Smith's Monthly #10 Page 5

  Caroline was walking beside the horse and her sister, and it was clear that at times she was using his saddle to hold herself up from falling.

  A few times during that last half mile, Jimmy turned to see how the others were doing.

  They were all stumbling like he was, but they were all looking ahead at the water.

  Long kept them going at the same speed all the way to within three hundred paces from the river, then he turned and shouted back, “Get the children off the horses without trying to stop the horses, then give the horses their heads.”

  Jimmy had no idea what Long was worried about with the children. All he wanted to do was stagger at the water and drink. But he didn’t have enough energy to ask Long why. He just acted.

  They all did.

  Somehow, he and Caroline got her sister untied and off the horse without stopping. The little girl was completely limp in Jimmy’ arms. Then Caroline tossed the reins back up over the horse’s head so that it could go as it wanted.

  Just as Jimmy had thought about doing, his horse made a dash at the river, splashing into it right behind Long’s horse.

  Caroline and Jimmy almost got ran over by Truitt’s horse as it went past, also headed for the water.

  “Everyone drink slowly at first, just small sips.” Long shouted, then turned for the river himself.

  Jimmy somehow carried Caroline’s small sister the last few hundred paces to the water’s edge, then laid her gently on the wet rocks beside the water.

  As Caroline was giving her sister a handful of water, washing the young girl’s face, and taking a handful herself, Jimmy walked into the water and fell face first into the wonderfully cold, clear river.

  Never, in all his life, had anything felt so wonderful.

  Beside him, one after another, everyone did the same.

  Continued next month…

  I fear Bryant Street more than anything on the planet. Honestly, when in a standard subdivision, I always get lost, turned around, and slightly panicked. Not kidding.

  In a writer’s workshop someone challenged me to write a story with the first line “The Wolves Were Howling on Bryant Street.” I knew instantly what the wolves represented. As a fiction writer, doing battle with the wolves never ends.

  When starting this magazine, the wolves howled and nipped at my heals more than once. Now at issue ten, they have calmed some.

  BRYANT STREET

  ONE

  THE WOLVES WERE howling on Bryant Street.

  Duncan nudged the orange slice closer to the edge of his plate of ham and eggs and tried not to listen. He forced himself to concentrate on the loud clanking of pans in the kitchen of the Denny’s Restaurant, then the loud, constant chatter of the large-thighed waitress.

  It did no good.

  He could still hear the wolves.

  The waitress had started it all. She’d asked him why he never ate the orange slice that came with his late-night breakfast. She’d said most of her regular customers ate it, why didn’t he?

  Simple. He hated fruit with ham and eggs. Just the thought made the grease curl up into a ball in his stomach. But for some reason, every restaurant had an orange slice with ham and eggs. Stupid custom.

  He had been about to tell the waitress, in so many plain words, that it was his business what he did with his orange slice when the wolves started to howl.

  The wolves of Bryant Street.

  Bryant Street was after Duncan.

  He flipped the orange slice over and thought back to the first and only time he had been on Bryant Street. It had been a warm Friday afternoon two months ago, shortly after he graduated from college with his degree in electrical engineering. Road construction blocked the main street past the mall and he had been forced to turn his VW Bug onto Bryant Street.

  Right away he had known he was in trouble.

  The perfect houses all looked the same.

  Each had lots of shrubs outside, two bedrooms inside, and an attached room for two cars.

  The further down the street he got, the more uncomfortable he felt, like he was listening to the music in Jaws before seeing the shark.

  He glanced first left, then right.

  Perfectly spaced trees planted exactly correct distances apart fought to hypnotize him with their monotone swaying.

  The green shutters on all the houses closed in around him and the evenly cut lawns beckoned to him like a soft bed to a man without sleep. He gasped for each breath.

  On both sides front doors opened, ready and willing to swallow him.

  The smooth driveways sucked at his little car.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes as he fought to keep the Bug in the middle of the road.

  He glanced back.

  He’d only gone a hundred trees.

  Five more trees and he couldn’t take it any more.

  He gunned his Bug into a u-turn between two Pintos.

  Bryant Street now seemed to stretch for miles down a dark, forbidding tunnel of jagged branches.

  He jammed the gas pedal to the floor, his mind racing with the fear of a flat.

  Or engine trouble.

  The trees slashed at him.

  The street rolled, pitched the car from side to side.

  He fought his way down the road tree by tree, the entire time keeping his gaze locked on the faint light ahead.

  Finally, after what seemed to be all afternoon, he reached the detour, ducked between a Caddy and a Datsun, and headed back downtown.

  He had never gone near Bryant Street again.

  Now, it was coming for him, sending the wolves to round him up like so much mutton.

  Damn it all, anyway. It wouldn’t get him without a fight.

  “Mister? You all right?” the waitress asked, popping her gum.

  Duncan shook himself and looked up at her. He must have looked a little funny, sitting there, leaning away from the window. The wolves were still howling.

  “Can you hear them?” Duncan asked.

  “Yeah. They’re awful, aren’t they?” The whine in her voice reminded Duncan of a smoke detector going off. “Someday they’re going to get a good band in that bar and fill the place. I keep telling Craig—he’s the boss—that if he would just—”

  “No,” Duncan said. “Not the band. The wolves. The wolves from Bryant Street. Listen. Don’t you hear them?”

  She popped her gum once more. “Can’t say as I do.” She flipped his ticket upside down near his plate and walked away.

  He should have known she wouldn’t hear them. The street wanted him. He’d have to fight his own battle.

  He picked up the orange slice and ate it quickly. He’d give them this first battle, but nothing more.

  The wolves quit howling.

  He finished his eggs, but left the ham. His stomach was upset enough without putting ham on top of an orange slice.

  TWO

  FROM THAT NIGHT on, the fight with the wolves from Bryant Street became intense.

  Every time Duncan got one step out of line, Wham-o, howl-time. And each time the wolves got louder and louder. It drove him crazy. It got to the point he felt they could hear his every thought.

  For example, one month after the wolves started howling, on a Wednesday night, he had a date with Constance, a tall blonde with a high laugh and large features.

  Constance was the lady who cut his hair while rubbing her large features against his back and arms. He loved the way her fingers massaged his scalp and had dreams of her massaging other places, including her large features.

  By eight in the evening they had stormed and occupied a dark, lower booth in a plush hotel bar. One of those places where the backs of the booths were planters and the seats a form of fake leather.

  They were getting down to the point of being real cozy, when suddenly, an old woman in the booth behind them looked through the plants and then whispered to her toothless old man, “Is that Constance’s husband?”

  Duncan turned around slowly, pushed one large bunch o
f plant leaves aside so he could see the shocked look on the old woman’s face, and then looked the old bag right in her gray eyes. “Of course I’m not. What fun would that be?”

  The wolves started howling their thing.

  Duncan could hear them right over the music and the gasps of shock and indignation from the old woman. The wolves’ howls were long and drawn out and sounded plain vicious. He imagined saliva dripping from their teeth as they threw back their heads and ruined his evening.

  And, for the first time, they sounded close.

  Almost right outside.

  By this point he knew better than to ask anyone if they heard them. “Look,” he said to Constance. “I just remembered that I have this appointment. You understand. Maybe another time, huh?”

  With one last longing look at those large features, he stood.

  Damn it all. He loved those fingers.

  He’d fix those wolves for this.

  He patted her hand like a father consoling a child, moved his scotch with reverence to the center of the table, and headed for the door of the bar. He had packed his father’s deer rifle in the trunk of his car. He was going to bag himself a wolf tonight.

  The wolves weren’t in the parking lot or anywhere else around the side of the hotel. But the level of their howls never diminished. It was as if he were surrounded.

  They didn’t stop howling until the police arrested him for scaring hotel guests by stomping through the flowerbeds outside their rooms with a rifle.

  THREE

  WITH THE WOLVES hounding him, life became one big bore.

  Time after time they stopped him from one activity or another. He always looked for them without luck. Each time they sounded close, but somehow he knew they were still over on Bryant Street. And no way was he going back there.

  No sir.

  No way.

  After a while he tried to convince himself he was making them up. Didn’t work.

  Their howls froze him, made him stop whatever he was doing. They were too real sounding.

  But there were a few things in Duncan’s life the wolves didn’t seem to mind. One was his work with a small company downtown. They also didn’t seem to mind baseball or Debbie.

  Debbie was short and cute in a plain sort of way. She had shoulder length brown hair, perfect teeth, and tiny feet. She was also a complete take-her-home-to-meet-mother prude.

  He had met Debbie the week before the wolves started their terrorist action. She worked in a downtown department store in the small-appliance section. He had gone in for a new toaster. The night before, while drunk, he had used his old one for a football. He had thought he was Joe Willy and threw a perfect pass through the window while fading back behind the blocking of his couch.

  For the first month, Duncan wasn’t sure why he kept asking Debbie out. Possibly for the challenge. He figured she finally agreed for the same reason.

  That and the fact the he had what she called “big potential.”

  After the war started with the wolves, dates with Debbie were the only peaceful ones he had. For a while he suspected it was something she or her rich father was doing. But after searching a hundred places for speakers, he gave up trying to figure out how.

  Dates with Debbie were boring, plain and simple. The same kind he’d had back in high school: movies, hamburgers or dinner, and a lot of talk about everything but the real subject on his mind. Every night, after he dropped her off, he went downtown and got drunk. The wolves didn’t seem to mind that much either, as long as he kept his hands to himself.

  One night, after six months of dating Debbie and fighting the wolves by alternately running from them or searching for them, the battle shifted.

  For some unremembered reason, Duncan had promised Debbie to take her dancing. Debbie was having so much fun, she even had a few drinks. It must have been the drinks, because they started dancing all the slow dances and Debbie kept getting closer and closer.

  By halfway through the night she was rubbing up and down and up and down real slow like she was carefully sanding a fine antique. It drove him crazy.

  He kept waiting for the wolves to start their howl, but they didn’t.

  Later, after he was rubbed raw, they ended up at his apartment. That was the first time he had talked her into going up there.

  She’d had four strawberry daiquiris and looked dazed. She didn’t say a word about the three flights of stairs, but her face looked pale by the time she got inside.

  “Bathroom’s there,” he pointed.

  “Nice place,” she lied, and headed for the door he had indicated.

  He went into the kitchen and poured them both another drink of scotch. He didn’t even know if she liked scotch or not, but it didn’t matter. He used his best Goodwill glasses and only put one ice cube in hers so it wouldn’t be too watered down when he drank it later.

  He’d only taken a sip when the toilet flushed and she came out. She staggered straight up to him, pulled his head down, and kissed him with strawberry breath.

  He set his scotch down quickly as she started hoeing his mouth with her tongue, planting strawberry seeds with drunken skill.

  Fifteen minutes later they had worked their way to the bedroom and removed all their clothes.

  “Careful,” she said when they started.

  He said, “Yeah,” and she rubbed and he rubbed and the pace picked quickly up.

  Then the wolves started howling.

  Major battle time.

  Tonight they sounded loud, closer, and extra mean, but there was no way he was going to stop. It was about time he learned to ignore them.

  “I love it,” Debbie said softly as she twisted her head from side to side. She started rubbing faster and faster. “I love it... I love it... I love you...”

  He noticed the word change, but didn’t stop.

  Nothing was going to make him stop.

  No word, no howl, nothing.

  Debbie kept saying she loved him and the wolves kept howling and Duncan did his best just to keep up.

  Finally, the situation was to that critical time which marked the boundary between thinking, “Why not?” and wondering “Why?” when the wolves stopped howling.

  This time the silence made him pause.

  “Oh, don’t stop,” Debbie said. “You feel so good.”

  A low growl came from near the door.

  He tried to ignore it and go on with Debbie’s request when a second mean-sounding growl stopped him in mid-rub.

  He glanced around.

  The wolves were no longer howling from Bryant Street. The battle had moved into his own bedroom where they now circled his bed.

  On the left, two were crouched, ready to spring.

  Another stood, hair on its back on end, growling. Saliva dripped from its yellow teeth and formed a wet spot on the rug.

  He turned to the right. Two more were there.

  He was dead for sure. He closed his eyes and waited for the first rip of his flesh. He was going to die in the missionary position without a fight.

  What a way to go.

  “Duncan, dear. Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know,” he said and opened his eyes. There couldn’t really be wolves in his bedroom. Why didn’t Debbie see them?

  How could they harm him and not her?

  Made no sense.

  He must be imagining things. That was it. If he ignored them, they would go away.

  “Don’t stop,” Debbie said, her voice almost pleading. She started to move again and without thinking, he did too.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the largest wolf take a step toward the bed and crouch to spring.

  Duncan stopped again, bare essentials cruelly exposed to the pack.

  The wolf stopped.

  Standoff. Duncan looked both ways. They had all moved closer.

  What the hell did they want? He’d been nice to Debbie. This had been mostly her idea. He didn’t know what they wanted him to do.

  He looke
d into the pale blue eyes of the largest wolf. It growled real low and angry-like.

  Suddenly, what it wanted was clear to Duncan.

  He glanced down at Debbie. She was watching him with a look of concern. The wolves wanted him to tell her that he loved her. He might be able to do that.

  Maybe.

  She was a nice girl. He sort of liked her. Telling her he loved her was the right thing to do and the wolves always left him alone when he did the right thing.

  “Debbie,” he said, “I... I...”

  He turned back to the largest wolf hoping for one last chance. The wolf bared its teeth and growled.

  “Debbie, I love you,” he quickly said. That should do it.

  It damn well better.

  Debbie pulled him down into a hard hug that pressed his ear into her right breast. “Really, Duncan? Do you mean it?”

  She kissed him with her mouth open and her orthodontist teeth showing. Then, without hesitation, she started to move again. He didn’t know if he should join her.

  The wolves were still there.

  But his body won. He couldn’t help himself and he slowly joined her rhythm.

  Two of the wolves snarled again and the largest wolf stuck its cold nose against the side of his leg.

  He jerked and rolled away from the wolf, pulling Debbie over on top of him.

  “Oh, Duncan. You’re so much fun.”

  She pulled her legs up under her and started practicing her belly dancing moves on his stomach. She was a fine belly dancer, he quickly discovered.

  He lay there and looked from side to side at the wolves. He hadn’t imagined that cold nose. The wolves might be invisible to everyone else, but they were real enough to his touch.

  And they still weren’t happy with him.

  They were in close all the way around the bed. He could smell their stale breath. He had to do something and do it quick.

  The biggest wolf again touched him with its cold nose.

  Duncan jumped and Debbie gave a little squeal of joy.

  “Debbie! Stop!”

  Debbie pulled her hair away from her face and looked down at him. Her cheeks were flushed and she had this hungry look in her eyes.