The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [68]
I wasn’t five minutes into my walk the next morning when a jumpy Doberman approached me and a man appeared on the deck of the glass house. When I first saw him I got an awful rush of adrenaline, the way I do when someone cuts in line or a Quiz Bowl match is about to start. And when he waved I felt threatened somehow, as if he were some sort of bad omen. The dog was great. I’ve always liked Dobermans (having lived as one twice, I have insight into their goofy, loving nature). It was the man who worried me—especially now that I’d paced enough to know that my treasure was somewhere near his house.
As I walked homeward along the beach that night, the huge orange sun dipped lower and lower into the horizon. It was a moment I can’t explain. Emer flickered inside me, and I longed for what she longed for. She ordered me to take a sunset swim, so I did, and it was like wrapping myself in a warm blanket of familiarity—even though I’d never once swum in an ocean as Saffron Adams.
Hector and I left for Black River early the next day. He dropped me in the center of the morning market and gave me two hours to check it out. I figured there was ample time to get to the bank and get a few things, so I pointed to a meeting place on the opposite side of the one-way road, and he sped off.
The market was loud and it smelled of day-old fruit and damp cardboard. There were busy Jamaicans moving tall stacks of pallets from stall to stall and women yelling at me from behind their goods, announcing the discount they would give and demanding I try on their hats and jewelry. I continued toward the town center and crossed over a wide bridge. The river was crammed with boats carrying tourists, fishermen, and children, and the water had a thin layer of gas on the surface that shone like mother of pearl.
No sooner had I arrived at the bank and felt the relief of the air conditioning than this old guy, rushing in the opposite door, walked right into me and nearly knocked me over.
He looked up at me from the floor. “My apologies,” he said in an English accent. “I’m very sorry.”
I bent over a little, covering my face, and rubbed the intense pain on my head where his chin had hit me. Then Emer Morrisey came alive and I got instant goose bumps.
He scrambled to get up. “Completely my fault,” he said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
I was still rubbing my head, which was starting to throb. “Okay.”
I got in line and looked over at him periodically. He looked like somebody I knew. I figured I’d seen him in the village, or maybe I’d just seen him on the street and it hadn’t registered.
It wasn’t until we met again, less violently, on our way out, that I realized who he was.
“Do you need a lift back to Billy’s Bay?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“Would you like a lift?” he said, annoyingly louder.
I squinted at him, confused.
He smiled and nodded, then stuck out his right hand. “We should start again. My name is Fred. Livingstone. We saw each other yesterday on the beach, remember?”
I squinted harder, until he did a lame reenactment of his wave. “Oh. Right. The glass place.”
“And you are?”
“On vacation?” I said hesitantly.
He didn’t like that. “Are you sure I can’t give you a lift?”
“No thanks. I have one.” I had an overwhelming urge to carve my initials into his back.
“How about dinner tonight?”
“No, thanks,” I said. I wanted to rub salt into the S, into the A.
“Oh. Well. I’ll see you later then,” he stuttered, and left quickly.
My whole body felt cold and nervous, like it did when I saw Junior on the road on prom night. Did an old guy like that really want to take me to dinner? How did he recognize me after only seeing me from a hundred yards away?
And why did I feel like Emer was back now, twice as strong as she ever was, commanding me to kill him on the spot?
DOG FACT #6
Bad Habits
Your dog is capable of doing some pretty awful stuff. It’s up to you to maintain consistent affection, training, and discipline in order to prevent your dog