---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book “Wait Until Dark” cc&d, v287 (the November/December 2018 issue) Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book This is Where I Life the cc&d Sept./Dec. 2018 issues & chapbooks collection book		get the 372 page Sept./Dec. 2018 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN#035; paperback book:

The Rag Doll and the Siamese

John Haymaker

    My half-brother Tyler pointed at his blue 5.0 liter Mustang double-parked in the street. “Gimme back the keys to my ‘Stang,” he said. An extension ladder laid across the back seat stuck out the rear windows. Paint buckets, canvas tarps, disorganized tools and loose boards prevented the trunk fully closing. His buddy leaned against the car smoking a joint.
    It was past three a.m. Fifteen minutes earlier I’d been asleep, awoken by an aluminum ladder clinking the stoop, followed by the dull thud of a paint bucket against the railing. Tyler was back. I hadn’t seen him for a month – not since our last row. Paroled after eight years in prison, he roomed with me in a Brooklyn brownstone – until he left syringes and needles lying about, which I didn’t tolerate.
    When he asked after them, I was blunt: “I threw them out with the kitty litter. It’s tough love.”
    “I’ll show you tough love.” He knotted my shirt collar in one fist, tightened it like a noose and threw me against a wall and left, taking all his belongings except the docile Siamese he brought home – the cause célèbre of our first row. It wore a pink collar and tag identifying it as Tabitha, though Tyler nicknamed it Taboo, the same name he’d given our cat in grade school, also Siamese and also stolen.
    I’d heard nothing from Tyler for a month until the ladder clinked – and I hoped he lost his house key; if he knocked, I wouldn’t answer.
    But the key clicked in the lock; the ladder banged through the entryway. “Flip that switch,” he said, ordering someone about, and an upstairs light turned on. “Grab that bucket.” Footsteps tread heavy up the stairs and across the spare room. The ladder squeaked open and a set of keys jangled and clinked the aluminum.
    I came out of my room in pajamas and slippers to witness his buddy plunge a paint roller into a gallon can and slosh red paint up the baseboard and onto the wall. Taboo jumped from Marty’s shoulder into paint splatter and tracked kitty prints across the floor.
    “Tyler, what’s going on?” My best guess said he’d been shooting coke and in a sudden rush of euphoria decided ‘to do me a solid.’
    “We had leftover paint,” he said, ”and I thought you’d appreciate the gesture. Anyway, I came for Taboo.”
    “You didn’t even lay out a tarp.” My voice was shrill as I picked up the cat with a towel.
    “Go get this pussy a tarp,” he said to his buddy. Tyler took over painting and turned to me, saying, “I paint houses for a living, you know.”
    “You’re too messed up right now.”
    “I can handle my drugs. I’ll be finished in ten minutes.”
    “You’re done,” I said and snatched his keys off the ladder, dangling them to lure him into racing me downstairs. We faced off on the sidewalk beneath fading streetlight. His buddy leaned against the Mustang puffing weed — pulling a tarp from the trunk only after we appeared, sending boards clattering to the pavement.
    “Gimme the keys to my ‘Stang,” Marty said pointing at his car, still holding the roller.
    “Let me drive you guys.”
     “Gimme the damn keys.” He grabbed for them, but I stepped back. He lunged and nearly snagged them — but I clutched ring and keys overhead in a fist.
    “If you touched it, you should have had it,” I said, the way my father — his stepfather — chided us for missing fly balls that grazed our ball mitts.
    Tyler scowled, his face reddened; he got me by the collar. I dropped the keys, but too late — it was no longer about the keys. Tyler flipped out: he grit and bared his teeth; saliva seemed to boil behind his lips. He had me in a chokehold, thumbs pressing my windpipe. I wrapped my hands around his, prying, clawing at times to tear his flesh from mine. I was a rag doll that Tyler jerked backwards and downward in a graceless Tango.
    His buddy leaned against the car again, grinning as if this were sport. No one called police or came outside, but I could hardly shout out for help – I couldn’t breathe. Tyler squeezed with all his might and jerked me back once more, the coup de grâce: my eyes closed, my hands fell away, and I went limp.
    He must have relaxed his grip, for seconds later my arms flailed and hands stretched, reached . . . for anything . . . and came up gripping a two-by-four and swung it with wild fury. I gasped for air and opened my eyes, but Tyler reapplied his chokehold. I struck the side of his head — he let go, ducking and guarding his face. I took full advantage, cracking the board across his shins.
    Tyler fell to the ground whimpering, a child again. I held the board overhead, short-winded, ready to deliver a final blow. But to see him cowering in fear of this rag doll, I had to laugh and tossed the board aside; it bounced across the pavement with hollow, wooden pings.
     His buddy grinned and nodded, perhaps applauding my victory.
    I scuffed a shoe across the drive looking for the keys and removed mine from the ring. “Here’s the keys to your fucking ‘Stang,” I said, tossing the rest to his feet.
    Tabitha wandered out onto the porch and sat flicking its tail. I took her in my arms and motioned for Tyler’s buddy to come inside. I let him retrieve the ladder and paint, and locked the door when he’d gone, still holding the cat. The ladder clinked, the engine revved and Tyler’s ‘Stang rumbled down the street.
    I called Tabitha’s rightful owner next day, using the contact engraved on the collar tag. Her painter, she said, left a door ajar and the cat simply disappeared.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...