from the number of teenage girls who came and went from the house, he was either a real Don Juan or had an older brother who was.
“Um, okay?” I said.
He saw the puzzled look on my face and explained. “I used to walk her for the Morrisons.”
“Who?”
He pointed to Jackson and Terri’s house. “The Morrisons.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “My mom told me that they left and that it looked like Trixie was living with you.”
His mom was pretty observant; I, on the other hand, wouldn’t be able to pick her out of a lineup, so I was impressed. I started toward the house and he followed me. “Actually, if you want to help me out with her, that would be great. I can pay you what the Morrisons were paying you.” I said a silent prayer that the Morrisons weren’t paying him fifty bucks a walk or something equally outrageous.
“Oh, they weren’t paying me. I was just doing it because I love Trixie.”
Even better! And anyone who loves Trixie is a friend of mine. A responsible and free dog walker. How did I get so lucky? Now if I just had an unmarried boyfriend, I’d be all set. I opened the front door and let Bagpipe Kid in. Trixie, sensing a compadre in her midst, bounded down the hall, her leash in her mouth. “Trixie, you learned a new trick,” I said, amazed.
The kid blushed. “I taught her that.”
“Good work!” I said, and gave him a high five.
“She’s been digging a hole in the back of your neighbors’ yard,” he said, hooking a thumb toward Terri and Jackson’s vacant abode. “It’s way in the back behind the shed so I’m letting her do it. She loves to dig.”
I didn’t care. Nobody lived there so it wasn’t like anybody else would care, either. I sent the kid and Trixie on their way, telling him to just tie her up in the back when he was done playing with her. They took off down the front walk, a boy and…well, a dog he didn’t own.
I took my bottle of Listerine into the kitchen and filled a tall glass halfway with the stuff. Damn that Peter Miceli and his roving lips. I took a hearty sip of the mouthwash, looking out onto the backyard and craning my neck to see if Trixie was still working on the hole. She was at the edge of the shed working as hard as she could to dig a giant chasm. I could see her hind legs kicking up earth, great clumps of it flying to and fro. The kid crouched next to her, staring down into the void that she had created, smiling and petting her from time to time, seemingly happy that she was happy.
I gargled a few times, swishing yellow liquid around in my mouth until my tongue had gone numb. When my eyes started to water, I spat out the fluid into the sink, rinsed the glass out, and filled it with water, drinking down the residue that remained in my mouth. I didn’t know if I felt any better or if I had completely erased the idea of Peter’s lips touching mine, but my mouth felt tingly and clean. I peered out again to check on Trixie’s progress, surprised when a flash of red flew past the window over my sink which I recognized as Bagpipe Kid’s head. His furious knocking at the back door interrupted my reverie and I opened the door to find him in a tizzy, winded and agitated.
“Mrs…. Trixie…the hole,” he said, finally putting his hands to his knees and taking deep breaths. It dawned on me that he wasn’t as winded as he was terrified. When he stood up straight again, I noticed that his face was ghastly white, his freckles standing out against a pallid background.
“Slow down,” I said, putting a hand on his back.
He grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the kitchen, the force so hard that it lifted me off my feet. “Come with me.”
I could see Trixie standing by the hole, whimpering, her tail between her legs, and her head hanging dejectedly.
The kid reached the hole before I did and he pointed, his arm stiff. He looked away, focusing on the side of my garage, the structure directly opposite from where we stood. A couple of strangled sobs escaped from his throat.
I walked over to the hole and peered in, the bile rising in my throat. I