Free A Writer's Tale by Richard Laymon Page A

combed your hair before dinner,” his mother said.
    “I guess,” he said.
    “What have you done today,” his father changed the subject.
    “Nothing.”
    “He’s been pouting. That’s what he’s been doing. Pouting about not having a dog.”
    “Why do you want a dog?”
    “I don’t know, I just do.”
    ***
    Rich pulled on his jacket and ran outside. The air was peaceful with the smell of burning leaves. That was his favorite thing about autumn. Better than bright leaves against the blue sky, better than the first football games, better than the strange excitement of starting school. The smoke odor was his favorite thing about autumn.
    He ambled up the street with his hands stuffed in his bluejean pockets. Gary Cooper. He wished there was a straw around to suck on. Only asphalt and grass and elm and red brick. Grass wouldn’t do. He would say “Yup” instead. The ambling and the “Yup” would do it. He ambled up to the front door of Allen’s house.
    Rich touched the doorbell. It had a hair-trigger. Only chimes and a high-pitched howl answered the touch, no footsteps or voice. He touched the button again. Again the chimes and howl, but this time came a voice. From the backyard. So Rich cut across the front lawn and down the side of the house to the back.
    “Hi Rich!” yelled Allen. “Come here.”
    “Yeah, come here,” Jimmy echoed.
    Both boys were crouched above a special patch of grass. Rich joined them. “Howdy!
    What’s goin’ on?”
    “A mouse,” answered Allen.
    Rich knelt beside the other two boys. “Yeah,” he said with amazement. It was a live hump of greyness half-hidden in the grass.
    “It’s shaking.”
    “Cold.”
    “Winter’ll be here pretty soon.”
    “And nighttime,” Rich added. He hesitated to say anything.
    He knew almost nothing about mice. Allen probably knew a lot about mice. Allen knew a lot about most things. His father used to be a professor of history.
    “I think we oughta warm it up,” stated Allen.
    “How?”
    “Bring it along over to the patio.”
    Jimmy lifted the quivering mouse out of the grass.
    Rich stroked its back with his forefinger. “It sure is cold,” he said. “That shivering under the fur is awful.”
    “You telling me?” Jimmy stared, vaguely repulsed, at the furry animal that stood passive and shivering in his hand.
    “Come on,” cried Allen. “Ya gonna bring it over?”
    Jimmy followed orders. Within the charcoal broiler, the mouse continued to crouch, motionless except for the quiver.
    Rich wished that it would move. He had never seen a mouse from so close and wanted to see it run.
    “Go in the garage and get the gas,” Allen commanded Jimmy.
    “You. I don’t know where it is.”
    “It’s on the lowest shelf and it’s in a red can.”
    “You get it.”
    “If you get the gas, I’ll light the match.”
    Jimmy went for the gas.
    Rich stared at the mouse. “You know,” he drawled, “I don’t think we oughta do it.”
    “It’s cold, ain’t it?” Allen laughed. The parted lips were very red and Rich had once almost asked if it was lipstick. But he hadn’t.
    “I don’t know,” Rich muttered, forgetting his Gary Cooper drawl.
    “Are ya yellow?”
    “Nah.”
    Jimmy brought the red gasoline can. He unscrewed the larger of the two lids and reversed it so that the flexible spout pointed upward. “You wanna pour?”
    “Nah, you can.”
    Jimmy handed it to Allen and stepped back. Allen poured.
    The gas looked like strong cider. Its fumes killed the autumn odour. And the mouse began to run, feet ticking against the metal floor.
    Allen stood above the arena with a cardboard match in his hand, its red tip poised against the striking surface of the pack. “I can’t do it!” he cried. “I can’t!” Then his red lips thinned. He struck the match and dropped it into the broiler. The gas burst aflame with a quick, hollow wind sound. The ticking speeded as the mouse scampered in circles squeaking. It didn’t squeak loudly.