Read Online Footprints in the Butter by Denise Dietz - Free Book Online
Authors: Denise Dietz
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convention, flash a few brainless smiles, and never be recognized.
On the other hand, why take foolhardy chances?
Skirting the next door neighbor’s front lawn, I climbed their back fence, cut across their yard, and heard the sound of thundering bass—a deep growl that momentarily left me standing stock still. Then I saw it, and my sneaker-clad feet, on their own accord, began to skim grass, decorative rocks and cultivated flower beds. I hurdled an ornate doghouse that boasted the letters T-O-N-T-O. I heard the Lone Ranger’s theme and recalled Wylie’s wrinkled-toothless comment.
Although Tonto was wrinkled, he definitely wasn’t toothless. A combination Shar-pei and Loch Ness monster, he very nearly bayoneted the seat of my jeans.
Desperate, I turned and shouted, “Tonto, sit! Tonto, stay! Tonto, friend! Tonto, kemosabe! ”
It worked. The monster flopped to the dirt, drooled saliva, and glared at me from above his corrugated snout.
After climbing the fence, I swung my shaky legs over the top, loosened my hold, and landed in Patty’s backyard. My ankles protested but no bones snapped. Then I listened for the sound of Tonto’s body whooshing over the fence, or his paws digging, but all I heard was a disappointed growl-whimper and the muted music of the buzzing media.
How would I return to my car?
I could try the Tonto stay, Tonto friend bit again, but I had a feeling the dog’s cerebral hemisphere was already regretting his capitulation. Next time he’d savor the fleshy cheeks inside my jeans.
Patty’s backyard was serene, almost pastoral. A manicured lawn—with birdhouse rather than doghouse—was protected by a periphery of blue-barked willows, gray poplars, white birch trees and dark green firs. No wonder the cat, Sinead, had chosen this safe haven over Tonto’s intimidating turf.
And yet a dark pall of despair curtained the sorbet sun, not to mention the birds who chirped their do-waps above the feeder.
Or was I imagining things?
One can’t see the forest for the trees, I thought, as I walked toward Patty’s back door.
She was standing there, watching me, an enigmatic smile on her face. As she ushered me into the kitchen, I had a momentary memory flash: Jacqueline Kennedy . Patty reminded me of Jackie, after the assassination. Brave. Self-possessed. Even Patty’s tapered pants and cowl neck blouse had assumed a pleated, royal blue dignity. In high school she had worn her hair loose, a charcoal cloud. Now she tended to pull it away from her oval face. Today she’d clasped the shiny strands inside a jeweled barrette, emphasizing the two diamond teardrops that pierced her perfect earlobes. However, not one salty teardrop betrayed Patty’s cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor.
“Your sweater smells moldy,” she said by way of greeting, crinkling her cute nose.
“Hey, kiddo,” I said softly. “This is me, Ingrid. You don’t have to keep your true feelings hidden.”
Her velvet-brown eyes revealed—what? Exhaustion? No, annoyance.
Strolling over to a window, she straightened the frilly curtains, pulled a dead leaf from a window plant, turned toward me again.
“What do you mean by hidden?” she asked.
“Cry, Patty. Boohoo, keen, wail…”
I paused as I recalled her reaction upon learning about Stewie. Everybody else had gotten rip-roaring drunk. We had listened to Jimi’s fire-breathing anarchy, especially his controversial “Star Spangled Banner.” Then, while Marianne Faithful crooned “Sister Morphine,” Ben swiftly propelled me into the bathroom and held my head. Afterwards, gargling mouthwash, I vowed never to drink again. Naturally, I broke that vow. Because booze dulled the anguish. Because booze brought a nebulous state that allowed my body to experience guilt-free orgasm, to explode internally, even though I couldn’t erase the image of Stewie’s body exploding externally.
Ben and I had already parted. In fact, he had flown back from Ithaca and attended our improvised wake
On the other hand, why take foolhardy chances?
Skirting the next door neighbor’s front lawn, I climbed their back fence, cut across their yard, and heard the sound of thundering bass—a deep growl that momentarily left me standing stock still. Then I saw it, and my sneaker-clad feet, on their own accord, began to skim grass, decorative rocks and cultivated flower beds. I hurdled an ornate doghouse that boasted the letters T-O-N-T-O. I heard the Lone Ranger’s theme and recalled Wylie’s wrinkled-toothless comment.
Although Tonto was wrinkled, he definitely wasn’t toothless. A combination Shar-pei and Loch Ness monster, he very nearly bayoneted the seat of my jeans.
Desperate, I turned and shouted, “Tonto, sit! Tonto, stay! Tonto, friend! Tonto, kemosabe! ”
It worked. The monster flopped to the dirt, drooled saliva, and glared at me from above his corrugated snout.
After climbing the fence, I swung my shaky legs over the top, loosened my hold, and landed in Patty’s backyard. My ankles protested but no bones snapped. Then I listened for the sound of Tonto’s body whooshing over the fence, or his paws digging, but all I heard was a disappointed growl-whimper and the muted music of the buzzing media.
How would I return to my car?
I could try the Tonto stay, Tonto friend bit again, but I had a feeling the dog’s cerebral hemisphere was already regretting his capitulation. Next time he’d savor the fleshy cheeks inside my jeans.
Patty’s backyard was serene, almost pastoral. A manicured lawn—with birdhouse rather than doghouse—was protected by a periphery of blue-barked willows, gray poplars, white birch trees and dark green firs. No wonder the cat, Sinead, had chosen this safe haven over Tonto’s intimidating turf.
And yet a dark pall of despair curtained the sorbet sun, not to mention the birds who chirped their do-waps above the feeder.
Or was I imagining things?
One can’t see the forest for the trees, I thought, as I walked toward Patty’s back door.
She was standing there, watching me, an enigmatic smile on her face. As she ushered me into the kitchen, I had a momentary memory flash: Jacqueline Kennedy . Patty reminded me of Jackie, after the assassination. Brave. Self-possessed. Even Patty’s tapered pants and cowl neck blouse had assumed a pleated, royal blue dignity. In high school she had worn her hair loose, a charcoal cloud. Now she tended to pull it away from her oval face. Today she’d clasped the shiny strands inside a jeweled barrette, emphasizing the two diamond teardrops that pierced her perfect earlobes. However, not one salty teardrop betrayed Patty’s cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor.
“Your sweater smells moldy,” she said by way of greeting, crinkling her cute nose.
“Hey, kiddo,” I said softly. “This is me, Ingrid. You don’t have to keep your true feelings hidden.”
Her velvet-brown eyes revealed—what? Exhaustion? No, annoyance.
Strolling over to a window, she straightened the frilly curtains, pulled a dead leaf from a window plant, turned toward me again.
“What do you mean by hidden?” she asked.
“Cry, Patty. Boohoo, keen, wail…”
I paused as I recalled her reaction upon learning about Stewie. Everybody else had gotten rip-roaring drunk. We had listened to Jimi’s fire-breathing anarchy, especially his controversial “Star Spangled Banner.” Then, while Marianne Faithful crooned “Sister Morphine,” Ben swiftly propelled me into the bathroom and held my head. Afterwards, gargling mouthwash, I vowed never to drink again. Naturally, I broke that vow. Because booze dulled the anguish. Because booze brought a nebulous state that allowed my body to experience guilt-free orgasm, to explode internally, even though I couldn’t erase the image of Stewie’s body exploding externally.
Ben and I had already parted. In fact, he had flown back from Ithaca and attended our improvised wake
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