Whistles Through the Fence
“How have you and your mother been?”
“Fine,” Marvin said.
“That’s good to hear.” The elderly man sat back in his chair which seemed to consume his whole form. The dark green material with tree and windmill designs inflated around him. Marvin wasn’t sure how old Grandpa Milstead was but he was certain he was older than his mother’s parents. Everything about him was gray; his hair, his skin, and his teeth. And when he smoked, his breath.
“I understand you’re staying over there with your other grandparents”
“Yeah,” Marvin replied.
“They treat you all right there?”
“Yes. They treat me good.”
The ceiling above them creaked as someone moved around on the second floor. Marvin looked up toward the sound and then let his attention ease down the wall and explore the room around him. The Milstead home was old and furnished with old things. Old furniture, old pictures, and old people. Grandmother Milstead had excused herself to help Marvin’s dad with some task upstairs, which allowed Marvin time to visit with his grandfather. He sat patiently on a creaky wooden folding chair next to the quilt-covered couch to pass the time. Don’t you want to sit on the nice big davenport? No, thanks. I like this chair. It was the easiest way Marvin could say the couch smelled strange without using words that might hurt someone’s feelings. When he did sit there, the musty-wet-dog-mothball smell sank deep into his clothes and followed him all day. The creaky wooden chair didn’t share an odor, only a sound or two.
“What grade will you be going into?” Grandfather Milstead asked.
“First-grade.”
“Is that right? First huh? ” He rubbed his chin. “Wouldn’t be nice to keep going where you were? Go into first grade at your same school?”
“Yeah,” Marvin replied. He shifted and his chair moaned. “Wish I could.”
The ticking of a mantel clock perched on top of the television console set filled in a significant pause.
“Had a lot of friends there, didn’t you? At the old school.”
“Yeah, I did.”
The dogs in the backyard began barking at something they saw or sensed that needed a state of alert raised. Marvin looked toward the back of the house; through the series of archways that lead to the back porch.
“Ah!” The old man said and waved his hand in deprecations of the racket. “Lady Bird’s getting old.” He was referring to the matriarch of the beagles in the back. “The wind comes along, whistles through the fence, and it sets her off, Gets the other two riled up. Her hearing’s going.”
“Do you want me to go and see what they’re barking at?” Marvin asked.
“What’s that?”
“Want me to go take a look out there?”
“It’s nothing,” Grandfather Milstead said. A twinkle came to his eye and then with a smile said, “You know what it could be Marvin? Could be… somebody came to do mischief. What do you think? Maybe a burglar. Do you think you could handle him if you went out there?”
Marvin looked toward the back of the house again. “I don’t know.” The shades were drawn over the windows. He couldn’t see outside, he could only see shadows from tree branches moving across yellow squares.
“Tell you what, I have my old service revolver around here somewhere, if you want to take it with you.” A grin tried to challenge the seriousness of his tone. “Ever shot a gun before, son?”
“Well… not a real one,” Marvin told him. “I shot a BB gun a few times. At a can.”
“That’s good enough. Same principle. Different results,” he said. “It might be in that old roll-top in the hallway. Bottom right-hand drawer. Metal box. It should have a couple of rounds in it. I would think that would be enough.”
Marvin chewed on his bottom lip as he thought. He didn’t believe his grandfather was being serious. His tone was very serious but his eyes were laughing.
“I don’t think I’ll need that,” Marvin said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“I guess you’re pretty strong, huh? You eat your spinach like Popeye the sailor”
“Sometimes,” Marvin said.
“It might be a big dangerous fellow.”
“I will be fine.”
“All right, then.” He laughed. “When your dad comes down, I’ll let him know that you went out to investigate.”
Marvin rose from the chair. “Thank you.” He moved through the rooms quickly, the floor creaked with each step. He didn’t know what it was about the Milstead house but it felt spooky to him, even in the daytime. There were countless dark corners where things could hide. Old paintings with old people who looked angry as if they had been trapped there and wanted to leap out of the landscape and hide in those corners. If he had to spend time there, time was better spent outside where there were no paintings nor darkness.
The yard in the back of the Milstead house was large. It was bordered on one side by hedges and a wrought iron fence. There was a small squeaky gate at one end for people that opened on the street side and a large wooden gate at the back for vehicles. A tall wooden fence ran across the back that ducked behind a make-shift horse stable. Most of Marvin’s friends were stupefied to learn he had a grandfather who had horses. A grandfather who did not live in the country on a farm but instead lived in a section of the city everyone called Dogtown.
How can he have horses? There’s no way. Liar liar pants on fire.
But he did have horses. Marvin was told it was because his grandfather had been a police sergeant for many years. Your grandpa knows the right people, his dad told him. He could have giraffes if he wanted.
So, why didn’t he get giraffes? Marvin had asked. Too tall, his dad said. They could lean way over the fence and it would frighten the neighbors. Horses were just the right height.
Marvin stepped out into the sunshine leaving the scent of old dust for the fragrance of a backyard. Lady Bird wagged her tail and barked a greeting. The last two of her pups that had not been bestowed, named Jackie and Bobby, ran to him as he came down the steps.
“What’s going on out here?” He asked as he sat on the bottom step. The pups wrestled to claim space in Marvin’s lap. Bobby, wiggled, squeezed, and pushed under his sister to stake his claim. Jackie resolved to perch on the high ground of his thigh.
“What were you guys barking at?” He rubbed each of their heads as their tails slapped against him in approval. Bobby had been promised to Marvin as his first official pet. What better way to learn responsibility than pairing a boy with a dog. But when the family circumstances shifted from their traditional course, it was decided Bobby, should remain at the Milstead house—it would still be Marvin’s dog—but they would keep it for him. He could see the dog when he came to visit; the weekends his father brought him over.
He looked around the yard and did not see a large, dangerous fellow lurking anywhere. Off to his right was a vegetable garden that claimed a large patch of dirt. Nothing seemed out of place. Next to the garden was an old maple that held a wooden platform complete with railings and steps; a treehouse Grandpa Milstead had built for him, Marvin preferred tree fort. No one was hiding in the tree or the fort.
To the left was a long stretch of grass that buzzed with insects and a row of shrubs that hugged a wrought iron fence. Beyond the fence was a side street that the Milsteads called the alley. It was a narrow lane that gave up after two blocks and ended at a guardrail. In the summer the guardrail was swallowed by bushes and weeds; it looked like the street ended at a green wall.
The coast or at least the yard was clear. Lady Bird must have taken issue with a sound the wind had made or maybe one of the horses made a noise.
Marvin eased the puppies onto the grass as he stood. If he was going to investigate, he should do a thorough job. Bobby and Jackie followed as he walked toward the large outbuilding that had been a garage but was now what his dad called an urban barn. He raised the latch and opened the door which skidded across the dirt and gravel. “You guys stay back,” he said to the pups. Marvin pretended to throw something and they ran after the foil.
It was cool and dark inside the building, except for one shaft of dusty sunlight coming through a side window. Marvin wrinkled his nose at the smell of manure. He pressed the crease below his nose and above his lip, the button that held sneezes as the fine floating soot tested his allergies.
He surveyed the horses and what he saw appeared as it should be. There were three horses in three stalls; a brown one on each end and a white one called Casper in the middle. Casper was the only one he was warned not to touch. He’s a bit feisty, Grandpa Milstead had told him, He’s apt to snap your fingers off and chew them up like carrots. Grandpa Milstead had also passed along the warning that if a turtle would ever bite your finger, it wouldn’t let go until it thundered. Every mammal and reptile in the world seemed to be after your fingers.
The horses blinked a few times through the dusty haze. Casper shook his head and kicked the door of his stall. Isabelle, the brown mare at the far end snorted and twitched as a few flies buzzed her head. Marvin felt another sneeze trying to gather power, so he stepped back out and closed the door.
“No one in there,” he said. The sound of a metal clank responded. It wasn’t the door latch or anything nearby, it was a distant noise. It seemed to result behind the tall back fence. There was a house next to the Milstead’s on the side street, just beyond the fence. it must be someone over there making the sound Marvin thought. He heard a voice followed by a response. A kid speaking to an adult. There was an older boy who lived there, Randy, Billy, or something with a y at the end. He had met him about a year ago when Marvin and his parents were at the Milsteads for dinner. A pudgy boy came to the back door and asked if he could give some carrots to the horses.
Not right now, Grandfather Milstead told the kid. We have company.
Hello Benny, Grandmother Milstead had said. (That was his name, Benny) How are your folks?
They’re OK. Benny replied.
Come by tomorrow, Benny. We’ll see about the carrots.
Marvin had seen him another time, riding his bicycle on the side street. Benny would glide by and glance over at Marvin as he sat in the new tree fort. Did he want to come in and see the horses or maybe sit in the fort? He would ask but a memory halted the idea. A kid came to the gate one day while Marvin was in the yard. Before the fort lived in the Maple. The kid claimed that his name was Marvin also.
How crazy was that? Your name is Marvin and so is mine! We should be pals, the kid said. Do you mind if I come into the yard? What a great yard! Do you have soda in your house? Why don’t you get your pal a soda? Marvin went in and asked Grandma Milstead. She mentioned it to Grandpa Milstead who promptly came outside and chased the other Marvin away. That kid’s no good. You stay away from him. Don’t let him anywhere on this property. Apparently, there was only room for one Marvin here.
The space between the slats in the wooden fence was tight and didn’t allow much of a margin to peek through. Benny must be in his yard and could be responsible for the clank. Perhaps that’s what made the dogs bark. They were used to natural sounds like birds, bugs, and neighborhood sounds, such as cars, trucks, lawnmowers, or people talking. Odd sounds made Marvin uneasy so it might be possible it was true for dogs. He could go back in the house and let them know what he found out--which wasn’t anything--or he could remain outside for a while. He found a soft patch of grass below a little tree with an odd name—his grandmother called a mimosa.
Lady Bird rose from her patch of dirt near the shrubbery and trotted over as Marvin sat down at the base of the tree. Once again the beagle pups vied for a spot in his lap. They pawed and chewed on each other until Marvin had enough and put them on the ground. He walked over to the grouping of shell chairs near the barbecue pit, selected one that wasn’t too rusty and pulled it over to the tree, and sat down.
“You guys stay down there,” Marvin said as the dogs jumped and tried to climb up. “You’re going to hurt yourselves. Stay down!” A command that echoed of a protective parent. It was something a father or mother would say at some time to a kid. Someday he might, but today it was a 6-year-old talking to adolescent dogs.
Marvin pulled his feet up onto the chair and wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his head on his knees. He imagined he looked like a roly-poly or pill bug as his dad called them. After a few minutes, Bobby and Jackie gave up the struggle to ascend and settled on rooting up crickets from the grass.
Maybe because the chair had been near the barbecue pit there was a faint scent of lighter fluid. Marvin raised his head and took a breath. It was in the air. There was another metal clang from behind the fence. It must be Benny’s family. Maybe they’re cooking out. His stomach growled at the image of hot dogs or hamburgers sizzling on a grill. He had cereal this morning but its value was diminishing. Grandma Milstead had some type of stew on the stove. Marvin saw potatoes, corn, peas, and carrots swimming on the surface. Doesn’t it look yummy, Marvin? She asked. Yeah, I guess. Vegetable soup? He asked. Why no honey, it’s what they call Mulligan.
Shifting in the chair Marvin thought he’d rather call Benny over the fence and ask what they were having for lunch.
“Are you doing all right, sport?”
Marvin looked in the direction of the question. His dad stood at the back door, his hand cupped as a sun visor on his brow. In his white t-shirt and white shorts, he looked like a sailor searching for land.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Swell,” he replied. “Say listen, I have to go out to the car and move some of that stuff in. So, I’ll be out front or upstairs in case you need to find me. OK?
“OK.”
“We’ll be having lunch in a little while.”
“OK,” he told his dad and swatted at a fly that buzzed his ear. It had probably followed him from the horse stable. He wanted to tell his dad to let grandpa know there were no burglars around but his father had gone.
A yelp coaxed Marvin’s attention. It came from under the shrubs near the side street fence. He slid out of his chair and went over to look. Bobby had wedged himself between two bottom branches. His small back legs worked for leverage but only pushed against air. Marvin reached under and lifted him out of the V he occupied, his legs paddling as if he were swimming until the soft grass met his paws once again did he cease his struggle.
“You’re going to be all right,” Marvin said as he brushed off bits of mulch. “You need to be careful. Who’s going to save you when I’m not here?” Bobby rolled on his back and Marvin rubbed his belly. He was up again in no time and set off under the bush to locate the insect that got away.
An odd sound came from behind the fence. It was similar to the metal clank but more involved—it was a metal crash. If they were cooking hot dogs and hamburgers, based on the noise, it should be all over the ground. The racket spooked the dogs. Lady Bird barked which invited her offspring to sing along.
“Quiet! Lady Bird, stop it,” Marvin said. “Quiet!” The dogs ran toward the back fence and continued the clamor. Grandfather Milstead would not think he was doing a good job. As he chased the dogs toward the fence the chemical smell was strong; similar to gasoline. Marvin scooped up the puppies and carried them to the center of the yard. Lady Bird lingered to consider the fence with its sounds and smells.
It was as Marvin dropped the dogs off near the mimosa there was another sound, similar to a strong gust of wind but nothing reacted; the spindly arms of the tree did not shiver, the grass did not flutter, he felt nothing brush against his hair or shirt sleeves. It was as if a giant exhaled nearby or a dragon. Godzilla or Puff the magic dragon, only this dragon claimed a victim because Marvin heard the screams. Where was it coming from? From beyond the fence?
Lady Bird began barking, Bobby and Jackie followed the prompt. The scream circled the yard, crawled under the stable door to disturb the horses, and traveled down the side street all the way to the guard rail.
Above the pealing bleached wood of the fence, smoke spiraled skyward. Not the clean white billow from grilled meat, but an unhealthy dark mist like the wicked witch of the west making an exit. The scream continued and Lady Bird’s bark persisted. Marvin tried to imagine the scene behind the fence. A scene that involved screams and smoke. He recalled a night years ago when he was awoken by a flurry of sirens. He followed his dad down the stairs of their apartment out to the sidewalk and around the corner.
The evening sky, usually a mix of dark and light blue from the city lights, was bright orange. His father said a factory a few blocks away was on fire. He picked the pajama-clad Marvin up for a better perspective above the on-lookers. The view gave him a sense of wonder at first; the towers of flames and the mountainous smoke that looked like giant monsters rising from the broken bricks, but his wonder turned to worry. Will that fire come over here? He asked his dad. No, he replied with a laugh. It’s two blocks away and they have it contained. Marvin wasn’t sure what contained meant but it sounded safe for the moment and calmed him. Later as he tried to sleep, the sense of calm crept away and unleashed nightmares of melting buildings.
Marvin heard other voices now above the screams. Shouts that were coming from all directions, not just over the fence. There was ringing from somewhere, a phone maybe. So many sounds it was difficult to focus on just one. Casper was kicking the boards in his stall. Other dogs in other yards were answering Lady Bird’s signal. May he should alert his dad or his grandfather. He turned toward the house just in time to see the door open.
“Marvin! Get inside,” his grandfather commanded as he ran toward the gate to the side street. He had never seen his grandfather run before. His dad also came out of the house in rush.
“Go inside son. Do what I say,” his father said. “Right now.” He ran across the yard and out of the gate.
Marvin watched as his father and grandfather ran down the side street toward the house behind the fence. He trotted over and up the steps into the porch. He hesitated a moment to walk any further into the darkened house on his own.
“Marvin honey,” his grandmother called from the kitchen. “Why don’t you come in here? I have some butter cake if you would like some. It’s the gooey kind that you like.”
“OK,” he replied.
“I’ll get you a nice glass of milk also,” she said. She stopped stirring the stew and shifted herself around from the stove. Grandma Milstead was a short, heavy-set woman with gray hair. She reminded Marvin of Aunt Bee from the Andy Griffith show. “Go ahead and take a seat there at the dinette.
Marvin sat down. She cut a square of the cake, placed it on a plate, gathered a napkin and fork, and brought it to him. “I’ll get your milk.”
“Do you know what’s happening?” he asked. “I heard some noises over there.”
“Well,” she sighed as she went to the cabinet. She grabbed a stack of aluminum cups. “What color do you want?”
“Red,” Marvin replied.
She pulled the cups apart to get to the red one. “I believe something may have happened to the boy back there. You remember Benny, don’t you?”
“Sort of.” He dug his fork into the cake. “I only ever saw him a few times.”
She opened the refrigerator for the bottle of milk and brought it over to the table with the cup. As she poured it Marvin could hear sirens rising in the distance.
Grandma Milstead put the bottle of milk back in the refrigerator. She went over to a metal cabinet that held a bread box and a radio. She it on to a station she liked to listen to—what she called band music.
“Did Benny… do something wrong?” Marvin asked.
“No sweetie,” she replied and turn the volume up. “Why don’t you just enjoy that cake for now. It’s not every day you get dessert before your supper. Don’t suppose your other folks allow such a thing.”
“Probably not.” Marvin noticed cardboard boxes stacked in the hallway. His father’s police uniform was draped over the top along with other clothes still on hangers. The sirens were louder now. The radio was not drowning them out.
“I’m pretty sure there was a fire over there,” Marvin said.
“Is that right? Well now, I’m sure your father and grandfather will tell us about it when they get back.”
“Grandpa was running.”
Marvin took a bite of the cake. A siren moaned to a stop outside. He wanted to look out the window but remained at the table and took a drink of milk.
“You know, they like to help people where they’re needed,” she said as she returned to the stove and turned the burner off. “Sometimes people need help… things will happen, sometimes bad things. Some people run away from bad things and some people run toward them.”
Two more sirens overwhelmed the radio. Marvin could see lights flashing through the windows. He took another bite of cake. Grandma Milstead remained at the stove. She stared straight ahead at the wall. Not blinking. It almost appeared that she was not breathing. He looked away and watched the red lights as they bounced off the ceiling and the gray walls. He noticed the flashing lights even erased the darkness in the corners.
“I guess a bad thing happened,” he said.
She sighed. “I think it has.”
