“How y’all doin’, Miss Florrie?” Francine would lean over and call from her spot on the front porch, two of the three dogs lying at her feet. The woman would nod back at her, then put her eyes on the soil again as if it were the most important thing in the world. No one could say nothing about their family, after all. On the first of the month, like clockwork, Francine would show up on Florrie’s porch, envelope in hand. Each time, Florrie was surprised to see her and would look down at the white envelope when offered, not bothering to open it, then back up with her eyes on Francine before the words escaped from her lips.
“Thank you.” And then like sugar, Francine would smile, turn on her Keds, and walk right back into her home. Rent paid. No questions asked.
In this way, Francine ensured that no outsiders, least of all Florrie, would be entering the home, for if they did, they were bound to find it not a little different from the house Francine saw on that first day. Just as soon as they moved themselves in, almost immediately, Francine had asked Patrick to rearrange all the furniture, which had been positioned the same way, toward the front of the home, toward the rising sun. Maybe it had been moved that way by one of the former tenants, because surely the two ladies she had met before moving in seemed too sensible. To Francine, it was ridiculous to be squinting all the time when you were watching your show. Then there was the downstairs powder room. More than once when Francine had to go, the toilet had backed up with such a stench that Patrick had to hold a hankie over his nose when he used the plunger. No point in calling a plumber, because after a couple of these bad events, he had it all fixed. Turns out Patrick was good for something.
Then there was the problem with the piano. Elias, who fancied himself somewhat of a musician since he had started guitar lessons when he was in high school, was the only one who took an interest in it. He tried playing “Ave Maria” and other songs on it, by ear, of course, and soon after, the pastel-color seat became unhinged, so that he found himself sliding all over the place every time he sat down. The well-worn booklets inside, however, remained untouched. But the worst thing was when he spilled orange juice across the piano’s sleek surface, the sticky liquid sneaking between the stark white keys before puddling, finally, on the soft bench. No matter how much scrubbing Francine did, the stains remained, and the sounds that came out bore no resemblance to music at all. After that, even Elias lost interest.
But the thing that most worried Francine was that people would find out about Bull. Bull was the dog that Billy had found wandering in the back woods one day, no collar, no leash. He begged to keep him, and since they were all dog lovers, how could she say no? Billy promised to take care of the brown-and-white pit bull that looked to be about two years old. They named him Bull, an appropriate appellation for a dog with short, stubby legs planted on the floor, holding up a barrel-shaped torso.
Billy was true to his promise. Within a week, he and his pals had built a doghouse for Bull and the other dogs who, after some initial trepidation, welcomed the new creature into the home. It wasn’t unusual for Francine, as she looked out the kitchen window, to see Billy and the boys out in the backyard, throwing a ball as Bull, saliva dripping from his mouth, stubby tail wagging, ran to retrieve it. Soon even Patrick, who was always suspicious when a new member was added to the group, would bend down when sitting in the old recliner and playfully pat the dog’s tubular belly as the animal gurgled happily.
But one day, that all changed. Francine had been reading the morning paper at the kitchen table when a sudden sharp noise, a hurting sound like when you step on a shard of glass in your bare feet, startled her. But no, this time it was Bull, the dog, barking up a storm. Still, it didn’t sound like the kind of bark he usually made when he was having fun.
Francine squinted, trying to get her eyes to focus on the scene in front of her. Billy and his friends, laughing, in a circle near a tree. Something dangling from a high branch. A rope being pulled.
“Billy! What the hell!” she screamed, as she pushed open the back screen door.
The boy turned abruptly as if he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, the three others ignoring her. Her eyes went up to a contraption they had rigged onto one of the branches of the big oak off to the side of the backyard. Hanging just out of reach was some kind of rubber toy, so bitten and torn up that it was hard to identify. Bull was barking, a mixture of anger, frustration, and fear. As always, the leash was around the dog’s neck, but at the other end this time was one of Billy’s friends, no older than Billy, who would wait till Bull, growling and eager, would fly straight up, making for the toy, only to pull him back at the last second, the dog’s yelp shattering the air. Sometimes when he managed to snatch a piece of the rubber, he’d be rewarded with one of the chicken nuggets that they had in an open box nearby on the lawn. When Bull wasn’t successful, they’d stand there, guffawing, as the dog, exhausted and panting, would quickly make another attempt. As Francine stared at the scene, it was as if a light snapped on in her head. The boys were enjoying this. She made her voice rise above the din.