The Little Friend

“This is—This is Loyal Reese,” said the older man, visibly uncomfortable, fingering the edge of the red mark on his cheek.

“Reese?” Mr. Dial surveyed the stranger pleasantly. “Not from around here, are you?”

The young man stammered something in response, and though Harriet couldn’t make out the words, his accent was clear enough: a high, hill-country voice, nasal and bright.

“Ah! Glad to have you with us, Loyal.… Just a visit, yes? Because,” Mr. Dial said, holding up a palm to forestall any protestations, “there are the terms of the lease. Single occupancy. No harm, is there, in making sure that we understand each other, Gene?” Mr. Dial folded his arms, much the way he did in Harriet’s Sunday-school class. “By the way, how have you been enjoying the new screen door I put in for you?”

Eugene managed a smile and said: “It’s nice, Mr. Dial. It works better than the otherun.” Between the scar, and the smile, he looked like a good-natured ghoul from a horror movie.

“And the water heater?” said Mr. Dial, screwing his hands together. “Now, that’s a lot faster now, I know, heating your bath water, and all. Got all the hot water you can use now, don’t you? Ha ha ha.”

“Well sir, Mr. Dial …”

“Eugene, if you don’t mind, I’ll cut to the chase here,” said Mr. Dial, turning his head cozily to the side. “It’s in your interest as well as mine to keep our lines of communication open, don’t you agree?”

Eugene looked confused.

“Now, the last two times I’ve stopped by to see you you’ve denied me access to this rental unit. Help me out here, Eugene,” he said—holding up a palm, expertly blocking Eugene’s interruption. “What’s going on here? How can we improve on this situation?”

“Mr. Dial, I kindly don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Eugene, that as your landlord, I have the right to enter the premises as I see fit. Let’s help each other out here, shall we?” He was moving up the stairs. Young Loyal Reese—looking more shocked than ever—was quietly backing up the steps to the apartment.

“I kindly don’t understand the problem, Mr. Dial! If I done something wrong—”

“Eugene, I’ll be frank about my concerns. I’ve received complaints about an odor. When I dropped by the other day, I noticed it myself.”

“If you’d like to step inside a minute, Mr. Dial?”

“I certainly would like to do that, Eugene, if you don’t mind. Because you see it’s like this. I’ve got certain responsibilities to all my tenants at a property.”

“Hat!”

Harriet jumped. Curtis was weaving from side to side and waving to her with his eyes closed.

“Blind,” he called to her.

Mr. Dial turned, halfway. “Well, hello there, Curtis! Careful, there,” he said, brightly, stepping aside with an expression of slight distaste.

At this, Curtis swung around, with a long goose-step, and began to stomp across the street towards Harriet with his arms straight out in front of him, hands dangling, like Frankenstein.

“Munster,” he gurgled. “Ooo, munstrer.”

Harriet was mortified. But Mr. Dial hadn’t seen her. He turned away and—still talking (“No, wait a second, Eugene, I really do want you to understand my position here”)—he headed up the steps in a very determined fashion as the two men retreated nervously before him.

Curtis stopped in front of Harriet. Before she could say anything, his eyes popped open. “Tie my shoes,” he demanded.

“They’re tied, Curtis.” This was a habitual exchange. Because Curtis didn’t know how to tie his shoes, he was always going up to kids on the playground and asking for help. Now, it was how he started a conversation, whether his shoes needed tying or not.

With no warning, Curtis shot out an arm and grabbed Harriet by the wrist. “Gotchoo,” he burbled happily.

The next thing she knew, he was towing her firmly across the street. “Stop,” she said crossly, and tried to yank free. “Let me go!”

But Curtis plowed on. He was very strong. Harriet stumbled along behind him. “Stop,” she cried, and kicked him in the shin as hard as she could.

Curtis stopped. He slackened his moist, meaty grip around her wrist. His expression was blank and rather frightening but then he reached over and patted her on the head: a big, flat, splay-fingered pat that didn’t quite connect, like a baby trying to pat a kitten. “You strong, Hat,” he said.

Harriet stepped away and rubbed her wrist. “Don’t do that any more,” she mumbled. “Jerking people around.”

“Me a good munster, Hat!” growled Curtis, in his grumbly monster voice. “Friendly!” He patted his stomach. “Eat only cookies!”

He had dragged her all the way across the street, up into the driveway behind the pickup truck. Paws dangling peacefully under his chin, in his Cookie Monster posture, he lumbered over to the rear and lifted the tarpaulin. “Look, Hat!”

“I don’t want to,” said Harriet, grumpily, but even as she turned away a dry, furious whir rolled up from the truck bed.