deep south 2013
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dsj fiction
Towering Dogs
Have you ever jumped so high off a trampoline you almost touched the stars? Viola did, the day the dogs came. She jumped so high and for so long the soles of her feet grew wet from perspiration. Jumping that high made her feel invisible like Tinker-bell.
In Viola's home her parents often said, “Go to your room, it's adults time now.” That meant her dad and mum, and their friends, were going to have a 'joint', or two, or three. With her younger sister in tow, Viola would obediently close her bedroom door, where they imagined ways to surprise. One time they painted each other's faces in leopard spots and tiger stripes. Prepared with convincing meows and roars they pounced into the kitchen. More often than not their attempts would be met with blank stares; this time Viola heard the odd hysterical laugh from behind a swirl of haze. The family lived in a modest, boxy, 1930s bungalow sectioned off into separate rooms with doors; not like many houses today. In winter the house felt cold like spirit breath. The only exception was the small front lounge with the sticky door handle. It was the largest room, and had a brown-painted brick fireplace that spat and roared, all day long, with pinecones and logs that smelled of Tic Toc Road at Rabbit Island. The kitchen was at the opposite end of the house. It wasn't as friendly as the lounge. The walls were a sterile grey, like the hospital, with matching lino floors and lace curtains. There were many cupboards in the kitchen. They started at the lino, covered two walls, and reached ceiling height. Viola barely understood what filled them. Instead, she imagined the jungle gym at school. She pretended she was on a jungle gym island. The lino floor was the Amazon River filled with crocodiles and the cupboard walls were her playground; her monkey bars and trapeze rings. “Don't touch the ground or they'll eat you,” she would squeal at her sister, clutching cupboard handles in a frenzy. Viola liked her room best. Sometimes she camped inside her bedroom under a tent made out of old sheets slung over the backs of dining chairs. She would continue this for days if her mum allowed. Sometimes, when Viola's dad was away with the sea, her mum camped with her. She would nestle in close, and under torchlight Viola read her mum bedtime stories until they fell asleep.
The day the dogs came, Viola didn't hear her mum answer the front door. The first sound that filtered through her ears was a chorus of strained yelps from her bedroom tent—so close she could smell their excitement. And the voices: “We have a warrant to search your house.” What felt like a tremble at first erupted into a stampede that shook the floors. Dogs. Towering dogs. Their eyes were empty yet focused, their nostrils flared and runny. They pulled at their collars. They knew what they wanted. Sniff, sniff and find the truth. Find the drugs. Find the proof. From one room to the next—sniff, sniff, sniff! They were attached to mean-looking adults. The adults' eyes were wild and they chewed gum with clenched teeth. Viola's mum cursed as three uniformed adults pushed her down the hall away from Viola's sight. Where is Mum? Viola worried. Her heart was beating to the rhythm of the roaring fire and she couldn't breathe through the tears. She heard her mum sob. She was pleading, “Please don't, I don't have anything.” The jarred force of drawers and cupboards being torn apart sent hot shivers up Viola's spine. Then, the dogs entered her bedroom. She ran out of her tent and past their hot determination to be with her mum.
Mum is beautiful like a jasmine vine. She wears soft Indian skirts with gathered waists and white muslin shirts; her feet bare. Her hair is spicy like gingerbread. It falls in cascades around her face, and her eyes are deep and sparkling like a calm ocean. She hugs Dad for the longest time before he leaves for the sea and when he returns she is so happy she cries. In summer we ride our bikes to the river. I hold onto Mum as she dives under the water and together we drift between the water weed like mermaids. Sometimes Mum's face changes shape. She appears from the kitchen, smoke billowing behind her, and I don't know if she is happy, angry or sad. She warns me to leave her alone, go to my room, and play. I don't understand and so I cry. She gets angry. Her face changes shape again and again and I'm so confused I run into my room and slam the door behind me. I hide in the wardrobe and wait until the jasmine flower blossoms again.
Viola entered her parent's bedroom. Her mum was sitting hunched over the end of the bed, her body stripped down to underwear, arms wrapped around her private parts. Three police officers stood around her; one was writing onto a large clipboard with a sharp pencil. Her face was grey like the kitchen; her eyes wild like the fire. Viola ran back into her bedroom, opened the wardrobe door, crept inside, and wept.
It was hours before Viola saw the kitchen lino again. A whole Four Square store had been dumped into the Amazon. Even crocodiles wouldn't have been able to survive. The cosy lounge with the spitting fire now resembled a barren wasteland with barely a trace of spark. Viola sat on the front door step with their well-meaning next-door neighbour, eyes and ears fixed on the dawn chorus. “You need to be strong for your mother,” she said as she stroked Viola's back with her warm hand. Some of Viola's neighbourhood friends stared at her as they walked past on their way to school. They spoke to each other in low hushed sounds but Viola knew what they were saying. “I'm not going to school today,” she said to her next door neighbour. “I'm going to play on the trampoline.” The trampoline sat waiting on the newly mowed section of lawn in front of the house. The lawn was bordered by a wide concrete edge with colourful flowers in organised rows that her mum had planted a few days before. Viola squinted and shook her head. Nothing seemed to make sense. She climbed onto the steel coil rim and scrambled onto the slinky surface of the mat. She jumped higher and higher, the front garden blending with the sky; a kaleidoscope of flowers and blue. She jumped until new pictures emerged – her world changing shape again and again. Soon she was flying like a fairy among the stars. Her eyes empty yet focused like the towering dogs.
After much adventure, Rachel Rees is currently nestled in Nelson. Towering Dogs is the first of her short stories to be published. Her poetry has featured on the e-journals Blackmail Press and The Lumiere Reader, in the pages of The Kiwi Diary, and the anthology Work and Space.
