“Some asshole take time out from torture to floss his teeth?” Marino starts in. “Like what the hell is that about? Or more likely, it’s been hanging out in the toilet since last Christmas.”
Mr. Peanut is now right by my door, the truck bumping over the unpaved drive that leads through woods to Route 5.
“Come here now!” Kiffin bellows as she comes down the steps, hands smack-smack-smack.
“Goddamn dog,” Marino complains.
“Stop!” I am afraid we are going to run over the poor animal.
Marino stamps the brakes and the truck lurches to a halt. Mr. Peanut jumps up barking, her head bobbing in and out of my window. “What in the world?” I am baffled. The dog was scarcely interested in us when we first showed up a few hours ago.
“Get back here!” Kiffin is coming after her dog. Behind her, a child fills the doorway, not the little boy we saw earlier, but someone as tall as Kiffin.
I get out of the truck and Mr. Peanut starts wagging her tail. She nuzzles my hand. The poor, wretched creature is dirty and smells bad. I get her by the collar and tug her in the direction of her family, but she doesn’t want to leave the truck. “Come on,” I talk to her. “Let’s get you home before you get run over.”
Kiffin strides up, just livid. She pops the dog hard on top of the head. Mr. Peanut bleats like an injured lamb, tail tucked, cowering. “You learn to mind, you hear me?” Kiffin furiously wags her finger at her dog. “Get in the house!”
Mr. Peanut sneaks behind me.
“Get!”
The dog sits down in the dirt behind me, pressing its trembling body against my legs. The person I saw in the doorway has vanished, but Zack has emerged on the porch. He is dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that are way too big. “Come ‘ere, Peanut,” he sings out, snapping his fingers. He sounds as frightened as the dog.
“Zack! Don’t you make me tell you again to get your butt inside the house!” Zack’s mother shouts at him.
Cruelty. Leave, and the dog will be beaten. Maybe the child will. Bev Kiffin is an out-of-control, frustrated woman. Life has made her feel powerless, and beneath her skin she seethes with hurt and anger, the unfairness of it all. Or maybe she is just plain bad, and maybe poor Mr. Peanut is running after Marino’s truck because the dog wants us to take her with us, to save her. That fantasy enters my mind. “Mrs. Kiffin,” I say in the calm voice of authoritythat cool, cool voice I reserve for times when I intend to threaten the living shit out of somebody. “Don’t you touch Mr. Peanut again unless you do it gently. I have this special thing about people who hurt animals.”
Her face darkens and anger glints. I fix my stare dead center on her pupils.
“There are laws against cruelty to animals, Mrs. Kiffin,” I say. “And beating Mr. Peanut is not a good example to set in front of your children.” I hint that I spotted a second child she has failed to mention to us thus far.
She steps back from me, turns and walks off toward the house. Mr. Peanut sits, looking up at me. “You go home,” I tell her as my heart breaks. “Go on, sweetie. You need to go home.”
Zack comes down the steps and runs up to us. He takes the dog by the collar, squats and scratches between her ears, talking to her. “Be good, don’t go making Mama mad, Mr. Peanut. Please,” he says, looking up at me. “She just don’t like it ’cause you’re taking her baby buggy.”
This jolts me, but I don’t let it show. I get down to Zack’s level and pet Mr. Peanut, trying to block out that her musky stench triggers memories of Chandonne again. Nausea twists my stomach and makes my mouth water. ‘The baby buggy’s hers?” I ask Zack.
“When she has puppies, I take them on rides in it,” Zack tells me.
“Why was it over there by the picnic table, Zack?” I ask. “I thought maybe some campers might have left it there.”