Eight thirty-eight on Saturday night. I meet Ms. Jameson and her yappy but infuriatingly adorable Yorkie on the corner. Ms. Jameson and I wave, and Frida pulls with all her tiny might to come say hello to Gavin, who ignores her and maybe even gives her a side-eye with his strangely human Doodle eyes. After a few pleasantries, we keep walking, Gavin in pure business mode. Turning onto Peak Mountain Road, Mr. Jim, who always says, ‘just call me Jim, darling,’ is on his porch with Alonzo in his lap, the two of them, both octogenarians, watching another day end, hoping they’ll still be around in the morning.
I know this because Mr. Jim says it every time we see each other. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing alone on a Saturday night?” he calls from the porch. I wish I knew, I think.
“How are you doing tonight, Mr. Jim?” I call back, climbing the small incline that he calls a hill from the street to his porch.
“Jim, darling. And me and Alonzo here, well, hopefully we’ll both still be here in the morning.”
“Oh, Mr. Jim. You’ll both outlive us all.” Which could be true for Mr. Jim. He does not look or act 88, though Alonzo looks every day of his thirteen years. We’ll talk for a few more minutes while Gavin and Alonzo half-heartedly sniff each other, and then Gavin and I will continue on our walk.
Summer in Georgia means that the sun has set, but it is still bright enough for the street lights to be off at almost nine. Gavin and I will take our usual route- his bedtime walk, we call it, down towards the neighborhood lake, up to the golf course, and back around through the ‘walking trails,’ the HOA laughingly calls them. I mean, they do go through nature, but the ‘trails’ are concrete paths that cut behind one section of the neighborhood and run from the pool to the lake. Because they are paved, you must always be on high alert for the kids on bikes, scooters, roller skates, and those electric skateboard things. Hoverboards.
Of course, I shouldn’t complain because I do actually really appreciate the paved pathways on rainy days because it means less clean up on Gavin’s enormous feet when we get home.
I usually run into two or three more dog-walkers, and Mrs. Ramirez is almost always out on her front porch, dancing the bachata and sipping something that I strongly suspect is not water out of a very large Stanley. We wave, she calls, “Ven a bailar conmigo, hija!” and shakes her hips and does a fancy spin that makes me wish I could dance. If she’s gotten to the spinning portion of the night, Mr. Ramirez will come outside to get her, she’ll pull him into her arms, and the two of them will laugh and dance together before grabbing the speaker and heading in for the night.
Nine twenty-three. On the way back up the hill, which I cannot make it up without stopping, Gavin huffing indignantly at my fitness level, I prepare to wave goodnight to Mr. Jim. I think he waits for me to come back before he goes in, which melts my heart. “Good night, darling,” he’ll call as he and Alonzo get up slowly from the rocking chair. Mr. Jim doesn’t need to move slowly, but he does it for Alonzo. I dread the day when that dog is gone. Mr. Jim is going to be so lost.
The streetlights pop on as I reach the top of the hill, I look over to Mr. Jim’s porch, but he isn’t there and the porch light, which is always on, is off. I can just make out Alonzo on the porch, sitting up, alert, staring at the door. I stop to catch my breath and wait, assuming Mr. Jim has gone inside for a quick second, though it is strange for him to leave Alonzo alone. Gavin is pulling at his leash, eager to get home and curl up in his spot on the couch for his nighttime belly rubs. But something feels wrong. I gently coerce Gavin towards Mr. Jim’s house, and as we get closer, I can hear Alonzo whining softly. A funny feeling starts in my stomach as we climb up to the porch.
“Mr. Jim,” I call. “It’s me, Mary Kate.” Nothing. Alonzo’s whining gets louder as we get closer, but he doesn’t turn to acknowledge us. He just stares at the front door and.
I tie Gavin’s leash to the bottom rail of the porch and slowly climb the steps. There are no lights on in the house, and I know when I walked by the living room light was definitely on. I knock on the door. “Mr. Jim?” Reaching down to stroke Alonzo, I notice that his hackles are raised and he gives a low growl and then another whine. I knock again, louder. “Mr. Jim? I’m coming in, okay?”
As soon as I’ve turned the knob, Alonzo pushes past me and darts towards the kitchen. His speed makes me feel more uneasy- I’ve never seen him move anywhere faster than a slow lumber. “Mr. Jim?” I call again, the silence creeping around me. I turn on the hallway light and follow it to the back of the house where the kitchen is. Alonzo is scratching at the back door, which leads out to a screened in porch and a half-acre garden. Mr. Jim has a stone fireplace in the corner of the porch and we have spent many autumn nights drinking hot chocolate and letting the dogs warm themselves by the fire.
I slide the door open and Alonzo darts in. It is so dark, with only a little light from the hallway inching its way into the room. My stomach rolls as I hear Alonzo whine in the corner. I turn on the light and there is Mr. Jim, lying on his back, his head bloody, his eyes closed. One foot is on the hearth, one arm stretches out towards me. Alonzo lays down in the crook of his master’s arm. I scream.
Nice work at establishing your character’s personality, her environs, and her knowledge of her neighbors.