Invisible Fences Read Free Page A

easy enough. We’d stay up as late as we could on Saturday night, watching horror movies introduced by Count Gore de Vol on Channel 20, or switching to Ghost Host with the snowy reception of Baltimore’s Channel 45. No matter if the creature feature lacked a creature—like that Japanese mushroom-people flick with no Godzilla to stomp the cast into oblivion, or the “old house” mysteries from the 40s where foolish people ran from room to ghost-less room. Sometimes the films portioned out a few decent scares between the “Hair Club for Men” commercials, enough to distract us while we waited for the night to become our own. We watched television in the den, on the other side of the kitchen from Mom’s living room. During the first feature, Mom disappeared to join Dad in their bedroom (did we ever see her go? At some point we’d look past the kitchen doorway to the other end of the house, her couch empty against the far wall). To extend the night past Ghost Host’s nonsensical farewell (“Here’s blood in your eye!”), we’d play a game of Life, steering blue- and pink-pin families in plastic cars over plastic hills or, even better, Monopoly—the full version, not the quick cheats with dealt-out properties or “Free Parking” windfalls. The longer we stayed up, the easier it would be to sleep late on Sunday morning. 
    In theory. I could usually drowse past the departure time for the 10 a.m. mass, easy, but eventually I’d hear Dad fixing himself breakfast in the kitchen, the murmur of Sunday news programs from the living room. With a hopeful stretch I’d grab my metal-band watch from its place around the bedpost, certain it was nearly noon, and see the phosphorous hour hand aimed squarely between the ones in eleven. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get back to sleep: I’d toss and turn, check the watch again, distinguish a few stray words or commercial jingles from Mom’s TV, rearrange my pillow, check the watch again (only 11:15!), and, defeated, resign myself to a hard wooden seat and the latest strummed arrangement of “The Lord’s Prayer.”  
    Seems silly now, all that effort. Church itself couldn’t be any more tedious than those endless minutes of feigned sleep. But even in summer, when every day was free of school and schedule, I still fought to avoid that single hour in church. Maybe it was a competition with Pam (who “won” more mornings than I could count, Dad and I leaving for church without her). Maybe it was an early instance of childhood rebellion, a passive battle against a father I loved but subconsciously blamed for my mother’s infirmity. Whatever the case, those hard-won mornings where I did sleep long enough were sweet victories. The day was mine: a quick slip into fresh underwear and yesterday’s shirt and blue jeans, and I’d escape into noon-day sun with the whole world open to my explorations. 
    Within the accepted boundaries, of course.  
     
    • • • 
     
    Atlas had wrapped his rope around the tree in our front lawn again. He panted against the trunk, collar stretched tight and his water bowl temptingly out of reach.  
    “Retard,” I said, and the dog barked in agreement. I pointed to his left, made a “go ’round!” motion with my hand, but all he did was twist his head, brown ears flopping stupidly.  
    “C’mon, boy. I’ll show you.” I walked counter-clockwise around the tree, and Atlas followed me. If I stopped, Atlas would have stopped too, not grasping the concept of the wrapped leash. I had to go all the way around for each of the six twists.  
    The ground remained spongy beneath my feet. Dad had tied Atlas’s leash to the porch banister, since the wooden spike wouldn’t stand firm in the lawn. We’d had a week of off-and-on heavy storms, thunder and loud downpours that rattled like gravel tossed against the windows and aluminum siding. Mom watched the televised weather reports from the safety of her sofa. “You wouldn’t catch me