Page 16 of The Guardian

She told herself she was leaving for good this time. This time, he wouldn't talk her into coming back. She told herself she wouldn't believe him, no matter how sweet he was to her, no matter how sincere his promises were. She told herself that if she stayed again, he would kill her. Maybe not this month or the next, but he would kill her. And then he would kill their son. She told herself all these things and repeated them almost like a mantra, as if the words would give her the strength to go.

Richard thought of his mother on that day. How she had kept him home from school, how she'd told him to run inside and grab the loaf of bread and peanut butter, because they were going on a picnic. How she'd told him that he should bring a jacket, too, in case the temperature dropped. He was six years old and did as his mother told him, even though he knew she was lying.

He'd heard his mother screaming and crying the night before as he lay in bed. Heard the sharp crack as his father's hand connected with her cheek, heard his mother crash into the thin wall that separated his room from theirs, heard her moaning and pleading for him to stop, that she was sorry, that she'd been planning to do the laundry but had to take their son to the doctor instead. He'd listened as Vernon called his mother names and made the same accusations he always did when he was drinking. "He doesn't look like me!" his father had screamed. "He's not mine!"

Lying in his bed, listening to the screams, he'd prayed that it was true. He didn't want the monster to be his father. He hated him. Hated the greasy shine in his hair when he got home from the chemical factory, the boozy way he smelled at night. Hated the fact that while other kids in the neighborhood got bikes and roller skates for Christmas, he'd been given a baseball bat with no glove or ball. Hated the way he beat his mother when the house wasn't clean enough or if he couldn't find something his mother had put away. Hated the way they always kept the curtains drawn, and how no one had ever been allowed to visit.

"Hurry," his mother said, motioning with her arm, "we want to find a good table at the park."

He ran into the house.

His father would be coming home for lunch in an hour, as he did every day. Though he walked to work, he took the car keys with him, a ringed jumble connected to his belt with a chain. His mother had removed one of the keys this morning as his father smoked and read the paper and ate the bacon and eggs that his wife had cooked.

They should have left right away, right after his father had disappeared over the hill on his way to the plant. Even at six he knew that, but instead his mother had sat at the table for hours, smoking one cigarette after the next, her hands shaking. She'd neither spoken nor moved from the seat until just a few minutes earlier.

But now they were running out of time. She was frantic at the thought that they weren't going to make it. Again.

He came bursting through the door, carrying the bread and peanut butter and his jacket, and ran toward the car. Even as he ran, he could see that the white of his mother's left eye was red with blood. He closed the door to the Pontiac with a slam, and she tried to put the key into the ignition but missed. Her hands were shaking. She took a deep breath and tried again. This time the engine turned over, and she tried to smile. Her lip was swollen and it came out crooked; with her face and bloody eye, there was something terrifying in that smile. She put the car into reverse and backed out of the garage. In the road they idled for a moment, and she glanced at the dashboard.

She gasped. The gas gauge showed that the tank was nearly empty.

So they stayed. Again. As always.

That night, he heard his mother and father in the bedroom, but they weren't sounds of anger. Instead, he heard them laughing and kissing; later he heard his mother breathing hard and calling out his father's name. When he got out of bed the next morning, his father and mother were holding each other in the kitchen. His father winked, and he watched him lower his hands until they rested on his mother's skirt.

He saw his mother blush.

Richard opened his eyes. No, he thought, Julie couldn't stay here. Not if she wanted to lead the life she was meant to, the life she deserved. He would take her away from all this.

It was stupid of him to have said anything to her about the locket. Stupid. He wouldn't let it happen again.

Lost in thought, he barely heard the ringing of the phone, but he rose in time to answer before the machine picked it up.

Pausing for a moment, he recognized the Daytona area code on the caller ID and took a deep breath before he answered.

Thirteen

In the darkness of her bedroom, with an allergy headache raging, Julie threw her spare pillow at Singer.

"Would you please shut up!" she moaned.

Singer ignored the pillow. Instead, he stood near the bedroom door, panting and growling, obviously wanting Julie to get up and let him outside so he could-as only dogs can-"investigate things." He'd been pacing through the house for the last hour, from the bedroom to the living room and back again, and more than once he'd pressed his wet nose against her, making her jump.

She pulled the pillow over her head, but it wasn't enough to block out the sound, and the compression only made her head feel worse.

"There's nothing out there," she muttered. "It's the middle of the night and my head hurts. I'm not getting out of bed."

Singer continued growling. Not a sinister growl, not a snarl, not the sound he made when men came to check the electric meter or-God forbid!-tried to deliver the mail. Just a pain-in-the-neck rumbling too loud to ignore.

She threw her last pillow at him. Singer retaliated by crossing the room silently and pushing his nose into her ear.

She sat up, wiping at her ear with her finger.

"That's it! That does it!"

Singer wagged his tail, looking satisfied. Now we're getting somewhere. C'mon! He trotted out of the room, leading the way.

"Fine! You want me to prove there's nothing out there, you crazy dog?"

After rubbing her temples with a groan, Julie got out of bed and staggered toward the living room. Singer was already at the front windows; he'd pushed aside the curtains with his nose and was looking from side to side.

Julie peeked out as well, seeing nothing.

"See? Nothing. Just like I told you."

Singer wasn't placated. He moved to the door and stood before it.

"If you go out, don't expect me to wait up for you. Once you're out, you're out. I'm going back to bed. My head really hurts-not that you care."

Singer didn't seem to care.

"Fine," she said. "Have it your way."

She opened the door. Though she expected Singer to bolt toward the woods, he didn't. Instead, he moved onto the porch and barked twice before lowering his nose to sniff. As he did so, Julie crossed her arms and looked around.

Nothing. No sign that anyone had been there at all. With the exception of frogs and crickets, it was quiet. The leaves were still; the street was empty.

Satisfied, Singer turned and headed back inside.

"That's it? You got me out of bed for that?"

Singer looked up at her. The coast is clear, he seemed to say. No reason to be worried. You can go ahead and go back to sleep now.

Julie scowled at him before heading back to the bedroom. Singer didn't follow. Instead, as she squinted over her shoulder on her way back to bed, she saw him sitting by the window again, the curtains pushed aside.

"Whatever," she mumbled.

In the bathroom, her head still pounding, she took some Tylenol PM to help her sleep.

When he started snarling and barking again an hour later, this time in earnest, Julie-who'd closed the bedroom door and turned on the bathroom fan-didn't hear it.

The next morning, standing in the driveway beneath a balled-up sun and sky so blue that it looked artificial, Julie wore sunglasses. Remnants of her headache still lingered, though it wasn't nearly as blinding as it had been the night before. Singer stood beside her as she read the note tucked beneath the windshield wiper of her Jeep.

r />   Julie,

I was called out of town for an emergency, so I won't be able to see you for a couple of days. I'll call as soon as I can. I won't stop thinking about you.

Richard

Julie glanced at Singer.

"So that's what all the noise was about?" she asked, holding the note in her hands. "Richard?"

Singer looked smug as only he could. See, I told you someone was here.

The Tylenol had left her feeling groggy and lethargic, with an acidic taste in her mouth, and she wasn't in the mood for his superior attitude. "Don't give me that. You kept me up for hours. And it's not like you don't know him, so get over it."

Singer snorted and jumped into the Jeep.

"He didn't even come to the door."

Julie closed the back and slid into the front seat. In the rearview mirror, she saw Singer circle once, then sit with his back to her.

"Yeah, well, I'm mad at you, too."

On the way to work, as she glanced in the mirror again, Singer still hadn't turned around, nor did he lean his head over the side, letting the wind flap his tongue and ears as he usually did. As soon as she parked the car, Singer hopped out. Even though she called to him, he continued on his way, crossing the street and heading toward the garage.

Dogs.

Sometimes, she thought, they were as childish as men.

Mabel was on the phone, canceling Andrea's appointments. Andrea wouldn't be coming in, since she was taking another "personal day." At least she called this time, Mabel thought. No doubt Andrea would come in with some wild story. On her last personal day, she claimed to have seen Bruce Springsteen walking through the Food Lion parking lot and had followed him around all day before realizing it wasn't him. The question of why Bruce Springsteen would have been at the Swansboro Food Lion had never seemed to enter her mind.

When she heard the door jingle behind her, Mabel turned and saw Julie. As she reached for the box of Milk-Bone biscuits she kept on hand for Singer, she noticed that Julie had come in alone.

"Where's Singer?" Mabel asked.

Julie set her purse on a shelf beside her station. "I guess he went to visit Mike."

"Again?"

"We had a fight."

She said it exactly the way she used to after having an argument with Jim, and Mabel smiled. Only Julie didn't seem to understand how ridiculous it sounded to other people.

"A fight, huh?" Mabel said.

"Yeah-so I guess he's off pouting now. Like he's punishing me for having the nerve to yell at him. But he deserved it."

"Ah," Mabel said. "So what happened?"

Julie told Mabel about the night before.

"He left a note to apologize?" Mabel asked.

"No, he did that yesterday when I got home. The note was just to let me know he'd be out of town for a couple days."

Though Mabel wanted to ask how the apology had gone, it was obvious that Julie wasn't in the mood to talk about it. Mabel put the Milk-Bone box back in the cabinet and glanced toward Singer's blanket in the corner.

"It looks sort of empty here without him," she said. "Kind of like someone removed a couch or something."

"Oh, he'll be back in a little while. You know how he is."

To their surprise, however, eight hours later, Singer still hadn't returned.

"I tried to bring him back a couple of times," Mike said, looking as perplexed as Julie felt. "But he wouldn't follow me out, no matter how much I called. I even tried bribing him with some beef jerky, but he wouldn't leave the garage. I considered dragging him, but to be honest, I didn't think he'd let me."

Julie looked at Singer. He was sitting beside Mike, watching Julie, his head tilted to the side.

"You still mad at me, Singer?" she asked. "Is that what this is about?"

"Why would he be mad at you?"

"We had a fight."

"Oh," he said.

"You just going to sit there, or are you going to come over?" she asked.

Singer licked his lips but didn't move.

"Singer-come," she commanded.

Singer stayed where he was.

"Heel."

Though she'd never given him that particular command, she didn't know what else to say, and just when it seemed that she was beginning to get upset, Mike flipped his hand.

"Go on, Singer. Before you get in bigger trouble."

At Mike's command, Singer stood and, reluctantly, it seemed, went to Julie's side. She put her hands on her hips.

"So you're listening to Mike now?"

"Don't blame me," Mike said, trying to sound innocent. "I didn't do anything."

"I'm not blaming you. I just don't know what's gotten into him lately." Singer sat beside her and looked up. "So what did he do here all day?"

"Snoozed, stole my turkey sandwich when I got up to get a drink, went around back to do his business. It's sort of like he just moved in for the day."

"Did he seem strange to you?"

"No. Not at all. Aside from being here, he seemed fine."

"He wasn't angry?"

Mike scratched his head, knowing that she viewed it as a serious question. "Well, to be honest, he didn't mention anything, not to me, anyway. Want me to go ask Henry? Maybe they talked while I was out or something."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No, never. You know I'd never do something like that."

"Good. After almost losing my dog to someone else, I'm not exactly in the mood for joking right now."

"You didn't almost lose him. He was with me."

"Yeah. And now he likes you better."

"Maybe he just misses me. I'm quite addictive, you know."

For the first time since she'd arrived, Julie smiled. "You are, huh?"

"What can I say? It's a curse."

Julie laughed. "It must be tough being you."

Mike shook his head, thinking how beautiful Julie looked.

"You have no idea."

An hour later, Julie was standing over the sink in her kitchen, gamely holding on to the dish towels she'd hastily wrapped around the broken faucet, doing her best to stem the flow of water that had exploded toward the ceiling like a domestic geyser. She grabbed another towel, adding it to the others, then tightened her grip, which reduced the spray somewhat. Unfortunately, it also routed some of the water her way.

"Could you get me the phone?" she shouted, holding her chin high to keep the water from hitting her face.

Singer traipsed to the living room; a moment later, with her free hand, Julie took the portable phone from his mouth. She hit the first number on her speed dial.

Mike was on the couch, munching on Doritos, his fingers frosted with orange powder, a can of beer wedged between his legs. Along with the Big Mac he'd picked up (and finished) on the way home, this was dinner. On the couch beside him was his guitar, and as always, once he'd finished playing, he closed his eyes and leaned back, imagining Katie Couric describing the scene to a national television audience:

"It's the most anticipated concert event of the year," Katie gushes. "With a single album, Michael Harris has set the music world on fire. His first album alone has already sold more than the Beatles and Elvis Presley did in their entire careers combined, and the televised concert is expected to have the largest viewing audience in history. It's being broadcast simultaneously around the globe to an estimated three billion people, and the live crowd is estimated to be approaching two million. This is history in the making, folks."

Smiling, Mike slipped another Doritos into his mouth. Oh, yeah, he thought. Oh, yeah.

"You can hear the crowd behind me, chanting his name. It's amazing how many people he's affected. People have been coming up to me all day telling me that Michael Harris has changed their lives with his music . . . and here he comes now!"

Katie's voice is drowned out as the crowd surges forward and erupts in deafening applause. Mike walks on stage, holding his guitar.

He scans the crowd. The audience goes insane; the s

ound is ear-shattering. He is showered with flowers as he moves toward the microphone. Women and children are overcome at the sight of him. Men, fighting their jealousy, wish they could be him. Katie nearly passes out.

Mike taps the microphone, signaling he's almost ready to begin, and suddenly the audience quiets. They are waiting for him, but he doesn't start playing right away. Seconds pass, then more seconds, and by now the audience is shaking with fevered expectation, but still he lets the anticipation build.

And it does until it's almost unbearable. The audience feels it, Katie feels it. Billions of people watching their televisions feel it.

Mike did, too.

On the couch, he let the adoration wash over him, his hand on the bag of Doritos.

Oh, yeah . . .

When the phone on the table beside him suddenly blared like an alarm, Mike was ripped from the fantasy and he jumped; his hand jerked upward, sending a volcanic eruption of Doritos in all directions and spilling the beer into his lap. Acting on instinct, he tried to brush off the beer, but it didn't do much except leave orange streaks on his crotch.

"Crap," he said, setting aside the empty can and bag. He reached for the phone with one hand while trying to brush at the beer stain. More streaks. "C'mon," he said, "stop that." The phone rang again before he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mike," Julie said, sounding stressed. "You busy?"

The beer kept soaking through the fabric, and he shifted slightly in the hopes of getting more comfortable. This did no good-instead, the beer worked its way around to the seat of his pants. Now there, he thought, was a squishy feeling he could do without.

"Not really."

"You sound distracted."

"Sorry about that. Just had a little accident here involving my dinner."

"Excuse me?"

Mike reached for the bag and started picking the Doritos off his guitar. "It's nothing serious," he said. "I'll be okay. So what's up?"

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