looking at him fearfully. “That would be acceptable, too. You might even have the
guts, although, when it comes right down to it…you might not. In any case, I’ll listen with great interest for the bang.”
He left Grunwald then, but not the way he had come. He went around to the road. A
left turn would have taken him back to his house, but he turned right, toward the
beach. For the first time since Betsy died, he felt like watching the sunset.
Two days later, while sitting at his computer (he was watching General Electric with
especial interest), Curtis heard a loud bang from next door. He didn’t have his music
on, and the sound rolled through the humid, almost-July air with perfect clarity. He
sat where he was, head cocked, still listening. Although there would be no second
bang.
Us witches just know shit like that, he thought.
Mrs. Wilson came rushing in, holding a dishtowel in one hand. “That sounded like a
gunshot!”
“Probably just a backfire,” he said, smiling. He had been smiling a lot since his
adventure at Durkin Grove Village. He thought it wasn’t the same sort of smile as the
one he had worn during the Betsy Era, but any smile was better than none. Surely that
was true?
Mrs. Wilson was looking at him doubtfully. “Well…I guess.” She turned to go.
“Mrs. Wilson?”
She turned back.
“Would you quit me if I got another dog? A puppy?”
“Me, quit over a puppy? It’d take more than a pup to drive me out.”
“They tend to chew, you know. And they don’t always—” He broke off for a moment,
seeing the dark and nasty landscape of the holding tank. The underworld.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Wilson was looking at him curiously.
“They don’t always use the bathroom,” he finished.
“Once you teach them, they usually go where they’re supposed to,” she said.
“Especially in a warm climate like this one. And you need some companionship, Mr.
Johnson. I’ve been…to tell the truth, I’ve been a little worried about you.”
He nodded. “Yes, I’ve kind of been in the shit.” He laughed, saw her looking at him
strangely, and made himself stop. “Excuse me.”
She flapped her dishtowel at him to show he was excused.
“Not a purebred, this time. I was thinking maybe the Venice Animal Shelter.
Someone’s little castoff. What they call a rescue dog.”
“That would be very nice,” she said. “I look forward to the patter of little feet.”
“Good.”
“Do you really think that was a backfire?”
Curtis sat back in his chair and pretended to consider. “Probably…but you know, Mr.
Grunwald next door has been pretty sick.” He lowered his voice to a sympathetic
whisper. “Cancer.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wilson said.
Curtis nodded.
“You don’t think he’d…?”
The marching numbers on his computer screen melted into the screen saver: aerial
photos and beach scenes, all featuring Turtle Island. Curtis stood up, walked to Mrs.
Wilson, and took the dishtowel from her hand. “No, not really, but we could go next
door and check. After all, what are neighbors for?”