A Loud Noise Will Come
by Patricia Brubaker
They sit on the step, side by side, hips touching. She covers her ears and squeezes her eyes closed until tiny tears form in the corners. She waits, and only silence and crickets and an occasional siren on the main street blocks away from their house can be heard. She waits, opens her eyes and watches little seed pods from cottonwood trees drift down and around her feet like the first surprising snow. She watches and waits for the loud noise that her mother warned her would come.
She has never had a policeman at her door, never felt the rumble of fear in her tummy, her chest, the way she does now. But her mother said it is the way it has to be. Sometimes hard things have to happen. When she asks why, her mother looks puzzled for a second and says, “Because, that’s why.” She doesn’t like that her mother doesn’t have an answer to this. Her mother said that after they hear the loud noise, Mutt will not have any pain; Mutt will be in heaven and not with them anymore. The girl doesn’t like this. She doesn’t want Mutt to be in heaven and not with them anymore.
Mutt was with her mother before the girl was born. Her mother always said that Mutt was the one who helped her through when the girl’s father left them, who was by her side when the girl was a baby and colicky, and her mother was so alone. Mutt, with her scratchy black fur grizzled with grey and her funny way of plopping her paw in the girl’s lap making her smile when she was sad, making her want to share her cookie with her, is loyal and loves them unconditionally. Her mom says that. She says Mutt is a good watchdog, keeps the bad out. She is a good girl. This is what her mother has always said. A good girl. Why did her mother have to call the policeman today?
Her mother said she had called the policeman because Mutt was acting funny. A foamy white substance was coming from her mouth, and she did not want to stand up. She seemed to glare at them, a look the girl has in her memory from somewhere else but can’t really place. The girl doesn’t understand. Mutt is very old and sometimes doesn’t like to stand up. Her mother always tells her this is normal; this is what old dogs do. She doesn’t like that Mutt is old.
When Mutt glared, her mother looked at the dog for a few seconds and then backed up slowly, saying something wasn’t right as the dog showed her teeth, just for a second. Her mother had pulled the girl close to her like she did when they were crossing a busy street. Did the tremble in her stomach start with the glare or her mother’s grip? As her mother pulled her away, the girl looked at the dog, who seemed a little different but still so much like Mutt that she felt sad they were leaving her alone.
Mutt is inside with the tall policeman who had come up the steps just a few minutes earlier. His black shoes were shiny, and he smelled like pine trees. He looked at her, all smiles, and said, “Hello, Sunshine.” She knows not to trust his smile because he is the one who will make the loud noise happen. Her mother’s mouth smiled at the policeman but not her eyes. She nudged the girl to say hello, but she knew better; she picked at a scab on her knee instead of smiling back.
Now, she sits on the front stoop. Her dimpled hands, hidden by the blonde curls that cascade over chubby fingers, cover her ears as she waits for the sound of a gunshot. She has never actually heard a gunshot. But that’s what her mother called it. Her mother told her what to expect. She said you’ll hear a gunshot. It will be very loud. A quick boom and maybe an echo. Cover your ears, she had said. Close your eyes. That’s a good girl. But it’s hard to keep her eyes closed. She wants to reach out and grab for one of the seed pods drifting in the air, but instead, she watches as they float weightlessly past her. She can smell the lemon her mother had rinsed her hair with earlier to keep in the lightness, a smell that usually makes her feel special. She still does not understand what she is waiting for, what will come.
Her mother settles next to her now, arm around her. She always feels safe when her mother puts her arms around her, but now it feels different like her mother is the one who needs comfort.
WENSUM 