A Castle in Brooklyn(71)

Then there was the problem with the piano. Elias, who fancied himself somewhat of a musician since he had started guitar lessons when he was in high school, was the only one who took an interest in it. He tried playing “Ave Maria” and other songs on it, by ear, of course, and soon after, the pastel-color seat became unhinged, so that he found himself sliding all over the place every time he sat down. The well-worn booklets inside, however, remained untouched. But the worst thing was when he spilled orange juice across the piano’s sleek surface, the sticky liquid sneaking between the stark white keys before puddling, finally, on the soft bench. No matter how much scrubbing Francine did, the stains remained, and the sounds that came out bore no resemblance to music at all. After that, even Elias lost interest.

But the thing that most worried Francine was that people would find out about Bull. Bull was the dog that Billy had found wandering in the back woods one day, no collar, no leash. He begged to keep him, and since they were all dog lovers, how could she say no? Billy promised to take care of the brown-and-white pit bull that looked to be about two years old. They named him Bull, an appropriate appellation for a dog with short, stubby legs planted on the floor, holding up a barrel-shaped torso.

Billy was true to his promise. Within a week, he and his pals had built a doghouse for Bull and the other dogs who, after some initial trepidation, welcomed the new creature into the home. It wasn’t unusual for Francine, as she looked out the kitchen window, to see Billy and the boys out in the backyard, throwing a ball as Bull, saliva dripping from his mouth, stubby tail wagging, ran to retrieve it. Soon even Patrick, who was always suspicious when a new member was added to the group, would bend down when sitting in the old recliner and playfully pat the dog’s tubular belly as the animal gurgled happily.

But one day, that all changed. Francine had been reading the morning paper at the kitchen table when a sudden sharp noise, a hurting sound like when you step on a shard of glass in your bare feet, startled her. But no, this time it was Bull, the dog, barking up a storm. Still, it didn’t sound like the kind of bark he usually made when he was having fun.

Francine squinted, trying to get her eyes to focus on the scene in front of her. Billy and his friends, laughing, in a circle near a tree. Something dangling from a high branch. A rope being pulled.

“Billy! What the hell!” she screamed, as she pushed open the back screen door.

The boy turned abruptly as if he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, the three others ignoring her. Her eyes went up to a contraption they had rigged onto one of the branches of the big oak off to the side of the backyard. Hanging just out of reach was some kind of rubber toy, so bitten and torn up that it was hard to identify. Bull was barking, a mixture of anger, frustration, and fear. As always, the leash was around the dog’s neck, but at the other end this time was one of Billy’s friends, no older than Billy, who would wait till Bull, growling and eager, would fly straight up, making for the toy, only to pull him back at the last second, the dog’s yelp shattering the air. Sometimes when he managed to snatch a piece of the rubber, he’d be rewarded with one of the chicken nuggets that they had in an open box nearby on the lawn. When Bull wasn’t successful, they’d stand there, guffawing, as the dog, exhausted and panting, would quickly make another attempt. As Francine stared at the scene, it was as if a light snapped on in her head. The boys were enjoying this. She made her voice rise above the din.

“William Gerald McKee! You leave that animal be! Can’t you see you’re torturing him with your teasing?” Billy’s face turned white as the others shifted their bodies away from her, no longer laughing, but coughing, snickering.

“Meemaw, you don’t understand,” Billy answered, his voice sounding more like a whimper as he looked around at the others for help. Getting none, he cleared his throat and continued, “We’re not teasing him. We’re teaching him, for our protection. It’ll take time, you know. But Bull is gonna be a really good guard dog. For—for”—he stuttered—“for protection.” Francine could no longer contain herself.

“Y’all think I believe that bullshit? I wasn’t born yesterday, you idiots! Cut that thing off the tree and do it now!” The three boys looked at Billy, whose facial muscles had begun to relax. He nodded.

The fat one passed off the dog to Billy, removed a switchblade from the pocket of his jeans, moved toward the tree, and swiftly cut the taut rope at its center, so that the ratty thing abruptly fell just as Bull’s teeth swiftly latched onto it. That was when Francine saw that it wasn’t a rubber bear at all, but a rhino, all torn up now, its horn hanging by a single pitiful thread. Billy himself used to teethe on it as a baby. As Billy walked the dog back into the house, without thinking, Francine extended her hand to pat its head. Bull jerked his head and snapped, just missing the tip of her index finger. He was never the same after that.

Francine had a feeling then, like a cold wind passing right through her. She was afraid that something bad was going to happen, something that would drive them away from the home, just like before. It took only two months for her to realize that she was right.



Elias had been gone for three days. He had gotten up one morning, dressed in his brother’s brown tweed suit, which no longer fit Albert, and gone for a job interview. Instead of being his usual sullen self, sleeping most of the day and staying outside smoking weed all night, he was enthusiastic, even gave her a kiss on the cheek as she stood over a pot, cooking oatmeal. He announced that he had a job interview at the community college, not as a professor, for he hadn’t even graduated from high school, but working in building maintenance. Francine stepped away from the stove and wrapped her arms around her son, feeling his bones protrude beneath the thin skin. She wondered how he was able to maintain himself, let alone a whole building, as she rubbed her face against his dark scraggly beard. Still, he could be a good worker as long as he was straight, and, at thirty-three, it was about time he had some gainful employment.