Free The Tragic Age by Stephen Metcalfe Page B

not mine. Dorie won’t come here. It’s safe here. I’m not sure when my eyes close. All I know is that I sleep.

 
    22
    When I wake up, the Taylors’ dachshund is stupidly staring me in the face. He whimpers, shimmies on his belly across the bed and licks me on the lips. It hits me he’s probably used to kissing Mrs. Taylor in the morning, maybe slipping her a little tongue, and the thought is so gross, it makes me roughly push him away.
    It’s at that very moment I hear the sound of the front door opening downstairs. I realize I forgot to reset the security system. I hear voices.
    â€œOf all the goddamn…” says Mr. Taylor.
    â€œStop. Linda just must have forgotten,” Mrs. Taylor says.
    I hear them move into the living room, Mr. Taylor grumbling as he goes.
    â€œHey, it’s just me!” I call. “Your neighbor, Billy Kinsey! I accidentally spent the night!”
    I say absolutely no such thing.
    My teenage brain goes into panic mode. Logic goes totally out the window. I desperately look around the room for any kind of help.
    â€œAnimals,” intones the Taylors’ dachshund, making itself comfortable on the bed, “respond to threats in different ways. Most will try to escape when threatened.”
    I get up and move to the sliding doors that face out onto the deck. The jump from the deck down to the poolside pavement is too much and I’m afraid to risk opening the doors anyway. I can hear the Taylors’ luggage clunking as they start up the stairs.
    â€œMaybe it was the maid,” says Mrs. Taylor.
    â€œFucking idiot,” says Mr. Taylor. I’m not sure if he’s talking about Mom, Mrs. Taylor, or the maid. Maybe all three. Maybe women in general.
    â€œFailing a means of escape,” the Taylors’ dachshund now tells me, “most animals will seek refuge. We will attempt to blend into our surroundings.”
    When Mr. Taylor opens the bedroom door, he sees nothing. Five minutes later he and Mrs. Taylor are unpacking. Mrs. Taylor opens the closet to put clothes away. She gasps in fright. I’m standing there hiding behind her designer clothes. They reek of Mrs. Taylor’s perfume. Mrs. Taylor looks puzzled.
    â€œBilly?” she says.
    Of course, this doesn’t happen. This would be embarrassing.
    â€œFear,” warns the Taylors’ dachshund, “makes an animal capable of anything.”
    I move to the bureau. I open the drawer as quietly as I can but still it creaks. Out in the hall it’s suddenly silent.
    â€œIs someone here?” I hear Mrs. Taylor say.
    â€œShhh,” says Mr. Taylor.
    â€œMaybe we should call the police,” says Mrs. Taylor.
    â€œBe quiet,” says Mr. Taylor.
    I reach into the bureau drawer for the gun. I can see it all so clearly. Mr. Taylor is opening the door to his son’s bedroom. Robby Taylor is a senior at UC Santa Barbara majoring in drinking and is an asshole. Mr. Taylor grabs a baseball bat and turns back into the hallway.
    â€œTom, just call the police—”
    Holding the gun now, I turn toward the closed bedroom door.
    â€œAnything,” repeats the Taylors’ dachshund.
    Mrs. Taylor screams as Mr. Taylor throws open the bedroom door and, bat raised, comes running in. I shoot him in the face. The gun is deafening. Blood and brains spatter the wall. Mrs. Taylor screams again. And then with a shock, she realizes it’s me.
    â€œBilly?” she says.
    I blow Mrs. Taylor away.
    Of course, this doesn’t happen. This is a youthful imagination twisted and distorted by the soulless idiocy that is movies and television.
    The Taylors’ dachshund sighs with impatience. “With no place to run and no place to hide,” it says, “an animal freezes and hopes for the best.”
    I’m just standing there when Mr. Taylor opens the door, charges in and, screaming, brains me with the baseball bat. I hit the floor like a sack of grain.