Do No Harm

The run-down two-story house visible through the cracked windshield was now a home for retarded adults. A measly row of browning snapdragons lined one side of the sagging porch. He waited and watched the large upstairs windows, most of them illuminated with night lights, for signs of life. Last week, he had seen two of the residents grappling on a bed in what he had first mistaken for a bout of violence. Over the months, he had seen many strange things in the house for retarded adults. His insomnia had left him with so many more hours to fill, each day a long, rambling journey to the next.

He pulled his second-rate money clip from his pocket and set it on the dash so he could admire it. The wad consisted mostly of wrinkled singles. He smoked the cigarettes down until they burned his fingers, then stubbed them out in the glove box. Closing his eyes, he murmured to himself, "Three, two, one. Three, two, one."

When he opened his eyes, a light was on in one of the upstairs rooms. A moment later, a back door opened and a heavy woman in her thirties walked out into the side yard. She wore a pink jumpsuit with a puffy bunny sewn on the front, and open-backed slippers. She tried to whistle but could not. Red cheeks, half-mast eyes, and a messy fountain of hair protruding from a flower-emblazoned scrunchy gave her the appearance of an overgrown child. When she stepped off the porch, a motion-sensor lamp cast a small cone of light on the ground. Elbows locked, she clapped her hands softly, still trying to whistle, though only a wet rushing noise issued from her lips.

A scraggly dog, ribs showing through a coarse gray coat, poked his nose around the far corner of the building. She waved to him and clapped again, stiff-armed. The dog moved toward her in a limping trot.

The dog drew nearer, sat, and growled, showing off a surprisingly healthy collection of teeth. The woman dug in her pocket, the cotton fabric of her pants pushing out in the imprint of her hand, and pulled out a fistful of moist tuna. A dollop fell from one of the spaces between her fingers, and the dog slurped it off the ground, tongue moving like a pink slug across the ground.

The woman crouched and the dog scurried back, teeth bared again.

"Um on," she said. "Um naw gonna urt you."

She spread her hand wide, revealing a mashed lump of tuna, and the dog tentatively approached, body coiled to spring back. He took the remaining tuna off the ground first, then moved cautiously to her hand, nose twitching. Then something in the dog gave way, and he docilely lowered the pointed tip of his snout into her hand. She giggled as his tongue played across her hand, almost squealing as he licked it clean.

The dog tensed and flashed back around the building when the car door slammed. She looked up at Clyde's approach. "Uht are you doing?" He drew nearer, and the dim porch light fell across his face. "Oh. It's you."

Her almost perfectly round eyes seemed pushed into the soft flesh of her face like buttons. Her cheeks, a raw red, crowded her mouth with folds. Another bunny decorated her thigh, smiling with white sequined teeth.

"Hey, honey-honey," he said. He pulled the thin blade from the side of his money clip, then flicked it shut with a deliberately casual gesture.

"Ello." She glanced nervously in the direction the dog had disappeared. "Uhr not onna ell em about my dog, are you?"

Four metal numbers nailed into the wall announced the house's address: 1711. He pried off one of the 1s with his blade, pocketed it, and turned back to the woman. "You look lonely," he said.

"You never um up ere. You ormaly ust sit in your ar."

"Not tonight." He crouched, found a stick, and dug its pointed tip into the dirt. "I want to go for a walk."

"I an't. I'm not suppose ta be out ere." The stars flickered overhead like winking diamonds. "I unt ant to miss orning bed check. Rhonda ill et angry."

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll have you back by then."

Her voice came high and pleading. "Uhr not onna ell em about my dog?"

He scratched his cheek, his uncut nails drawing blood from one of his zits. "Not if you come with me."

"Ee-yeew," she said, waving an arm in windshield-wiper sweeps in front of her nose. Clyde closed the door behind her and locked it.

"It doesn't smell," he said.

"It ure does."

He grabbed her and pinned her against the door. His fingers dug into her soft shoulders. "On't," she said. She stared at him. He blinked twice and looked away.

He walked a slow, sweeping circle around his apartment, stepping over the trash and clothes, then charged her and pressed his open mouth violently against hers. Her mouth was warm and dry, and surprisingly not sour from sleep. His eyes were squeezed shut, a defensive move for when she clawed at his face.

Instead, she kissed him back, her thick tongue making deep spirals in his mouth.

He pushed off her and wiped his mouth. "What're you doing?"

"Issing you. Unt you ant to iss me?"