Page 13 of Freak
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Abigail decided toensure that all further conversation remained in the ‘friendly neighbor’ range. No more stories about childhood and family, no more discussions about the ways their beliefs diverged—or converged, for that matter.
And most especially: no more seeking out jobs she could reasonably need his help with.
Mel seemed to be at or near the same idea; their talk over lemon blueberry crumble (with a splash of apple cider to wash it down) stayed light and chatty, with no overt effort from her to keep it that way.
Though it wasn’t the best manners, she didn’t linger after their plates were empty but stood at once and reached for his dishes.
“Well, it was real nice to have your company tonight, hon.”
He caught her wrist. “Hey, I got it. I’ll dry, like usual. And I’m gonna fix this flickering light up here before I go. I got nowhere else to be.”
That was probably it, wasn’t it? Her place was somewhere to be, something to do, company to have when he didn’t have anything else to do.
Her first reaction was a fresh twitch of hurt feeling, as if she were nothing more important to him than convenience. But her second thought reminded her that Mel was Horde. That club was a deep and loving family; she’d seen that clear as day many times. If Mel was lonely, or even bored, did he feel he didn’t belong there completely? Was something holding him at the edge?
She softened her determination to send him on his way tonight and pull back in general. Mel was such a smiling, friendly person, so patient and kind, she hadn’t considered that his affability might cover any kind of hurt or insecurity.
Maybe he needed her company. Maybe he needed a friend.
Maybe she needed a friend, too. That was enough.
She smiled at him. “Well, okay, then. I guess you oughta get your butt up and start helping.”
He laughed and let her wrist go.
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As Mel took the platefrom her and began drying, he nodded toward the window. “Mitch looks like he’s seeing something. You want me to check?”
Abigail looked through the old glass at her home, all her things silver-kissed by the light of a waxing moon and shimmering through the wavy windowpanes. She saw both dogs on their post-rounds perch, the stump of the enormous oak tree that used to shade the front of the goat yard. All the animals were buttoned up snugly for the night, but Mitch was on his feet, ears perked, focused on something out in the shadows. Bogie, however, lay comfortably, head on his paws. Mitch was still young and learning which things to bother about and which not to mind; Bogie’s behavior was the true indicator of the situation outside.
“That’s a good thing to note, but it’s probably nothing. If it was Bogie standing up, that’d be a different thing. If Bogie’s not bothered, there ain’t nothing to be bothered about.”
With a soft chuckle, Mel returned to his drying task. “Those dogs are like people.”
“I’d say a lot of animals are more like people than most people would imagine.”
“What do you mean?”
As she handed him handful of wet silverware, she shrugged. “I think most people see the world through the blinders of their own arrogance.”
Mel went still. “Whoa.”
Casting a glance his way, she asked, “Why ‘whoa’?”
“I guess I’ve never heard you say something harsh like that. Arrogance?”
“I don’t mean it harsh, I just mean it factual. People think humans are the top of the heap, because we talk and use tools and build things. But we’re using our own way of being as the measure for what’s smart or good or sophisticated. If saying the way we do things is the measure for best and measuring every other way of doing things against our way isn’t arrogance, then what is? Animals can’t talk, so we think they’re not as smart as us, they don’t think or feel or hurt like us. But how do we know that’s true? How can we even say animals don’t talk? Maybe we just don’t understand their language. How is it different from Columbus landing in the Bahamas and deciding the folks already living there, in established societies, were savages because they didn’t speak or live his way, or look like him?”
