The Narrows(29)

As she approached the house, Brandy found herself thinking mostly of Mr. Dandridge, the father. He was a vulgar, overweight drunk who worked odd jobs around town. Often, his metallic-gold Ford pickup could be seen parked across the street from Brandy’s school, which was within walking distance of Crossroads, the local watering hole. On more than one occasion, she had read in the local blotter about Dwight’s father getting arrested for drunken misconduct, fighting, and a DUI. Now, as she stepped off the road and onto the flagstone path that led up to the front of the Dandridge house, it was Dwight’s father she was hoping would not answer the door. She couldn’t see the metallic-gold pickup at the side of the house, so she held out hope.

Brandy took the porch steps cautiously, fearful of their unsteadiness. Dragonfly wind chimes hung from the porch and tinkled in the breeze. A few wicker chairs stood around like uncomfortable strangers. Beside the front door, stacks of plastic flowerpots stood in curved towers. Her nose caught a faint but undeniable whiff of dog shit. Casually, she checked the soles of her sneakers then knocked on the door.

Some time went by before she heard commotion on the other side of the door. Someone shouted at someone else. A dog barked sharply several times then whimpered when a man’s equally sharp voice silenced it.

Damn, she thought. It’s him.

The door opened to reveal Mr. Dandridge’s bulldog face with receding hair. His cheeks were full and pockmarked, his lips a deep purplish hue. A perfectly round belly protruded from the sleeveless T-shirt he wore and hung over the waistband of paint-splattered chinos. His bare feet looked short and stumpy and threaded with coarse hair, like the feet of a hobbit.

“Hi, Mr. Dandridge. I was looking for Matthew. Is he here?”

His eyes appraised her. Brandy was suddenly very aware of her bare legs and the tightness of her shirt.

“Hey, Dwight!” he shouted into the house, though he didn’t take his eyes off Brandy. Behind Mr. Dandridge, Brandy was aware of a dog pacing anxiously back and forth in the hallway. A television blared from somewhere inside that horrible place. “Dwight! Get your ass over here, boy!”

Brandy shifted uncomfortably on the porch. Mr. Dandridge’s lecherous stare was like a hot spike being driven into her chest. Inside the house, the sound of rapid and heavy footfalls prompted Mr. Dandridge to waddle unceremoniously out onto the porch—Brandy shifted sideways, giving him a wide berth—and over to the assemblage of wicker chairs.

Dwight appeared in the doorway, a frown creasing his tanned and round face at the sight of her. “What do you want?” Dwight asked. His voice was squeaky, like an old cellar door.

“I’m looking for my brother,” she said just as Mr. Dandridge lowered himself into one of the wicker chairs. The chair made a rustling sound and Brandy was certain it would collapse under the large man’s weight. It didn’t.

“He’s not here,” Dwight said.

“Have you seen him at all today?”

“No. Last time I saw him was yesterday.”

“Do you know where he could’ve gone?”

Dwight rolled his meaty shoulders. He was wearing a Marilyn Manson T-shirt that was too small for him; the sleeves squeezed his thick forearms.

“Maybe someplace he wouldn’t have taken his bike?” she pressed.

“Oh.” Dwight’s eyebrows arched. “He might have gone to Hogarth’s.”

“The drugstore?”

“Yeah. There was a vampire mask in the window he wanted to buy.” His eyes darted furtively toward his father then back at Brandy. “He had enough money yesterday and he said he wanted to buy it before someone else did.”

But why wouldn’t he take his bike? she wondered.

“Okay,” she said, already taking a step back from the door. Behind Dwight, the shapeless dog paced tirelessly back and forth, back and forth. “If you see him, tell him to come on home.”

Dwight nodded and shot another look at his father, who had lit a cigarette and now stared vacuously out at the road. Then he shut the door, leaving Brandy alone with Mr. Dandridge.

“Good-bye,” she said quickly, moving toward the stairs.

“Brandy, right?”

She froze. “Yes, sir.”

“Your daddy ever come back?”

It was like being slapped across the face by a stranger. “No.”

Mr. Dandridge grimaced, as if the cigarette suddenly tasted bad. A clot of bluish smoke wafted about his balding head. Eyes the color of oil continued to scrutinize her.

“Your mom at home?”

“She’s working,” she said curtly.

“She seeing anyone?”

Her first instinct was to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about, even though she knew damn well what he was talking about. Then she thought she might lie and say yes, her mother had been seeing someone lately. Either way, she did not want to have this conversation with Dwight’s father. She did not want to stand there and look into his hungry eyes a moment longer.

Either he sensed her discomfort or he simply grew tired of her silence. “Forget it,” he said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “Just get on home.”

She hurried down the steps and moved quickly down the flagstone path toward the road. She felt his eyes on her until she crossed the hill and disappeared from his sight.