"As the story goes, when Len was 15, he was into Black Sabbath.
He painted his bedroom walls black
and put up Sabbath posters.
His mom saw it and went berserk.
I guess he painted over wallpaper she put up herself.
So she and Kah decided to surprise him.
While he was at school, they repainted and decorated
along the cowboy theme.
Len took one look, turned around,
walked out and didn't come back that winter.
He spent the entire winter hiking the San Juans,
went for three months without speaking to anybody,
which knocks me out.
"Weren't you lonely?"
I asked him.
And he said, "Sarah, I've never in my life been lonely
'til I met you.
Now, every time you leave, I get lonely."
He is such a con.
But Len did laugh, unpacked and moved in, gave up his apartment
and signed a contract that essentially
makes him Kah's slave.
Since he rolled his jeep, it's like Len's brains
are scrambled.
He plans to live here rent-free and donate his labor
to the construction business.
Kah will feed him, give him pocket money, and in one year,
Kah will make him partner.
They wanted me to witness the contract.
I wrote, "You're nuts."
I awake to something warm and wet
on my feet, black nose and roomy eyes peeking over the bed--
Dottie.
I rub dog saliva onto the cowboy quilt. The room has darkened.
Thunder rumbles.
And I see the mountain has finally released the clouds.
Maybe it will rain.
In the living room, Dottie settles back on her rug.
A DVD icon floats around the TV's blue background.
I pick up the remote and find Miss Boop still in the player.
I start to watch one of the older cartoons
when Betty still had puppy dog tail and ears.
But I'm hungry.
I shouldn't think about roasted corn and fry bread
but it's too late.
I'm starving.
The kitchen's just a nook separated from the living
room by an island.
In the fridge, I find a Styrofoam container
of something chickeny and rank.
There's also a 12-pack of Coke and a couple cans
of Coors, Pace salsa.
The cupboard is filled with Top Ramen.
Top Ramen makes my teeth ache.
I smell creosote, see a flash, then
Dottie's on her feet barking and backing into her corner.
Through the window, I see lightning-- not
heat lightning but the real deal,
jittering around the mountain.
And I wonder if I left the Honda's window down.
I'm out the front door halfway down the steps
when Roscoe comes scooting from under the trailer.
He races up, his teeth bared.
I lurch back, slam the door, slip on the linoleum.
And I land hard on my rump.
The dog snarls.
I hear him run down the steps then back up.
I get up and look through the window slats.
He's right there, looking up at me.
My arms suddenly itches.
I got bit by a dog once.
It didn't bark, came out of nowhere.
I was jogging.
And there it was, teeth clamped on my arm.
I try to fill my lungs with air.
Roscoe runs down the steps and the pack rallies,
low gurgling growls, lips curled,
eyes fixed on the window.
There are more under the trailer.
I can hear them whining now.
"Roscoe," I say.
His eyes yellow-rimmed.
It's like he's never seen me before.
"Hey, Roscoe."
Teeth wet, gel slick, and throbbing,
punctuating growls with sharp barks.
Just one degree from wild Kah's dogs.
"They'll kick your ass," he says.
He wants them mean because the area's gotten dangerous.
Nights, you can see bonfires in the desert
south of here, the tweakers and the skechers
having their ceremonial cookouts.
Lightning flashes.
Thunder follows.
And the rain comes fast on a slant.
Most of the dogs dash under the trailer.
Roscoe stands his ground.
The yard's gone blurry.
And where are they?
It's 6:30.
I open the door a crack and the dog
flies, throwing himself against the door which
I managed to slam then lock, cracking my fingernails.
I'm laughing a pain in my side.
What's that luck going to do?
On the sofa, I hear only the rain.
Rain like this, how it's coming down?
The ravine could flood.
And if it does, Lynn will have to take the long way
around which could be hours.
Where the fuck are they?
The phone's on the kitchen counter.
But the receiver isn't in its cradle.
I start tossing newspapers off the table.
No receiver.
My cells in my pack in the car.
Back at the door, I see crazy Roscoe soaking wet, standing
at the bottom of the steps.
It's dark, almost like night.
The dirt yard already a mud lake.
Pretty soon, the Honda won't be going anywhere.
I go around, turning lights on, throw some clothes
off the couch-- no phone, then start
pawing through stuff on Kah's chair-- his creepy chair.
He was just talking on the phone to the job people.
Where is it?
I stand up straight and take a deep breath.
On TV, Cab singing, (SINGING) The old man of the mountain.
Betty dances her way up a mountain.
Then the old man comes out and does a shuffle
with his long beard.
Kah lives in the recliner.
We'll sit for hours and watch cartoons.
Couple of times I've stayed here, I go to bed at night,
there he is.
Get up in the morning, there he is.
And I can't look him in the eye.
There's just one flimsy bit of wall separating him from us.
And Len he's noisy when he gets going.
The old man starts chasing Betty down the mountain,
picking her clothes off bit by bit.
I turn the TV off.
I should have thought about the dogs.
How could I let those dogs get between me and the car?
It's funny Len didn't think about them.
My arm itches.
I wonder suddenly if Kah did.
I head down the hall to Kah's room where I have never been.
It's very neat, no sheets or blankets on his bed--
a sleeping bag, that's all.
The room's twice the size of Len's There's a dresser--
antique with family pictures on top, one of Len and Kah
when they were boys and look like twins.
Both thin-lipped, square-jawed, knotty ash blond hair.
Now, Len's got 3 inches on Kah Kah 50 pounds on Lynn.
We don't think he's ever had a girlfriend.
How neat the room is--
no clothes out, no bottles, no water rings,
no pictures on the walls.
And I think of those crazy, obsessive, psycho neatniks.
And I feel a little like throwing up.
There is a cartoon taped to the closet door.
I move closer to see.
It's Bluto, Popeye's Bluto, with the caption, "I'm so mean.
I beat myself up."
I laugh, snot shooting out my nose.
And I sit on the side of the bed,
touching my thumbs to my feet to each finger,
like I did when I was a little girl counting 1, 2 3, 4, 1, 2,
3, 4.
It has been years since I had a panic
attack, a full-fledged one.
And I think he could not have planned this, trapping me.
Sorry, Kah How the fuck sorry are you?
For heaven's sake, he didn't plan the rain.
2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3.
And then I hear a ringing--
the phone, sounding very far away.
I run to the living room, feeling
so relieved and so angry.
But I can't tell where it's coming
from-- sound's muted somewhere near the couch, sound's
muffled.
The answering machine comes on.
Len says he left a message on my cell.
I walked to the couch.
I flip a cushion unburying the receiver
that was hidden there."