"Anthony H Stewart - Ghost Dog" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stewart Anthony H)

GHOST DOG
By Anthony H. Stewart

You were chased by a bully at school today? Did he catch you? I can see by your smile that he didn't. You're lucky, Sugar, getting to wear jeans and sneakers. In my day, I had to wear dresses, and usually sandals. Well, come here and sit down on the front porch swing by Grandma and I'll tell you about the meanest bully there ever was. It all started the summer of 1955. It was the year that I started seeing an old hound dog, a light tan female with dark brown patches and one dark spot over an eye that made her look like a bandit.

I would see it on dark nights, hanging at the edge of the shadows. One night I dreamed about it. I was walking the woods at midnight, and my spine tingled and my hair was full of electricity. Tall trees hovered around me like twisted giants. The air vibrated with violent force. When I saw the dog my skin trembled. Its body was phosphorescent, and her eyes had a reddish glow that reminded me of the fires of Hades.

Now, George, I'm not scaring the child. Why don't you be a nice grandpa and go fix us some lemonade? Don't look at me like that, and be sure to put the additive in mine.
Anyway, I'd see the dog digging in trashcans or in someone's garden. But the strangest thing, I would be looking at it one minute and the next thing I knew it had vanished. Now if I had been a wild Comanche Indian, it would have been my totem. But I was just a skinny kid growing up in Jenkin's Corner, a little jerkwater town west of Ft. Worth. To me,the dog was a ghost.

I turned twelve that year, and strange things were happening. I was beginning to like boys. You like boys? No? You will, sugar. It's both a curse and a blessing. But I didn't like Chubby. Matter of fact, I was scared of him. He was two years older than the rest of us sixth graders, with a chin that jutted out like Dick Tracy and a hard, stiff gut that hung over his belt and hair the color of fire.

Chubby Taylor beat up people just for the fun of it. He didn't like me at all, and I figured it was because Harry Taylor, Chubby's dad, and my dad didn't get along. Harry Taylor was even meaner than his son, and my Dad used to say a rattler would die if it bit him. I should have felt sorry for Chubby but I didn't. Chubby had no friends, but it was his own fault. He had flunked out twice, but the whole school was betting Principal Jenner would pass him anyway, just to be rid of him. Us kids were positive Chubby wouldn't make it to High School.

Thanks for the lemonade, George. Now why don't you go watch TV? Us girls are having a good talk. Go on, I'll behave myself. Mmmm, that's good.

It was on an afternoon like this one, with a royal blue sky and a warm breeze that got under your skin. I was walking along the creek that flowed in back of Chubby's house, holding my sandals on one hand, sticking my toes into the cool red sand along the banks. I loved the earthy smell of the nearby woods and the feel of the cool water on my bare legs. I wasn't supposed to be there, though. Mom and Dad were afraid I'd drown or hurt myself. I heard a noise and looked up. Chubby was standing on the bank, a wicked smile on his face.

I didn't think, I started running. My foot slipped on the slick riverbank and landed on a knee. I heard Chubby laughing, and the sound chilled my bones. I grabbed a root and pulled myself up. Chubby had threatened me several times, and the previous week he had knocked me down at recess. I looked back again. He was gaining on me. I plunged into some thick underbrush, scratching my arms and legs. I kept going through the woods and realized I was lost. I saw my ghost dog run behind a tree. I followed, and soon I was in the open, running as fast as I could toward our house.

We lived in a one story made of natural red rock that faced the main road through town. During the summer I would sleep out on our screened-in back porch, feeling the breezes and listening to the cicadas play their night songs. Dad did have an evaporative cooler, but he would only turn it on when we were expecting company. Too expensive, he would say. Open the window! Feel God's air conditioner!

"Annie Faye Tate," I heard Mom say. "You come in here, young lady. You're late, and it's almost time for supper."

"Okay, Mom," I said. "I'll be right there." I smelled roast. My stomach growled at me.

"You been down by the river again?"

"No ma'am," I said, shaking off the red dust that covered my sandals. "I was watching the boys playing baseball."

She glanced at the scratches on my arms but didn't say anything.

"Down by the Taylor Place?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said, and I didn't like the expression on her face. Proper young ladies weren't supposed to wander far from home, so I was already in trouble.

"I know, hun, but I don't want you hanging around Harry Taylor."

Mom straightened her flowery print housedress.

"Here, help me finish setting the table. Your father's home and he's ready to eat."

Dad looked up as I placed the glasses of iced tea at each plate. He touched me on the arm.

"Listen to your mother. I don't want you near that place, you hear?"

"Yes, Daddy."

He stabbed a piece of roast with his fork. Dad was a foot taller than Mom, thin as a shadow of a barbed-wire fence. His deputy sheriff's uniform was soiled and caked with mud, but I knew he must be tired after a hard time chasing bad guys. I put the mashed potatoes on the table and sat down. I usually didn't have anything to worry about with Dad. All I had to do was blink my baby browns and he couldn't resist.