to a halt outside, he left his car and strolled to the front door of the apartment building. He punched in the code on the keypad with one stubby index finger, and the door clicked open. Parker had never given him the code, but one night he had found the numbers on a crumpled up Post-it note in the lobby. One of the residents was forgetful, it seemed.
He jimmied Parker’s door open and let himself inside. Francis felt more relaxed now that he was off the street. He let out a sigh; his plan was to wait for Parker to return home from MIT. None of the windows in her apartment were open, and the air was stifling. He called for Fritz, but the dog didn’t come.
Francis pulled out his gun. Cocking his head, he listened for any sound; not hearing any, he made his way to the bedroom.
He spied a head outside of the window and detected a voice talking to Fritz.
Slipping his gun back into his kakis, Francis shook his head. Parker was talking to Fritz. What fresh hell was this?
***
Parker found that once she began telling her story to the dog, she couldn’t stop. For years, everything had been bottled up inside her. The words bubbled out of her like foam from a shaken beer can.
“Hello.” Francis walked out, onto the deck.
Parker, still in her PJs, nodded in acknowledgement.
“Are you ill?” queried Francis.
Parker shook her head and let out a long breath.
Francis wanted to smile but didn’t, knowing it was the wrong emotion to reveal. Tough Parker had finally let down her walls and opened up to Ida’s dog. His cousin would have gotten a kick out of seeing her there, in her PJs, talking to Fritz. Ida would have appreciated the fact that Parker had chosen a dog to confide in, rather than a person.
“Shall we order a pizza? I’m craving Gordy’s.” Francis didn’t wait for an answer he knew would never come. He placed the order quickly and then sat down next to the girl. Fritz scooted over for a pat, and then returned to his post at Parker’s feet.
***
The Woolf brothers sat in their car, staking out Parker’s street and hoping Claudia was nearby. The encounter in Gordy’s had shaken them both up. Otis and Boyd knew they couldn’t leave town until they took care of the damn thing once and for all. The messenger squeezing Otis’s thigh was too much for the fragile mind of a man who could never escape his childhood.
As Otis slept, Boyd remembered their uncle.
Fucking pervert! screamed Boyd’s thoughts.
The boys’ father was never around, so their mom had been relieved when her husband’s brother started dropping by to help out.
When their uncle had decided to take Otis fishing alone, no one thought anything about it. He wanted bonding time, suggested the uncle. He wanted to teach his brother’s youngest child how to fish.
“Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach him to fish and feed him for a lifetime,” he had said.
Boyd and his mother fell for it: hook, line, and sinker.
When Otis returned from the first fishing expedition, he was ecstatic. He had caught two catfish, which he proudly handed over to his mom, proclaiming, “Dinner’s on me!”
The second time, Otis hadn’t caught any fish, and he returned in a horrible mood. When their mom asked where her dinner was, Otis had broken into tears and run away.
Boyd decided not to ask him what happened.
Otis didn’t catch fish on the next five outings, either. After each trip, he was quieter than normal and didn’t want to be around anyone. His mom didn’t pick up on any signs. But Boyd did. Otis never was a chatty kid, but he always enjoyed following Boyd all over their small, dusty town. When Boyd saw him sitting morosely under a lone tree by a dried-up creek, the older brother knew something fishy had happened.
After the sixth failed fishing expedition, Boyd approached Otis by the tree. His younger brother sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, and his body heaved as if he was crying.
Boyd had only seen Otis cry like that
He jimmied Parker’s door open and let himself inside. Francis felt more relaxed now that he was off the street. He let out a sigh; his plan was to wait for Parker to return home from MIT. None of the windows in her apartment were open, and the air was stifling. He called for Fritz, but the dog didn’t come.
Francis pulled out his gun. Cocking his head, he listened for any sound; not hearing any, he made his way to the bedroom.
He spied a head outside of the window and detected a voice talking to Fritz.
Slipping his gun back into his kakis, Francis shook his head. Parker was talking to Fritz. What fresh hell was this?
***
Parker found that once she began telling her story to the dog, she couldn’t stop. For years, everything had been bottled up inside her. The words bubbled out of her like foam from a shaken beer can.
“Hello.” Francis walked out, onto the deck.
Parker, still in her PJs, nodded in acknowledgement.
“Are you ill?” queried Francis.
Parker shook her head and let out a long breath.
Francis wanted to smile but didn’t, knowing it was the wrong emotion to reveal. Tough Parker had finally let down her walls and opened up to Ida’s dog. His cousin would have gotten a kick out of seeing her there, in her PJs, talking to Fritz. Ida would have appreciated the fact that Parker had chosen a dog to confide in, rather than a person.
“Shall we order a pizza? I’m craving Gordy’s.” Francis didn’t wait for an answer he knew would never come. He placed the order quickly and then sat down next to the girl. Fritz scooted over for a pat, and then returned to his post at Parker’s feet.
***
The Woolf brothers sat in their car, staking out Parker’s street and hoping Claudia was nearby. The encounter in Gordy’s had shaken them both up. Otis and Boyd knew they couldn’t leave town until they took care of the damn thing once and for all. The messenger squeezing Otis’s thigh was too much for the fragile mind of a man who could never escape his childhood.
As Otis slept, Boyd remembered their uncle.
Fucking pervert! screamed Boyd’s thoughts.
The boys’ father was never around, so their mom had been relieved when her husband’s brother started dropping by to help out.
When their uncle had decided to take Otis fishing alone, no one thought anything about it. He wanted bonding time, suggested the uncle. He wanted to teach his brother’s youngest child how to fish.
“Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach him to fish and feed him for a lifetime,” he had said.
Boyd and his mother fell for it: hook, line, and sinker.
When Otis returned from the first fishing expedition, he was ecstatic. He had caught two catfish, which he proudly handed over to his mom, proclaiming, “Dinner’s on me!”
The second time, Otis hadn’t caught any fish, and he returned in a horrible mood. When their mom asked where her dinner was, Otis had broken into tears and run away.
Boyd decided not to ask him what happened.
Otis didn’t catch fish on the next five outings, either. After each trip, he was quieter than normal and didn’t want to be around anyone. His mom didn’t pick up on any signs. But Boyd did. Otis never was a chatty kid, but he always enjoyed following Boyd all over their small, dusty town. When Boyd saw him sitting morosely under a lone tree by a dried-up creek, the older brother knew something fishy had happened.
After the sixth failed fishing expedition, Boyd approached Otis by the tree. His younger brother sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, and his body heaved as if he was crying.
Boyd had only seen Otis cry like that
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