Mother Goose: Part 2

“Get off me!”

Sound.

Sound of voice.

Sound of an angry woman’s voice.

Sound of the angry woman from C1’s voice! This must mean--

“I’m alive,” I whispered and opened my eyes to the night sky. Around me: the dull wire fence surrounded the backyard, even grayer in the dim garage light. Above me: a murky, Mars red sky. Light pollution had only revealed a half moon and a single star, but ah-- how beautiful they were! I smelled the fresh mown grass mingled with fresh dog poo, or was that chocolate scented manure? Who can tell, these days? But now, I will find out. Now I have been given a second chance on this earth, I will start to care, not just about the important things, but about everything. I will be a teacher, scholar, janitor. I will be an artist, performance artist, dishwasher artist. I will be a protagonist, antagonist, all the agonists! I will be--

“Quack, you stupid twat! Move.” Only then did I realize that those harsh grunts in the back of my ear belonged not to my imagination, but to a person. I glanced down and shuddered. The firm softness that had carpeted my fall was not a conveniently misplaced pillow, but the soft, aging torso of C1. I sprang up and nearly tripped over one of her terriers. It squealed and ran off, still yapping. Don’t dogs ever lose their voices?

“Are you British or something?” I coughed, wincing at the pain that stabbed through my backside. I pressed my fingers there and felt a bruise. Well, not every escape from a waltz with Death results in getting away with giving a fake number. “Where’s your accent?” I added, offering C1 my hand. When I heaved her up, she nearly fell on top of me. She stood there, breathing hard and glaring.

“I’m not British. But I think their insults are more civilised than ours, you little fuck.” I would have laughed if I hadn’t felt so indignant at being called a “little fuck”, even though I could admit that I had been a little fuck. I matched the hatred in her glare, casting mental flames into her grey-knit sweater and dirt brown uggs. No one’s allowed to wear uggs over fifty unless they’re as cool as my aunt Cleo (sorry, Mom, goes for you too).

“What about any insult is civilised?” I shouted back. “And what makes the British any more civilised than us Americans?”

“They brought civilisation to the world.”

“They brought death, oppression, and disease! They’ve just been doing it for longer.” She shrugged and I almost threw her back to the ground when she answered,

“I never said they were nice.”

We were both distracted by a sound. There it came again, that high, cold howl that had caused me to fall four stories from my comfortable bedroom onto this weirdo.

“There -- I told you. The wolves are coming,” she whispered. I glanced into the alleyway and around the yard but saw nothing.

“There are no wolves in Chicago,” I repeated. Another howl ripped through my voice, this time closer. A chill ran across my back and C1 shrieked.

“Then what’s that!?” She yelled, her eyes wide and frantic, pointing towards the entrance to the yard.

Something like a large dog sat there, still and watching.

“Don’t move,” someone called from behind. I recognized the female voice that had laughed at me earlier. “I’m calling animal control.” I shifted my leg to move backwards and the animal tensed.

“Don’t--” I stepped. The woman behind us lunged forward to pull me back just as the animal bolted to the back of the yard. As it leapt over the fence, I recognized its thin, fox nose and sandy hair. It landed on the asphalt and disappeared down the alley. I released a long breath. C1 was holding a hand to her chest, another towards her dogs.

“See?” I said, moving towards her. “It was just a coyote.” She jerked away from me.

“I did not hear that coyote. It was something else.” C1 called to her dogs, “Quack-quack.” Yap-yap, they responded. Then she snapped her fingers and the dogs ran up to her in an instant. As she walked slowly back to her door, arms still paralyzed against her body, her dogs trotted after, now docile and quiet.

“Why didn’t you just snap an hour ago? They’ve clearly learned that trick!” I called after her.

“Damnit.” I turned to the woman who had joined us but she was already walking away. All that could suggest itself to me of her form was the black banner of her hair and some sort of spotted pattern on her pajamas.

“Wait!”

“Go to bed, little fuck!” She waved without looking back and the door clicked behind her. I smiled. Was she the woman of my dreams who lives next door? We’ll never know. Was that a wolf we heard? Don’t be ridiculous. This is Chicago. According to Hollywood, the only wolves here are the children of gangsters.

Only after she had left did I realize that I was locked out.

After banging on the door for some time with no response, I settled on the grass, my back against the brick wall of the apartment complex. I thought about how I’d rather swallow a horse than face a wolf.

It better not have been a wolf.