Irish Exits
A lost dog brings Janie Doyle face-to-face with her peculiar neighbors, who live only three blocks away—but in a world that’s entirely different from Janie’s.
Janie Doyle found the dog on the back deck, panting, a shock collar around her neck, with a vaccination tag attached, plus another heart-shaped tag that included a phone number but nothing else.
Already, Janie understood how she would need to stifle assumptions and accusations when she called the number, when the owner answered the phone, when she ended up face-to-face to hand over the dog over. She brought the dog inside. Because she owned no leash, she fashioned a slipknot from a length of yellow braided ski rope her husband Ed had used, as far as she knew, only that one time two years earlier.
She took off the shock collar, gave it water and saltines. She asked the dog normal questions: Are you lost? Are you hungry? What’s your name? The dog appeared to be a mixed breed, maybe part shepherd, maybe part kelpie. Janie reached below the dog and said, “You’re a girl.” She got online and brought up the Nextdoor app, to see if anyone posted about a missing dog in the area. Finding nothing, she drove around the neighborhood near dusk, looking for flyers attached to telephone poles. Then she came home, got the dog out of the car, fed it some Vienna sausages she found in the back of the pantry, and called the number on the tag. Like a mantra, she said to herself, “Don’t judge, don’t judge, don’t judge,” for she couldn’t imagine anyone not being frantic, driving around the neighborhood, calling for this passive, guilty-looking dog with its laid-back ears.
“Oh, Lord, well, thanks for letting us know,” a woman said after Janie explained the situation. According to the owner, the dog’s name was Ramona, and she’d been gone for twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight. The woman said, “That’s our daughter’s dog, actually, but our daughter’s in college.” In a lower voice she said, “Truth be told, we kind of hoped she’d run off for good.”
Janie didn’t say, “That’s not a very nice thing to say,” or “How would your daughter feel about that?” Or “I should report you to the ASPCA.” She said, “She’s a sweetheart. I live at 12 Frame Street if you want to come pick her up.”
“We’re neighbors!” the woman said. “We live just three streets over, on King Cotton.”
Janie thought, Not exactly neighbors. She thought, My neighbors are 10 and 14. She said, “Well.”
“Listen, right now we’re having a small dinner party. We have people over. Is there any way you could bring Ramona here? I know for a fact that my husband will give you a little something for your trouble.”
A little something, Janie thought. Are they swingers? She said, “Okay. Well. Give me ten minutes.”
“We have those solar lights going down our driveway, so it’s hard to miss. The mailbox says The Gregorys.”
In the streets three blocks over from Janie’s, the houses’ values changed about 200 percent. Back when the cotton mill operated, the workers lived in clapboard houses on Frame. The mill owner and executives lived on King Cotton.
Janie knew the house. Actually, the mailbox read “The Gregory’s,” and when Janie walked through the rich neighborhood two or three times a week, after work, she reminded herself to one day bring some Wite-Out and eradicate that apostrophe. She’d have to invest in a case of Wite-Out, she knew, though, and perform the same action on mailboxes owned by the Sims’s, Clement’s, Yarborough’s, Irwin’s, Funderburk’s, Armistead’s, Allison’s, Abrams’s, Hawkins’s, Clark’s, Hembree’s, Blaylock’s…she tried to remember every family going up to 86 King Cotton. The “Smith’s” lived somewhere up that way, along with the “Hyman’s.”
In the streets three blocks over from Janie’s, the houses’ values changed about 200 percent. Back when the cotton mill operated, the workers lived in clapboard houses on Frame. The mill owner and executives lived on King Cotton.
Janie took the shock collar off and looped the yellow rope around the dog’s neck. Ramona led Janie out of the house, down Frame. Janie shook her head every time she saw the street sign, the corner of Spinning and Frame. Ramona continued, not sniffing at anything, right to the Gregorys’ front door. Janie rang the doorbell. She heard the sound of five conversations bleeding into one another, laughter, then heavy footsteps coming her way. A woman answered the door and said, “You must be Janie. I don’t think I ever introduced myself. I’m Parris. Come on in.” She looked down at Ramona and said, “So you made it back, huh?” To Janie she said, “Please take off your shoes and leave them here on the runner.”
Janie looked down to see loafers, wingtips, one pair of near-stilettos, some normal pumps. She saw three pairs of Nikes. She said, “Oh, no. I’m just here to deliver the dog.”
Parris Gregory grabbed Janie’s left bicep, and said, “No, no, no. Come on in and meet some of your neighbors.”
Janie slid off her Oofos slides. She tried to hand the rope over to Parris, who did not take it, but turned and walked back toward the kitchen. She said, loudly, “Everyone, this is the nice young lady I mentioned earlier who brought back Ramona.” She turned to Janie and said, “Our daughter named Ramona for that girl in those books our daughter used to read. Our daughter’s in college now. I guess we should be happy and proud of her reading those books.”
A man came up and shook Janie’s left hand. He said, “Coleman Gregory. Well, I don’t know about being happy.” He smiled broadly. His face was the same color as a radish, Janie thought, his nose the size of an immature yam. “Maybe if she hadn’t read that book, we wouldn’t be paying all this money for tuition.” He looked at the dog and said, “I keep meaning to get that dog chipped, next time at the vet.” He didn’t bend and pet Ramona.
Janie reached down and freed the dog from the rope. She looped the makeshift leash into a tight circle, then stood awkwardly until Parris took it from her and placed it on the counter, along with the shock collar. Janie thought, Ramona had a cat named Picky Picky. There was a dog in those Henry Huggins books, a dog named Ribsy. Maybe the Gregorys’ daughter should’ve named the dog Beverly, after the writer. She said, “Hello, everyone. I’m Janie.” Four couples stood in a semicircle, and they introduced themselves as the Pinsons, McIvers, Lloyds, and Wiggins. The Pinson’s, McIver’s, Lloyd’s, and Wiggins’s, Janie thought. She smiled and nodded hello.
Six opened bottles of merlot stood on the counter. The Gregorys owned a nice Wolfe stove, plus a hood above it. Next to the wine were two bottles of bourbon and a pitcher of water.
“Y’all go out on the deck and I’ll be right out,” Parris said. “Fill up your glasses and go on out. Coleman lit all those citronella candles, so the mosquitoes shouldn’t be a problem.” Everyone said, “Nice to meet you,” and left through a back door.
“Janie Doyle,” Parris said, sidling up. She said, “How long have you lived on King Cotton?” Parris Gregory wore an above-the-knee sequined dress Janie felt sure she’d seen someone wear on one of those awards shows. Was it the Oscars? MTV Video Awards? Had she seen the dress during the Emmys, Tonys, that Pulitzer thing she once stumbled upon on either PBS or the A&E network?
“I live a few streets over,” Janie said. “I’m renting.”
“Oh, that’s right. You told me you lived down there. Coleman was talking so much that I couldn’t hear most of our conversation.”
It was at this point that Janie recognized Parris Gregory’s face, from that NextDoor app. Janie thought, she’s the one with a Ring doorbell system that, at dusk, caught prospective burglars “casing houses.” Janie’d shown up twice after her regular walks, labeled by Parris as “a suspicious woman.”
Janie looked at the bourbon—one bottle cost as much as her weekly paycheck as a receptionist at Lens Land, where she’d worked for two years, after quitting her job teaching English to eighth graders.
“Are you leasing to buy, or just leasing?” Parris raised her eyebrows. “I hope you’re not surrounded by riffraff. We’ve had such trouble with renters moving closer and closer to us.”
“I love my neighbors,” Janie said. “They’ve been really supportive of me. They’re good people.”
Coleman came back inside and said, “Do we have a lighter that works?” He accidentally stepped on Ramona’s tail, then opened a kitchen drawer.
Parris pointed at another drawer and said to her husband, “God, do you remember that family with something like eight foster children? It was like having a halfway house in the neighborhood.”
Ramona whined, then settled down in front of the refrigerator.
Later on, Janie would tell people that Parris Gregory cleared her throat loudly, on purpose, in order to get her husband to pay attention. “Are you related to Elise Doyle, who owns Red Carpet Boutique over on East Main?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not.” Elise Doyle happened to be Ed’s aunt by marriage. Janie thought how she needed to figure out a way to get her maiden name back legally. She said, “I’ve been by there.”
“I used to know an Ed Doyle. I guess the lumberyard business is a little more stressful than people realize,” Coleman said.
Janie didn’t respond.
It was at this point that Janie recognized Parris Gregory’s face, from that NextDoor app. She must’ve spent most of the day peering out her window, then reporting suspicious vehicles. Janie thought, she’s the one with a Ring doorbell system that, at dusk, caught prospective burglars “casing houses.” Janie’d shown up twice after her regular walks, labeled by Parris as “a suspicious woman.”
“Too bad you’re not related,” Parris said. “Maybe you could get a discount and amass yourself a suitable wardrobe.”
Coleman stood up and said, “Didn’t we used to have one of those fireplace lighters with a handle?”
Janie said, “I’m surprised your daughter’s dog didn’t show up on someone’s security camera when she trotted off to my house. Seems like someone might report a possible rabid dog roaming around. Or a coyote.” She kept eye contact with Parris for an uncomfortable few seconds. “Shock collars are cruel, by the way, and useless if the electricity goes off.”
One of the men out on the deck yelled out, “Hey, Coleman, I’m on to you—this ain’t Pappy. You poured plain Kentucky Gentleman or Old Crow into this bottle, trying to impress us.”
“Wooden matches!” Coleman Gregory said, holding up a small box of red-tipped Diamonds.
Janie looked down at the dog. Although she never trusted that reality TV show about a dog whisperer, she felt sure that Ramona pleaded with her eyes, Get me out of here. Janie said, “There’s no telling how long the dog’s been without food. I fed her some crackers. You might want to put some food down.”
Coleman Gregory opened the back door and said, “I heard what you said, Benton. Tell me how you know so much about what cheap-ass bourbon tastes like.” He joined the party outside.
Parris Gregory shook her head, though her hair didn’t move. “Well, no. I don’t want her getting out of a routine. She eats at eight in the morning, and four in the afternoon. She does her business outside at eight-fifteen in the morning, four-fifteen in the afternoon, and ten at night. I just let her out, seeing as the backyard’s fenced in. If I feed her now, everything will go haywire.” Then she screamed out, “Coleman!”
She thought, I can’t lose Ed’s rope. Sometimes she watched TV with that rope in her lap. On bad days, she looped it around her own neck and stared at the wall, pulling at the loose end until she felt her jugular throb.
About the author
George shows us how it’s done. Writing. Living. Surviving. Thank you for this story. Irish Exits. Damn!
Bow WOW, George Singleton! CMc