The Initial Insult - Mindy McGinnis Page 0,10
been hearing this shit long enough that I figure Grandma might’ve been smiling when she signed her will, despite the cancer eating her alive. I’m willing to bet the little things she held against him were probably larger and more general, like him being a dick and the occasional insufferable—yet mercifully concise—diatribes. I will give him that. Cecil doesn’t have a lot to say, it’s just that all of it is spiteful.
“I need the manacles,” I tell him.
“What’d Rue do?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, jumping to the orangutan’s defense. “I just need the manacles.”
Cecil’s eyes tighten. The network of lines around the blue eye deepen; the muscles around the ruined one remain slack from where the cat’s claws went in deep, slashing everything to tatters. “You being weird?”
I’ve been living with Cecil since the fifth grade, and the closest we ever get to the talk is when he asks me if I’m “being weird.”
“No, I just need them.” I give him a hard stare then, one that I remember Mom using on Dad when she was done with words and had moved on to something more powerful. They didn’t fight a lot, but when they did and Mom pulled out that look, I knew it was over. So I studied her, mimicked the set jaw, narrowed eyes, cock of the hips, slightly raised eyebrows. The whole posture says, Come at me. But it also says whatever I want it to say, or whatever the person I’m arguing with is scared of.
I imagine when I give this look to Cecil right now it says, There are at least fifteen animal rights violations in our backyard and I can make that very clear, very quickly to very many people, if you don’t tell me where the manacles are. You don’t need to know why I want them.
He grunts and picks up the Weedwacker, the circular blade spinning lazily. “West shed,” is all he says, before jerking it back to life, a cloud of smoke erupting between us, followed by the high whine of the blade slicing through live vines. Poison ivy sprays across my back as I walk away, and I know he did it on purpose.
It’s a pansy-ass, passive-aggressive, cheap move. One that he would deny if I turned around and called him out on it. But I don’t. Instead, I clench my fists and head toward the shed, passing Rue’s cage as I do. She follows along beside me for a second, grabbing the bars and showing me her teeth.
It’s a smile. If you don’t know orangutans, you can’t tell if they want to hug you or kill you. And they can, but this one won’t. At least, she won’t kill me. I stop, reaching through the bars to touch Rue’s face, and she cups my hand, pushing it tighter against her cheek.
“Hey, Rue,” I say, keeping my voice low and calm. Yesterday I told Ribbit that the town council should be less concerned about the alligator and more about the cat. But the truth is that the scariest thing in here is probably this sweet girl, mostly because you wouldn’t see it coming when she decided it was time to snap your neck.
So I’m careful when I reach through the bars, combing out some tangles in her hair. She turns, aware of what I’m doing, showing me a spot she’s been working on. I finish the job for her, pulling out a clump of mud and touching the sore skin underneath.
“I’ll get some salve for that,” I tell her, and she grunts at me like she understands.
I tried to teach her sign language once and was starting to see indications of progress, until all she wanted to do was flip me off. Every time I approached the cage she’d give me a huge grin and a double bird. I couldn’t figure out where she learned it until one day I turned around and saw Cecil behind me, giving me the finger and laughing his ass off.
“Fucker,” I say, and Rue nods along with me.
I sign goodbye at her, but she turns her back, either refusing to show me that she remembers the sign or irritated that I’m leaving her already.
But I’ve got things to do, which is why I’m not going to give Cecil shit about the poison ivy sticking between my shoulder blades or tell Rue that I don’t have time to talk right now. I’ve got things to do, like find out what happened to my