Charles Grant - The Pet

She laughed, and someone in the background laughingly mocked her. “I didn’t know you rode.”

“Panthers? You don’t ride panthers.”

“No, stupid, horses. I didn’t know you rode horses.”

“I don’t.”

There was a pause, and a man’s voice began grumbling.

“Then why horses?”

“I don’t know.” He saw the poster, the horse, and shrugged to the empty foyer. “They look … I don’t know, they look so big and powerful, y’know? Like they could run right over you and not even notice.”

“A horse?”

“Sure.”

“But they’re stupid.”

“I guess.”

“I mean, they’re—” The man’s voice was louder, and she covered the mouthpiece. He tried to make out the words but all he heard sounded like an argument. “Don, I have to go.”

“Okay, sure.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“Sure! Sure. I’ll—”

She hung up and he stood in the middle of the floor and stared at the front door until his father walked by on his way upstairs and reminded him gently that he started detention the next day.

Don nodded.

Norman, halfway up the stairs, looked down and frowned, started to say something, and changed his mind.

Don didn’t notice.

He was looking at the door, at the black horse imposed on it, with Tracey Quintero riding on its back.

Five minutes later Joyce pinched his rump as she walked by and he jumped, blushed at her laugh, and nodded when she asked him to check the lights and lock up. As he did, he thought about Tracey, and about the kid who had been killed. It could be that what he had heard was the murderer himself, thinking there had been a witness and coming to kill him. He felt cold, and he stayed to one side when he drew the draperies and double-checked to make sure the bolts on the front and back doors were turned over. Then he ran upstairs and into his room, considered telling his parents, and changed his mind. Mom would only get excited and demand they call the police; and Dad would tell them both there was nothing to worry about, the boy is all right, and since he didn’t actually see anything, there was no sense their getting involved.

And he would be right; there would be no sense at all.

A wash, then, and a careful scrutiny to be sure his face hadn’t broken out since that morning and that his eye wasn’t getting any worse. Then he closed his door and sat cross-legged on the bed. He was in nothing but his underwear, and he looked around him — at the panther, the bobcat, the elephants, rejecting each one silently until he came to the poster over the desk.

There , he thought; there’s what I need.

“Hey, look,” he said to the barely visible horse, “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t give you a name. I mean, I suppose I could, but all the good ones are already taken, and half of them sound like you’re in the movies or something anyway. Besides,” he added with a look to the panther lying in the jungle over his bed, “I don’t want to make the other guys mad.”

He grinned, and rolled his eyes, muffling a laugh in a palm.

“But you don’t need one anyway, right? You’re too tough for a stupid name. What you want to know is, how come you and not the black cat over there, right? Well, because you’re big, and you’re strong, and … just because. Besides, Tracey likes horses, and you’re a horse, and she’ll like you, and if she likes you she’ll like me and then we’ll all be pals, right? Right. And boy would you scare the shit outta that kid with the dumbass hat.”

He grinned again and rocked back, struck his head against the wall and didn’t feel a thing.

He didn’t think his other pals would mind, him singling out just one, just this once. They would understand. They always had, and they would this time.

“So listen up, old fella,” he said, looking to the ceiling where Tracey floated on a cloud, “you’re gonna have to teach me a few things, y’know, because I figure you’ve been around, if you know what I mean. Give me some hints and stuff, okay? And if you take care of me, I’ll take care of you. That’s what pals are for, right? Right.”

And he slipped off the bed, kissed the tips of his fingers, and placed his hand on the horse’s head.

“Pals,” he said. “Pals.”

“He’s talking to those animals again,” Norm complained while Joyce was brushing her teeth. She mumbled something, and he shook his head, pointing to his ear.

“I said,” she told him after spitting out the toothpaste, “kids talk to themselves all the time. It’s like thinking out loud. You should hear my classroom sometimes.”

“Yeah, but you teach flakes.”

“Budding artists are flakes?”

“Look in the mirror.”

She threw her hairbrush at him, launched herself after it, and they wrestled on the bed until he had her pinned under him.

“Norm?” she said, putting a hand on the hand that was covering her breast.

“What?”

The willow at the corner of the house scratched lightly at the window, and he could hear the cooing of the grey doves that nested in the eaves of the garage.

“It’s terrible, but did you ever wish we’d never had any kids? So when something like this comes up, I mean, we could walk away without worrying about tender psyches and trauma and warping the kid’s mind? Did you ever think about that, Norm?”

He tried to see her face in the dark. “Are we being honest?”

“Yes.”

“Then … yes. Yes, it has crossed my mind now and then.” But he didn’t tell her about the guilt he felt when it did.

“That doesn’t mean we don’t love him,” she said anxiously, begging for belief. “And god, I still miss my little Sam.”

“I know.”

“But it would be so much easier, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

The alarm clock buzzed softly. The wind blew over the roof. They could hear, faintly, two cars racing down the street.

“Don was in the park tonight.”

“So?”

“Didn’t you listen to the news after the fight?”

“Oh.” He shifted but didn’t release her. “Yeah. I guess I’d better have a talk with him. At least until they catch that guy.”

“Maybe he saw something.”

“No. If he did, he would have told us.” He kissed her right ear and made her squirm.

“Norm?”

Wearily: “Yes?”

“Don’s grades are going down. Not a lot, but it worries me. You should talk to him about that too. He spends too much time fixing up those animals of his, and making new ones.”

“I will,” he promised. “Maybe we should tell him to get rid of the beasts.”

“That would be cruel.”

“He wouldn’t waste time on them.” As she agreed, he nipped an earlobe.

“Norm?”

“Jesus, now what?”

“I want to work things out, really I do.”

“Good,” he said, rolling her breast beneath his palm.

“No, I mean it, Norman. I really do want to work at it.”

“So do I,” he said, almost believing. His head shifted to the hollow of her shoulder. “So do I, love.”

“Norm, it’s late,” she whispered, her eyes half closed, “and you know how tired you get lately after this. Besides, I have a committee meeting first thing tomorrow. We have to decide on the fireworks.”

“Good for you. Make them loud as hell.”

“Norman!”

“Joyce,” he said, “if you really want to work things out, you’d better shut up.”

On Saturday afternoon Don returned with his mother from a shopping expedition for new clothes during which she cited dubious, sometimes outlandish statistics which contrasted the annual before- and after-taxes incomes of veterinarians and surgeons, suggesting jokingly that spending the day shoving your hand up animals’ rectums and down their throats was about as glamorous and status-marking as his late grandfather’s working for the cloth mills here in town. Don laughed and almost told her what he was really planning.