“Wilma…” come on in the house, honey, and I’ll Pete groped, then looked relieved as an idea actually dawned. “I’ll make us some tea.”
“Fuck the tea!” Wilma howled at the top, the very tippy-top, of her vocal range, and from next door the Haverhills’ mutt went for broke, yarkyarkyark, oh she hated dogs, it was going to drive her crazy, fucking loudmouth dog!
Her rage overflowed and she charged the sheets, clawed at them, began pulling them down. Her fingers caught over the first line and it snapped like a guitar string. The sheets hung from it dropped in a sodden, meaty swoop. Fists clenched, eyes squinched like a child doing a tantrum, Wilma took a single large, froggy leap and landed on top of one. It made a weary flooosh sound and billowed up, splattering gobbets of mud on her nylons. It was the final touch.
She opened her mouth and shrieked her rage. Oh, she would find who had done this. Yes-indeedy-doodad. You better believe it. And when she did-'is everything all right over there, Mrs. jerzyck?” it was Mrs. Haverhill’s voice, wavering with alarm.
“Yes goddammit, we’re drinking Sterno and watching Lawrence Welk, can’t you shut that mutt of yours up?” Wilma screamed.
She backed off the muddy sheet, panting, her hair hanging all around her flushed face. She swiped at it savagely. Fucking dog was going to drive her crazy. Fucking loudmouth doHer thoughts broke off with an almost audible snap.
Dogs.
Fucking loudmouth dogs.
Who lived almost right around the corner from here, on Ford Street?
Correction: What crazy lady with a fucking loudmouth dog named Raider lived right around the corner from here?
Why, Nettle Cobb, that was who.
The dog had barked all spring, those high-pitched puppy yaps that really got under your skin, and finally Wilma had called Nettle and told her that if she couldn’t get her dog to shut up, she ought to get rid of it. A week later, when there had still been no improvement (at least none that Wilma was willing to admit), she had called Nettle again and told her that if she couldn’t keep the dog quiet, she, Wilma, would have to call the police. The next night, when the goddamned mutt started up its yarking and barking once more, she had.
A week or so after that, Nettle had shown up at the market (unlike Wilma, Nettle seemed to be the sort of person who had to turn things over in her mind for awhile brood on them, evenbefore she was able to act). She stood in line at Wilma’s register, although she didn’t have a single solitary item. When her turn came, she had said in a squeaky, breathless little voice: “You stop making trouble for me and my Raider, Wilma jerzyck. He’s a good little doggy, and you just better stop making trouble.”
Wilma, always ready for a fight, had not been in the least disconcerted at being confronted in the workplace. In fact, she rather liked it. “Lady, you don’t know what trouble is. But if you can’t get your damn dog to shut up, you will.”
The Cobb woman had been as pale as milk, but she drew herself up, clutching her purse so tightly that the tendons on her scrawny forearms showed all the way from her wrists to her elbows. She said: “I’m warning you,” then hurried out.
“Oh-oh, I think I just peed my panties!” Wilma had called boisterously after her (a taste of battle always put her in good spirits), but Nettle never turned-only hurried on her way a little faster.
After that, the dog had quieted down. This had rather disappointed Wilma, because it had been a boring spring. Pete was showing no signs of rebellion, and Wilma had been feeling an endof-winter dullness that the new green in the trees and grass couldn’t seem to touch. What she really needed to add color and spice to her life was a good feud. For awhile it had seemed that crazy Nettle Cobb would fill the bill admirably, but with the dog minding its manners, it seemed to Wilma that she would have to look elsewhere for diversion.
Then one night in May the dog had started barking again. The mutt had only gone on for awhile, but Wilma hurried to the telephone and called Nettle anyway-she had marked the number in the book just in case such an occasion offered.
She did not waste time on the niceties but got right to the point.
“This is Wilma jerzyck, dear. I called to tell you that if you don’t shut that dog up, I’ll shut him up myself.”
“He’s already stopped!” Nettle had cried. “I brought him in as soon as I got home and heard him! You just leave me and Raider alone!
I warned you! If you don’t, you’ll be sorry!”
“Just remember what I said,” Wilma told her. “I’ve had enough.
The next time he starts up that ruckus, I won’t bother complaining to the cops. I’ll come over and cut his goddam throat.”
She had hung up before Nettle could reply. The cardinal rule governing engagements with the enemy (relatives, neighbors, spouses) was that the aggressor must have the last word.
The dog hadn’t popped off since then. Well, maybe it had, but Wilma hadn’t noticed it if so; it had never been that bothersome in the first place, not really, and besides, Wilma had inaugurated a more productive wrangle with the woman who ran the beauty parlor in Castle View. Wilma had almost forgotten Nettle and Raider.
But maybe Nettle hadn’t forgotten her. Wilma had seen Nettle just yesterday, in the new shop. And if looks could kill, Wilma thought, I would have been laid out dead on the floor right there.
Standing here now by her muddied, ruined sheets, she remembered the look of fear and defiance that had come over the nutty bitch’s face, the way her lip had curled back, showing her teeth for a second.
Wilma was very familiar with the look of hate, and she had seen it on Nettle Cobb’s face yesterday.
I warned you… you’ll he sorry.
“Wilma, come on inside,” Pete said. He put a tentative hand on her shoulder.
She shrugged it off briskly. “Leave me alone.”
Pete withdrew a step. He looked like he wanted to wring his hands but didn’t quite dare.
Maybe she forgot, too, Wilma thought. At least until she saw me yesterday, in that new store. Or maybe she’s been planning something (i warned you) all along in that half-stewed head of hers, and seeing me finally set her off.
Somewhere in the last few moments she had become sure that Nettle was the one-who else had she crossed glances with in the last couple of days who might hold a grudge? There were other people in town who didn’t like her, but this kind of trick-this kind of sneaking, cowardly trick-went with the way Nettle had looked at her yesterday. That sneer of mingled fear (you’ll be sorry) and hate. She had looked like a dog herself, one brave enough to bite only when its victim’s back is turned.
Yes, it had been Nettle Cobb, all right. The more Wilma thought about it, the surer she became. And the act was unforgivable. Not because the sheets were ruined. Not because it was a cowardly trick.
Not even because it was the act of someone with a cracked brain.
It was unforgivable because Wilma had been frightened.
Only for a second, true, that second when the slimy brown thing had flapped out of the darkness and into her face, caressing her coldly like some monster’s hand… but even one single second of fear was a second too much.
“Wilma?” Pete asked as she turned her flat face toward him. He did not like the expression the porch light showed him, all shiny white surfaces and black, dimpled shadows. He did not like that flat look in her eyes. “Honey? Are you all right?”
She strode past him, taking no notice of him at all. Pete scurried after her as she headed for the house… and the telephone.
4
Nettle was sitting in her living room with Raider at her feet and her new carnival glass lampshade on her lap when the telephone rang.
It was twenty minutes of eight. She jumped and clutched the lampshade tighter, looking at the telephone with fear and distrust.
She had a momentary certainty-silly, of course, but she couldn’t seem to rid herself of such feelings-that it would be Some Person in Authority, calling to tell her she must give the beautiful lampshade back, that it belonged to someone else, that such a lovely object could not possibly have accrued to Nettle’s little store of possessions in any case, the very idea was ridiculous.
Raider looked up at her briefly, as if to ask if she was going to answer that or not, then put his muzzle back down on his paws.
Nettle set the lampshade carefully aside and picked up the telephone. It was probably just Polly, calling to ask if she’d pick up something for dinner at Hemphill’s Market before she came to work tomorrow morning.
“Hello, Cobb residence,” she said crisply. All her life she had been terrified of Some Person in Authority, and she had discovered that the best way to handle such a fear was to sound like a person in authority yourself. It didn’t make the fear go away, but at least it held the fear in check.
“I know what you did, you crazy bitch!” a voice spat at her. It was as sudden and as gruesome as the stab of an icepick.
Nettle’s breath caught as if on a thorn; an expression of trapped horror froze her face and her heart tried to cram its way up into her throat. Raider looked up at her again, questioningly.
“Who… who…”
“You know goddam well who,” the voice said, and of course Nettle did. It was Wilma jerzyck. It was that evil, evil woman.
“He hasn’t been barking!” Nettle’s voice was high and thin and screamy, the voice of someone who has just inhaled the entire contents of a helium balloon. “He’s all grown up and he’s not barking! He’s right here at my feet!”
“Did you have a good time throwing mud at my sheets, you numb cunt?” Wilma was furious. The woman was actually trying to pretend this was still about the dog.
“Sheets? What sheets? I… I…” Nettle looked toward the carnival glass lampshade and seemed to draw strength from it. “You leave me alone! You’re the one that’s crazy, not me!”
“I’m going to get you for this. Nobody comes into my yard and throws mud at my sheets while I’m gone. Nobody. NOBODY!
Understand? Is this getting through that cracked skull of yours?
You won’t know where, and you won’t know when, and most of all you won’t know how, but I… am going… to GET you. Do you understand?”
Nettle held the phone tightly screwed against her ear. Her face had gone dead pale except for a single bright streak of red which ran across her forehead between her eyebrows and hairline. Her teeth were clenched and her cheeks puffed in and out like a bellows as she panted from the sides of her mouth.
“You leave me alone or you’ll be sorry!” she screamed in her high, fainting, helium voice. Raider was standing now, his ears up, his eyes bright and anxious.
