Hal Parker runs out to his wife’s hydrangea bushes. He’s trying to scare away the neighbor’s black Lab, Major. Hal claps his hands in front of him and shouts, but Major’s already peeing on the bush. It seems to Hal that lately the dog just won’t stay in his pen. Hal has watched him dig holes under it and even seen him climb over it once or twice.
Hal looks next door. His neighbor Corey Lane’s Camaro is in the yard. He decides to tell Corey about his dog. As he knocks on the door and waits, Hal looks over the front of the house and thinks he should have talked to Corey about Major weeks ago. He also thinks the bricks need to be washed and the shutters need to be repainted. He knocks again and hears the floorboards creak on the other side of the door. Major is back at the hydrangeas.
Hal doesn’t see Corey much. He doesn’t go to church, he doesn’t go uptown except to get gas, and, Hal thinks, he sure doesn’t spend enough time in his yard. He’s inspecting the overgrown boxwoods beside him when Corey opens the door.
The first thing Hal notices is that the young man looks rough, thinner than he’s been. But he goes ahead and asks him how he’s been doing.
“All right, I reckon,” Corey says. He scratches a scab on his wrist. His hair is greasy.
“Well, I hear you been doing good work at Johnny’s chicken houses. He’s told us about it at the café,” Hal lies.
“Really?” Corey straightens up a bit. “Sure did. Johnny’s a good man, he’ll take good care of ya if you keep on doing good.”
Corey’s scab starts to bleed.
“Lord knows it ain’t the best-smelling work,” Hal laughs.
Corey smiles a little.
“But shoot, you’re probably used to it by now.”
“Yes sir.” Corey wipes the blood with the palm of his other hand. “I don’t even notice it no more.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re doing good for yourself, Corey. I really am.” Hal takes a step toward him. “But I came over here to talk to you about your dog. Now I don’t know what you got going on with that dog pen, but he can’t keep getting out and running all over.”
Corey shakes his head in agreement without looking at Hal.
“I know Major don’t mean to hurt nothing. But you know how much Clara loves her flowers, and we’ve been working out in the yard all summer.”
“I’m sorry,” Corey says, “I really am.”
“Have you tried an electric fence yet?” Hal asks him and he looks back at his yard. Clara’s there squatting on the ground with Major, giving him long strokes down his back. His tail wagging.
When Fred and Jenny Lane moved next door, Clara was excited. The Lanes were young and happy. And Jenny was newly pregnant. Clara enjoyed watching her with her growing belly plant boxwoods and azaleas around the front of the house. Jenny emitted that glow all new mothers do and Clara found it intoxicating. She helped throw a baby shower for Jenny with some of the other women at her church’s fellowship hall. And to this day, Clara remembers how gracefully Jenny opened her gifts, unwrapping the paper at the taped ends instead of tearing it apart. And how she saved all the bows and ribbons, saying how pretty each of them was as she set them aside.
Corey was just two years old when Jenny was T-boned by a transfer truck on Highway 35. They say she died instantly. And Clara watched over the years as Fred brought in women who came from people she didn’t know. She watched them move in and out, sometimes bringing their own children, sometimes not. The toys would always be left out in the yard. And the boxwoods and azaleas overgrew. Clara thought that if Jenny could see it all she’d roll over in her grave.
Clara did what she could to help Corey. She babysat him whenever Fred needed, refusing payment. She took him to Vacation Bible School every summer. And she gave him five dollars for every good report card.
Clara encouraged Hal to spend time with Corey. “I think it would be nice,” she said to him. But Hal never showed any interest.
While Clara’s at the grocery store, Hal cuts her Knock Out roses. He wants to have them in a vase in the kitchen for when she walks in the door. He’s trying to make her happy. She used to scratch his back until he went to sleep. He does not know why she stopped doing that but he’s not going to say anything, either.
Clara remembers trying to hold her baby when he died. He was going in and out of fits and convulsions. He was screaming louder than she’d ever heard before. He was perfect, but he’d been born with a hole at the bottom of his spine. And that was in 1964 and the doctors told her that he wouldn’t live six months, but he made it to eight. Every night before she went to sleep Clara thought about when he’d die and she tried to prepare herself for it. She thought it would be a peaceful thing. She thought she’d hold her baby boy still and quiet as he went. But he would not stop screaming. She didn’t know that he’d bend and fight, that he’d turn in her arms into an unright thing. She did not think the Lord’s will would work that way.
She does not remember much from the funeral. But the preacher asked everyone to join him in singing “Jesus Loves the Little Children.” And everyone joined hands in a circle around her. They all were crying and singing.
Hal brings a glass of water to Clara in the living room. She’s drafting the Murfreesboro Historical Association’s newsletter, jotting in cursive on a legal pad, her feet on the couch.
Hal settles in his chair and puts the Western channel on TV. “Now I’m not trying to stir you up,” he says, “but it’s going on about twenty years you’ve been secretary. Ain’t I right?”
“Well, something like that,” Clara puts down her pen.
“Just think, if you didn’t have to give tours near ’bout every weekend in the summer, maybe we could get down and see my brother’s place in Pensacola.”
Hal retired from auto insurance ten years ago. He had been one of the top sellers in the district. Working to make his home with Clara the best it could be. Enough for a carport, a koi pond, and a fountain with an angel tipping water out of a vase.
“I’ll think about it,” Clara says and she picks up her pad.
“I know you don’t believe it, but they’ll survive without you.”
Hal looks over to the built-in bar in the corner cabinet and thinks that he’s a better man now, better than the drunk he was. He gets out of his chair and sits next to Clara on the couch.
Clara packs mashed potatoes and hamburger steak into some Tupperware and covers it all in brown onion gravy. Sometimes she brings Corey leftovers and he especially loves her brown onion gravy. She sets the Tupperware in a paper grocery bag with two tomatoes from her garden and a ziplock with two sugar cookies she’d made for their last women’s auxiliary meeting at church.
Then she goes back to the sink to finish the dishes. She washes quickly because she wants to bring Corey his food before sundown. And she washes out of habit, not looking at what she’s doing. Instead, she checks on her African violet sitting in the window in front of her. She’d just planted it in this bigger pot and she thinks that it’s filling out nicely. It’s early September, the window is open and there are sounds outside.
When Clara looks up Corey is fucking his dog, Major. They’re together
in the dog pen and Corey is pushing Major into the dirt. The dog yelps, and Clara screams.
She closes her eyes and turns away from the window and she stands there in her kitchen feeling like she’s been thrown.
Hal finds Clara standing with her wet hands in balled fists covering her eyes. She clutches a fork in one hand and a sponge in the other. Water and suds drip down her arms and onto her apron and the floor.
Hal says her name and asks her what’s wrong but she won’t respond or move. When Hal starts to unpry her fists, she says, “I saw him. I saw him.”
“Who? Let go. Let’s sit down. What’s wrong? Clara! Clara!”
“I saw him.” Clara shakes her head back and forth.
Hal grabs her shoulders and then Clara stops and unclenches her fists. The fork and sponge fall to the floor. She opens her eyes and with her palms open on either side of her face she says, “I saw him having sex with the dog.” The first thing Hal thinks is that he wants to kill that son of a bitch.
The sun sets and Clara sits at the kitchen table. She looks at the refrigerator and sees the clipping of Corey she cut out of the paper when he was the valedictorian of his high school class. And then she starts to cry. “I always knew something won’t right with that boy. He won’t ever right.” Hal grabs the phone on the wall.
“Not yet,” Clara says, “don’t call the law yet. Please, Hal.” Hal stands there with the phone in his hand. “I’ve got to pray about it.”
“Pray? You want to pray about it?”
“I know you’ve never showed any care for Corey as long as he’s lived. He was just a poor child and you never wanted anything to do with him.” Clara starts to wring her hands. “And you know just as good as me that he’s done dwindled down to nothing. Since his daddy died, he don’t have nobody.”
Hal looks out the window.
“You told me yourself that the other night when you went over there he looked the worst that you’d ever seen him.” Clara wipes her face. “This is gonna ruin him.”
“He’s already rurnt, Clara.” Hal hangs up the phone and comes toward her. “Everybody knows he was runt from the start. Them Lanes were trash, but you never wanted to believe it.”
“That’s not true. You know that’s not true. Corey is a good boy, Hal.”
“With that lowlife daddy, dragging women from Arrowhead onto our street, stealing out of my shed. You know as good as me he was the one that stole my generator last Christmas, probably sold it for who knows what kind of drugs,” Hal went on. “But you turned an eye. And don’t you think I know that you give him money here and there for gas or shoes or whatever you think he needs whenever you go over there?”
Clara looks at the bag of food she got together for Corey sitting in the middle of the table.
“Clara, this has gone on long enough. It’s time you faced the facts. That boy is sick and you can’t save him.” Hal puts his hands palms down on the table.
And outside Major starts to bark.
Even though their son was born “defected,” Hal still named him after his father. Hal was proud to have a son. And doctors are just doctors, Hal thought, they can be wrong about a lot of things. His son could still grow to be strong.
When their son was dedicated to the church when he was five months old, Hal insisted on holding him in front of everyone. The mama always holds the baby during dedications, but Hal wanted to do it.
“What will you do if he gets upset and starts to fidget and all?” Clara asked, holding their son on the bottom church step.
“You’ll be all right, won’t you, bud?” Hal touched their son’s nose.
“Now you have to make sure you hold him real gentle when the preacher sprinkles the water on him.” Clara passed their son to Hal. “It might surprise him, scare him some.”
“My son ain’t gonna be scared,” Hal said and he walked up the church steps with their baby.
Hal ended up being right about the dedication. He told everyone afterward that his son had acted like a little man. Later that night before they went to sleep Clara told Hal that she’d been thinking about what she wanted to bury their baby in. Hal had never wanted to yell at Clara before, but he wanted to then. Clara looks over. Corey does not have his front porch light on. But the moon shines bright enough that she can find her way. She calls Major to her and she watches him move toward her from the edge of the darkness until the moon finds him and shines down his black coat. She squats down and takes his head in her hands. She holds him there and looks into his eyes and prays. She listens and waits for God’s quiet voice. Major breathes warm and heavy onto her and then he jerks his head to sniff into the bag of Corey’s leftovers. Clara gets up and gives Major a sugar cookie. And she watches him take it back into the dark.
Clara prays all the way to Corey’s door. She knocks and the porch light comes on. She waits for God to tell her what to do and the door opens.
“Hey, honey,” Clara says, “here’s some leftovers for you.”
She does not want to look at him, but she hands him the bag. “Hamburger steak with that brown onion gravy you love so good.”
The overhead light is swirling with bugs.
“Thank you, Miss Clara,” Corey says.
And Clara tries to smile.
“You’re welcome,” she says and she turns to leave. “Now go on in and eat. Put some meat on them bones.”
“Miss Clara,” Corey stops her.
She turns and looks up to him from the bottom step of the porch. And for a moment he doesn’t say anything. The swirling bugs make strange shadows on his face. And his eyes look like deep holes in his head.
“Miss Clara, I… I heard you scream earlier. I know you saw me. And I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry…”
His voice breaks.
“Yes,” Hal says into the phone, “you heard me right. He was fucking his dog. Corey Lane.”
The police tell Hal they’ll come get Major the next morning and even though it’ll be Sunday, this is a special case.
Hal tells the police everything he can think of about Corey. He’s a druggie, a thief, a dog fucker. And while he talks he looks out the window and there under Corey’s porch light, Clara’s in the dog fucker’s arms.
When Hal and Clara got married, Clara’s cousin suggested that they go to Pecan Grove for their honeymoon. It was a quaint resort hotel the county over, with little bungalows on the river. “Just big enough to spit in,” Clara’s cousin said, “love shacks.”
Hal knew Clara was a virgin. He knew he’d have to be slow, but he hoped eventually she’d learn to be wild. He remembers thinking about this while he tried to make love to her that night. How he could wrap her long hair around his fist, pull her head back, take off her clothes. But all she wanted to do was look at the river. Jumped out of the bed to go stand at the window. She would not stop talking about how pretty the stars were reflected on the water. How it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. How they made different colors, not only silver but gold and sometimes purple, too. She pulled him off the bed, put him next to her.
“See,” she said, pointing into the night.
“Yes,” he said. But he didn’t see the stars on the river. He wanted to.
At first Clara was proud that Hal was making enough money to put a bar in their home. She thought that’s what nice family homes had. He built it in the corner cabinet in their living room, with glass shelves, silver rimmed tumblers, and fancy track lighting.
But soon after, when she’d come home from substituting, or leading a historic tour, or planting crape myrtles on Main Street, she’d find Hal slurring his words. And then she found him standing in the hall. He was in front of the pictures of their dead baby, the ones that were taken at the nice portrait studio, where all the families went to take pictures of their pretty children. And when the photographer saw that Hal had made a special wedge out of sponge so the baby could sit up without his back hurting, the photographer kept saying, “What a happy baby,” over and over again. And Clara put a white fuzzy blanket over the wedge to make it softer. And it almost looked like a little lump of snow.
And that time when Clara found him drunk, he turned to her and slung his arm down the hall lined with pictures of their dead baby. “You should have never put these up here and you know it,” he said, “I got to see them every damn day. Our pretty baby smiling.”
In her whole life of being in the church, Clara had never asked for an unspoken. It was a rare request, reserved for those who were brave enough to ask for prayers about the unspeakable. But after she saw Hal in the hall that day, in front of all the pictures, she wanted to ask for one. But she knew as soon as she did, everyone would know that something was wrong. So she did not ask for an unspoken because she was ashamed of him.
Hal waits on the porch with coffee, watching down the corner for the police. He hears a gunshot from Corey’s house and looks over and sees Corey standing over Major in the pen with a shotgun.
Clara runs out on the porch, eyes wide with fear.
Hal catches her.
“It was Major,” he says, “Corey shot him.”
“I thought it was Corey.” Clara shakes in Hal’s arms.
“I know,” Hal says.
He holds her and hopes that Corey buries Major good enough that the stray dogs don’t dig him up and strow him in his yard.
At church when the preacher asks, “Are there any more prayer requests?” Clara raises her hand and says, “I have an unspoken.”
As soon as Clara puts her hand down, Hal puts his on top of hers. He whispers, “I’m proud of you.”
She pulls her hand out from under his and whispers, “It wasn’t for me.”
She looks ahead of her at the way the morning light comes through the tops of the tall windows. How it hits the stained-glass Jesus behind the baptismal pool. He’s standing with his arms open in a meadow. Baby sheep are sleeping at his feet. And when the preacher says, “Let us pray,” Clara closes her eyes. She bows her head.