Harry Steinman - Little Deadly Things

Eva saw a smooth blur of motion as the hero turned to the downed Padron. He tensed his body and aimed a powerful kick at Padron’s ribcage.

Padrone rolled in pain. The Hero’s foot missed.

The momentum of his failed leg strike pulled him off-balance and he landed on his back, next to Padron. The two lay staring at each other. They both gasped for air, fish thrashing in the bottom of an angler’s boat.

Chung started to laugh. “Oh, man, this is too good,” he managed. Ortiz merely gave a half-grin and snorted. He nudged his friend and pointed to the prone hero. He said, “Hey, Chung, what we do about this pendejo?”

“Let Padron do him when the two of ’em are finished with their little siestas,” Chung said. He turned back to Eva and Marta. “You still need to pay a tribute.” He folded his arms and glared at the two girls.

“Okay,” Eva said. “I got nice present for you.” Eva said. She thrust the small plastic bottle she’d taken from her pocket moments earlier and squeezed a stream of oily liquid into Chung’s eyes. It was a perfect opportunity, she had decided, to experiment with her new pepper spray. Could the effects of the local Habanero peppers compare with her treasured Guntar peppers? She observed that the heat from the southwest Indian peppers was more potent, but the Habaneros lived up to their reputation. They burned.

Science in action, Eva thought with a grin.

Chung yelped in pain. Padron was still on the ground, his view of the action limited to the forty-two canine teeth directly over his face. Ortiz had stopped laughing and looked puzzled. By now the hero was up, fists clenched, his face a twisted in rage. Eva wondered if he was going to have a heart attack. The boy tensed to strike Ortiz, but Marta Cruz stepped between them.

“Stop. There’s no more fight. Let it go,” she said. Eva wasn’t sure whom Marta was addressing. The hero checked his motion and struggled to keep his balance. Ortiz stood, a bemused look on his face.

Marta turned and knelt at Padron’s side. He was still struggling for air. She knelt and grasped the front of his waistband and lifted his hips sharply several times, until his diaphragm relaxed and he could once again draw air in panicked gulps. Marta turned to the hero, and asked, “Would you ask your dog to let him get up?” The hero gestured, his palm extended as if he were a bellhop waiting for a tip. He brought his hand up ninety degrees, his palm facing inward like a backwards hello. Immediately, Ringer sat.

Marta turned her attention to Chung. She found a bottle of water in her bag and drenched his eyes, then turned to Eva. “What was that?” Marta asked.

“Pepper spray. I make.”

Marta handed Chung the water and told him to rinse but not rub his eyes.

“You didn’t have to spray him,” Marta said.

“Nobody attack me without hurt.”

Padron stood up, wary eyes fixed on Ringer. Ringer drew back her upper lip. Padron backed up a step. He caught Ortiz’s eye and nodded. They grabbed Chung and started to walk away. Padron turned to the hero, “You know what? I’d have kicked your ass except for that dog. Sometime, you and me? We gonna meet up again, no little girls to protect you.”

The hero said, “If that’s what you’re going to do, then that’s what you’re going to do. But no one meant you any disrespect and if everybody stays cool, then nobody finds out that you got your asses kicked by a dog and a little girl.”

“You crazy, man,” said Padron, but the fight had left him and his threat lost its menace. He walked away.

Marta turned back to Eva, “You didn’t have to spray that boy. You weren’t attacked.”

“Is technicality. He would attack but this one comes along.” Eva turned to the hero. His face was soft again. “Your dog fight better than you. How you teach her that?”

“I didn’t. She’s never done that before.”

Eva continued, “Where I come from, dogs is bad news. Dogs runs loose and kills.”

The boy gave Eva an appraising stare. “Her name is Ringer. Don’t worry about her.”

“Dogs come to school in America?”

“No,” he said. “She stays in the neighborhood during school, at least that’s what we did during summer school. There are a couple of shops where they let her wait. I’ll have to leave her home now.”

Eva pondered. “She not bite. Why no bite? Is better with blood, yes?”

“Like I said, she never did that before.”

“Whatever. That was good.” Eva looked at the boy slowly, her gaze taking his measure. “I don’t like dogs but this one, maybe okay. You helped us. I say thanks to you. I am Eva Rozen, this is Marta Cruz.”

“Jim Ecco.”

“What kind of dog is Ringer?” asked Marta.

Jim shrugged. “Some terrier, maybe. Possibly an Airedale, from her size. German Shepherd? Who knows?”

Eva approached Ringer, hand outstretched. “Nice doggie?”

Ringer backed up a pace.

“Hi doggie. I say, ‘hello, doggie.’” Eva stepped forward again.

Ringer backed up further.

“Dog is afraid of me?” asked Eva.

“Not exactly,” explained Jim. “It’s your posture. She doesn’t like it when you lean over her with your hand stretched out like that. To a dog, that’s rude and your hand over her head might be a threat. Just stand straight, relax and angle your body away a little. Like this.” He demonstrated a neutral posture, “She’ll relax. Don’t face her directly until she knows you. And bring your hand up from underneath to scratch her chest.”

Eva tried it and Ringer inched closer, sniffing. She allowed herself to be petted and then licked Eva’s hand. For the first time since leaving Gergana’s grave in Sofia, the Voices were silent and Eva Rozen smiled.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said, “What a nice dog.” Eva’s English was letter-perfect and unaccented, if a bit clipped, in the manner of one who had learned the language by rote, repeating phrases and vocabulary along with a recording.

The rest of the day passed without incident until the last period. The three students found themselves together for an English class. News of their morning confrontation had spread, despite Jim’s assurance that it would be a secret, and classmates kept their distance out of deference or apprehension. Eva sat next to Jim, staring openly at him. Marta seemed focused on her classwork.

The English composition teacher was Henna Erickson. Her appearance was a nod to the styles of an earlier era—cotton peasant blouses instead of color-changing modern nanotextiles. She chose granny glasses to complete the look. Medium height, plain-faced, she had an unadorned figure draped in a shapeless dress. Her frizzy brown hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck.

In contrast to Erickson’s utterly commonplace personal style, her classroom was animated. Action and emotion leapt from candid photographs on the walls: kinetic depictions of people at work, at rest, and at play. There were tender interchanges, confrontations, affection and anger. Even the most introspective of images emanated vigor.

“Good afternoon, class,” she began. “Your first writing assignment is today. I want you to write a two-page essay. I have these photos to stimulate your emotions, or you can dig into your memories, your past. Either way, I want you to find something important from your childhood and write about it.”

The class looked around at the photographs, then at each other. Several groaned.

“You might find this a little hard at first. But it will be easy once you get started. Then the story will write itself.”

With a little prodding, the class began. Eva Rozen sat immobile. She looked over at Jim. He sat, frowning at the blank display on his dataslate. Erickson walked over to them.