FICTION — SHORT STORY
What Surprises Me
(Not a Story for Everyone)
What surprises me is that it still feels like home when I walk the streets in the early morning hours alone, eyeing the mowed lawns and garden beds that line the blocks like spaces in a strip-mall parking lot. It is the end of the summer, and things are just beginning to lose their color, and despite the warm season, there are rings of fog around the treetops and chimneys, and a sparkling mist beneath the streetlights.
At the next block, scents of an early meal push out from a kitchen window and drift out from the yard as I pass, giving me full breaths of baked bread and boiled potatoes. From there, the grid tightens as the streets narrow and the parked cars close in along the sides. And between each block is a roundabout circling a small island. The islands slow my pace, but I am used to it. I walk the same blocks almost every night, thinking the same thoughts with the same careful steps along the edge of the road.
Some say our feet were the first to touch this ground, and the older I get, the more I believe it. Even through inches of pavement I can feel the land of our ancestors. I can feel the earliest of paths through dense wilderness and falling waters, and I can hear all the life that thrived before the houses took their place. I can hear fires in the sky and steel teeth grinding over living bark, and I can see its outcome in front of me as I walk.
Some say our feet will be the last to touch this ground, but in a city of houses, it is a difficult thing to believe. My instincts tell me the road ahead is as empty as every road behind, and I am now on the verge of turning back, just as I had on the previous night, and just as I had almost every night this week. But as I reach the larger houses beside the fenced off golf course, I see something sitting in one of the yards and facing the opposite direction.
I stop immediately where I am and crouch low to the ground to wait, and to watch. It is the usual size but has a dense coat of black fur, qualities that give it an advantage at night. I also notice that the fence around the yard is low and easily hopped, posing only a minor obstacle to my approach.
For several seconds I watch it sitting in the grass until finally it moves — it scratches itself and licks at its mottled fur. I slink even lower to the ground, my belly firm against the sidewalk as I lay still with my legs flexed at the ready.
As it continues with the cleaning and pruning, it eventually turns its head in my direction and sees me. Its round, yellow eyes widen with panic as it stares back at me before turning and running toward the house behind it. Knowing its dark colors will help conceal it in the shadows, I make sure to reach it before that can happen, bounding over the fence and landing in a full sprint across the yard.
Just before it reaches a row of shrubs along the edge of the house, I catch up and bite down, wrapping my teeth around its back and locking my jaw into place. It lets out a shriek loud enough to wake people from their sleep, and only seconds later there are lights turning on inside the house.
With the meal locked in my canines, I spring back over the fence and gallup for home. It is at least a mile to the den, but less than half that to the edge of the forest preserve. I can hear voices in the yard behind me, but I am well on my way at this point. I even begin to feel relieved, knowing the meat will give me milk for the children, as well as a taste for each of them when I’m finished. They’re close to the weaning age already, and in less than a year, they’ll be walking the same streets and stalking the same quiet neighborhoods with few other options close to home.
What surprises me is that I still call it home, even when I’m running for cover with a cat in my mouth, just a few minutes from the light of dawn.
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