Wooster said, “You’re better than TV, Paul. We were mesmerized waiting to see who’d win, right Ronnie?”
Ronnie nodded and said, “You did it Mr. Compton. You cut that tree down.”
Paul nodded his head at the boy, mussed his hair and said, “I sure did Ronnie. Couldn’t have done it without all your support either.”
Ronnie blushed a little and said, “Yeah.”
It was near twelve and after they sat for a moment, Ronnie’s mom called out the front door, “Ronnie! Lunch time!” Ronnie slid from his chair and said, “I have to go eat lunch now. Bye Mr. McDowel. Bye Mr. Compton.” He turned and headed off the porch. He said no more to either man. It was the way Ronnie was. You could get more from him, but it was in little bits. Today he just said, “Bye.” Another day he’d say, “I had fun.” Now and then he’d even say, “I love you.”
Wooster and Paul chorused after him, “Bye Ronnie.”
When he was gone, Paul settled into the empty rocker. “He’s a good boy,” he said. Mostly just saying it out loud.
Wooster nodded and said, “Yeah. He is a good boy.”
They looked at one another and smiled. This scene, with variations had been played out time and again, and would be time and again in the future. The two men understood how it was with Ronnie. They knew that what they wouldn’t get from him one day, they’d get another day. Both knew that sometimes you just had to be tenacious about the ones you love.
Dog
Marjorie Wilkins shook her head and cursed. Then she yelled to her boy Tommy to “get your lazy ass down here to breakfast!” She shook the paper out again and snuffed at the headline once more before turning the page: “Dog beaten by men.” It seems some guys had a dog they had found. It was a good dog (so they admitted to the police) and would obey them unerringly. It was friendly, and energetic, and was an all-around good pet. So, since it trusted them implicitly (having been fed and washed for months by them), it didn’t fight when they chained it securely and started to beat it to death with baseball bats for the hell of it! Marjorie ticked her tongue with anger and muttered, “They should beat those bastards with baseball bats!” She shook the paper again, and growled, “Get your ass down here this minute young man!” at her stupid seven-year-old.
As Tommy careened into the kitchen to quickly take his place, Marjorie made a point of slapping him in the head. “What the hell are you doing?” she snapped as Tommy quietly began to eat his cereal. Marjorie gave a quick lecture on how much effort she had put into pouring the bowl of Froot Loops, emphasizing certain points by wagging her finger at the boy and pounding her fist on the table. Tommy was not exactly sure why mom was mad—it was not even his normal breakfast time—but he accepted the lecture and love-swats in silence, knowing she only disciplined him because she loved him. He knew this because she told him it was that way. Other kids didn’t get disciplined because their parents didn’t give a damn. Tommy was loved.
Having returned to her paper, Marjorie began to read a few other articles but could not shake the story of the dog. Apparently the Labrador had been a stray that some guy had found wandering near his job. He wanted a dog, and the pup was not too old, so he figured he could still train it. Besides, a lab might make a good hunting dog for him and his buddies. So, he had adopted the animal, and taken it home. The dog was overjoyed. It was being fed, and washed, and petted regularly, and had developed a strong attraction to the man. It had learned to trust him. He told the police the dog would do anything he commanded it. It would come, or sit, or be quiet. It was a good dog.
But then one night the guy had gotten drunk with his buddies and they had turned on the dog. At this point in her meandering thoughts Tommy spilled some milk and needed to be corrected. “You can be so stupid! Why aren’t you careful?” Marjorie fired at him. He cleaned it up. Tommy wasn’t always like that she thought. He was such a good boy for so long. He’d sleep for hours when she had first brought him home. And he sat with her in his stroller as she gardened without making a peep. Boy, those days were gone! It seemed like Tommy was nothing but trouble now, Marjorie thought.
Anyway, the guys had called the dog one day and it had dutifully come. “And why not?” thought Marjorie—“He trusted that man!” And they had chained the dog up so it couldn’t bite or escape. And they had begun to beat it with bats. Marjorie could not imagine the anguish of that unfortunate animal! Suddenly trapped by the chains, and the one person it expected to take care of it beating it to death! It was criminal! Marjorie could not get the image out of her head. “That poor, poor dog,” she muttered. “Put your dishes in the sink!” she squawked, “How many times must I tell you?” Tommy sure was a problem now. She was going to have to teach him.
Marjorie went to the cupboard and took down the spoon. Tommy’s color went white as he watched her settle onto her chair. She glared at the boy for a moment before tapping her lap. Tommy needed no more; he slowly slid from his seat, a soft tear welling in his eye, and tread over to his mother. Without help he dropped his pants and underwear, and lay over his mother’s knees. She gently wrapped an arm around him and drew him closer to her before she began. The wood spoon sang as it whistled down onto Tommy’s bare flesh in a rhythmic pattern. Mom never held back on love thought Tommy as soft sobs sputtered from his lips.
Goldfish
Dancing motes in soft, hazy air struck through with prism color, hover above the carpet. Their movement gives life to the hot room. The air seems to swirl in multi-colored vortices, which lead back to the bowl balanced on the flute of dark cherry standing by the window. There he sits, quiet, unobtrusive, stoic, suspended in warm fluid, watching.
Barbara scuffs quietly into the room. She glances at the old clock—10 to 6. Not long to wait now. The window shades are open at present. Not for long, she thinks. She can see the street, framed by sun bleached, blue curtains—their lively pattern of flowers now dim compared to the skein of life against which they lay. Tommy and Billy, the Carney twins, wrestle on their lawn, venting in play what surely lies more darkly in a mature form inside them. She raises her arm and draws the long, dark sweater across her nose. A thin trail of snot marks its passing. She sighs and glances at the clock—8 to 6. Not long to wait now.
Hanging motionless, he watches the dark form slip across the wide, glass expanse.
As she slips across the room Barbara’s hands fidget and fiddle with one another, mimicking what the Carney boys are doing across the street. First the left gains supremacy, then the right. One twists away while the other grasps. Constant motion akin to the up, down, in, out of a priest’s hands over a dying soul. Only the soul is not dying, and it’s not in front, but behind. She laughs softly at this thought when she sees her hands moving in the reflection from the mirror. “And there is no forgiveness from my hands, nor comfort,” she whispers. Only tedious motion. Her eyes play over the clock—5 to 6. Not long to wait now.
He angles away as the large white forms flash to and fro above him.
Standing at the window, Barbara can feel the heat coming from the glass. It is near on 100 degrees today.
