A Child's Scar, Fiction by Wendy Cousins-Savage
A Child’s Scar
Wendy Cousins-Savage
Ever, ever so carefully, Ida Crandall eases her back end into the plush Lullaby glider rocker. Ellie, finally sleeping, is cradled in her arms. Her first grandbaby, freshly diapered, her pink terrycloth onesie smelling of talcum and formula, was up and down, up and down, all night without a solid hour’s rest. Sweet relief floods Ida’s bones as she lowers her head to the pillow fastened at the chair’s headrest.
The clock on the microwave reads 5:04 a.m. Barbara, Ida’s daughter and Ellie’s mama, has two more hours left on night shift at the pharmacy. A full moon still shines through the kitchen window. Ida’s eyelids fall.
Then, the shotgun barks erupt. Just like they do – every – single - morning. Shrapnel spraying from the jaws of the soul-sucking yipper next door. Sparky has awoken.
“Curse you Clive, you ol’ coot,” Ida says under her breath. Clive Otis stakes the terrier mutt to a chain outside his trailer home and makes it sleep in a little wood house with a roof that sags just like his own. No wonder the dog’s turned varmint.
Ellie’s tiny toes begin to twitch. Ida lays a firm hand over them and they still. But Sparky is just warming up. The noise draws pain into the cratered scar above the back of Ida’s left knee. The place where muscle, veins, and blood used to be. Doctors say the pain is a phantom, experienced only in the mind. She can’t move a hand to rub it so she squeezes her eyes shut trying to massage away the ache from inside her skin using pure will. But her sleep-deprived brain plays a trick and rushes her right back to that Saturday afternoon at Lake Hopper.
She’s eight years old, bobbing in shoulder-high tepid water with her sister, MaryLynn. The sky’s heavy with grey clouds that press down on the small lake’s surface. It will rain later. But otherwise, it’s an ordinary day, and people on the shore - a few high school kids, a grocery store clerk, the lady who drives the library van – don’t expect trouble. A rusted black pickup roars into the dirt parking lot, raising dust and wedging itself between her family’s wood panel station wagon and a live oak. The motor cuts off. Three Doberman Pinschers pace anxiously in the bed, hungry for the driver to lay flat the gate so they can take flight. Ida’s own dog, Jam, a lazy yellow hound, is safe at home, left resting upside down on the couch, paws hanging mid-air.
But that was decades ago, and now the sky outside Ida’s trailer is purple, early dawn depositing dew droplets on her daisies. She bought the lot at Shady Pine RV Park because it had a yard with a fence. She shares a common chain link barrier with Clive that rattles and bangs every time Sparky assaults it. But that fence keeps Sparky out. It keeps all dogs out, and it marks a domain that belongs to her alone. She’s told Barbara she’d like her ashes sprinkled right in her own flower bed, no need to waste money on a fancy gravestone when someday Ellie will need the college money.
“Porta-crib time my sweetie pie,” she whisper-sings to Ellie. If she can settle Ellie, she’ll turn up the air conditioner fan, drown out Sparky, and stretch herself out on the sofa. She scoots forward on the rocker’s seat. Then she raises the child up like she’s about to deliver her over for baptism, and, inch by inch, straightens her own legs until she’s standing. Ellie presses her fists to her side. Her pink lips make an “O” shape, and she pushes out a yawn.
Then she lets out an ear splitter sharp enough to slice steak.
“Hush ‘lil baby,”
“Whaaaa!”
“Don’t say a wo -”
“Whaaa! Whaaa!”
“SHUT YOUR SALIVA STAINED TRAP!” Ida yells at the dog.
She runs and bounces, runs and bounces, Ellie wailing, toward the living room window because the sun is creeping in between the slats of the blind, and she needs to turn the wand. Then jog bounce, jog bounce, over to the thermostat, where she turns the temperature to seventy-two and puts the fan on manual, high. It’s the illusion of night.
But the barks penetrate the walls. Ellie bicycles her surprisingly powerful legs, boxing Ida’s ribs.
She and Clive traded numbers years ago when he first moved in. His is stored in her phone. She’s only called it one time, a courtesy when Clive left the lights to his truck on past midnight. She wrestles Ellie into the crib, offers her a pacifier, which she sucks into her mouth. Ida dials. The phone rings four times.
“Clive Otis here. Can’t make it to the phone right now. Go on and leave a message.”
If Ida had a real phone, she’d slam down the receiver. Ellie spits out her passy and sobs. While Sparky carries on. She’s got to wake Clive. He won’t take it well. She swaddles Ellie into a blanket, burrito style, reinserts the pacifier, slips on her sandals and heads out the front door.
Clive’s fence has lots of signs. They answer questions. Can I park my Ford in your driveway? “Chevy Parking Only.” Want to buy scout cookies? “No solicitation.” Can I pet your snarling furball? “Warning. Beware of Dog.” That one has an illustration - the silhouette of a German Shepard. “NO TRESPASSING,” in black and orange, is bolted to the gate. Sparky’s yelps have been trespassing in her ears since the day he showed up. Clive’s worse’n dirt if he can’t lock that dog inside for an hour or two.
Sparky growls then arches his back, a four-legged security officer. His chain’s longer than she expects. If she arcs out beyond his range on the way to the front door, he can still reach her once she gets there. She has an idea and turns back home.
There’s bread and peanut butter in the pantry. She makes a sandwich, slices it in quarters and wraps them in a napkin. Ellie emits the high whistle of a volcano about to blow.
“Granny’s taking care of it,” Ida instructs. “Just stay put.”
Back at Clive’s fence, she crouches and displays the treat.
“Psst! Sparky! Nice doggy!” she calls.
He slinks closer and narrows his eyes.
“Peanut butter,” she says. “Yummy,” then she slowly stands.
She lifts the gate’s latch. Sparky’s tail goes taut, his lips curl exposing yellow dagger-sharp canines. He rears on his haunches, and she freezes.
At eight years old, Ida’s one-piece swimsuit hung loose from her scrawny shoulders with a droopy pooch at the behind. Even to this day, no matter how much fried chicken she eats, her bones never fill out. The minute those three Dobermans struck the ground, she knew they were near tall as she was. The dogs might have been thirsty. Their pelts overheated from a long ride. Whatever the reason, they raced straight for the lake, a tight pack, directly at her and MaryLynn.
“Swim!” MaryLynn yelled.
“MAMA!” Ida cried.
She should have followed MaryLynn, whose strong arms were pulling her methodically to the shore, but for reasons she will never be able to explain, she swam the opposite direction, splashing away as the land sloped underneath her. She looked back once. The three dogs, muzzles above water, paws churning, fixed six sharp eyes on her.
Ida never strays from Ellie’s crib for more than a few minutes. She’ll pop into the kitchen to warm her coffee, grab a magazine from her nightstand. But at five months, Ellie’s a wiggler. Barbara got the porta crib new. It’s cheaply made, not sturdy, and Ida needs to be back home now. But she’s come this far. She flings a sandwich quarter into the yard. It’s a whiff. Sparky retrieves it in seconds and scarfs it up.
She needs strategy. She’ll toss the last three pieces all at once, and far. She gathers them from the napkin, stacks them together in a pile, pulls back her arm, and steps into the throw. The wedges sail forward. The dog’s on the chase. She lifts the latch, tears down the walkway, nears Clive’s door. At the same time the dog reaches the end of its chain. He’s yanked backwards, goes airborne, then lands snarling. She’s miscalculated her own strength. The sandwich is out of reach. The dog’s turned back at her brimming with revenge. There will be no knocking. Clive will never open up on time. She whips around and sprints out the gate faster than she’s moved in years. She shoves down the latch and retreats to her own front step, gasping for breath.
That day at the lake, she’d come to her senses too late. She’d u-turned, kicking and paddling back toward her mama, who was running out to retrieve her.
“Bullet! Jeb! Gunner!” the Doberman’s owner called from the water line. “Heel!”
Two dogs cut their engines, sliding to a stop with their noses down like they’d been shamed. But the third one defied its master. It lopped up to Ida, its fangs exposed in an evil smile. She dove under the surface, and pulled a wide breaststroke blowing back a line of air bubbles. But when she popped back up, the beast was right behind her.
“Bullet! Relent!” The owner’s words could have saved her. If only she would have stayed still. But instead, she gave a final scissor kick. Her foot never broke through water. She struck a solid mass. She’d hit the dog.
She’d only weighed seventy pounds total. The kick must’ve felt like a flea bite. But the dog opened its jaw then snapped it closed on her leg, teeth latched tight. She struggled. It wrestled back and bit again. Then she gave up and passed out.
Ellie starts howling. Ida rushes inside, scoops her up and thumbs away tears from her blotchy cheeks. Her skin’s pure and feather soft. No child deserves to scar. The wound goes beyond the skin, lodging itself somewhere deep inside memory so that whatever caused it never lets go. Everything in Ellie’s life should be gentle. She should never know the pain of damaged flesh. But someday she’ll be curious as little girls are. She’ll see the doggy on the other side of Ida’s fence and want to visit. Sparky will waiting to get her.
Two nights ago, Ida had indulged. The grocery had Porterhouse at just eight dollars per pound, and she’d cooked one up in the cast iron skillet. The leftovers sit in the fridge, wrapped in tin foil. She settles Ellie back in the crib, pulls out the package, carves out the bone. She has a new plan.
As she approaches Clive’s house, she chides under her breath, “Here Barky! Here Malarky!” Do dogs really know their own names? She presses her offering against the fence.
Sparky halts the racket for the second it takes to sniff the bone. Once he gets his chompers in it, he’ll lose himself tearing off the meat. She’ll be able to dance the gosh darn fox trot across Clive’s grass, and he won’t notice. She pitches the bone with a high arc, and it lands perfectly just within the radius of Sparky’s chain. He darts away to retrieve it, and she enters Clive’s yard.
But before she reaches the door, Clive throws it open.
“What you doin’ riling up my dog?” he yells. “Man’s gotta sleep!”
“It’s your animal’s making the racket.” she keeps a calm tone. “You got to put that dog inside, Clive. My grandbaby can’t catch a minute’s rest.”
Clive looks like he’s had a rough night. Either he’s grabbed his wrinkled pants from a pile off the floor, or he’s worn them to bed.
“Ida, yer trespassing on my property.”
“We’re neighbors, Clive!”
“I said git yourself off of my land!”
Sparky’s taken notice. His owner’s agitated. Sparky drops the bone.
“I’m taking my leave, but don’t you think for a minute I’m not calling management on your noisy mutt! The minute my clock strikes nine!”
“Yeah, well I’m calling the police! ‘Cause you’re violating the law by entering without permission!”
Sparky looks at Clive. The dog’s got a question none of Clive’s signs will answer. Clive nods. “Git her,” he spits.
Sparky takes the command and shoots straight for Ida’s ankle. He nips her through the skin then trots a circle, practically prancing.
“The dog’s got rabies!” Clive slaps his leg with laughter.
“Damn you old man!” she shouts back.
Blood’s running into her sandal. She half-jogs, half limps out the gate. Back inside her house, she crumples on the sofa.
She cries and shakes. For every time kids teased her about the scarred up mess of her leg. For the reconstructive surgery that failed. For fear of open spaces. And for the lifetime of nightmares.
Ellie follows her lead. Howling. Crying. Sniffling.
And a siren screams.
The police car pulls to the front of Ida’s house. The rapping on the door is swift and confident. Ida pushes herself up then drags the hurt leg behind her to answer.
“Someone’s reported a disturbance, Ma’am,” says one officer.
“Stan! She’s bleeding! Get the kit!”
She assures them she doesn’t need an ambulance. How can she explain that there’s no pain in her ankle? Instead, agony’s fallen into the cavity taken out by a bite more than fifty years old. An emergency room can’t do a single thing to cure what’s destroying her.
Twenty-year-old Maven from across the way marches through Ida’s open front door wearing her robe and house slippers. She sits with Ida and holds her hand while Stan cleans and bandages the wound.
The other officer scoops Ellie from the crib, lays her on his shoulder and paces until she coos. He’s young and freshly shaven. “I’ve got a newborn back home,” he says.
“I’m mighty worried. I think I’ve contracted rabies,” she tells them. “You can ask Clive next door. He sicked the dog on me. Then told me it was rabid.”
“That’s illegal” the young policeman says.
“I got bit when I was a girl. Doberman Pinscher took a whole hunk from behind my knee. This morning’s stirred up a mess of bad memories. I’ll be a long time settling back.”
“That’s emotional distress. You ought to call a lawyer,” says Maven. “I’ve got an uncle. He’s got an office on the east side of town. No recovery, no fee. You hold tight. I’m going home for his number.”
“Wait -” Ida calls, but Maven slams the screen shut and can’t hear.
The man with the Dobermans showed up at the hospital two days after the attack, not to own up, not even to visit, but to leave an absurd gift for her at the front desk – an oversize blue poodle with a pink bow. The rat never paid a dime for the doctor’s bills that wiped clean her dad’s savings. Her dad never considered demanding it of him, and now the man was probably dead.
Ida’s living room falls comfortably silent. This is what she wants a lawyer to win for her. Peace and quiet. A gentle cocoon where she and little Ellie can sleep, side by side, for the rest of the day.
Wendy Cousins-Savage is an attorney specializing in legal research and writing. She’s completed two middle grade novels with another in progress. She recently returned from a five-year R.V. road trip with her family and now makes St. Petersburg, Florida her home.
Inquiry
The following has been provided by the author:
The story is one of a collection that explores the backstories of personal injury plaintiffs. Often, these plaintiffs are dismissed as taking advantage of a system that favors quick resolutions and nuisance settlements. However, their cases are often nuanced and involve consideration of personal issues which affect how both they and the judicial system value their injuries. A Child’s Scar, particularly, is intended to evoke discussion of when and how past injuries should influence a current recovery, and of the nature and justification for trespassing.
Sometimes litigation seems a cold response to a hot hurt. If something were to happen to you today that brought up a long-scarred-over trauma, what do you imagine that thing could be? Would the wound of that old scar make the current situation more or less dire for you? To whom would you appeal for justice?