Page 17 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
“Of course,” I frown. I know he doesn’t sleep well, I’ve heard his nightmares, his screams, although less and less of late. Still, there must be something extraordinary for him to walk over now and ask for help. In the months he has been living next door I’d seen him struggle to lift heavy beams and tin onto rooftops by himself, fall asleep on the floor of his home in the middle of the night sanding, hand-carve a new handle for a shovel from a branch – all things I could have helped with if he had asked. I wouldn’t have wanted to, lest I bite him. But in theory, I could have held one side of the timber, heck I could have lifted it with one finger. I could have taken turns sanding so that he didn’t have to exhaust himself, I could have loaned a shovel, I have several – but he had never, ever ventured here to ask for help.
I wonder now, what could drive him to such a length, and hope it isn’t anything serious.
“My father has died,” he says, without preamble, “and I need to help my mother organise his funeral. Can you look after Toto?”
“Of course. I’m so sorry about your dad.”
‘No wonder you kept stopping your painting. You are grieving.’
He shrugs. “Seems like you and I only ever meet in funeral parlours or talk about death, doesn’t it?”
“No,” I whisper.‘But it’s at the forefront of my mind whenever I see you.’
He raises his eyebrows and steps closer to the porch to peer up at me.
“I didn’t mean to upset you if I’ve said anything…”
“No,” I give a half-hearted laugh. “It’s fine. You’re right, I mean I work with the dead. Then there was Spike, and now this, your father. It could seem like that.”
“My life seems like that,” he sighs, resting one foot heavily on the bottom step, making no move to come closer.
“I’m sorry,” I frown, moving away from the step to sit on the small guard rail that surrounds the porch. “Was your father ill?”
“No,” he shakes his head, “as far as I know he was as strong as an ox. Heart attack. And please, don’t say you’re sorry again.”
“I’m…” I stop and smile, “OK.”
The guinea fowls have stopped their screeching now, and the silence of the night, permeated only by Toto’s panting, has settled in, as we both remain quiet, listening.
It’s wonderful, to be quiet in company, even if that company makes me salivate and reminds me of my base nature. So few people stop to sit still and just,listen.
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” I eventually ask, breaking the silence.
“A week, no more hopefully, perhaps two.”
“Take as long as you need. Toto and I will be fine, won’t we girl?” I clap my thigh as she scoots up the step for a pat, her tail wagging madly. She and I, unbeknownst to him, are firm friends now. I always bring her a treat when I’m watching her owner from the dark woods. Usually, she sniffs me out without even barking, her warm, wet little nose eager for a tasty morsel. Since I confide only in her, I think she knows more about me, and my feelings for her owner, than anyone else on Earth at this time.
“She likes you,” he says, laughing quietly, “she usually doesn’t go to strangers.”
“Well, I guess I’m her kind of strange,” I murmur. “Have you had her since she was a puppy?”
“Yes,” he looks down at his shoes, “I brought her back with me from Afghanistan.”
“Oh?”
“I found her amid the wreckage of a house,” he says, his voice troubled, “civilian house. She was curled up in the arms of a dead child; collateral damage,” he shakes his head as if to dispel the image his memory has dredged up and clears his throat. “She needed rescuing and, I guess,” he shrugs, “so did I. When my last tour ended, I moved hell and high water, and I got her over here.”
“Then she is one lucky little puppy,” I murmur as I rub her ears.
“I’m the lucky one,” he says, stepping back and looking up at me. “So, I can leave her with you?”
“Of course.”
His eyes drift to the light and my easel.
“So, you do paint.”
“Yes.”
