Biddy sighted on Mr. Fraser’s rear end as he walked back to retrieve the hat. “Pow,” he whispered.
Fraser went into the house. Biddy lifted the rifle barrel away.
“God,” Teddy breathed, relieved, turning over on the roof to face the stars. “I’m surprised you didn’t shoot him.”
“Can I borrow this again sometime?” Biddy whispered, still facing the Frasers’ house.
“Sure,” Teddy said. “Keep it over here.” He looked at the wrist he’d reinjured playing football. “I can’t use it anyhow.”
Biddy remained in the car with his mother, and his father slammed the door and climbed the slight rise to the adjoining parking lot.
“You guys stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He returned with a little black puppy, furry and curling awkwardly in his arms.
“Well, come on out,” he said. “Look at him.”
Biddy scrambled out, surprised and excited by how pleased this puppy, squirming and twisting to get at him, made him feel.
“He’s great.”
His father grinned. “Were you surprised?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Here, take him. I’m gonna go thank Al.”
He took the dog from his father’s arms like a baby, feeling enormously grateful. It arched its back and tried to twist around, licking in all directions.
His mother got out of the car. “Isn’t he cute?” she said.
“He’s so tiny.”
“Oh, he’ll get big, don’t worry. Besides, we can’t have a horse with our yard.”
Across the street his father and Al waved. He felt uncomfortable, his happiness diluted by being on display.
“There’s a box in the trunk,” his mother said. “Let’s put him in that.”
His father returned and they put the box on the floor of the front seat, where Biddy could watch it.
“What’re you going to name him?” his mother asked from the back on the way home. It was a very bright day and the grass still showed green in patches beneath the fallen leaves as they passed the park.
“I don’t know,” he said. The dog made tiny cries and scraped around the bottom of the box. “Thanks,” he added, turning around so his mother was included.
“Don’t thank us,” his father said. “Thank Al Greaves.”
“I’ll thank you,” he said. “And you can thank Al Greaves.”
Upon their return Kristi, playing on the back porch, stood up, saw the box, heard the scrapings, and pushed over a potted palm. It tumbled heavily to the carpet, spilling dirt.
Her mother grabbed her arm and shook her, but she pulled away and bolted out the door, fighting past her father and running up the driveway. They followed her at a run into the garage, where she turned, trapped and furious at having trapped herself.
Biddy stood rooted next to the car, still holding the box, the dog yelping with excitement inside.
They cornered her in the garage, and she ran along the rows of shelves on the left wall, sweeping the coffee cans and baby-food jars of screws and flanges and hinges off with a cascading crash of metal and glass before they could reach her.
They shouted for her to stop and she shouted she hated them, the words echoing in the garage.
He put the box down, the dog’s legs making hollow noises against the cardboard, and ran over, unable to do anything to help, and unable to watch as well.
He sat in the grass next to a low pail of water, with his father standing over him, watching the puppy blunder around. Kristi had calmed down and shut herself in her room. The puppy ran aimlessly back and forth, barking and yipping, feinting at Biddy’s hand and making harmless snapping noises with its jaws. It ran weak-legged in a wide circle, looking around wildly. On its second circuit of the yard it ran into the larger maple tree, coming to something of a halt, and toppling over.
It scrambled back up, and they laughed, relieved.
“November,” his father said, his jacket open. “Nice for November, isn’t it?” He crouched and grabbed the puppy’s rear, swinging it around so it sprawled lightly on the grass. “It’s a he, you know. What are you gonna call him?”
“Stupid,” Biddy said.
“Stupid?”
He dangled his hand out, and the puppy leaped for it and missed.
“You can’t name the dog Stupid.”
“I don’t mean it mean. It’s a good name for him.”
“Stupid.”
“If you don’t want to name it that, you can name it something else,” Biddy said.
“It’s your dog,” his father said. “C’mere, Stupid.”
On a windy Saturday, he stood in the front yard punting the ball back and forth. The Lirianos were visiting and everyone was in the kitchen. He punted it lightly from one end of the yard to the other, and then walked after it and punted it back.
Simon rode up, his bike still grinding. He smiled.
“Hey, Simon,” Biddy said. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Hi,” he said.
“You want some cheesecake?”
Simon looked around, not seeing any. “Sure.”
Biddy put the ball down and went into the house.
“What’re you doin’ out there, champ?” Dom asked.
“Punting around.”
“Oh. You need cheesecake for that?”
He put a slice on a paper plate. “Uh-huh. Bye.” He returned to the front and handed the plate to Simon.
“Pick it off the plate,” he suggested. “I didn’t bring a fork.”
Simon took a tentative bite and Biddy resumed punting.
“I’m gonna run away,” Simon said.
Biddy looked at him, startled. The ball thumped to the ground.
He walked over to him. “You shouldn’t run away,” he said.
Simon shrugged, limp and unhappy, mouth working on the cheesecake.
“Going to go to your father?”
He didn’t answer.
“You shouldn’t go,” he repeated, searching for a reason. “Your mother’d be all upset. You’re too young.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m too young to do anything.”
Biddy imagined him in the Cessna, his white hair shaking with excitement and the vibration of the engine, refusing to sit still, crying in terror at what they were about to do, grabbing at disastrous levers and switches.
“Things’ll get better,” he said. “You’ll see.”
“I don’t think so.” Simon set the paper plate on the grass and climbed onto his bike. “Thanks for the cake.”
He decided to talk to Cindy about it. “What’s up, sexy?” she asked when he appeared at the door, and he said simply, “Simon’s going to run away.”
“Simon’s going to run away? Who told you that? Simon?”
He nodded and stepped back from the doorway, changing his mind about the whole thing, ready to go.
“Well, come on in. You walk over here? This is worth some coffee at least. Or would you rather have soda?”
He shrugged and she put a mug in front of him.
“You make up with Mickey yet?” she said. She set a glass sugar bowl and a carton of milk near the mug.
“I don’t even know what he’s mad at me for.”
“Don’t worry about it. He probably doesn’t know either.” She sat comfortably opposite him. “Ronnie, your pal’s here,” she called.
“Where’s Ronnie?”
“He’s indisposed.” She looked back at the bubbling coffeemaker.
“He’s taking a dump,” Ronnie called.
“So what’s this about Simon?” she said. “Do you think he’s serious?”