Wolves With Foaming Mouths

It is half past three in the morning and Richard is supposed to be asleep. Instead, he is leaning on the sill of his open window, hoping for a breeze to cool his face and watching his grandmother systematically pull all of the fruit off the pear tree at the back of the garden.

He has been awake for some time now. The afternoon’s oppressive heat has lingered into the night and he has already stripped down to his underwear, but still he has been unable to sleep. The house is old, Richard’s father told him, and doesn’t keep the heat out like their house in the city does. At any rate, Richard is glad that his grandfather’s funeral is over, because it means in a few days he and his father can go home and escape this rural sauna.

As he watches her, Richard thinks his grandmother looks a little crazy. He has heard this can happen to the elderly — Scott Bainbridge told him at school last week that his grandfather just turned ninety and has started putting his mail in the toaster and cooking it like bread. Richard’s grandmother is only seventy-two, so he thinks she should be safe. Yet there she is, standing beneath the pear tree, nightgown wafting around her in the warm night air as she picks the fruit and shoves it into a garbage bag.

He isn’t sure why she is doing this. As far as Richard can tell, the pears don’t look spoiled; they are so bright in the moonlight, it is like his grandmother has decorated the tree with Christmas lights. Maybe she isn’t crazy, Richard thinks, just sad and missing his grandfather.

He takes a deep breath of night air and feels it tickle his throat, realising that he is thirsty. He reaches a hand over to the low table beside the window and feels for his cup of water. His fingers meet the glass but instead of closing around it, his searching hand only pushes the cup across the table and onto the floor. Richard feels water splash onto his bare legs and hears a loud thunk as the glass drops into the worn floorboards. He quickly bobs out of sight but it is too late; he knows that she has looked up at the noise and seen him.

Richard wipes his dripping legs with the pajama shirt he discarded earlier in the night, and crawls back onto his bed. He does not know why his grandmother is throwing away perfectly good fruit in the wee hours of the morning, but he does know that she will certainly be angry that he was out of bed to see it.

***

The scolding that Richard is expecting does not come at breakfast.

His grandmother is in the kitchen when he comes downstairs, putting away the dry dishes from the night before. She is humming to herself and smiles when he sits down at the table.

“Good morning, Richie.” She fills a glass with orange juice and pushes it towards him. “How did you sleep?”

“Alright,” he says slowly. “It—it was hot…”

He takes a sip of the pulpy drink, watching his grandmother warily over the rim of the glass. She hasn’t yelled at him, so maybe she is turning crazy like Scott Bainbridge’s grandfather. Richard grimaces; he likes her the way she is, and certainly doesn’t want her to start spreading jam on the drawings he sends her.

“Wasn’t it, Richie?” His grandmother seems oblivious to Richard’s unease. “Wasn’t it just?”

She takes a bowl from the cupboard and places that too in front of Richard, and fills it to the brim with bran flakes. Richard is about to say something more, perhaps about what he saw last night, perhaps that he doesn’t like cereal, but is interrupted by a knock on the back door.

His grandmother crosses the kitchen and opens the door, behind which is standing a tall man with a very red face. He is holding a large casserole dish and has a black ribbon tied around his arm.

“Mornin’, Betty,” he says gravely, “how you holdin’ up?”

Richard’s grandmother wipes her hands her apron and smiles at the man.

“I’m alright, Don.” She motions for him to come into the kitchen.

He shakes his head slightly. “Can’t stay, I’m afraid. The missus just sent me over to drop this off, but I’ve gotta get straight back to the farm. We just wanted to offer our condolences, on account of not being able to make it to the funeral yesterday.”

Don passes Richard’s grandmother the dish, and she cradles it in her wrinkled arms. “That’s very kind.”

“Walt was so well-loved in this town, don’t you forget that, Betty. I never knew a finer man.”

Richard’s grandmother swallows and shifts on the spot.

Don inclines his head towards the casserole dish. “I’d best let you put that down,” he says, his eyes wandering over to the kitchen table and coming to rest on Richard. He breathes in sharply. “Well I’ll be, Betty. Is that your grandson? Why, he’s the spit of Walt!”

Richard sees his grandmother glance quickly over at him, her face white. “I suppose he is.”

Don sighs again. “It was just so sudden, you know? Walt was as fit as a fiddle. Didn’t see it com—”

Richard’s grandmother clears her throat. “I don’t mean to be rude, Don,” she says, “it’s just I’ve got to…” She trails off, nodding her head at the kitchen.

“Of course,” the man nods too. “I’ll let you go. But as I say; condolences from Deidre and me. Lovely to see you, as always, and lovely to meet your grandson.” He tips his hat to Richard’s grandmother, waves at Richard, and walks off.

Richard’s grandmother closes the door a little too forcefully and walks over to the fridge. She squeezes the casserole dish in amongst the Tupperware containers of leftovers that already occupy the majority of the space, and takes out a carton of milk and a banana.

“Who’s that?” Richard asks, as his grandmother peels the banana and puts it on the table beside the bowel of bran flakes.

“A friend of your grandfather,” she replies brusquely, and does not elaborate.

Richard watches her fiddle with the top of the carton, trying to pull the glued edges apart. She seems distracted, or at least, she must be, because even Richard can usually open the milk without difficultly. He thinks she must be sad again, because of what the man said.

“I don’t like bananas,” he says suddenly, prodding the fruit with a finger, wanting to change the subject for her. He eyes the large black garbage bag that is sitting next to the rubbish bin. He thinks that it is probably the one he saw last night. “Can I have a pear instead?”

His grandmother turns sharply towards him. She sees where he is looking, and her eyes widen and then quickly narrow. “No, Richard.”

She sits down on the chair opposite his, the milk still in her hands. She puts the carton down, folds her hands in front of her, and looks him squarely in the eyes. “Remember what I told you when you and your father got here? We do not eat the fruit from that tree.”

Richard does remember this, but he still doesn’t understand it. When he tries to say as much, his grandmother cuts him off.

“It isn’t good fruit. You wouldn’t like it. It’s…diseased.”

Richard knits his brows, picturing zombies and wolves with foaming mouths.

His grandmother stands abruptly, picking up the unopened milk. She puts it back in the fridge and says, “You aren’t to even think about them, Richard, and if I see you so much as looking at the tree, your name will be mud.”

Without another word, she slams the fridge closed and stomps out of the room.

***

It is the third night since Richard and his father arrived at his grandmother’s house, and the third night that he has not been able to sleep.

He stares at funeral card he has taped to the wall at the end of his bed. That man was right; Richard really does look a lot like his grandfather. It’s his eyes, Richard thinks; Richard’s are the exact shade of green as the ones that twinkle at him from the small square of cardboard. For a long time he stares into his grandfather’s photographic eyes, mesmerised.

Suddenly, gaze still fixed on the photo, Richard finds that he is very hungry.

He slips out of bed and pads down the corridor towards to kitchen. He hears voices coming from the living room and sees a soft orange glow coming from beneath the door. He pauses and presses an ear to the wood.

“…many people at the funeral,” Richard hears his grandmother saying. “It astounds me; I can’t believe more people didn’t see what he was truly like.”

“It’s a good thing, I suppose,” he hears his father’s hushed voice reply. “Otherwise people might be suspicious.”

Richard hears his grandmother murmur something in reply, but he can’t quite make out her words.

“Well, be careful,” his father whispers. “He’s a shrewd man, our sheriff, and he can sniff out lies faster than a bloodhound after a bleeding deer.”

“Surely he’d make an exception for evil, wouldn’t he?”

They are talking so quietly that Richard has to strain his ears to make out what his father is saying. “You and I both know it was for everyone’s safety, especially Richard’s, but not everybody will see it like that.”

Richard frowns at the mention of his name. His thinks of the photo of his grandfather, with his piercing eyes and intense gaze, and his stomach rumbles. Immediately, he loses interest in whatever it is his father and grandmother are talking about.

He moves through the kitchen and quietly pulls open the back door. He walks out onto the lawn, where the grass tickles his bare feet. The air is still as warm as it was in the afternoon and, with the bright light of the moon, Richard could almost believe it is daytime.

The branches of the pear tree are laden with fruit, drooping under the weight of it all. Richard looks at the gleaming pears and wonders hazily how there can be so many left, when his grandmother put them all in the bin just last night. He does not dwell on this thought for very long; the image of his grandfather’s eyes fills his mind once more, propelling him on, and he steps closer to the tree.

He reaches up into the branches, placing his free hand on the tree trunk for balance. His fingers brush something on the wood, and he pauses and looks down at it. A small W has been carved into the trunk, about two feet from the ground.

Richard turns back to the ripe pears and plucks one from the closest branch. He brings it to his lips and bites into the soft, sweet flesh. Sticky juice runs down his chin.

Richard’s grandmother was wrong; he does like it. It is delicious, and by far the nicest piece of fruit he has ever eaten. He swallows his mouthful and lets the pear fall to the ground at his feet. There are so many on the tree, and he can try each and every one of them. Why shouldn’t he; his grandmother will only throw them out.

Richard is about to pick another pear when he hears a scream from behind him. He turns to see his father racing across the lawn towards him, his grandmother not far behind.

“Richie,” his father yells, “stop!”

Before Richard can say anything, they have reached him and his grandmother takes him firmly by the shoulders.

“Please, God,” she shakes him roughly, “tell me you didn’t eat any!”

Richard wipes his mouth with the back of his hands, eyes twinkling, and smiles.