she looked a bit worried. “I suppose he’ll be all right a moment....”
Quinton glanced at me. “Grendel doesn’t stand a chance,” he muttered. “I’m betting on the kid.”
Mara stuck her head out the kitchen doorway and called out to her husband. “Ben! ’Tis Harper and Quinton. Come down, can you?”
We could hear him clumping down the stairs from the attic, the old wooden steps musical and echoing under his tread.
A shriek came from the backyard. Quinton, Mara, and I bolted back out to the screen porch and stared out at the yard. I don’t know about them, but I figured Grendel—the appetite on legs—had eaten Brian by now. But no: The boy was rolling around on the ground all right, but the dog was prancing about, wagging his whole butt in the air as Brian guffawed in whoops and gales like the maniac version of his mother’s own laughter.
Brian rolled onto his belly and, as we stared, Grendel trotted over and shoved him onto his back again, licking his face and nuzzling at him. Brian pulled himself up with his hands locked around the dog’s powerful neck and Grendel just stood there, grinning. Grendel received a lot of pats and scritches that rendered the dog into a wiggling mass of glee.
“Oh, yeah, the dog’s a goner,” Quinton murmured in my ear as Brian and Grendel started chasing each other back and forth across the yard.
“Hey, when’d we get a hellhound?” Ben Danziger asked from behind us. We all turned around—perfect synchrony that would have made Balanchine proud—and stared at him as he stood in the doorway from the kitchen and gazed over our heads at the yard beyond the screen. “Well, it doesn’t have three heads, so it can’t be Cerberus,” he added.
“That’s my neighbor’s dog, Grendel,” I said. “And no, he does not have a cat named Beowulf.”
Ben broke out laughing and almost fell, stumbling on the threshold plate of the doorway.
“We’re dog-sitting. My neighbor . . . got shot last night.”
Ben’s laughter cut off short and Mara looked alarmed.
“He’ll be OK,” I assured them, “but he can’t look after the dog for a while. And since it’s my fault he got shot—”
Quinton cut me off. “No, it isn’t. They were trying to kill the dog and Rick was just in the wrong place. That’s not your fault.”
“I told him to take the dog to the door.”
“You didn’t tell him to let it off the leash.”
Mara made sharp cutting gestures at us. “Stop it, the both of ya. I assume you’d not be here, arguing in my home, without a good reason. So. Whyn’t ya sit down and start tellin’ it, soon’s I’ve brought out a bit of food? I’ll not be listenin’ to such bickerin’ before breakfast.” She shooed us into wicker chairs around a wooden table and dragged Ben with her back inside to fetch and carry. Quinton and I kept eyes on Brian and the dog, but they only continued to play as if we weren’t there.
I refused coffee once it was offered, which got me some raised eyebrows, but I’d already had more caffeine than I needed if I was going to get any sleep soon. I played with a couple of the small biscuit-like scones Mara put in front of me along with a glass of water. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell the story—that was a big part of the reason we’d come—but I needed to put my thoughts in order before I started in. Quinton wouldn’t tell the tale for me, even if he’d known it all. It was an insane story, if you considered it. It was only because it had all built up over time, a bit here and there, that I could believe it myself.
“There’s a bit of a problem at my place and . . . I hoped we could presume on your hospitality for a day or two,” I started, keeping my voice low so as not to alarm Brian. “I haven’t had a lot of sleep lately and my condo isn’t safe for us to stay in right now. We need someplace secure to catch up and do some planning until things get better. I can’t imagine any place safer from Grey
Quinton glanced at me. “Grendel doesn’t stand a chance,” he muttered. “I’m betting on the kid.”
Mara stuck her head out the kitchen doorway and called out to her husband. “Ben! ’Tis Harper and Quinton. Come down, can you?”
We could hear him clumping down the stairs from the attic, the old wooden steps musical and echoing under his tread.
A shriek came from the backyard. Quinton, Mara, and I bolted back out to the screen porch and stared out at the yard. I don’t know about them, but I figured Grendel—the appetite on legs—had eaten Brian by now. But no: The boy was rolling around on the ground all right, but the dog was prancing about, wagging his whole butt in the air as Brian guffawed in whoops and gales like the maniac version of his mother’s own laughter.
Brian rolled onto his belly and, as we stared, Grendel trotted over and shoved him onto his back again, licking his face and nuzzling at him. Brian pulled himself up with his hands locked around the dog’s powerful neck and Grendel just stood there, grinning. Grendel received a lot of pats and scritches that rendered the dog into a wiggling mass of glee.
“Oh, yeah, the dog’s a goner,” Quinton murmured in my ear as Brian and Grendel started chasing each other back and forth across the yard.
“Hey, when’d we get a hellhound?” Ben Danziger asked from behind us. We all turned around—perfect synchrony that would have made Balanchine proud—and stared at him as he stood in the doorway from the kitchen and gazed over our heads at the yard beyond the screen. “Well, it doesn’t have three heads, so it can’t be Cerberus,” he added.
“That’s my neighbor’s dog, Grendel,” I said. “And no, he does not have a cat named Beowulf.”
Ben broke out laughing and almost fell, stumbling on the threshold plate of the doorway.
“We’re dog-sitting. My neighbor . . . got shot last night.”
Ben’s laughter cut off short and Mara looked alarmed.
“He’ll be OK,” I assured them, “but he can’t look after the dog for a while. And since it’s my fault he got shot—”
Quinton cut me off. “No, it isn’t. They were trying to kill the dog and Rick was just in the wrong place. That’s not your fault.”
“I told him to take the dog to the door.”
“You didn’t tell him to let it off the leash.”
Mara made sharp cutting gestures at us. “Stop it, the both of ya. I assume you’d not be here, arguing in my home, without a good reason. So. Whyn’t ya sit down and start tellin’ it, soon’s I’ve brought out a bit of food? I’ll not be listenin’ to such bickerin’ before breakfast.” She shooed us into wicker chairs around a wooden table and dragged Ben with her back inside to fetch and carry. Quinton and I kept eyes on Brian and the dog, but they only continued to play as if we weren’t there.
I refused coffee once it was offered, which got me some raised eyebrows, but I’d already had more caffeine than I needed if I was going to get any sleep soon. I played with a couple of the small biscuit-like scones Mara put in front of me along with a glass of water. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell the story—that was a big part of the reason we’d come—but I needed to put my thoughts in order before I started in. Quinton wouldn’t tell the tale for me, even if he’d known it all. It was an insane story, if you considered it. It was only because it had all built up over time, a bit here and there, that I could believe it myself.
“There’s a bit of a problem at my place and . . . I hoped we could presume on your hospitality for a day or two,” I started, keeping my voice low so as not to alarm Brian. “I haven’t had a lot of sleep lately and my condo isn’t safe for us to stay in right now. We need someplace secure to catch up and do some planning until things get better. I can’t imagine any place safer from Grey
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