Grandma never knew where she was going but she always got there fast. Today was no exception. Radio blaring, she sped down the single lane road outside of town in her beat up Mustang. A small dog watched from the woods. He limped to the center of the road and stopped to lick his paws. He didn’t look up as she barreled toward him in a cloud of exhaust. Too late, she slammed the brakes, sending her into a tailspin. She landed in a ditch with an unceremonious thump. She had hit the dog, she was sure of it. For a moment, she sat clutching the steering wheel. Then she stepped out, leaves crunching beneath her shoes. The road stretched empty, marked by the lonely call of a whippoorwill. Swaying slightly, she closed her eyes and listened to the wind.
When I pulled up, she was motionless behind the wheel, staring off into the woods.
I peered in through the window. “Are you okay?”
“I busted an axle.”
“The third one this year.”
“So, you're counting now.”
“I’m just saying.”
A bruised sky glared down at us. The first raindrops fell, splattering the Mustang’s windshield with dirty tears. A flurry of leaves and twigs howled past, growling, and nipping at my clothes. It was weird, but I could have sworn it licked my face as it hurtled by.
“Freaky wind." I picked twigs out of my hair.
Grandma looked back to the woods; her face suddenly pale. “Only if the wind has teeth." She pointed at paw prints on the road. Small and muddy, they led into the trees. We watched them melt in the rain.
Then the wind howled again. I pulled my jacket close. Grandma was right about it having teeth. She avoided my gaze and trudged over to my station wagon, silver hair whipping in the wind.
We were quiet on the drive back. It began to storm in earnest as I turned down the dirt road that led to Grandma’s house. Lightning lit up the yard. Grandma gripped my arm and peered through the wipers. Something was on the porch.
A dog with dark, matted fur, mottled by patches of bare, gray skin, waited by the front door. He slowly raised his head, his eyes glowing like fireflies.
“That’s not right,” I said.
He leveled his gaze on me, eyes turning black. He screamed.
“Oh, hell no.” I slammed the car in reverse. But Grandma had already leapt out of the car and was halfway up the drive.
Nothing for it, I followed, my breath coming out in frosty puffs.
The smell reached me first. Death rolled off the dog in waves. He sneezed, sending maggots flying out of his nose.
Grandma stretched out her hands.
“Oh my God, don’t touch him.”
“He’s lovely.”
“He’s roadkill warmed over.”
“No, he’s perfect.” She cupped the dog’s face in trembling hands and kissed the top of his head.
“Damn it Grandma, go inside.”
“If you say so.” She scooped the dog into her arms and ran into the house, the deadbolt clicking shut behind her.
For a moment I stared at the door and then began pounding on it with both fists. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
The rain tapered off and I could hear Grandma talking. “You came back,” she said.
I pressed my ear against the door. An ancient baritone answered, too muffled to understand. Oh geez, Grandma had company. Of course, she did. I knocked again, softly this time. “Are you okay in there?”
There was another brief murmuring and a rustling of paws on wood floors. Grandma cleared her throat. “Trish?”
“Yes, Grandma?”
“Be a dear and get me a six-pack?”
“It depends. Are you going to get rid of that nasty mutt?”
Muffled laughter. Seriously, whoever Grandma had in there was positively prehistoric, his voice like wind whistling through a grate. But there was nothing I could do. She had always collected men. I guess comic books and stamps weren’t exciting enough.
“You still out there, Trish?”
“Yeah.”
“Get the good stuff.”
#
A few hours later I knocked on the door, a hollow sound. I knocked again, suddenly afraid that Grandma was gone. Then a patter of claws on an oak floor. The door edged open bringing with it a whiff of graveyard rot.
I hesitated, all too aware of the rustle of a small creature waiting on the other side. I took a deep breath, immediately gagged, and swung the door wide. “Hello?”
The dog, cleaner now, at least on the outside, looked up at me with dead eyes.
I glanced around the small entryway. “You didn't open that door.”
He snickered.
“You still smell bad.”
A shadow passed over his face. He sprinted down the hallway toward the kitchen. I followed and set my backpack and the beer on the table. Grandma was putting a frozen pizza in the oven.
“You have a creepy dog.”
“Stuart is not creepy.” She started chopping carrots for a salad.
“Weird name for a dog.” I looked around. “Where’s your male friend?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Whatever.” I took my chemistry homework out of the backpack.
She set the knife down. “You couldn’t do that at home?”
“I’m not leaving you alone with mini Cujo.”
“Well, just leave it there for now.”
“Fine.” I walked into the living room. The usual tornado clutter was gone. In fact, it was the first time I had seen Grandma’s couch in years. I leaned over a coffee table and saw my reflection haloed by furniture polish.
“What the hell happened?” I whispered.
Grandma appeared in the entrance. “He doesn’t like a mess.”
“Who doesn’t?”
She glanced back at the kitchen.
“You cleaned the house for a dog but made your husbands wade through the trash with a shovel?”
She shrugged and fanned the kindling in the fireplace.
A half-finished game of chess was on the coffee table. “What's this?”
“You don’t want to know.”
I sighed and turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you a beer.”
“Bring two.”
“You know I don’t drink.”
“It wasn’t for you, dear.”
I slunk back to the kitchen. Stuart was sitting at the table, my homework spread out in front of him.
“Oh crap, no.” I ran over, then froze. The first page was complete, filled out in spidery cursive, in pen no less. We stared at each other, with only the ticking of the kitchen clock between us. I broke first.
“For future reference,” I said, “teachers generally frown on chewing off the corners.”
He nodded and a small beetle fell from his ear. He gave it a sniff and then crunched it between his teeth.
“Oh, dear Lord.”
#
I returned the next morning with a leash.
“I’m taking doggy demon to the vet.”
Grandma slammed the door in my face. I heard arguing, the same raspy voice from the day before blended with Grandma’s high pitch. Then an audible sigh. The door opened and Stuart ran out, leaping in circles as if he had springs under his paws.
Still, I waited, listening to the impatient tapping of Grandma’s feet.
Finally, she relented. “Don’t take too long.”
I smiled and walked away. Stuart was behind the wheel.
“Move over, mutt. You’re not driving.”
As I drove off, I watched Grandma’s shrinking form in my rear view mirror, hands glued to her hips. Then I turned to Stuart who was busily making nose prints on my window. “I love my grandma, you know.”
He nodded.
“And I still think you’re creepy.”
He gave me a scarecrow grin and somehow, I couldn’t help but return it in kind.
#
The veterinarian’s visit was cut short since Stuart had neither a heartbeat or lung sounds. And more importantly his eyes glowed red when the vet tried to get a temperature from his nether region. Despite my protests, we were sent promptly to the front desk to pay the bill.
“He is what he is,” the vet said before disappearing into his office. I could be mistaken but I thought I heard a desk being pushed in front of the door.
I placed Stuart on the receptionist counter. Immediately, the hackles rose on the back of his neck and I was painfully aware of Mrs. Beaks skulking behind the cash register. She stared at us from behind thick, tortoise shell glasses, her orange lips puckered as if concealing a wedge of rancid cheese. She adjusted her wig, a horrendous red beehive large enough to hide all sorts of unpleasant objects, like religious pamphlets or perhaps a fruitcake, long gone bad.
She peered above the register. “How’s Lydia doing?” she asked. “Is she entertaining any new men?”
I gave Stuart a quick glance. “Nope.”
Mrs. Beaks’ long fingernails drummed on the chipped lime Formica. Against my better judgement I looked up and saw something brewing.
“You know, it all started with Kingsly,” she said.
“Who?”
Mrs. Beaks leaned in closer until I could see the blue roots beneath her wig. “He was a graduate student, though why they let his sort in I don’t know."
"His sort?"
Mrs. Beaks ignored me and kept going. "Guess he thought he was one of the good ones. But he was just a glorified hippie spouting lies about the war and playing that stupid guitar, not to mention all the drinking. But even he couldn’t avoid the draft.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
A low growl grew in Stuart’s chest, his broken teeth bared at the banshee behind the counter.
“Don’t you dare,” I whispered.
Stuart snapped his mouth shut and raised a hind leg. A sizzle, then the smell of Sulfur rose in the air. Too slow, Mrs. Beaks dabbed at her blouse with a paper towel. “You are all horrible, nasty people,” she hissed.
I hugged Stuart, with all of his rotting odoriferousness to my chest, and walked out.
When we got back Grandma asked how it went.
“Your dog doesn’t have a heart,” I said.
Grandma leaned back and laughed.
#
Winter came silently that year, more felt than seen. As it deepened, Grandma’s movements became slower and more deliberate. More often than not, I found her dozing on the couch with a book clasped to her chest, silver hair gleaming in the firelight. Stuart and I played chess as she slept and on the rare occasion, he let me win.
Then one chill December evening as soft raindrops fell on the roof like muffled heartbeats; the fire flickered and collapsed on dead coals. A cool wind flowed through the room in a swirl of whispers and sighs.
“Grandma?”
The room held its breath and the rain uttered a final note, a silver drop, against the den’s moonlit window.
#
Stuart and I walked through rows of headstones, my friend’s nose dragging the cold ground. Then he trembled, tested the air, and left me for the woods that bordered the cemetery.
“Nice!” I yelled after him. Then I looked down and promptly lost my knees.
Something had clawed its way out from Grandma’s grave and left a trail of paw prints in the overturned soil. Whatever had done this was small and determined. I pursed my lips and sat back on my heels before taking a beer from my backpack. Grandma had been adamant about not wanting flowers. “It’s the good stuff,” I whispered as I placed the bottle next to her headstone.
A cool wind blew over my shoulder, pushing me toward the hunched line of trees. Find Stuart.
The birds fell silent when I entered the woods. They watched as I followed a twisting path, every turn darker than the last. Abruptly it ended in a small clearing strewn with crumbled headstones scattered like broken teeth among the weeds. There was a brief twittering and the birds flew away, casting a swirling shadow against the pale winter sun. I felt the presence of many but was interested in only one.
“Hello?”
A soft whimper, then a sigh. Stuart sat in front of a broken stone angel, its delicate fingers reaching for the damp earth. I leaned in to read the inscription.
Stuart
Stuart Kingsly
1947-1972
Born Timeless
Left The Same Way
The faint call of a whippoorwill wended through the trees. A small silver-haired terrier stepped out from behind a headstone. Stuart smiled and wiped a clump of dirt from her nose with his paw. Then slowly, their eyes drifted to me.
I hesitated, and then knelt beside them. “It’s okay,” I said. “Go.”
And they did, stopping once at the edge of the cemetery to look back. They stood close, shoulders touching. I waved a shaky hand but they were already gone.
Alone, I reached down to touch the angel’s fingertips.