up at the sky for a moment as he got out of his car. The Buick wasn’t in the driveway, but Fiske had not come to see his father anyway. The neighborhood was quiet other than a couple of teenagers two doors down working on a Chevy with an engine so big it looked like it had ruptured through the car’s hood.
Fiske had just spent all day in a trial. He had presented his case, warts and all, as best he could. The ACA had vigorously represented the commonwealth. Eight hours of intense sparring, and Fiske had barely had time to go to the john to take a leak before the jury came back with a guilty verdict. It was his guy’s third strike. He was gone for good. The ironic thing was Fiske really believed him innocent of this particular charge — not something he could say with most of his clients. But his guy had beat so many other raps, maybe the jury was just unconsciously evening the score. To top it off, he’d die of old age waiting for the rest of his legal fee to come. Prisoners for life seldom bothered about settling their debts, particularly debts to their loser attorneys.
Fiske went into the backyard, opened the side door to the garage, went in and pulled a beer from the fridge. The humidity still lay over them like a damp blanket, and he held the cold bottle against his temple, letting the chill sink deep. At the very rear of the yard was a small stand of bent trees and a long-dead grapevine still tightly wrapped around rusty poles and wire. Fiske went back there and leaned up against one of the elms. He looked down at a recessed spot in the grass. Here was buried Bo, the Belgian shepherd the Fiske brothers had grown up with. Their father had brought the dog home one day when Bo was no bigger than his fist. Within a year or so he had grown into a big-chested, sixty-pound, black and white beauty that both boys adored, Mike especially. Bo would follow them on their morning paper routes, taking turns with the two boys. They had had almost nine years of intense pleasure together before Bo had toppled over from a stroke while Mike was playing with him. John had never seen anyone cry that hard in his whole life. Neither his mother nor his father could console Mike. He had sat in the backyard bawling, holding the dog’s bushy coat, trying to make him stand up again, to go play with him in the sunshine. John had held his brother tightly that day, cried with him, stroked the still head of their beloved shepherd.
When Mike had gone to school the next day, John had stayed behind with his father to bury the dog here. When Mike had come home they all had attended a little service in the backyard for Bo. Mike had read with great conviction from the Bible and the brothers had placed a little headstone, actually a chunk of cinder block, with Bo’s name scrawled on it in pen, at the head of the simple grave. The piece of cinder block was still there, though the ink had long since vanished.
Fiske knelt down and ran his hand along the grass, so smooth and fine in this shaded spot. Damn, they had loved that dog so much. Why did the past have to recede so quickly? Why did one always recall the good times as being so brief? He shook his head, and then the voice startled him.
“I remember that old dog like it was yesterday.”
He looked up at Ida German, who stood on the other side of the fence staring at him. He rose, looking a little embarrassed.
“It was a long time ago, Ms. German.”
The woman smelled perpetually of beef and onions, as did her house, Fiske knew. A widow for nearly thirty years now, she moved slowly, her body shrunken, squat and thick. Her long housecoat covered veiny, splotched legs and bloated ankles. But at nearly ninety years old, her mind was still clear, her words crisp.
“Everything’s a long time ago with me. Not with you. Not just yet. How’s your momma?”
“Holding her own.”
“I’ve been meaning to get over there to see her soon, but this old body just doesn’t have the get up and go it
Fiske had just spent all day in a trial. He had presented his case, warts and all, as best he could. The ACA had vigorously represented the commonwealth. Eight hours of intense sparring, and Fiske had barely had time to go to the john to take a leak before the jury came back with a guilty verdict. It was his guy’s third strike. He was gone for good. The ironic thing was Fiske really believed him innocent of this particular charge — not something he could say with most of his clients. But his guy had beat so many other raps, maybe the jury was just unconsciously evening the score. To top it off, he’d die of old age waiting for the rest of his legal fee to come. Prisoners for life seldom bothered about settling their debts, particularly debts to their loser attorneys.
Fiske went into the backyard, opened the side door to the garage, went in and pulled a beer from the fridge. The humidity still lay over them like a damp blanket, and he held the cold bottle against his temple, letting the chill sink deep. At the very rear of the yard was a small stand of bent trees and a long-dead grapevine still tightly wrapped around rusty poles and wire. Fiske went back there and leaned up against one of the elms. He looked down at a recessed spot in the grass. Here was buried Bo, the Belgian shepherd the Fiske brothers had grown up with. Their father had brought the dog home one day when Bo was no bigger than his fist. Within a year or so he had grown into a big-chested, sixty-pound, black and white beauty that both boys adored, Mike especially. Bo would follow them on their morning paper routes, taking turns with the two boys. They had had almost nine years of intense pleasure together before Bo had toppled over from a stroke while Mike was playing with him. John had never seen anyone cry that hard in his whole life. Neither his mother nor his father could console Mike. He had sat in the backyard bawling, holding the dog’s bushy coat, trying to make him stand up again, to go play with him in the sunshine. John had held his brother tightly that day, cried with him, stroked the still head of their beloved shepherd.
When Mike had gone to school the next day, John had stayed behind with his father to bury the dog here. When Mike had come home they all had attended a little service in the backyard for Bo. Mike had read with great conviction from the Bible and the brothers had placed a little headstone, actually a chunk of cinder block, with Bo’s name scrawled on it in pen, at the head of the simple grave. The piece of cinder block was still there, though the ink had long since vanished.
Fiske knelt down and ran his hand along the grass, so smooth and fine in this shaded spot. Damn, they had loved that dog so much. Why did the past have to recede so quickly? Why did one always recall the good times as being so brief? He shook his head, and then the voice startled him.
“I remember that old dog like it was yesterday.”
He looked up at Ida German, who stood on the other side of the fence staring at him. He rose, looking a little embarrassed.
“It was a long time ago, Ms. German.”
The woman smelled perpetually of beef and onions, as did her house, Fiske knew. A widow for nearly thirty years now, she moved slowly, her body shrunken, squat and thick. Her long housecoat covered veiny, splotched legs and bloated ankles. But at nearly ninety years old, her mind was still clear, her words crisp.
“Everything’s a long time ago with me. Not with you. Not just yet. How’s your momma?”
“Holding her own.”
“I’ve been meaning to get over there to see her soon, but this old body just doesn’t have the get up and go it
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