Flowers

By Michael Fredrick Geisser

“Don’t answer it,” my father said. “If people call at suppertime, they should be ignored.”
My mother said, “Donald, what if it’s one of our friends in need? Someone could be sick or hurt?”
“A rule is a rule, Gloria. Pass me the sweet potatoes.”
“Sometimes you can be so . . .” she said, stopping as she always did before she pushed my father too far. She handed the bowl to my Dad.
My dog Skippy, who was lying under my chair, began to bark and scratch at the rug.
“Shut him up, Steven,” Dad said. “He’s ruining my dinner.”
“Aw, Dad. He’s just playing with a beetle that walked in front of his nose.”
“Was he ‘just playing’ when he ate all the buds off your mother’s squash plants the other day? She worked hard to grow those squash and she had to plow them all under.”
“Good!” I said. “I hate squash!” I lowered my head and took another bite of ham casserole, my favorite, hoping that I’d not gone over the line.
“You talk big for a second grader. You won’t say ‘good’ when one of the neighbors shoots him. He’s already attacked half the neighborhood’s gardens. Just this morning at the mine, Mr. Sweet told me that Mrs. Sweet almost called the police on Skippy the other day. He said she was heartbroken when she discovered Skippy—your dog, Steven—eating the final flower off her marigold patch. Appears that flowers aren’t safe around him.” Dad dropped the finger that he had been pointing at me and took another swig from his can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, his third since coming home from work.
“I have to say, Steven,” my mother said, “your father is right about the neighbors. They’re angry and have every right to be. Mrs. McCauley told me the other day she saw Skippy peeing by the edge of the duck pond. We all swim in that pond, Stephen. When we got Skippy for you, the agreement was that you would be responsible for his upkeep and training. So far, I haven’t seen the training part.”
“I try Mom, but he’s just a pup and wants to run and play, not sit and learn tricks and things.” I finished my dinner and was allowed to get up from the table.
Skippy jumped against my leg and barked. “Shh,” I said, and led him outside. The autumn light had yet to wane so we headed to the field by the duck pond, which abutted the rear of our yard.
The previous summer, I had watched from my bedroom window as my Dad tossed a sack full of feral kittens and rocks into the center of the pond to drown them. I can still see the sinister ripples moving away from the splash after the bag disappeared.
Within a week, the janitor accused Skippy of decimating the day lilies at the elementary school where he followed me every morning and stayed until I got out.
Skippy was not waiting for me when I came out of the school one Friday afternoon shortly after the day lilies incident. I ran home, thinking he must be there.
“Where’s Skippy?” I said breathlessly to both my father and mother, who were well into their usual end-of-week cocktail session.
My mother looked at my father with a pained expression. He remained silent. Finally she said, “We took him to a farm, Steven . . . In another state. He was just too much for our neighborhood. He’ll be able to run free and do whatever he wants there, and no one will get mad at him.”
My heart began to race and I became confused and dizzy. “But Skippy was my best friend!” I cried. “Can I visit him? Is he close? What state did you take him too?”
Simultaneously, my mother said, “Connecticut,” and my father said, “Massachusetts.”
I ran from the house, tears streaming down my face, and found myself at the edge of the pond. I sat down on the grass at the edge of the pond and became mesmerized by the dark ripples lapping at the shore.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my mother and father watching me through the kitchen window. I waved, and turned my back to them.
For what seemed like an eternity, I held my breath. Then I stood, unzipped my fly and peed into the pond.