her nose.
“Did I say you could go out? Get in. In, in, in!”
“It’s Kevin, Mama.”
“I don’t care if it’s Jesus Christ, pumpkin.” She reached forward and straightened his collar. “You know how easily you catch cold, baby.”
She ushered Bob toward the door.
“He wants to see—”
“Be nice for Princess.” She gave him a little shove. “In.”
God bless her soul, Balinda really did intend good for that boy. She was misguided and foolish, certainly, but she loved Bob.
Kevin swallowed and glanced at his watch. Two minutes. He cut for the gate while her back was still turned.
“And just where does the stranger think he’s going?”
“I just want to check on the dog. I’ll be gone before you know it.”
He reached the gate and yanked it open.
“Gone! You’ve turned running away into a new art form, haven’t you, college boy?”
“Not now, Balinda,” he said calmly. His breathing came faster. She marched up behind him. He strode down the side of the house.
“At least show a little respect when you’re on my grounds,” she said.
He checked himself. Closed his eyes. Opened them. “Please, not now, Princess.”
“That’s better. The dog’s fine. You, on the other hand, are not.”
Kevin rounded the house and stopped. The familiar yard sat unchanged. Black. Balinda called it a garden, but the backyard was nothing more than one huge ash heap, albeit a fairly tidy ash heap, three feet deep at its center, tapering off to two feet along the fence. A fifty-five-gallon drum smoldered at the center of the yard—they were still burning. Burning, burning, every day burning. How many news-apers and books had been burned back here over the years? Enough for many tons of ash.
The doghouse stood as it always had, in the back left corner. A toolshed sat unused and in terrible need of paint in the other corner. The ash had piled up against its door.
Kevin stepped onto the hardened ash and then ran across the yard for the doghouse. Less than a minute. He dropped to one knee, peered into the doghouse, and was rewarded with a growl.
“Easy, Damon. It’s me, Kevin.” The old black lab had grown senile and testy, but he immediately recognized Kevin’s voice. He whimpered and limped out. A chain was latched to his collar.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Balinda demanded.
“Good boy.” Kevin stuck his head into the old doghouse and squinted in the darkness. No bomb that he could see. He stood and walked around the small house.
Nothing.
“What is he doing, Princess?”
Kevin turned back to the house at the sound of his uncle’s voice. Eugene stood on the back porch, staring out at him. He wore his customary English-style boots and riding pants complete with suspenders and a beret. The skinny man looked more like a jockey to Kevin, but in Balinda’s eyes, he was a prince. He’d worn the same outfit for at least ten years. Before that it was a Henry V outfit, awkward and clumsy on such a petite man.
Balinda stood at the edge of the house, watching Kevin with wary eyes. The shade lifted in the window to her left—Kevin’s old room. Bob peered out. The past stared at him through those three sets of eyes.
He looked down at his watch. Thirty minutes had come and gone. He reached down and patted the dog. “Good boy.” He unleashed him, tossed the chain to the side, and headed back for the gate.
“What do you think you are doing with my property?” Balinda asked.
“I thought he could use some exercise.”
“You came all the way out here to let that old bat off his chain? What do you take me for? An idiot?” She turned to the dog, who was following Kevin. “Damon! Back in your house. Back!”
The dog stopped.
“Don’t just stand there, Eugene! Control that animal!”
Eugene immediately perked up. He took two steps toward the dog and flung out a flimsy arm. “Damon! Bad dog! Get back. Get back immediately.”
The dog just stared at them.
“Try it with your horse
“Did I say you could go out? Get in. In, in, in!”
“It’s Kevin, Mama.”
“I don’t care if it’s Jesus Christ, pumpkin.” She reached forward and straightened his collar. “You know how easily you catch cold, baby.”
She ushered Bob toward the door.
“He wants to see—”
“Be nice for Princess.” She gave him a little shove. “In.”
God bless her soul, Balinda really did intend good for that boy. She was misguided and foolish, certainly, but she loved Bob.
Kevin swallowed and glanced at his watch. Two minutes. He cut for the gate while her back was still turned.
“And just where does the stranger think he’s going?”
“I just want to check on the dog. I’ll be gone before you know it.”
He reached the gate and yanked it open.
“Gone! You’ve turned running away into a new art form, haven’t you, college boy?”
“Not now, Balinda,” he said calmly. His breathing came faster. She marched up behind him. He strode down the side of the house.
“At least show a little respect when you’re on my grounds,” she said.
He checked himself. Closed his eyes. Opened them. “Please, not now, Princess.”
“That’s better. The dog’s fine. You, on the other hand, are not.”
Kevin rounded the house and stopped. The familiar yard sat unchanged. Black. Balinda called it a garden, but the backyard was nothing more than one huge ash heap, albeit a fairly tidy ash heap, three feet deep at its center, tapering off to two feet along the fence. A fifty-five-gallon drum smoldered at the center of the yard—they were still burning. Burning, burning, every day burning. How many news-apers and books had been burned back here over the years? Enough for many tons of ash.
The doghouse stood as it always had, in the back left corner. A toolshed sat unused and in terrible need of paint in the other corner. The ash had piled up against its door.
Kevin stepped onto the hardened ash and then ran across the yard for the doghouse. Less than a minute. He dropped to one knee, peered into the doghouse, and was rewarded with a growl.
“Easy, Damon. It’s me, Kevin.” The old black lab had grown senile and testy, but he immediately recognized Kevin’s voice. He whimpered and limped out. A chain was latched to his collar.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Balinda demanded.
“Good boy.” Kevin stuck his head into the old doghouse and squinted in the darkness. No bomb that he could see. He stood and walked around the small house.
Nothing.
“What is he doing, Princess?”
Kevin turned back to the house at the sound of his uncle’s voice. Eugene stood on the back porch, staring out at him. He wore his customary English-style boots and riding pants complete with suspenders and a beret. The skinny man looked more like a jockey to Kevin, but in Balinda’s eyes, he was a prince. He’d worn the same outfit for at least ten years. Before that it was a Henry V outfit, awkward and clumsy on such a petite man.
Balinda stood at the edge of the house, watching Kevin with wary eyes. The shade lifted in the window to her left—Kevin’s old room. Bob peered out. The past stared at him through those three sets of eyes.
He looked down at his watch. Thirty minutes had come and gone. He reached down and patted the dog. “Good boy.” He unleashed him, tossed the chain to the side, and headed back for the gate.
“What do you think you are doing with my property?” Balinda asked.
“I thought he could use some exercise.”
“You came all the way out here to let that old bat off his chain? What do you take me for? An idiot?” She turned to the dog, who was following Kevin. “Damon! Back in your house. Back!”
The dog stopped.
“Don’t just stand there, Eugene! Control that animal!”
Eugene immediately perked up. He took two steps toward the dog and flung out a flimsy arm. “Damon! Bad dog! Get back. Get back immediately.”
The dog just stared at them.
“Try it with your horse
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