Read Online Little Deadly Things by Harry Steinman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harry Steinman
Ads: Link
Jim. Ringer’s ears pricked.
“You too lazy to vacuum?”
Dad held the mass, extended his hand, and dropped it back on the carpet. “You think this is clean?” He swept his right arm across Jim’s desk, knocking pens and pencils to the floor.
“I’m sorry. I’ll do it again.”
Too late. Dad’s face reddened and he picked up his son, his flesh and blood, the vessel of his hopes and dreams. With one arm around the boy’s chest, the other around his legs, Dad held him head first like a SWAT officer might hold a battering ram, poised at a felon’s front door. He swept the boy across the desk. Jim’s books, tallest to smallest, scattered.
“You damned well better learn to clean up after that goddamn dog.”
It’s not Ringer’s fault, Jim thought, but kept silent—no way to know how Dad might react.
That was the problem. Jim never knew what to expect from his father. He thought of last summer’s family vacation. They drove the rocky central California coast through Big Sur, north toward San Francisco. The narrow ribbon of road hugged steep cliffs and presented spectacular ocean views. Jim peered down to the Pacific and back to the car’s odometer, counting down the miles to Monterey. The Monterey Bay Aquarium drew him as surely as a siren’s call. Never mind that the Parkfield earthquake destroyed half of the collection just nine months earlier. The Kelp Forest survived and Jim was eager to see the thirty-foot fronds sway in an oversized tank.
What set off Dad that morning? Maybe it was the traffic or something between his parents. They seemed to have a special language—one with unspoken shades of anxious meaning, an emotional carrier wave under plain words. As Dad instructed his car to pay for parking, Jim urged his father to hurry. There was a whole forest of kelp to see. Dad turned and slapped him. Not too hard, nothing that would leave a mark. Dad called that his Simmer Down Slap.
From up the street, someone yelled out, “Hey! Leave the kid alone!”
Dad ignored it, but not Jim. This was a family affair. Before he could stop himself, Jim yelled back, “He can hit me anytime he wants!”
Uh-oh. There’s going to be heck to pay for that one.
But Dad’s shoulders drooped. “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go see the kelp. Just don’t talk like that again, okay?”
Dad was quiet that day, even kind. But that was Dad. He might beat Jim with a belt, and often did, but then he was quick-witted, engaging, eager to explain how the world worked.
But not today. Not when Jim failed inspection.
As he left Jim’s room, Dad aimed a kick at the Ringer’s hindquarters. The dog scampered out of reach.
“Please don’t hurt Ringer. It’s not her fault.” Frustration and rage were boiling inside of him and he struggled to control his voice.
“Don’t
you
tell
me
what do!” He turned and stepped back toward the dog.
Too much. Jim took three fast steps to stand in front of his father and screamed, “DON’T YOU TOUCH MY DOG!”
Dad looked startled. “Or what? How are
you
gonna stop me?”
Jim’s hands shook but he clenched them into fists. Dad raised one hand in a warning but Jim stood his ground. After all, there is something about a boy and his dog.
“Get to work. Clean your goddam room.”
The door slammed behind Dad and Jim knelt to hug Ringer.
“It’s okay, girl. It’s okay.” He shook as the adrenaline in his bloodstream tried to activate every muscle in his body.
Jim caressed the dog’s long, smooth muscles, running his hands from her withers to her hips. Ringer’s ears moved back as the effleurage calmed them both. The simple act of stroking the dog—and being stroked by the boy—triggered a release of oxytocin in both the boy and his dog. The hormone enhanced their bond and calmed them.
Jim stroked Ringer from shoulders to brisket, collecting dog hair as he went. He twisted it into a ball so that it would not litter his room, adding it to the offensive mass discovered
“You too lazy to vacuum?”
Dad held the mass, extended his hand, and dropped it back on the carpet. “You think this is clean?” He swept his right arm across Jim’s desk, knocking pens and pencils to the floor.
“I’m sorry. I’ll do it again.”
Too late. Dad’s face reddened and he picked up his son, his flesh and blood, the vessel of his hopes and dreams. With one arm around the boy’s chest, the other around his legs, Dad held him head first like a SWAT officer might hold a battering ram, poised at a felon’s front door. He swept the boy across the desk. Jim’s books, tallest to smallest, scattered.
“You damned well better learn to clean up after that goddamn dog.”
It’s not Ringer’s fault, Jim thought, but kept silent—no way to know how Dad might react.
That was the problem. Jim never knew what to expect from his father. He thought of last summer’s family vacation. They drove the rocky central California coast through Big Sur, north toward San Francisco. The narrow ribbon of road hugged steep cliffs and presented spectacular ocean views. Jim peered down to the Pacific and back to the car’s odometer, counting down the miles to Monterey. The Monterey Bay Aquarium drew him as surely as a siren’s call. Never mind that the Parkfield earthquake destroyed half of the collection just nine months earlier. The Kelp Forest survived and Jim was eager to see the thirty-foot fronds sway in an oversized tank.
What set off Dad that morning? Maybe it was the traffic or something between his parents. They seemed to have a special language—one with unspoken shades of anxious meaning, an emotional carrier wave under plain words. As Dad instructed his car to pay for parking, Jim urged his father to hurry. There was a whole forest of kelp to see. Dad turned and slapped him. Not too hard, nothing that would leave a mark. Dad called that his Simmer Down Slap.
From up the street, someone yelled out, “Hey! Leave the kid alone!”
Dad ignored it, but not Jim. This was a family affair. Before he could stop himself, Jim yelled back, “He can hit me anytime he wants!”
Uh-oh. There’s going to be heck to pay for that one.
But Dad’s shoulders drooped. “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go see the kelp. Just don’t talk like that again, okay?”
Dad was quiet that day, even kind. But that was Dad. He might beat Jim with a belt, and often did, but then he was quick-witted, engaging, eager to explain how the world worked.
But not today. Not when Jim failed inspection.
As he left Jim’s room, Dad aimed a kick at the Ringer’s hindquarters. The dog scampered out of reach.
“Please don’t hurt Ringer. It’s not her fault.” Frustration and rage were boiling inside of him and he struggled to control his voice.
“Don’t
you
tell
me
what do!” He turned and stepped back toward the dog.
Too much. Jim took three fast steps to stand in front of his father and screamed, “DON’T YOU TOUCH MY DOG!”
Dad looked startled. “Or what? How are
you
gonna stop me?”
Jim’s hands shook but he clenched them into fists. Dad raised one hand in a warning but Jim stood his ground. After all, there is something about a boy and his dog.
“Get to work. Clean your goddam room.”
The door slammed behind Dad and Jim knelt to hug Ringer.
“It’s okay, girl. It’s okay.” He shook as the adrenaline in his bloodstream tried to activate every muscle in his body.
Jim caressed the dog’s long, smooth muscles, running his hands from her withers to her hips. Ringer’s ears moved back as the effleurage calmed them both. The simple act of stroking the dog—and being stroked by the boy—triggered a release of oxytocin in both the boy and his dog. The hormone enhanced their bond and calmed them.
Jim stroked Ringer from shoulders to brisket, collecting dog hair as he went. He twisted it into a ball so that it would not litter his room, adding it to the offensive mass discovered
Similar Books
