Better Than People - Roan Parrish Page 0,9

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When the sound of snapping branches outside caught his attention, boredom won out over comfort and Jack hauled himself to his feet, fished his binoculars from the windowsill, and lurched to the back door.

Jack put the binoculars to his eyes, breath catching for just a moment, as it always did in that first second of extended sight. Who could ever know what such sight might reveal? What bit of the world it would alight on? First, the dizzying whoosh of dislocation and then the view steadied and he was projected yards and yards beyond himself.

Once, he’d lifted binoculars casually and they’d revealed a boreal owl nestled in the crotch of a branch, wide yellow eyes fixed directly on him. For years after, every time he walked outside, Jack had thought about all the creatures that watched him unawares.

Now, though, there was no such magic. It was an overcast, grayish day, and fog lay close to the ground. When nothing of interest revealed itself in the woods behind the house, Jack scanned farther afield. He’d never paid much attention to his nearest neighbor, who lived a quarter mile or so north, but now he found himself lingering on the smoke rising from the chimney just over the rise.

Had he seen smoke coming from the chimney in the morning before? He didn’t think so. But he’d likely never looked, either. The smoke crawled into the sky and Jack wondered. The man who lived there was old and kept to himself, and the law of binoculars was that you minded your own business if you happened to catch sight of humans while observing animals. But Jack allowed himself a brief scan.

The house itself lay invisible over a swell of land, but he could make out the chimney and a bit of the roof, and just to the east, the drive to the house that snaked back to the main road.

Why had his neighbor changed his habits? Was he suddenly home during the days? Was someone else staying with him? What if, the voice that was usually linked to his drawing hand whispered, someone broke in and took Mr. Whatshisname hostage? What if they’re still there and have him tied to a chair or stuffed in a suitcase? What if they’re robbing him or torturing him or taking revenge for an act of cruelty he committed long ago? They’ve just now tracked him down, thirty years later, and although he’s an old man, they believe he must pay for the pain he’s inflicted.

Jack strained to see more but short of climbing on the roof—impossible in his current condition—there was nothing he could do. Gradually, the smoke lessened, then disappeared, and though he watched for as long as his leg would allow, he didn’t see anything more.

Sighing as his one wisp of potential excitement disappeared along with the smoke, Jack dragged himself back inside, leg aching, armpits aching, ribs aching, and collapsed onto the couch with an oof that made him feel ninety years old.

With nothing else to break the monotony of the day until Simon arrived for the evening walk, Jack watched the animals until his eyes swam. He counted the beams in the ceiling. Made lists of tasks he should do once he was back on his feet—the windows could use washing; there was a loose board in the entryway; maybe he should get some plants to liven the place up.

Every crack, smudge, stain, and loose thread within his kingdom revealed itself, never to be unseen. He pet every animal that came near him until they bored of it and found a place on Mayonnaise’s fur that didn’t quite grow in all the way.

Then, when all of that had taken only the smallest chunk of only one day, Jack turned the television on and resigned himself to numbing distraction.

* * *

There was a quiet to the house when the dogs weren’t there that Jack hadn’t experienced in years. He didn’t like it.

Mayonnaise and Pickles snoozed on the easy chair and windowsill respectively, and Louis was in the bedroom, but cats had their own quiet.

Jack was intimately acquainted with quiet. He’d grown up with it. The quiet of long, snow-choked Wyoming winters, of long, sleepless nights. The quiet of parents who had little to say to one another; the quiet of their absence.

His menagerie had been an antidote to the silences he hadn’t chosen, and now that he was used to living with the soundtrack of their snuffles and thumps, their snores and yips