Dotted Line Dotted Line

Fiction Winter 2014    poetry    all issues


Michelle Ross
Cinema Verité

Laura M. Rocha
Young & Golden

Shawn Miklaucic
Crepe Myrtle

Kim Drew Wright
The Long Road

Mark Sutz

Vincent Paul Vanneman
Aurora Borealis

Jyotsna Sreenivasan

Richard Herring

Rafal Redlinski
Are you an alcoholic? A self-test

Paul Pedroza
Motion Without Meaning

Jessica Walker
Dinner at the Twicketts

Rik Barberi
What Ever Happens Next

Matthew Shoen
Special Meats

Nicholas MacDonnell
The Long Way Home

ML Roberts
How You Won’t Go Back

Bill Harper
Eastside Story

Terry Engel
Childhood Revisited

John Mort
The Book Club

Paul Luikart
The Edge of the Known World

Winner of $50 for 3rd-place-voted Story

Writer's Site

Shawn Miklaucic

Crepe Myrtle

“You can’t kill a crepe myrtle.”

The sunglasses and sandals suggested Jimmy Buffet, but the scars on his hands and arms confirmed the tree-trimming specialist found on Angie’s List. The four crepe myrtles in Dave Foster’s new yard were way overgrown, and he was worried the homeowners’ association was going to give him grief soon. He’d never had to deal with an HOA when he lived out in the country, so he was unsure what to expect. He was unsure about a lot of things since Sally had died the previous year, and now he was wondering what kind of guy shows up to give a tree-trimming estimate wearing sandals.

Foster had moved into the house last June with his two boys about a year after the car accident. He’d been promoted to manage the Home Depot in Ballantyne, and figured it was best to sell the three acres they had in Waxhaw to be closer to the job and further from the memories. Fresh start for the boys. More time to spend with them, less money on upkeep. The previous owner had done a nice job cleaning up the inside, but it was clear the guy never did a day’s serious yard work in his life. Sprinkler system was broken, hedges overgrown, and red dirt patches had invaded the heavily shaded back yard. March had come and gone and it was time to deal with the trees.

“You can cut one of these crepe myrtles off a foot from the ground and they’ll just grow back. Everyone worries about over-pruning them. ‘Crepe Murder,’ they call it. But you couldn’t kill one of these suckers if you tried.”

Some of the big trees were getting dangerously close to the roof. One good storm could cost him half his yearly bonus in repairs. And the crepe myrtles next to the driveway needed tending, and especially the one in the corner of the back that the dogs lazed under. He liked that it was full and the branches were hanging down over the dogs as they lay there. But you weren’t supposed to let them get that overgrown.

“One of them elms in back is already dead. We need to set it back a good bit from the roof line.” He scratched out numbers on his clipboard for a minute.

“Eight hundred should take care of all of it.”

Eight hundred? Foster knew it would take him a whole day and a half to do what needed to be done by himself, and he’d have to bring the gear from work. He’d never trimmed a crepe myrtle, and had read in the paper about people getting fined by the city for cutting them back wrong. Having the trees done right now would keep the HOA off his back for a bit, until he had time to clean things up properly himself.

Foster thought he might be able to talk him down, but didn’t see the point. “When can you come?”

They scheduled it for the following Thursday. He’d be at work and the boys at school.

William and Jon were doing well, considering. He found himself watching them, trying to gauge normal. Normal sadness? Normal remembering? Normal forgetting? When they played with the dogs, two boxers they’d gotten from a rescue, he’d watch them and wonder. What was okay? They both seemed to be adjusting to the new schools. William had just started middle school, so things were new for most of the kids anyway. Jon was only in 4th grade, though, and the move to a new school had been a little harder on him.

Foster worried about the dogs. During the walk around the house to inspect the trees, he could hear the dogs barking inside. The female, Bella, they’d gotten as a puppy, and she was only seven weeks old when they brought her home. White from nose to tail, half deaf, age spots popping up under her fur. That one was fine. But the male, Vern, had come to them at about eighteen months old and from dicey circumstances. Sally had wanted to wait, but Foster said it would be fine. He’d taken to Bella alright, but the changes over the last year had been hard on him. Since Sally died, Vern had gotten really protective and a little high strung. Went fool crazy when people came to the door, barking and growling, or even when kids walked by on the sidewalk. Vern almost got past Foster when he answered the door for some religious guy wanting to discuss his soul. Foster had seen one neighborhood kid taunting him from over the back fence once and scared the socks off him by yelling at him through the window. Vern had gotten used to being in a big old house in the country with no one else around, and then they got the puppy, and two years later his wife passed, and now the move to a subdivision close to a good school and his new job. Vern hadn’t adjusted well.

On the following Thursday, the day the work crew was supposed to cut the trees, he returned home at 3:30 to find the dogs in a state. Vern was running around in circles, wild-eyed. Couch cushions were on the floor, one shredded. He let them out back to the fenced yard and walked around the house, checking the tree work. He hadn’t considered how upset they’d be having guys with chainsaws in the yard all afternoon. Vern was running back and forth along the fence, as if trying to find someone.

After he was satisfied that the work on the trees had been done to his satisfaction, he let Vern and Bella back in and went to the kitchen. Sally had been militant about meals, even though she worked in an insurance office nine to five. Everybody had to sit down to a set table for dinner. Foster had made a good many concessions over the last nine months to make things work—kids making themselves breakfast and buying at school instead of bringing the neatly packed lunches Sally would make for them. She’d put notes inside, reminding them to eat the veggies first. So he made sure they sat down for a real meal each night, even though he wasn’t much of a cook. Tonight was steak fajitas, and he began awkwardly slicing green peppers and throwing them in hot oil to soften.

The dogs knew the boys were coming when they heard the bus round the corner. Bella would run around and find a ball, or a rawhide, or even a sock, and bring it to the front door. She always tried to give you things. Vern would just pace up and down the stairs in the front hallway, trying to get a look out the window, then trying to listen at the door.

He spent a lot of time later trying to piece together what he heard next. As he turned down the heat to start seasoning the meat, the front door banged as it was thrown open. Then Vern snarling and his claws scrabbling on the hardwood in the front hallway, as if trying to find purchase to leap or flee. He heard William give a muted warning to Jon: “Hey, the door . . . .” The boys were on playing terms with the kids in the neighborhood, but you wouldn’t really call them friends. They’d only been there nine months, and they had never brought anyone home with them. But that day, Jon had struck up a conversation on the bus with another fourth grade kid about some zombie video game they were obsessed with and Jon had invited him over to play together.

The next thing he heard was the kid’s wail, but he had already been moving into the hallway. What he saw as he rounded the corner: the front door wide open, and Vern on top of the boy about ten feet out into the yard, jaws latched on to his forearm as the boy tried to protect his face. Vern’s head was tugging violently left and right, as if trying to sever the child’s arm rather than dig into it. Foster lunged forward, tackling the dog, which seemed to spook it out of its frenzy and it let go of the boy. He grabbed it by the collar, threw it through the door back into the house, and yelled at the boys to crate the dogs, slamming the door shut.

He’d worried that Vern might scare a kid, and maybe, if provoked, bite one. But he had no idea. Deep, red holes and skin hanging in chunks. The kid would need a lot of stitches for sure, and maybe have permanent damage. He stifled profanity as he looked into the kid’s eyes. “Where’s your house? Can you walk?”

With an eerie calmness the kid was staring at the blood mixed in sickly swirls with Vern’s saliva, and he seemed unable to look up at Foster and away from the holes and hanging flesh, as if looking away would make them worse than they already were.

He half-carried the kid home. The boy’s mother came to the door, saw the arm, said “oh my god, oh my god.” After about five seconds, though, she was all over it. Got Foster’s name and cell number quickly while grabbing keys and wallet. Foster helped get the kid into the back seat of her SUV. His name was Daniel, and when Foster touched his shoulder and said, “You’re going to be fine. You just need to make sure you help your mom out, okay?” the boy grinned a little. The woman had wrapped a clean dishtowel around the mangled forearm, and not being able to see it anymore had helped the boy regain his composure. He watched her pull out of the driveway and glance at him in the rearview mirror as she pulled away, her jaw tightly set and hands too tight at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel.

As he walked back to his house, the extent of how screwed he was came over him. New folks in the neighborhood, big white boxer that idiots mistook for a pit bull two times in three, and the other dog viciously attacks a kid. There was no use in trying to explain the dog was basically good, loved the boys, was just thrown by the work crew and the new house and was over-protective. He’d been around boxers all his life and never seen anything like it. No use, though.

He walked in through the garage to find Jon curled up on the floor with Bella. She was panting from the excitement, but happy as he stroked her side. Vern was in his crate, but the door was open, and William was stretched out on the floor in front with his hand on Vern’s front paws. Foster started to let loose on Jon. “How many damn times have I told you to . . .” he started yelling, but when he saw Jon’s face he stopped. Kid would end up feeling bad enough, probably, and the damage was done.

“I thought I told you to crate them?”

“They ain’t gonna do nothing to us, dad.”

“Well, put them in anyway. We need to get ready for dinner and we may be getting visitors.” They crated the dogs and Jon began asking questions as they set the table for dinner. How was Daniel? Did his mom take care of things? Foster had to explain that Daniel’s mom was taking him to the hospital. He could see Jon’s surprise. Jon thought this was going to be a Band-Aid and icepack kind of thing, but he hadn’t really gotten a look at that arm.

About an hour later Foster’s cell rang—Animal Control had been called, was filling out a report, needed to stop by and check the dog’s records. The woman who came was driving a white police van that was littered with files, two laptops, a bulky GPS system. She did not look like a cop. Her name was Davonda.

Davonda explained that after she’d verified current rabies shots and licensing, she’d fill out a report. Since there were no other incidents on file for this particular family or dog, there was leeway. They were required to keep him under lock-down quarantine for two weeks—no contact with other humans or dogs other than the family. Always had to be on a tight lead when outside the house, even to pee in the back yard. This was, he took it, to make sure the dog didn’t develop any symptoms that might suggest something communicable. Once the fourteen days were up, Vern’d be clear and everything would go back to as it was. Except if he ever had a problem again.

Kids always worry too much or too little. Jon picked too little—he acted like everything was back to normal and nothing had happened. Started talking about having Daniel over to play the video game that weekend, like the kid’s parents were ever going to let him near Foster’s house again. William, two years older, opted for anxiety. Nothing vocal, but you could see him looking at Vern differently, as if he was memorizing his brindle pattern. He became very thorough in his care of the dogs—water bowl always full, giving them treats. Foster began to wonder whether he should worry more or less.

He stopped by Daniel’s home the following day after work, checking on the boy and offering to pay the hospital costs. His mom, Debbie, was gracious. The bites had been deep and the lacerations had required a lot of stiches. But it didn’t look like they had done any permanent damage to the muscles. He’d have some nasty scars to brag on. Foster left his contact info and work phone and pressed Debbie to forward him the hospital bill when it came. She said she would.

The letter came three days into the quarantine. Angie Nesbitt, Secretary of the Quail Ridge Homeowners Association, inquired on behalf of the officers of the association as to the exact facts of the “situation” that had occurred “on or about March 28th.” There was “concern” about the possibility of an animal that posed “possible liability risks” for the HOA. Angie had clearly considered law school at some point.

Foster sat in his recliner in the living room and both dogs came to sit next to him. He scratched Vern behind the ears. “You really did it, didn’t you?” Vern leaned into his hand. He had one picture of Sally up on the mantle above the gas fireplace, the newest one he could find of her when unpacking. He wanted the boys to remember her face the way it was right before the accident. He imagined the long conversation he and Sally would have about what to do now. He’d mostly let her talk it out, him nodding and agreeing or shaking his head as she would weigh options. But he couldn’t come up with a solid version of what she would say they should do now. She’d say, “I told you so,” in various ways. He scratched Vern’s neck a little harder.

The next day he decided to call the woman from the rescue they’d gotten Vern from. Bernice. She had a thing for Vern, more so it seemed than all the other rescues she was trying to get placed. Vern had been 65 pounds when she got to him, and was tipping 75 now and not an ounce of fat on him. Someone had left him tied up in a backyard for a long time when they found him, and Bernice had nursed him back to vibrant health. She was so happy to place him with a family with kids and a big place for him to run.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Foster. The rescue can’t take a dog back once there has been a confirmed incident.” Everybody was calling it an incident. “We’d be liable if anything ever happened again. But you can keep him, right? Once he clears the quarantine? He’ll be fine.” She sounded like she desperately wanted this to be true, but from experience wasn’t so sure.

Between the time he put down the phone and the time he walked into the kitchen to start dinner, the whole thing seemed a done deal. He couldn’t give the dog back. And he couldn’t keep him. He could, legally, but the HOA would give him hell and he’d be responsible for anything that might happen. That wasn’t even really the issue, although it helped. Basically, having seen what Vern was capable of, he realized he could never be sure it wouldn’t happen again. He looked over the breakfast bar at Vern, who was lying next to the chair listening intently for the sound of food hitting the floor. With Sally gone, the dogs were alone all day more often. They didn’t get enough exercise, Jon and William were too young to manage them effectively, and all it would take was one more stupid door left open and some kid might get more than a few scars.

The bus rounded the corner, the dogs did their dances, the boys burst through the front door, stowed backpacks, and starting setting the table for dinner. They told him about their days while he made a salad and reheated some chicken he’d grilled over the weekend. What did they learn at school today? “Nuthin’.” Then he’d patiently walk them through the day and get the real scoop. Math: how to compute surface area. Social Studies: Continental Congress. Lunch: You can’t swallow a whole piece of bread in under a minute without drinking something to wash it down. “It’s really true,” Jon said seriously.

The two weeks went by in a sort of regimented slow motion. Every day he went to work and didn’t think about it, then he came home as early as he could to let the dogs out and wait for the boys. Taking Vern out on a lead was a pain—Vern wasn’t used to being leashed and it threw off his urinary routine. The boys seemed to forget about the whole thing, assuming it was all over at the end of the quarantine. He’d sit in his chair and stare at Vern and turn the thing over and over in his head, trying to find a solution where there wasn’t one. At 11, the boys having long since gone to bed, he’d head up to his own bedroom. The dogs usually slept on the floor next to Foster’s bed—he’d fought long and hard with Sally to keep them off it—but he started letting them sleep with him as he watched Sports Center before dozing off.

He had an idea, he told Jon and William over Friday night pizza at the end of the two weeks. A high school buddy lived about an hour from them out in the country. He’d called him and worked it all out. He lived on a big farm he’d inherited from his father and had a lot of space, and he was willing to take Vern. Jon was visibly shocked at the thought of Vern going away; the ‘incident’ was ancient history now. But William seemed to understand, consciously or unconsciously, what the only other alternative was, and so he listened to the plan with slow, steady nods.

Foster was not a man to dwell on a decision once it was made. He’d made his. He felt, as he had with the boys after Sally died, that it was important to face the thing head on, to do so quickly, with determination, and then move on. He told the boys to enjoy playing with the dogs over the weekend. Vern didn’t need to be on a leash anymore, so they could throw a ball for him in the back yard. Jon and William did so dutifully at first, but then went to play basketball in the cul de sac around the corner when they heard neighborhood kids playing there.

Foster went to check on the dogs. Buds had started to sprout on the crepe myrtles. It was like time lapse photography. You almost thought you could see them grow, springing out in all directions from limbs that had been sawed straight off. Jimmy was right: you couldn’t kill one of those things if you tried. The one in the corner of the back yard seemed to be growing back fastest, despite the lack of sun. Foster sat on the back deck and stared at Vern lying quietly under the crepe myrtle’s truncated health.

Monday morning Foster walked the boys to the bus after they said goodbye to Vern. It was important, Foster believed, to be up front and clear in such situations. He had wanted them to see Sally in an open casket after the accident, despite the lacerations on her face that had been muted but not hidden by the mortician’s hand. He thought back on the ER doc in scrubs, walking up to him and the boys in the waiting room and clearly and straightforwardly saying that his wife had died, that the injuries were too severe, that they had done everything they could. At the time, he hardly heard what she was saying, but in the weeks following he had recalled her words and the no-nonsense way she had said them and felt grateful. She had died, not “passed away” or “gone.” Vern had viciously attacked a child, not had an “incident.” He had always felt being straight with people and true with the words you use to describe things was the best policy. So they were red-eyed and quiet as they stepped on the bus. He walked slowly back to the house, comparing the state of neighbors’ lawns and landscaping with his own.

Vern and Bella greeted him at the door as if he’d been gone all day. He let Bella out back for a few minutes to do her business, and then crated her, afraid she’d get antsy when left totally alone for the first time. Vern he loaded into his truck and began the drive south.

Danny Vogel had played baseball with Foster in high school. They hadn’t talked that much over the years, but Danny had come in to Foster’s old store from before the move one day and they’d struck up a long conversation about the good old days. They’d dated the same girl on and off, but without rancor or rivalry. When Foster had thrown in a few attachments for free with the Weber Genesis grill Danny was eyeing, they parted on pretty good terms. That’s why Foster had thought to call him.

Danny’s place was a few acres a little outside Rock Hill in South Carolina. He hadn’t done anything much with it since his dad died—his current job entailed some kind of Internet advertising deal that Foster had not really understood when he explained it while checking out the Weber. When he cut the engine on the gravel in front of Danny’s house, he sat quietly for a few minutes, rubbing that place under Vern’s collar where he liked it so much. He imagined Vern running up the steps to the dusty porch and scratching at the screen door to be let in. He imagined him chasing rabbits through the brush down the hill towards an almost dry creek bed. He could picture him splayed out on a couch he’d never seen but tried hard to imagine in Danny’s living room, watching SportsCenter with his new friend.

Danny came out the front door after a bit and waved as he came down the steps. “Hey, Dave. Good to see you again.” Foster got out of the truck and they shook hands. “You want a beer or something?” “No, no, thanks, I’ve gotta get back pretty soon. I know this is weird and out of the blue, but I’m in a hard place with the dog and the kids.” Danny nodded, looking sideways at Vern. Foster had explained the whole thing to him on the phone, and he seemed a little wary as Foster let Vern out the passenger door. “He won’t hurt you,” Foster started to say reflexively, then stopped. “I think he’s fine. Really. Just need a few minutes of your time.”

Foster wasn’t good at this kind of thing. Vern made it easy by taking to Danny, leaning in as Danny slowly put the back of his hand down for Vern to smell. After a minute, Danny was scratching under Vern’s collar and saying the stupid things people learn to say to dogs when they are kids and can’t unlearn as adults.

“You sure you want to do this? He seems nice enough.” Foster nodded to both questions and took out his phone. “Just hang with him for a second while I get a few photos for the boys.” Foster took pictures of the house, the hill leading down to the creek, the big field on the other side. He ended with a few pictures of Danny rubbing Vern’s ears. “Let me get a few more with just Vern running around. Then I’ll get on the road.” He took an old, crusty tennis ball from the door cup holder and threw it down the hill. Boxers aren’t much in the fetching department. Working dogs. But he had begun rolling a tennis ball around Bella the day she came home, and Vern had taken to chasing it as much as boxers will. Vern seemed to be feeling the space and the fine spring day and took off after the ball, bringing it back up the hill dutifully but half-heartedly. Foster took a few more pictures.

“Alright, Danny. Thanks again for this. I didn’t know who else to ask. Kinda weird, I know. Tell you what—can you get me that beer for the road?” Danny seemed happy to oblige and moved back up the steps to the porch. “Coming right up,” he said as the screen door closed behind him.

Foster looked at Vern standing in front of him, the ball dropped at his feet. He picked up the ball, walked around to the passenger door, set the ball on the seat and patted his leg, signaling Vern to get in. The dog jumped up and sat up in the passenger seat, tongue hanging after his brief run and the growing heat of the day.

Foster took the beer and shook Danny’s hand again. Danny coughed a little. “Seriously, Foster. He doesn’t seem like a danger. I can take him if you want.” “You got any kids around here?” Danny nodded. “Twins live in that house you passed on the way up. Knepshields up over the hill just had a baby in January to go with the other squirt they got.” Foster looked off into the distance as if he could see the kids playing as they spoke. Danny caught on. “I could keep him inside most of the time. Or I could get a dog house, tie him up in back?” Foster didn’t want to go on with this line of thought. He’d played it over and over in his head like a puzzle that you knew the answer to at some point but just couldn’t remember it. It never fit together or added up right. It would take one stupid mistake, one unlucky accident. The image of wet, angry wounds on the kid’s arm in his memory closed the deal. He patted Danny on the arm, got behind the wheel, and circled the truck around heading down the gravel.

The woman behind the counter at the vet’s office tried not to ask too many questions while he waited. Finally a young woman came and showed him and Vern back into one of the examining rooms. After a few minutes, one of the vets in the practice he hadn’t seen before came in. “You sure you want to do this?” Foster paused for a long time, thinking how to succinctly explain the puzzle and its lack of a solution, but it was hard. He finally just said, “Gotta be done.” And they proceeded.

The assistant came back in when it was done, handed him a brochure. You could have your dog cremated and the ashes mixed with wild flower seeds and fertilizer or something like that. They’d send you this nice little packet that was the remains of your dog and you could plant it in your back yard with your kids and flowers would bloom. Foster shook his head. He wrapped Vern in the blanket he had brought in from the truck and carried him out, laying him carefully in the bed. His lax, brindle bulk was difficult to support. He seemed heavier, Foster thought.

At home, he grabbed the beer Danny had given him and went in the house. He put it in the fridge, let Bella out of her crate and into the back yard. In the garage, he pulled a shovel down from the wall and went back into the yard, Bella running back and forth along the fence, then to him, then back to the fence. He picked a spot he could see from the deck in the far back corner, as close as he could get to the base of the crepe myrtle without having to shovel through its roots. The spot was already devoid of grass from the lack of light and the dogs. He looked back at Bella and the truck, then began digging. The ground was hard, red, rocky clay, resisting him mightily. It took him a good hour to dig a hole deep enough, and then he decided it wasn’t deep enough and dug some more. He had trouble seeing through the tears. The bark at the base of the crepe myrtle looked like crepe paper, flimsy and peeling. He wondered if that was where the name came from. Bella got bored of chasing the dirt after the first twenty minutes and laid down to watch the rest.

By 2:00, the hole was filled and Vern was buried. He spent a long time packing the dirt back down. He kept stopping, then patting it some more, evening it out. It occurred to him that Bella might damn well start digging it all up again when she was out there by herself, but she wasn’t the digger Vern was, and he had gone deep.

When he had finished tamping the dirt down, he had an idea. He went to the garage and got a half full bag of grass seed he had been spreading in a futile attempt to recover the lawn. He spread the seed around the grave and the tree, then put some small metal fencing around it to keep Bella and the kids away from it. Maybe the grass would take now that he’d dug up the earth. At least it would keep Bella from digging, and he wouldn’t have to explain why the earth was all dug up in the one spot to the boys. He hosed some water on the seeded grave.

It was almost 3:00. Kids would be home soon enough. Once you commit to a lie, he thought, it inevitably begins to grow and make itself a part of you. He’d have to show them the pictures of Vern’s new home, and his new owner, and make up crap about what a good guy Danny would be in taking care of him. And put them off when they wanted to go visit. At least the seeding would hold off having to lie about the grave itself. They were young and would get caught up in other things. The lie would do what such lies were meant to do. You just had to commit to it, like you would the truth, and move forward.

He went to the fridge and grabbed the beer from Danny and a cup full of ice. He walked out to the deck and sat down wearily in his favorite chair. In a few months, when the heat of the summer was greatest and the rest of the flowers and plants and grass in the neighborhood were wilting and fighting against the North Carolina heat, the crepe myrtles would begin their violent bloom. He felt a little panic, as he had several times over the past week, that he was making, had made, the wrong decision. But as every time before, an alternative would not come, the circle would not be squared, the puzzle would not yield. For the next half hour he sat there, staring at the grave and the tree over it. A little moan that sounded somewhat like the dog’s name escaped his lips.

After a bit, he looked at the time and cleared his throat to assure it wouldn’t catch when he greeted the boys. He rubbed the ice on the back of his neck. Bella sat next to him and panted. He gave her a piece of ice and waited for the sound of the bus.

Shawn Miklaucic writes in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Dotted Line