Sundays With Ingrid
After school, Ingrid carried Mom’s for sale sign—RIVERBEND PROPERTIES, CALL CAROL LEVIN-HILL—down the block to 113 Maple Lane. It was really blowing now, twigs getting ripped off the trees, dead leaves making tornadoes in the air, low dark clouds speeding across the sky. Nigel whimpered the whole way.
“Suck it up,” Ingrid said.
One thirteen was set back deeper than the other houses on Maple Lane, its shingles aged almost black, the whole front overgrown with bushes and vines. Ingrid found a good spot near the road and stuck the sign in the ground. The metal pole had a sharp end and a little footpad for pressing down on. It went in real easy.
She stepped back to check it was straight for traffic coming either way. Nigel picked that moment to cross the lawn and lift his leg in front of the garage door, making a puddle that spread and spread.
“Nigel. Get over here.”
Instead he found a dry place and curled up like a sled dog trying to survive a blizzard.
“It’s just a little wind.”
But he didn’t budge. And then came a particularly strong gust. Nigel closed his eyes as though getting ready to die, like with Scott at the South Pole. Ingrid went after him.
Tags: Echo Falls Series
This entry was posted on Sunday, August 15th, 2010 at 8:52 am and is filed under Chet The Dog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.