Free This is Just Exactly Like You by Drew Perry Page B

saying. Don’t it? Jack looks, but not too long. It’s time to go. He pays his tab, leaves a big tip, walks out into the parking lot. He feels better. A burger and a beer. A night on the town, a calling card. He’s feeling better.
    He knocks some of the mud from Canavan’s lawn off the front tires, climbs up in the truck. Maybe it was a half-stupid thing to have done. Maybe somebody who had it together better wouldn’t have done that. Doesn’t matter. It was at least a fierce goddamned show of force, is what it was. It was an update with scores and highlights. He gets the truck turned around without hitting anything, and drives out past a huge display of mahogany furniture sitting in a mowed field. There’s a long yellow banner that says REAL MAHOGANY. There are tables, some dressers, a four-poster bed, something that looks like a throne. It’s all been out here at least a year. Jack’s never once seen anyone looking at it, never once seen anyone who looks like he might be selling it. It just sits. Furniture in a field. He rolls down his windows, finds what he wants on the radio, drives home with the volume cranked up. On the way by PM&T, he slows down and takes a look. Everything’s still right where he left it: His plants, his office, his piles of mulch.

    Beth’s sitting on the front porch, drinking coffee, when he gets home. Shit and shit. Yul Brynner’s out there, too, and the both of them look disappointed. And pissed. Jack hasn’t called about getting him shaved yet. Another failure. It’ll be 95 degrees soon enough, and the dog will lay around panting, miserable. Jack gets out of the truck, reminds himself one more time to call the vet.
    The porch light’s on across the street. He moves slowly, buying time, trying to make every move look like he’s doing it on purpose. He does like her back over here, sitting on his porch. Their porch. She’s chewing on a strand of her hair. It makes her seem like a kid. He climbs up the steps, and Yul Brynner watches him. Beth doesn’t. Jack nods at the dog on his way by.
    Inside, the house is quiet, but bright, all the wrong lamps on. He checks on Hendrick, who’s sleeping on his side, just like they taught him. First, push your hand down on the bed. Like that. Push and roll. Great, honey, that’s great. That’s perfect. Every new movement had to be taught, had to be broken down step by step. Regular kids don’t have to be taught to roll over. At the yard last week, Butner said, He runs like a goddamn marionette, you know . Jack didn’t know for sure that Butner knew what a marionette was. He grabs the last four of a six-pack out of the fridge, brings that back out on the porch with him. Might as well keep going. Yul Brynner’s staring out into the yard. Beth is, too.
    “Beer?” Jack says.
    Beth shows him her mug, says nothing.
    “Don’t mind if I do,” Jack says, opening himself one. He sets the other three back behind him, up against the house. He scratches Yul Brynner behind the ears. “What’s he looking at?”
    “I don’t know,” she says, her voice something dug out against him. “It’s out in the trees. It’s been out there a while.”
    Sticks snap in the little stand of shrubs and ivy in the side yard. Yul Brynner starts to shake a little, vibrate, his version of being battle-ready. A possum comes wallowing out from under a bush, sits up, stares at them. It seems anti-climactic. It seems fat. Yul Brynner whines, then barks a couple of times, and it runs away.
    “Possum,” Jack says.
    “He looked smart,” says Beth.
    “Smart?”
    “Like he was looking at us,” she says.
    “He was looking at us.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    The dog works his way through a series of more whines and growls. “Good boy,” Jack says, rubbing his ribs. “Good boy.”
    “Put him on his lead,” Beth says.
    “What for?”
    “What do you mean, what for? I don’t want him going down there, chasing after that thing.”
    “He’s fine,” says Jack.