A House by the Side of the Road by Jan Gleiter Read Free Book Online Page B

yeah,” said Meg. “He’s that.”
    *   *   *
    Meg parked outside the kitchen door. She wished she’d thought to leave a light on inside. When it got dark in the country, it got very dark. Tomorrow, the house would be filled with her own possessions, her own kitchen table and chairs and bed and heaps of boxes. It would feel more familiar, more like home. Tonight, it was still someone else’s house. She opened the hatchback of the car, pushed the fire extinguisher and a carton of books out of the way, picked up a box of sheets and blankets, and unlocked the kitchen door.
    She had already stored her toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, and a few makeup items in the medicine cabinet. She opened the mirrored door, admiring the cherry wainscoting—the same as on the walls—that had been used to make the cabinet. Earlier in the day, putting things on its shallow, wide shelves, she had noticed the small slot in the back for used razor blades. Now, brushing her teeth, she gazed at it, wondering how many worn, dulled blades had tumbled down into the space between the studs and lay rusting inside the wall.
    Something was odd. She was sure she had put the bottle of vitamin tablets on the bottom shelf, because she had moved it to look more closely at the slot, realizing what it was. The bottle was now on the second shelf.
    She stared at the other objects, arranged so neatly, far more neatly than they would remain after she had filled the cabinet with the normal jumble of items that, like gas, would expand to fill the available space. The few things she had placed there were still there. Why wouldn’t they be? She must be wrong about where she’d put the vitamins. There was no reason for anyone to come into her house, empty her medicine cabinet, and replace the objects. She was just being silly, spooked by the silence and the house’s unlived-in feeling.
    She shut the cabinet door firmly and went to bed.

Six
    The Salvation Army truck arrived as the coffee in Christine’s old spare coffeepot finished percolating. The workers cheerfully carried out load after load of dismal furniture and ugly, heavy curtains. At ten o’clock, the moving truck drove up. By noon, known objects had made the house comforting, despite the stacks of unpacked cartons.
    The sound of barking in the early afternoon drew her out into the backyard. Two dogs were racing toward the trees, Warren G. Harding hot in pursuit of the ugly brown dog. Even with his longer legs, he stood no chance of overtaking her, but she whirled and came toward him, and they met in a tumbling pile of cream and brown.
    Meg took off running, unwilling to let nature take its course. They separated, the bigger dog with his front legs on the ground, his rear end high, and his tail up. He made a short bounding motion at the other dog, who stood panting and then gave in to the invitation and romped around him. Meg slowed to a walk, glad that no one had witnessed her misunderstanding.
    â€œHarding!” she called, and then whistled. “Hey, Harding!”
    He ran eagerly to meet her, jumping up to pat at her with large paws.
    â€œWho’s your friend with the mean eyes?” she asked, pushing him down and bending to scratch his neck with both hands.
    The other dog hadn’t moved. She stood at a distance, watching Meg intently. Her chest was broad, her legs wide-set. Her ears were forward, and her tail stood out horizontally behind her.
    â€œCome on, girl,” said Meg, patting her leg. “You’re interested, I can tell. Let’s get along with each other.”
    The dog still didn’t move. She barked once in a peremptory fashion, and Harding loped off to rejoin her.
    Meg walked back to the house, reminded of wanting her own dog. She’d grown up with dogs, and it seemed unnatural to live without one, but Chicago landlords were, most often, unsympathetic. Hers surely had been. She wanted … not a