A Quiet Evening at Home
by Robert Boucheron
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
The garden shed was a step away. Hughes dropped the apple core and casually reached for the pruning knife that hung on the shed wall. He called Rex, who did not see him at first and simply paused in bewilderment. A tentative wag of the tail, then Rex slowly advanced, dragging his chain. Hughes told him he was a good boy. The knife in his right hand stayed out of sight. Rex got close enough to sniff his left hand. It grabbed the leather dog collar, and the right hand got the job done.
There’s no time like the present for dealing with chores and cleaning up after an accident. Hughes grabbed a spade from the shed, marked a new bed for the bulbs that needed thinning, and started to dig. The soil was dry and hard, so he had to exert himself. He shed the sport coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Fortunately, his khaki pants were the color of dirt. His shoes were old and scuffed, a pair he wore only at home. No need to change.
The unplanned effort took the wind out of him. Breathing hard, he dragged the dog’s carcass to the hole, dropped it in, and looped the chain beside it. He backfilled a good four feet of earth and stamped it firm. Sweat streamed down his face. It got in his eyes and stung. He leaned on the spade, tipped back his straw hat, and looked up. The sun rode low in the clear autumn sky. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt. A walk back to the house to fetch a rag would interrupt the task in hand. What was started had to be finished.
Hughes divided the bulbs, arranged some in their new location, and spread a layer of mulch. He wrangled the garden hose and watered. Then he sat in a rocking chair on the back porch and contemplated the garden. In sad decline from summer’s glory, it would soon wear a shroud of wintry bleakness. The latest improvement would take six months to show results. He was a patient man when it came to plants, less so in regard to other people’s animals.
Quidnunc County had an ordinance on humane treatment but seldom enforced it. People abused their dogs all the time, witness the chain. People euthanized their aged and incurable pets, and they shot injured horses. One could argue that Hughes freed Rex from an absurd existence and himself from an intolerable nuisance. Everyone is entitled to peace in his own house, and to sit untroubled under his own vine and fig tree. The preamble of the Constitution includes the phrase “to ensure domestic tranquility.” He had defended his right to a quiet evening at home.
Hughes bent to take off his shoes, caked with dirt, and felt the strain in his leg muscles and abdomen. This was an ill for which there was no cure. He leaned back in the rocking chair, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. He used to feel pity for old people who fell asleep at inappropriate times and places. Now he made allowances and reserved judgment. He relaxed and nodded off.
While Hughes dozed with shoes untied, evening came on, and the wind kicked up. The cold front arrived on schedule. He woke, shook off the stiffness of sleep, and went in sock feet into the kitchen, where he washed his hands and face. Then he uncorked a bottle of wine, a dry white from the abbey vineyard, poured a glass, and drank. The wine was tart enough to make his mouth pucker, but it had a delightful bouquet and a sleek finish. The monks certainly knew how to grow grapes and extract pleasure from them.
Hughes went about making supper, a light meal of fish, rice, and vegetables. He was used to cooking for himself and, over the years, he had mastered the skills. His knives were sharp, his pots and pans were bright stainless steel, and his skillet was cast iron, heavy and black, capable of dealing a lethal blow, if the need ever arose. Without being doctrinaire, he ate a sensible diet of fresh produce, whole grains, low fat, and a minimum of salt and sugar. He used onions and garlic for flavor, and he had an impressive pantry of vinegars and oils.
Truslow was a red-meat man who liked his steak rare, served with a mound of fried potatoes. Pork barbecue slathered with sauce, beans in molasses, and fatty sausages were on the menu. He liked to grill outdoors, and the smoke sometimes drifted over, a pall of charred flesh like a burnt sacrifice. Voices and laughter would accompany the smell, with the clink of glasses and the pop of cans. These sounds, along with party music and chatter, carried well though the woods.
This evening, as Hughes worked in the kitchen, the sound from outside was vague and restless, the rustle and sigh of wind. Leaves torn from trees sailed through the air, and branches rattled. Dark masses of cloud scudded across a faintly luminous sky. A door banged now and then in its frame, to remind him it needed a new latch. Around an old farmhouse, something is always working loose or wearing thin. Keeping up with repairs is a constant battle. So is persuading wildlife to remain in its natural habitat. Wasps build nests in the porch, mice sneak into the basement, and bats fly into the attic.
Like a little white cloud, Queenie entered the kitchen and rubbed against Hughes’s ankles. He reached down to pet the cat, which mewed softly. He set his wine glass on the counter and paused to open a can. He filled Queenie’s bowl, set it on the floor, and refreshed the water bowl. Queenie assessed the presentation with the eye and nose of a connoisseur, then nibbled.
* * *
Hughes ate at the kitchen table. By the time the dishes were done, night had fallen. The wind now blew with steady force and gusts of violence. The storm was coming. He dried his hands, switched off the light, and declared chores were done for the day. In slippers, he shuffled to the front parlor, which he had restored to its Victorian splendor with a patterned wallpaper and dark wood trim. He settled into an armchair and switched on a lamp. With a pebble glass shade and a bulbous base, the lamp was an antique that originally burned oil and had been adapted for electricity. He picked up a book, a nineteenth-century novel with a twisting plot and a strong dose of crime and consequences.
The print swam before tired eyes. Worse yet, as he held the book open, his hand trembled. Hard labor earlier in the day, as he hacked and heaved, had a delayed effect. He tried to steady his hand. Despite scrubbing, it was red in crevices and under the nails. Red clay, loaded with iron oxide, left tough stains that resembled blood.
Hughes struggled to read. Buffeted by the wind, the old farmhouse house made all manner of noises. A torn awning flapped like a sail that should have been reefed. In counterpoint to the banging door, a rafter groaned, and a joist creaked. Insecurely fastened to the wall outside, a downspout shook and shuddered, as the wind probed the sheet metal tube, until it found its mechanical resonance. A rusty roof ventilator twirled like mad and shrieked in agony.
Now and then during a lull in the wind, Hughes heard a distant call or shout, too indistinct to make out words or a name. It occurred to him that Truslow might be calling Rex. If so, the exercise was futile. After their neighborly spat, Truslow would not drop by or telephone to ask if he had seen the missing dog. So far as anyone knew, Rex had disappeared without a trace.
Another sound came from the back porch, a low rumble, as of something dragged across the floor. The strange sound made Hughes give up the attempt to read. Instead, he sat up and listened intently. From the back door came a fumbling and scratching, accompanied by a thin, shrill sound like the whine of a dog. Something heavy shook and clanked. The rumble and the clank made him think of the links of a chain on wooden boards.
The noises stopped. He laid down the book and walked back to the kitchen through the dim stair hall. The better to see outside, he let the room stay dark and peered through the glass panel in the door. Nothing was visible.
He grabbed an electric torch, went outside, and stood on the porch. The storm brewing in the black sky was about to burst. The first drops of rain fell. They sparkled in the beam of light from the torch, hit the ground like bullets, and made dark spots. It was not a night for walking in open country. He directed the beam to the garden bed he had planted that afternoon.
It looked like a bomb had exploded. Iris and daylily bulbs lay strewn in a crater of fresh earth, or so it appeared from a distance. Did poor visibility, windblown debris, and fatigue conspire to weave this illusion? Or did a scavenger attracted by the smell of a carcass pay a visit? Turkey vultures were common in Virginia. Skunks and opossums roamed at night and got into garbage. Deer helped themselves to ripe produce. Bears and mountain lions wandered down from the mountains and wrought havoc.
A white blur darted from behind Hughes and streaked into the night. Queenie! He must have left the door ajar. The cat had snuck onto the porch and, crazed by the weather, run off in a fit. There was nothing he could do about it now.
Hughes retreated from the angry sky to his snug parlor. Rain poured down hard. It drummed on the roof and roared in the gutters. He slouched in the armchair and stared at the open book, unable to read. Now and then the racket was pierced by the howl of a dog, as mournful as death and impossible to ignore.
Copyright © 2024 by Robert Boucheron
