.

And there were more pictures at the hospital entrance, and while he was getting into the station wagon, and while the wagon pulled away slowly from the curb. He wanted his father to hurry, and didn’t want to think that the smile on the man’s face was meant for more than him.

When they arrived home, there was a police car at the curb and Sergeant Quintero on the sidewalk. He opened the door for Joyce and took Don’s hand when he climbed out weakly. The moment was awkward because he knew the man wanted to say something about the Howler, about Tracey, and he was rescued by Joyce, who hustled him inside after a quick invitation to the patrolman to come in when he could and have a cup of coffee.

In the foyer he glanced up the stairwell and let himself be led into the living room, where he was put in on the sofa. A fussing over him he enjoyed and didn’t care for, and with apologetic smiles his parents left him alone.

He looked around, thinking things should be different, realizing with a start he hadn’t been gone for even a full day. It unsettled him. Time shouldn’t have stretched so far, shouldn’t have had so much crammed in, yet his father’s chair hadn’t moved, and there was an empty cup on the floor beside it, folders on the couch, magazines on the end table. Nothing had changed, and suddenly he was convinced that somehow, this time it should have.

They returned with steaming coffee, and a can of soda for him. He grinned as his father sagged loudly into the chair and kicked off his shoes, squirmed when his mother dumped the folders on the floor and knelt on the cushion beside him. She kept looking at her watch.

“Well!” Norman said explosively, and took a sip of his drink.

Joyce hugged him quickly and gave him an impish grin.

“Are you all right, son?” Norman asked solemnly. “I mean, really all right?”

“I think so,” he answered truthfully. “A little shaky, but I think I’m okay.”

“Good,” his mother said, retreating to her corner. Then there were tears. “God, I was so frightened!”

“We both were,” his father said when Don reached out a hand to touch Joyce’s leg. “From the moment we found you gone, we were scared to death something had happened to you.”

The tone in the man’s voice made him turn. “Oh,” he said then. “Oh, shit.”

“Right,” Norman said, sternly but not unkindly. “I got up to get a glass of water and I saw your door open. You were gone, Donald. It was almost midnight and you were gone. You can’t imagine what we thought.”

“You ran away,” his mother said. “I mean, that’s what we thought — that you’d run away or something.” Her smile was one-sided and her laugh was abrupt. “I was going to call the police, can you believe it?”

“I couldn’t imagine,” Norman said tightly, “where you had gone. We took the car and started to look for you. We drove around the whole neighborhood trying to figure out what the hell you were doing to us, why you’d do something stupid like this.”

Don swallowed. “I couldn’t sleep,” he explained. “I went for a walk.”

“Without telling us?”

“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You drove your mother crazy, you know that, don’t you?”

I’m a hero, he thought then; I’m a hero, don’t you remember?

Norman slumped back in his chair and covered his face with his hands, rubbed, pulled, then shook his head. “You could have been killed.”

Joyce started to cry.

“But Dad—”

“You could have been goddamned killed!” Norman said, his hands flat on the armrests. “We could have gotten a phone call in the middle of the night, and we would have had to tell the police we didn’t even know you were gone. In our own house, our own son, and we didn’t even know you were gone! Jesus Christ, Don, if you ever do that again, I’ll break your neck!”

Don struggled to understand — they were mad because they were afraid for him, afraid because he was their son; yet he couldn’t help the rise of his own temper when he saw the expression on his father’s face, a hard and murderous look untempered by compassion or relief. A glance to his mother— she was drying her face with the backs of her hands, bravely smiling to show him he was right, and this was only their after-the-fact reaction.

Then her eye caught the hands of the clock on the mantel and she uncurled with a loving pat to his knee. “I’ve got to get dinner,” she announced. “There’s only a couple of hours before the concert and … oh, Lord, I’ll never be ready in time. Never. Norm, would you mind peeling the potatoes. I’ve got to start—” She took a step toward her husband, looked at the clock again and rushed out of the room. “Lord!” she called. “Please, just three or four more hands, what do you say?”

Norman laughed indulgently and winked at his son. “It’s a big night for her, you know,” he said. “For all of us.”

“Oh, god,” Don whispered. “Oh, god, do I have to go?”

“Do you feel up to it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if you don’t, we’ll understand.” His fingers tented under his chin. “It would be nice, though. There are a lot of people grateful to you for what you did last night.” The fingers folded into a double fist. “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I would have thought, to be honest, you didn’t have it in you.” He glared then to keep Don from responding. “You scared the shit out of me, son. Don’t you ever do that again.”

“Dad, I’m sorry.”

He stood, shook off an instant of dizziness, and watched as Norman pushed himself out of the chair. They faced each other for several seconds, and Don waited for the hug.

“The potatoes,” Norman said with an uneasy laugh. “Your mother’ll have my hide. C’mon, give me a hand.”

Don followed him into the foyer, but veered off to the stairs instead of the kitchen. When his father turned, he said, “I need to clean up, Dad.” He wrinkled his nose. “I smell like disinfectant, you know? I’ll be down in time for supper, don’t worry I just …”

He gestured vaguely toward the second floor and Norman nodded, gave him a big smile, and went off, whistling.

They were afraid for you, he told himself as he took the stairs slowly; they really are proud of you, really they are.

In the hallway he hesitated, then turned into his room and stopped. Gasped. Held on to the jamb and felt his jaw working.

“I went up to the attic after we saw you this morning,” Joyce said behind him, her voice small.

He didn’t jump. He only nodded. And he walked slowly in with a grin on his face, giving silent greetings to his pets back on their shelves, to the panther on the wall over his headboard, and the elephants that once again flanked his door. There was a bit of dust on the bobcat, and a cobweb on hawk, but he didn’t care as long as they were back where they belonged.

“Don, I’m sorry.”

She hadn’t come into the room, waiting in the hall as if for an invitation. He turned and smiled at her, ducked his head and shrugged. She was expectant, her hands twisting around her hairbrush, waiting for his reaction, waiting for absolution.

Then he looked to the desk and the empty space above it.

“Where is it?” he asked, more sharply than he’d intended. “I had a poster up there too. Where is it, Mom?”

“What?” Joyce came in, looked, and nodded. “Oh. Well, I wasn’t sure about that one, so I took it down and put it in the hall closet. I’ll get it if you want.”

“But why?” he said plaintively as she started up the hall.

She stopped, returned and swept an arm through the air. “Well, with all these animals and things around, I … well, I didn’t think you really wanted a picture of just some trees.”