always pushing him now to grow up faster, get on with his life.
She came over and kissed his cheek, her slippers sliding against the floor, and Train smelled Ipana toothpaste. If burglars woke her up at four in the morning, she’d go to the bathroom and brush her teeth before she called the police. “There’s some chicken in the icebox.”
Train looked out at the dog. “Something wrong with his legs,” he said.
“Sometimes it happens like that, Lionel,” she said. “All at once.” She seemed to wanted the dog out of the house too.
He was quiet, staring out the screen door, blinking tears. The dog stood up by himself and began slowly walking back toward the kitchen. “It isn’t right to let a creature suffer,” she said.
“He was rolling in the grass this morning,” he said.
She nodded, weighing that. “Still . . .”
He waited, but she’d finished. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve.
“Even if he ain’t much at night,” Train said, “if he’s rolling in the grass in the morning, then he’s still got his mornings.”
“Floyd says he could take care of it for you.”
Train was shaking his head. “No,” he said.
“Save you that heartache is all.”
“No,” he said again. Floyd was Mayflower, his given name. Train said “No” one more time, louder than before, and she looked back toward the bedroom and lowered her voice, knowing he would lower his.
“His intentions is good, Lionel,” she said quietly. And now they were back in another conversation, one they’d been having off and on ever since Mayflower moved in. The day he brought his things into the house, that was the same day he let Train see who he was. Until then, he was courting them both.
“Tell him not to bother the dog,” he said.
“Lord, Floyd ain’t gone do nothing to that poor hound. He ain’t like that.”
Train nodded, and then opened the screen door, and the dog came through slowly and then limped over the linoleum floor to his spot in the corner.
“You see?” she said. “That’s how they go, baby. They legs up and quit.” There was a noise from the other end of the house, and she kissed him on the cheek again and said she had to get back to bed.
He got up at 4:30, his eyes sleep-crusted in the corners, worried about the dog, and walked out to the kitchen and found him more like his old self. He stood up at least, and walked outside on his own to whistle. Train made himself some bacon and eggs, and dropped a piece of white bread into the pan afterwards, soaking up the fat, and held it in front of the animal’s nose until he took it. He didn’t swallow it whole like he used to, but he didn’t spit it out either.
Train ate his own breakfast, scraped the dishes, then washed his face and hands in the sink— there was almost no water pressure again this morning, not nearly enough to shower— and caught the 5:30 bus to work. He decided in the night to get there early and talk to Sweet about the money before anybody else showed up. Sweet had a hair trigger, but Train noticed that usually his temper had a purpose— it wasn’t the kind of temper that made him blind and crazy— and he might not go off at all if there was nobody there to see it.
The bus let off just as the sun came up. The sprinklers was already on in the fairways, the water moving back and forth in perfect high arcs, not a breath of wind. Not even the grass had water pressure troubles in Brentwood. He walked from the street down the service road toward the caddy shed, practicing what he was going to say. Halfway there, though, he noticed Sweet’s car wasn’t in its usual place in the parking lot. Sweet never parked anywhere but that same spot— he was more jealous of the spot than the Cadillac itself— and he was always at work before they turned on the sprinklers.
Whatever business
She came over and kissed his cheek, her slippers sliding against the floor, and Train smelled Ipana toothpaste. If burglars woke her up at four in the morning, she’d go to the bathroom and brush her teeth before she called the police. “There’s some chicken in the icebox.”
Train looked out at the dog. “Something wrong with his legs,” he said.
“Sometimes it happens like that, Lionel,” she said. “All at once.” She seemed to wanted the dog out of the house too.
He was quiet, staring out the screen door, blinking tears. The dog stood up by himself and began slowly walking back toward the kitchen. “It isn’t right to let a creature suffer,” she said.
“He was rolling in the grass this morning,” he said.
She nodded, weighing that. “Still . . .”
He waited, but she’d finished. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve.
“Even if he ain’t much at night,” Train said, “if he’s rolling in the grass in the morning, then he’s still got his mornings.”
“Floyd says he could take care of it for you.”
Train was shaking his head. “No,” he said.
“Save you that heartache is all.”
“No,” he said again. Floyd was Mayflower, his given name. Train said “No” one more time, louder than before, and she looked back toward the bedroom and lowered her voice, knowing he would lower his.
“His intentions is good, Lionel,” she said quietly. And now they were back in another conversation, one they’d been having off and on ever since Mayflower moved in. The day he brought his things into the house, that was the same day he let Train see who he was. Until then, he was courting them both.
“Tell him not to bother the dog,” he said.
“Lord, Floyd ain’t gone do nothing to that poor hound. He ain’t like that.”
Train nodded, and then opened the screen door, and the dog came through slowly and then limped over the linoleum floor to his spot in the corner.
“You see?” she said. “That’s how they go, baby. They legs up and quit.” There was a noise from the other end of the house, and she kissed him on the cheek again and said she had to get back to bed.
He got up at 4:30, his eyes sleep-crusted in the corners, worried about the dog, and walked out to the kitchen and found him more like his old self. He stood up at least, and walked outside on his own to whistle. Train made himself some bacon and eggs, and dropped a piece of white bread into the pan afterwards, soaking up the fat, and held it in front of the animal’s nose until he took it. He didn’t swallow it whole like he used to, but he didn’t spit it out either.
Train ate his own breakfast, scraped the dishes, then washed his face and hands in the sink— there was almost no water pressure again this morning, not nearly enough to shower— and caught the 5:30 bus to work. He decided in the night to get there early and talk to Sweet about the money before anybody else showed up. Sweet had a hair trigger, but Train noticed that usually his temper had a purpose— it wasn’t the kind of temper that made him blind and crazy— and he might not go off at all if there was nobody there to see it.
The bus let off just as the sun came up. The sprinklers was already on in the fairways, the water moving back and forth in perfect high arcs, not a breath of wind. Not even the grass had water pressure troubles in Brentwood. He walked from the street down the service road toward the caddy shed, practicing what he was going to say. Halfway there, though, he noticed Sweet’s car wasn’t in its usual place in the parking lot. Sweet never parked anywhere but that same spot— he was more jealous of the spot than the Cadillac itself— and he was always at work before they turned on the sprinklers.
Whatever business
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