The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [79]
I’d envisioned days of stealthily searching through the small forest, sweating, swearing, frustrated, and tired. I’d accepted the fact of a second trip already, and had prepared myself for a third, if necessary. I’d thought of every scenario except this one—finding my buried treasure in one short week. Suddenly, Junior Adams was slotted right into place next to all the other assholes I’d ever met. So what if he’d thrown out all my things? So what if he’d moved in with my parents and probably stole all their stuff and treated them like crap? What could I do about it? I didn’t have the time to slice a hundred shallow cuts into his lips and make him suck limes. I was too busy to make him swallow oiled musket balls. I had more important things to think about now, and a lot to do.
To celebrate my good luck, I walked to the village and ate my first plate of green, very dodgy-looking curried goat. I washed it back with two Red Stripes, which gave me the tipsy courage I needed to make my final plan.
I would dig.
Tonight.
When I arrived at the hostel, Hector was still sitting on his porch, listening to his roots and playing dominoes with his cook.
“Saffron, girl!” he said. “You want a game of domino?”
“No thanks. I’m beat.”
“Come on! Sit here! Take it teasy!”
I walked into the kitchen and got a bottle of water from the fridge. When I passed by the phone I thought about Junior again, and my parents. What a pathetic bunch of losers! “Not me,” I thought. “Not me.”
As scared as I was about the task ahead, I was more scared of what I already knew. There was no way in hell I was going back to Hollow Ford, Pennsylvania, to live like a loser. There was no way in hell I was going to let them drag me down with them.
Fred’s foot would not stop bleeding, no matter how much ice he piled onto it. He tried wrapping it up tightly with some paper towels and masking tape, but his blood took only five minutes to soak through, leaving him worried that he might have to go to a hospital. He wrapped it tighter and tighter until, on the third attempt, the blood stayed where it belonged, away from his Italian yellow leather. He leaned back and switched on the television, propping his bloody, taped foot on his desk next to the pair of steel handcuffs.
You should go to a hospital, Fred.
“It’s fine.”
It could get infected.
“It’s fine. Stop nagging,” Fred said. He shifted in his chair and turned up the volume on the television.
I think you killed the dog, Fred.
He swatted the idea with his free hand. “He’s fine.”
I think he’s dead.
“Well, think what you want. He’s fine,” Fred answered. He pulled his foot nearer and looked for blood. He inspected his toes and scratched between them, releasing dry flakes of his skin and fungus onto his hand. He brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed them.
Fredrick! I’ve told you to keep those tennis shoes out of the house! Why must I ask you again?
“Oh Mother, stop nagging.”
I’ll stop nagging when you get up and move those wretched things out of my house! Honestly! How can you live this way?
“It’s just athlete’s foot, Mother.”
I don’t care what it is! Just get them out!
Fred pushed his chair back and got up. He limped to his bedroom and into his en suite bathroom and sat down on the toilet. His foot looked terrible in the bright light. Blood had dried and left brown stains everywhere—between his toes, around his heel, even under his toenails. He ran some water in the Jacuzzi and unwrapped his foot. The last layers of paper towels stuck fast to the wound and Fred had trouble pulling them free, so he pulled off what he could and let the warm water dissolve the rest. His foot wasn’t in the bath a minute before it began to bleed again. He started to worry as the water turned red, and made a quick effort to rub the brown stains from the rest of his foot with his fingers. Grabbing the nearest towel and washcloth, Fred dried himself, inspected the wound for any signs of infection, and then pressed the washcloth into it. He reached for the magic cream and unscrewed the lid