chapter 28 | house no. 13

May 14, 2008

The phone rings just as I walk through the door from the grocery store. My purse is dangling from one arm, I’ve got three bags of groceries on the other, the key is still in the door, and the dog is trying to push past me and run into the street. I yank the door closed and throw everything on the floor, picking up the receiver before the answering machine can get it. The clock on the stove says 11:34.

“Hello?” I practically yell into the receiver. A bead of sweat rolls down my back. The weather is so unseasonably hot. It’s got to break soon.

There’s a click, and then the line goes dead.

“Huh.” I say to Buddy, as he sniffs at the steak in the bag. “I guess they didn’t want to talk to me.”

I throw the steak and the other perishables in the fridge, grab his leash, and we head out into the heat for our mandatory, around-the-block-and-through-the-park walk. He’s been in the house alone for almost four hours, so I know he needs to go.

The humidity is stifling as we make our way down the sidewalk, Buddy sniffing at every tree, sign, flower, crack in the pavement, and blade of grass. He pulls and pees, and pulls and pees, and we head down toward our usual trail with me sweating like a pig. A black car slides by us on the road as Buddy does his business on the sparse grass. The car doesn’t slow, and I don’t bother to give it more than a passing glance as I pooper-scoop Buddy’s mess into a bag.

“Buddy, that reeks,” I say as I try not gag. I throw the bag in the trash can as we enter the woods. The wind picks up and the trees blow around us, but there are no clouds in the sky to bring relief from the oppressive heat. I search through the leaves above for even a little rain cloud, but there’s nothing.

The trees offer a different adventure for Buddy and he trots down the trail, sniffing for squirrels, chipmunks, and other treats. But then he stops. It’s a different kind of stop—a sudden, haunches-at-the-ready kind of stop.

“Buddy . . .” I whisper, “What is it?

Buddy growls.

“What do you see?” I say—louder this time—and I search through the trees and bushes for a raccoon, or maybe a coyote. With the wind the way it is, I can’t hear anything but crashing branches and rustling leaves. We’re in the only part of the trail that is hidden by woods.

I tug on the leash. “Buddy, there’s nothing here. Come on, let’s go.” I’m too far into the park to turn around, so I give a tug and he reluctantly follows.

Two steps later, Frank Fielding emerges from behind a tree, and my heart nearly stops.

“Hello, Ellen,” he says.

Buddy growls.

I take a deep breath. What the hell is that monster doing here? My heart is thudding under my ribs, trying to find its rhythm. It’s been fifteen years, for God’s sake!

Buddy takes a step forward, pulling on the leash. Fielding seems to recognize the intensity of Buddy’s stance. A touch of fear hits his eyes.

“Tie your dog to a tree,” he says.

I don’t move.

Buddy sits, his hackles still raised and his teeth still bared. It’s such an odd behavior for my calm, friendly Golden Retriever that it detaches me even more from this bizarre situation. Buddy never growls like this.

“I said tie the dog to a tree.”

Buddy doesn’t look at me, just sits there, eyes locked on Fielding, while I look on like someone watching a TV show. Fielding’s hair is greying. He’s wearing jeans. Buddy is growling . . . and he’s between Fielding and me.

An angered, ninety-pound dog is blocking Fielding’s way.

“No,” I say.

“Tie the dog to a tree, now.” Fielding’s face turns red. His armpits have big sweat rings and his forehead is beaded with moisture.

“I said no.”

“Ellen, do I need to review what I can do to you if you don’t listen to me? What I can do to your husband, who has barely reached the esteemed rank of major after twenty-four years of service? Have you forgotten? I could bring your husband down. Literally.”

“Review all you want. The answer is no.”

I look at him with a mixture of fear and disgust, then I tug on the leash and turn away.

“Buddy, come.” I say.

I take one step, another, and then one more. Buddy almost shrugs, shakes himself, and then trots off in front of me, danger forgotten.

I get ten feet before Fielding reaches me. He grabs for my wrist and pulls, but I yank my arm away and take off running as fast as my adrenalin-powered legs will go. Buddy thinks it’s a game, and we both careen through the trees as fast as we can, but Fielding is faster. He slams into me, and I crash down onto the ground, knees grinding in the dirt. They sting, but I scrabble forward and kick back, hitting something soft behind me.

I have just enough time to realize that Buddy’s leash is still around my wrist before he turns on Fielding and barks—not a nice bark, a get-your-ass-off-my-human bark.

And then he attacks.

The wind muffles Fielding’s scream as Buddy pulls back, sharp teeth ripping skin and muscle. I watch in fascinated horror, sliding away, and then I pull Buddy’s leash.

“Buddy, stop!” I say. I don’t know why I stop him. I could leave him, let him eat Frank Fielding for a late afternoon snack, but I’m not that kind of person. Fielding shrugs away and I stand and Buddy steps back by my side. Fielding’s wrist is bleeding and he’s swearing and holding his arm. I want to laugh. I want to laugh in his cruel, hateful, evil face.

“Good boy,” I say as I pat Buddy’s head.

“You are going to regret this,” Fielding says.

“No, you are. I dare you to say anything to anyone, you bastard. If I hear a word about this anywhere, I’ll march right down to the police, and file my own charges.” I think for a quick minute and take a risk. “And I’m not the only one. I know at least two others that will join me in charging you.”

Fielding’s eyes narrow, but I know I’ve hit my mark.

“And maybe next time I won’t make the dog stop.”

He steps forward again as if to hit me, but Buddy stands by my side and growls.

“You will pay for this,” he says. “I will make you pay.”

And then he turns and fades into the woods.

I don’t even feel the scrapes on my knees, the bruises on my wrists. I pat Buddy’s head every five steps as I walk home with a surreal sense of well-being.

I fought Fielding and won. I had help, and I may be bleeding, but so is he.

Maybe this will be the last time.