Posted on by Lydia Ink

Sleepy

The thought came to me when I saw my neighbor walking his dog. Every day he walked his dog at the same time. The dog was big and black with a square head and a sleek body.  It’s a personal prerogative I know but I prefer if a dog has the audacity to be big-bear like big; teddy bear big.  A dog with a sleek muscular body conveys hunter and me, prey. 

So it came to me to get a Chihuahua.  One of those annoying little beasts that bark constantly.  I thought I’d test the waters first, so I went to an adopt-a-dog kennel and I met a perfect little firecracker named… Sleepy.  I was not deterred by the name because he had tiny feet and pranced about as if plugged into a high voltage outlet. 

I came home with a soft bed, food and a promise to try each other out for three days.  It was hell.  The first thing he did was pee.  No kidding, I set Sleepy down and his little legs quaked, and he dripped pee right where he stood. Divided equally between pity and annoyance, I cleaned the tiny mess up.  The dog, looked up at me with a look of abject sorrow. 

“We’ll try again, big fella.”  I said.  I gave old Sleepy a scratch behind his ears and tried to convey to him he was, in fact, a dog.  Despite his diminutive size, he should act like… well, a dog. 

We moved back into the compact living room of my house and I felt the little guy shake.  It was at this point, I thought maybe this is a terrible idea. I set Sleepy down on the floor.  He kept himself together enough not to pee and started sniffing the air.  Moving to my chair and picking up my notebook, I tried to write a few pages of rhyme that would pay my bills and keep Sleepy in the posh.  

I’m a poet and according to some critics and my publisher I’m not a bad one.  I spent most of my life traveling with my ne’er-do-well-father.  I was in several schools, missed weeks at a time and never fit in.  The one thing my Dad kept me in was notebooks.  At 13 I filled them.  At 15, I had several.  When Dad and I parted ways, I was 18 and enrolled in a community college.  An alcoholic and despondent English composition professor took an interest in me. 

The money wasn’t good, but I was used to fast food wages so when poetry paid out, I thought my life was pretty well perfect. 

Until I bought the small house on this quiet shaded street where my neighbor and his dog walked by like clockwork. The realtor priced the house to sell. I bought it. 

I looked up from my notebook as I heard Sleepy issue out with a deep-throated growl.  The dog was peering down the hallway, his little hind legs shaking like well-played fiddle strings.   “Easy, boy.”  Not knowing what else to say.  Sleepy turned about quickly as if he were chasing his stubby tail and barked, backed up, growled, and then fell over, feet up.

I was mortified.  Had I killed the dog?  I threw down my notebook and crouched down next to the poor mutt.  I rubbed his tummy and felt his heart thumping.  His eyes were shut tight, but then he looked up at me.  His eyes were compassionate but sad.  I picked the dog up and carried him outside to the porch. 

Again my neighbor was walking his dog, the big black sleek dog that put everyone at a distance.  The little Chihuahua shot out of my arms and straight for the big black dog.  My neighbor’s dog stood his ground.  Sleepy barked and growled and snapped, dodging about like a boxer. 

I picked up Sleepy and apologized. 

“No worries,” said my bohemian looking neighbor, “you need a killer like that living in that house.”

“Oh?”

“Nobody has lasted as long as you have.”

“I will admit that it’s a bit spooky.”  As we talked Sleepy kept up a low growl.

“Neighborhood kids used to dare each other to stand on the porch for a solid minute.  Would swear some lady would look out through the curtains at them.”

“Wow, kids don’t change much.”  I felt a little weak-kneed as the reality of my situation seemed to be proved.  “Did something happen in there?”

“Yeah, I murdered my wife in there and her dog.  The dog gave a good fight,” here my neighbor looked at the big black dog in front of him, “but I prevailed. But now he walks me all over the damn place.” My neighbor walked down the deep-shadowed sidewalk and faded from sight.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Mercy McGowen

Scared shitless was one of my father’s favorite statements.  He had every right to be frightened on more than one occasion as he was a Chicago fire fighter.  He was a small man, but unlike short men he didn’t have a mean streak.  Dad was easygoing, kind to strangers, and though he wasn’t over the top enthusiastic about me, he never shouted and rarely hit me.

I was small too and with mouse brown hair and a less than stellar complexion; I wasn’t the crowd favorite.   The crowd favorite was Mercy McGowen.  Mercy was George McGowen’s third child.  All of his daughters (three girls, five boys, all good Catholics unlike me) were beautiful, but there was something about Mercy.  I dreamed that she would one day become a nun and leave the rest of us plain girls alone. 

My Dad was a widower.  I never knew my mother as she died in childbirth; my birth. I regret not knowing her, but from the picture I have she seemed a nervous, bony type of woman who may have died of nervous prostration.  Married to a firefighter, pregnant, living in Chicago, none of it seemed conducive to the wide-eyed and stiff portrait I have of her as a young girl.

Shall I say God spared her?  No, God and I have an agreement, I don’t blame Him for things such as my mother’s death; He shows me some compassion when I have no patience with those around me.

It was one of those nights when the firefighters were all about my Dad’s table and the talk was loud, so loud I couldn’t really make out what they were saying and my head ached.  There was no point in trying to pick up around the men of Station 45, I just went upstairs, closed the door to my garret bedroom and tried to sleep. 

That’s when Mercy tapped on my window. 

Did I mention that I had the garret bedroom?  That would be the third floor.  That fact did not escape me as I peered out my dormer window and saw the beautiful face of Mercy McGowen tapping at my window.  We weren’t even friends.   Perhaps that is why she chose my window. 

I sat up in bed and watched her.  Her gigantic violet eyes were looking into the room, but I can’t think she was seeing anything.  She tapped.  Tapped again and then smiled in on me.  It was then I heard my father’s far away voice downstairs and with the roaring laughter of the men around his table.  “Scared me shitless, I thought I was a goner.”

Then there was a loud pounding at our front door.  The shouting downstairs dropped to a rumble, then a mumble, and then a shuffling silence.  The face at my garret window looked frightfully pale. She seemed to glance around, stuck her tongue out at me and was gone. 

I was transfixed in my cot.  Where did she go? More importantly how did she stand outside my window?  A quick thudding up the stairs interrupted my frozen state.

“Beatrice?”

“I’m here.”

“Beatrice! Child, where are you?”

“Here”  I tried to stay calm because Dad had a turn for the melodramatic.

“Child, the neighbor just stated you were standing outside your window!”

“No, I’ve been in bed.”

“Then what the hell?  It was Miss Crenshaw, the old Calvinist, so I know she wasn’t drunk.”

“Perhaps her age is catching up.”  I’ve heard women say that in Church.

My Dad looked puzzled and then walked to my window.  He tugged at the sash, but I latched it before going to bed.  He peered outside and shrugged. 

“Why wasn’t Mr. McGowen here this evening?”

“Eh?  What?  McGowen?  Ah, that girl of his Mercy; she’s poorly.”

I’ll regret my next words for as long as I live.  I finally discovered why my father kept me at arm’s length.

“I expect she is dead,” I said

“Nonsense Beatrice, stop that!  That’s why you have no friends, child.  Women shouldn’t talk like that.”  He returned to his friends, and the laughter resumed.

Mercy McGowen’s funeral was a solemn occasion, and my life commenced.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

My Last Visit

I never tried a female therapist after I decided I wanted to sleep with my male therapist. It was a shock to me, realizing I wanted to sleep with my therapist because I had been seeing him for some time. Suddenly one day I thought, I wonder what he looks like naked.

Where did that come from?

One day in session I thought, (thought mind you, I did not say…) “I’m physically attracted to him.” None the less, I was mortified because I was sure he could read it in my face.
I’m not a good liar. I will never forget the trauma I felt after realizing that in the 7th grade I had made a huge blunder in staring at Christopher just a tad bit too long. Yes, he was the football star. Yes, I was the pudgy wallflower but no; I wasn’t staring at him because longed for affection; I was staring at him because I saw him with his father at the car wash on Saturday.

Stay with me.

His dad’s car was newer and better looking than my dad’s car but it was Christopher’s dad that fascinated me. He was tall like Christopher, but he was bald and his shoulders stooped. He wasn’t attractive in middle age at all and I knew that Christopher would look just like his dad in just a few short years.  It was depressing.

So I was staring, in class. And then the class was jeering. I was near tears and Christopher sincerely hated me. Throughout school he would make me miserable. He even inspired me to diet between my sophomore and junior year–to no avail they harassed me even after losing weight. But no matter how awful I felt, or how often I fought tears, after I gave it some thought I felt sorry for Christopher, he would look like his dad someday.

On my last visit I asked my therapist if he had any relations by the first name of Christopher.

“No.”

He answered quickly, so I asked, “Are you sure?”

My therapist looked at me sharply because that was his favorite question to me, “Are you sure?”

I smiled weakly because I knew explaining would take too long and this guy was not cheap. He shrugged and answered me, “Yes, I’m sure I’m not related to anyone named Christopher.”
I cleared my throat and told him I wasn’t coming back, that I needed a change. He looked a little worried, then said that because my problems stem from not being able to form lasting relationships that perhaps I’d better stick with him.

A surge of sexual longing coursed through me and I had to swallow hard. That moment will live as long as I do. I can still see my therapist’s bald head, stooped shoulder and shocked look after the best 10 minutes of hard sex I had ever had in my life. It was just what Christopher needed (where ever he is) and my cure.  I wish I had seen it sooner, it would have saved me so much money, and so much time.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Her Beautiful Days

He was never sure what to do when she spoke to him.  He was shy by nature, but not annoyingly so.  She was beautiful sometimes, and at other times quite plain.  He was sure (he thought his reactions out alone) that her times of beauty and plainness made his mind spin into desire and want.

So when she would say hello, he would return her greeting and move quickly on and imagine her close to him — just close, not touching, and the idea was wonderful agony.

But he made sure he never told her.  Not for the sake of her — he was almost (almost please take note) sure that she would accept his advances (let’s face it they were both not young) but his life was so perfect just thinking about her.  Having her would be a different matter.

First, there was his cat.  His cat was old and didn’t like his mother, let alone a possible lover.  Then there was the fact he enjoyed being alone — not always, but most of the time.  He was able to distract himself; HG Wells, F Scott Fitzgerald, Hemmingway, even a little Shakespeare when he had a few days off of work.

He spotted her after work.  She had stopped by the little Italian restaurant and took a table right by the window.

The restaurant had taken an old retail store and converted it into a nice, quiet little eatery that everyone frequented.  Of course, it was a perfect day for him, the clouds gray and low, the mist of rain in the air and the cold of winter in the wind; late autumn.  One of those nights when the street lamps could not cut the gloom and the gray and the ghosts of the city’s past loomed in the shadows.  There she sat next to the cold-to-the-touch window, a novel (he was sure it was a novel) before her and a thin waiter hovering around her with wine and cheese and what looked to be some wonderful pasta.

“What book were you reading last night?”

She blinked at him and he stuttered a little.  “I saw you reading at the restaurant last night, the little Italian…”

“Oh,” she smiled and looked a little relieved, “Jane Eyre.  I always read Jane Eyre when I feel a little down.”

He wasn’t a stupid man.  There was the gate, she just showed it to him – Jane Eyre, a little down, women were great with clues.  She likes to read; she has different reading moods.  He could ask what her good mood reads were, or why she was down.

“Oh, I’ve never read that novel, I’ll have to give it a try.”

Her face went a little steely, “Yeah when you’re depressed try it.”  She grabbed her copies from the copy machine, leaving him smiling bleakly at her back.

He had sense enough to question his reaction when on the bus home.  His apartment that night wasn’t necessarily the sanctum he loved.  The cat would have nothing to do with him, sensing his agitation, and the walls of the place seemed darker.  He woke the next morning tired, achy and dreading work.

She wasn’t there, nor was she there the next day.  He wanted to ask around — hey, where was she, but he didn’t want to seem interested around his coworkers.

He dreamed of her; she was sitting at the little Italian restaurant and he was the waiter.  He was watching himself wait upon her while she read Jane Eyre.  He watched himself not say a word to her, but he was never far.

“Pick up the book, you idiot, pick it up and throw it through the window.”

He watched himself pour her a little more wine.  She lifted her head, and smiled weakly in thanks — he could tell he was annoying her.

“Grab her and kiss her, the cat will get used to her.”

Even in his dream, he hated himself for wondering about his cat.

They met at the copy machine the next day.

“Haven’t seen you around.”  He was tired from four nights of restless sleep, and his voice sounded gravelly and grouchy.

Her eyes widened just a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah, why?”  What’s it to her?  She had been away somewhere, didn’t bother to tell him.

“You usually shave.”

He shrugged and looked at her.  Today was one of her plain days, sexy in a strange sort of way.  She held his eyes for a moment and seemed to make some a decision.  “Do you like to read?”

“Yes.”  The room started to expand around him; the world was vast and the people sparse, they were the only ones near the copy machine silence invaded the world.

She waited just a moment, pressed her lips together, took a deep breath and asked, “What do you like to read?”

A shaft of light reflecting his apartment on cold winter nights, a good fire, a book, leather-bound upon his lap and his cat next to him — a sigh of gratitude that he was his own man…

“Popular Mechanics mostly, not much on novels.”

He still watches her as she sits down once a week with her novel at the little Italian restaurant — those are her beautiful days.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Harvey

Three little old ladies came up to me after my mother’s funeral holding a basket.  “This is Harvey,” the strongest one said.

I was a little confused because my Dad’s name was Harvey.  I looked into the basket not knowing what to expect and found a shaking, whining wet nosed little dog.  

“We’d keep him, you understand, because he was such a dear thing to your mother but I have a cat and these other ladies already have dogs.  They only allow us one pet at the retirement center.”

I nodded dumbly because I didn’t know Mom had a dog.  I wasn’t fond of animals for the simple fact they were time consumers, but what was I to do?  I missed my mother, so I took the basket choked back some tears and said thank you.  The women disbursed quickly and without so much as here’s a bag of dog treats for your trip. 

I took the long way home.  Mom lived in Lancing and I live in Grand Rapids.  A straight northwest drive and I’m home in a few hours but I couldn’t face the house, the small yard, the struggling fruit trees and the gray walls of my home.  I needed to see and hear Lake Huron and contemplate the water along the beach of the fresh water monster. 

The first couple of nights were tough thinking of my mom next to my dad in their graves.  Harvey seemed to feel the same way.  He ate very little and never whined or barked to go out. He squatted as if on command and seemed disinterested in the entire process.  It wasn’t until I made it to the straights of Mackinaw that both Harvey and I perked up.  I parked my car west of Cheboygan, looked out at the straights and sighed.  Looking over at the basket, Harvey had his paws up on the edge and his tail was wagging.  

“Hey, you coming back to life?”  I looked out the windshield again, wondering if I was missing something. “Looks the same to me, but let’s go have a look.”

I put the lead on Harvey and he took off toward the beach immediately.  I let him go where he wanted, fascinated that his tail was wagging without abashment.  I smiled.  

“You need to make sure he doesn’t get mites from the sand.”

Harvey and I both stopped.  I turned to face the person who wanted to rain on our little parade and jumped back.  An adolescent girl, long straight hair, large chocolate brown eyes was standing almost against me.  

“Whoa!  I didn’t hear you coming.”

“It’s the sand.  Make sure won’t you?  Make sure he doesn’t get sand mites.”

“Yeah sure.”  I noticed that she didn’t kneel or try to pet Harvey and he didn’t approach her.  The dog stood as if petrified.  I edged closer to my now shaking canine and I think it was at that moment Harvey loved me.  Head down and abject, he gingerly came close to me and nearly curled around my ankle.  I picked him up and held him close.  

“Thanks again.”  I turned and walked away from the strange girl without putting Harvey down.  I walked straight ahead toward the crashing lake. “I suppose if I look back she won’t be there.”  Harvey rewarded me with a small snuffle.  I heaved in a large breath of fresh air, turned and sure enough the girl was gone.  I felt my shoulders sink, tension left me.  I looked down at the black-eyed dog tucked protectively under my arm.  “Whew, glad she left.  What a killjoy.”  Turning back to the water, I was again nose-to-nose with the somber girl.

“You will make sure, won’t you?”

Harvey barked a sharp angry bark that I had yet to hear out of the little dog.  I turned on my heel, dog tucked under my arm, and ran.  I did not look back.  My hands shook as I tried to push the button to unlock and start my car, all the while Harvey barked.  I sensed the girl coming closer while Harvey’s barking became more frenzied.  I shoved the dog in the car, kept my head down and jumped in.  I slammed the door and locked it. 

Do not think I bothered to look around.  I blessed automatic start, put the car in reverse and didn’t look behind me; I drove away.  Harvey however barked his ever-living head nearly off as we drove out of the parking lot and he didn’t stop until I was well on my way to Mackinaw City  “Is she gone, boy?” I asked with all the sincerity of a frightened man.  The dog said nothing but looked up at me with what I thought was devout love or pity.  

I had planned on staying just outside of Cheboygan, but we drove into Mackinaw City instead.  I found a busy-looking hotel near to the beach and walked in with my dog tucked into his basket.  I had no intention of leaving him alone.  

“Do you accept pets?”

“Sure do.  What’s his name?”

“Harvey.”

“How do Harvey!  Welcome to Mackinaw City.”  The hotel clerk looked at me out of the tops of his eyes while he ran my credit card.  “You here to shop the late summer sales?”

“No, just wanting to see some coast line.  I’m from Grand Rapids, just needed to get away.”

The clerk nodded and handed back my card.  “The dog run is at the west exit.  We just ask that you clean up after your dog.  Do you need a wake up call or anything?”  

I looked down at Harvey, “No, I think we will sleep in.”

“Make sure he doesn’t get mites.  Sand mites are a dog’s bane around here.”

I froze and I think Harvey stiffened too.  I looked hard at the man and he looked uncomfortable.  “We keep some spray or something like that in the gift shop, just over there.  I think it’s still open.”

I relaxed a little.  “Okay, thanks.”  I backed away and Harvey sensing my tension let out a small warning bark.  I shushed him and headed for the west exit.  “Hang on buddy,” I said, “Let’s take a walk and then we will check out the gift shop.”  

The straits were calm and Harvey and I sat and watched a long boat glide east toward Huron. “Well, boy, should we get inside and see about some food?” Without a fuss, the dog jumped into his basket and looked up at me and then beyond me.  Harvey lifted his upper lip, and the hair rose along his back and the scruff of his neck.  I shot out of my seat like a rocket and turned to see what was behind me.  

“Please, please make sure he doesn’t get sand mites.  Sand mites are bad for the dog.”  

I leaned over and grabbed the basket and dog.  “Who the hell are you and why are you following me!”

The girl stood there without blinking and stared at Harvey.  “If he’s too much for you, I’ll take care of him.”

“I want you to get away from me and my dog.  Do you want me to call the police?”  I looked down, fumbling for my phone.  I looked back up and the girl had disappeared.  Harvey was looking at me from his basket, his little legs trembling.  

“It’s okay, boy.”  I turned back to the hotel and walked into the lobby.  A girl in bangles and flashy clothes was pulling down steel gratings, closing the gift shop. 

“Wait!  Oh please wait.  I think my dog has sand mites.”

“Listen, I’m sorry,” said the gum chewing adolescent, her bright red hair highlighted by a streak of aqua blue flashed like lightening under the phosphorescent lights.  She turned an unsympathetic face toward me, glanced down into Harvey’s basket and her blue eyes went wide and her mouth puckered into an oh.  “What a sweetie,” said the hardened young weirdo.  “Oh, how long have you had him?”

I glanced at Harvey and he at me and I knew we were a team.  “Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve only had him for a few days.  He belonged to my mother… she passed away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks.  Well, anyway, I’m not too sure about dogs and… well, I want nothing to, you know, happen to him.”  Harvey put his little chin on the edge of the basket and looked at the girl.  

“Well, we’ve got some special spray for dogs.  So many people bring their dogs for the sun, beach and water, not realizing there are sand mites.  I’ve seen dogs in terrible shape in just a day or two.  Here following me.”  The girl was switching the lights back on and pulling out sprays, ointments, dog treats, the works.  “You know we even have these little coats for dogs that might help protect him.”  I bought whatever she told me to.  I handed her my credit card without blinking, thinking I was buying good luck charms.

“I can’t thank you enough for opening up again…” Harvey sat up and wagged his tail, giving the girl his best good-dog salute.  I think his little chest expanded about half an inch.  

“Oh, for such a cutie as that, I’ll open up again.  Besides, maybe that ghost will stop bothering you.”

“Excuse me?”

“The ghost–the creepy girl that keeps after you about your dog.”

“How the hell…”

“I saw her follow you in earlier.  She seems real anxious about the dog.  He belonged to your mother?”

“Yeah,”

“Where did she get him?”

“I have no idea.”

The cashier looked hard at Harvey and the dog looked right back at her.  “Well, he isn’t giving anything up and he seems to like you.  I hope she leaves you alone.”

“Me too.”

“You get all sorts of ghost around here.  The old sailors they pretty much leave everyone alone but the tragic young things who thought the straits were just like any other freshwater lake are always the ones to become anxious and haunt the most unsuspecting tourist.”

“I’m not a tourist, I’m from Grand Rapids.”

The girl shrugged and turned out the lights.  

Harvey slept all night tucked up close to me, smelling of anti-pest spray.    There was no one standing over us in the morning.