David Sedaris - Barrel Fever and Other Stories

"There," she said, aiming with her cigarette. "Those are the shavings."

When Marty came home from work he did the same thing, led me to the garage and pointed out the shavings. He told me there was no use in calling the police seeing as they've had it in for him since day one. Marty said he would solve this crime himself, one man, on his own. He said he couldn't say for sure but he was practically certain that Cuff Daniels had something to do with it. "Good old Cuff," he said. Then he spit on the con-crete floor.

Things went along like always until the next week, when Rochelle caught me taking money from her purse. Normally I could always tell where she was as I could hear her moaning, sometimes actual words and other times just sounds, like a weary motor. She must have held her breath this time. Maybe she suspected something was up. I turned around and there she was.

"I wasn't taking your money," I said, rolling up the bills and replacing the rubber band that held them. "I wasn't taking it, I was just. . counting it. You've got thirty-seven dollars here. Boy, that's a lot of tips, thirty-seven dollars."

Rochelle stood in the doorway with her fists in the air. "Not but twenty minutes ago I had forty-one dollars," she said, hobbling closer toward me. "Do you expect me to believe that the rest of my money got tired of being cooped up in that packet-book and decided to walk off on its own and explore the world? Is that what you expect me to believe? Is it? Because, let me tell you something, Mister, I can't stand a thief."

She brought her fist up against the side of my face. "Somebody needs to box your ears, Mister, and it might as well be me because if there's one thing I can't stand it's a thief, a lazy, sneaking thief."

She kept hitting me, her voice rising until my father came from the bathroom and pulled her off of me. After listening to her side of the story he calmly placed his left hand on my shoulder and, with his right, punched me very hard in the stomach.

"That's what he needs," Rochelle said, "someone to box his ears. Thief! Liar."

Just like Vicki before me, I packed my belongings into paper bags. At the time all I felt was shame and regret not for taking the money, but for my pitiful lie that I was just counting it. I know how I must have looked at that moment, washed out and sneaky and stupid. I should have said I was collecting for services rendered and stood my ground. I should have predicted my father's punch. Should have, should have. I spent the night in the woods behind my father's house thinking of all the should haves. That night I should have packed a sleeping bag.

The following morning I presented my case to Vicki, who said she'd bring it up with Marty when the time was right. I spent the next two nights in their backyard before he decided I could stay in the garage. It doesn't have any heat but at least it's dry. I ran an extension cord in from the house so now I can choose between having a lamp or the broken TV, which has sound but no picture, just a snowy gray screen that I find I can't take my eyes off.

Marty Jr. can walk now. He can even think. If you point and say, "Bring me the book, Baby, bring me the book," he will do it. When you ask, "Where's Big Bird?" Marty Jr. will toddle over and pound on the TV set, hoping to drive him out. He's not stupid far from it. Soon he will speak and I have been working to coach him. Everything I touch I hold up and name in an instructive tone of voice. "Cushion," I'll say. "Ashtray." "Can opener." I do this only in the daytime, when Marty's not around. Last Sunday, at dinner, he started making fun of me. He picked up his fork and turned to the baby saying, "Douche Bag." Then he pointed at me and said, "Dip Shit. Dip Shit."

Marty Jr. clapped his hands together and said, "Dishyt, Dishyt."

I thought Vicki and Marty would never stop laughing. They patted Marty Jr. on the head, and he said it again: "Dishyt." It burned me up that he might turn on me like that. He said it once more while I was putting him to bed and I took the meat of his thigh and twisted it between my fingers.

A few weeks after I moved in, Marty caught the baby making a long-distance call. It was just dumb luck he punched in some numbers and made a connection. When Marty took the phone out of the baby's hand, he found himself speaking to a woman who kept saying, "C'est toi Julien?. . C'est toi?"

Marty thought the baby had dialed China. Vicki said it sounded like Hawaii to her.

Marty said, "Hawaii, China, or Puerto Rico, what the hell difference does it make? I'm the one who's stuck paying for it and, in case you haven't noticed, I am not made of money. Is that what you thought, that I'm made of money?"

Vicki said, "No, sir, I do not."

Marty Jr., on a roll, gurgled and dialed 911.

The next day Marty placed all the telephones in high places, where the baby couldn't reach them. Then he went out and got himself a dog. A puppy might have been nice for the baby but Marty brought home a full-grown Doberman, a used dog given to him by a guy he works with. Jamboree has a bullet head and a stumpy tail, like a big black thumb smeared with shit. I think perhaps the previous owner trained him to be unpleasant. I've seen that in a magazine before, men with thick pads around their arms, provoking dogs to attack so they can qualify for high-paying jobs patrolling department stores and car lots. Jamboree was here only two days before he took down Playboy, the neighbor's old basset hound. Poor Playboy didn't know what hit him. Marty took the body and set it in the street, hoping his owners would believe Playboy had been hit by a car.

Right, Marty, a car with teeth.

Jamboree shouldn't be allowed on the street, even on a leash. Everyone but Marty is afraid of this dog. Even cars speed up when they see him on the sidewalk. During the night jamboree sleeps on a pad beside his master's bed. Vicki told me that she no longer drinks fluids after 9:00P.M. as she is afraid to leave the bed and risk going to the bathroom. Jamboree has already bitten her once, nipped her when she tried to remove an ashtray from the mattress. Marty tells her that jamboree can smell her fear and that she has no one but herself to blame for being a coward. Vicki asked him what her fear smells like and he said it stinks like a carton of milk left out in the sun for five days to a week.

"Where's my champ? Where is he? Where's my boy?" Marty will ask, and jamboree will come kneeling before him, the stump of a tail moving back and forth, hitching for a ride.

After he leaves for work in the morning, Vicki and I coax the dog into the spare room and shut the door. Then I take the baby out of his crib and carry on about my business. We can all hear jamboree passing time in the spare room, whining and scratch-ing at the door. At first I was afraid Marty Jr., curious, would open the door but he's smart; he knows what's in there.

My fear smells like damp wood, so I built Marty Jr. a playpen. I made it myself with my own two hands. When Marty returns from work he lets the dog loose and I set Marty Jr. in his pen, where I hope he might be safe. Jamboree circles around, trying to get at him but Marty Jr. is smart and knows to keep back from the bars. He stands in the center of his pen, watching. Once in a while he'll throw something over the top. Last night jamboree ate E.T. The dining room floor was littered with tufts of plush fur and Styrofoam BBs.

This morning I set Marty Jr.'s crib atop a platform a dining room table I found in the neighbor's trash pile. I stood on a chair and settled him in, thinking he might marvel at this new perspective. "Look at you," I said. "On top of the world." He cried then and when I went to comfort him he grabbed my hair and didn't let go until I popped him across the face. I tell myself that it's not his fault, that things will be different when it's just the two of us on our own. And it will be different. I found the place where Marty hides his money. There's close to three hundred dollars here, enough to take the baby and me to Florida, where it's warm. We can camp out there, live in the woods until I get a job. Marty would have the national guard on my ass if I were to poison his dog, but I don't think he'll care one way or another if I take off with his son. And Vicki she might think about it for a week or so, and then she'd let it go, saving it up for a year or two down the road, when she'll turn to the person sitting beside her at the tavern and say, "Did I ever tell you about the time my very own brother ran off with my fucking baby? Did I?"