The Little Friend

“You aint never going to see Eugene handle a snake if you ast me. Eugene won’t put a worm on a fish-hook. Say brother—” Farish, his gaze fixed upon the scrub pines across the clearing, nodded briskly as if to switch the subject—“what you think of that big white rattlesnake done crawled up here yesterday?”

He meant the meth, the batch he’d just finished. Or, at least, Danny thought that’s what he meant. Often it was hard to figure out what Farish was talking about, especially when he was wired or drunk.

“Say what?” Farish glanced up at Danny, rather jerkily, and winked—a twitch of the eyelid, nearly imperceptible.

“Not bad,” Danny said warily, lifting his head in a way that felt easy and turning to look in the opposite direction, really smooth. Farish was apt to explode if anyone dared misunderstand him, even though most people had no idea what he was talking about half the time.

“Not bad.” Farish’s look could go either way, but then he shook his head. “Pure powder. It’ll thow you through the damn window. I like to lost my mind doctoring on that iodine-smelling product last week. Ran it through mineral spirits, ringworm medicine, what-have-you, stuff’s still so sticky I can hardly pound it up my damn nose. Tell you one thing for damn sure,” he chortled, falling back into his chair, clutching the arms as if readying for take-off, “a batch like this, don’t matter how you cut it—” Suddenly he bolted upright and shouted: “I said get that thing off me!”

A slap, a strangled cry; Danny jumped, and from the corner of his eye saw the kitten go flying. Curtis, his lumpy features scrunched together in a rictus of grief and fear, ground a fist into his eye and stumbled after it. It was the last of the litter; Farish’s German shepherds had taken care of the rest.

“I told him,” said Farish, rising dangerously to his feet, “I told him and told him never to let that cat near me.”

“Right,” said Danny, looking away.

————

Nights were always too quiet at Harriet’s house. The clocks ticked too loud; beyond the low corona of light from the table lamps, the rooms grew gloomy and cavernous, and the high ceilings receded into what seemed endless shadow. In autumn and winter, when the sun went down at five, it was worse; but being up and having no one but Allison for company was in some ways worse than being alone. She lay at the other end of the couch, her face ash-blue in the glow of the television, her bare feet resting in Harriet’s lap.

Idly, Harriet stared down at Allison’s feet—which were damp and ham-pink, oddly clean considering that Allison walked around barefoot all the time. No wonder Allison and Weenie had got on so well with each other. Weenie had been more human than cat, but Allison was more cat than human, padding around on her own and ignoring everybody most of the time, yet perfectly comfortable to curl up by Harriet if she felt like it and stick her feet in Harriet’s lap without asking.

Allison’s feet were very heavy. Suddenly—violently—they twitched. Harriet glanced up and saw Allison’s eyelids fluttering. She was dreaming. Quickly, Harriet seized her little toe and wrenched it backward, and Allison yelped and yanked her foot up to her body like a stork.

“What are you dreaming about?” demanded Harriet.

Allison—red waffle-patterns from the sofa stamped upon her cheek—turned her sleep-dulled eyes as if she didn’t recognize her  … no, not quite, thought Harriet, observing her sister’s confusion with keen, clinical detachment. It’s like she sees me and something else.

Allison cupped both hands over her eyes. She lay there like that for a moment, very still, and then she stood. Her cheeks were puffy, her eyelids heavy and inscrutable.

“You were dreaming,” said Harriet, watching her closely.

Allison yawned. Then—rubbing her eyes—she trudged towards the stairs, swaying sleepily as she walked.

“Wait!” cried Harriet. “What were you dreaming? Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? You mean you won’t.”

Allison turned and looked at her—strangely, Harriet thought.

“I don’t want it to come true,” she said, starting upstairs.

“Don’t want what to come true?”

“What I just dreamed.”

“What was it? Was it about Robin?”

Allison stopped on the bottom step and looked back. “No,” she said, “it was about you.”

————

“That was only fifty-nine seconds,” said Harriet, coldly, over Pemberton’s coughs and splutters.

Pem grasped the side of the pool and wiped his eyes with his forearm. “Bullshit,” he said, between gasps. He was maroon in the face, practically the color of Harriet’s penny loafers. “You were counting too slow.”

Harriet, with a long, angry whoosh, blew out all the air in her lungs. She breathed deep and hard, a dozen times, until her head began to whirl, and at the top of the last breath she dove and kicked off.