American Red

Stare Down

           

The Jenkins' home isn't the filthy ramshackle that Errol and Roadie had both, separately imagined it would be. It blends in nicely with similar ranch style homes along the block. Most have subtle, indistinct colors of siding resting between muted shades ranging from tan to yellow, but the Jenkin's has the only bright color on the block. Their home looks structurally similar as the Smythe home, only larger. The two stories actually appears to go the entire span of the home instead of at a peak.

A four-foot high chain link fence guards the front of the home, one of the only doing so on the entire block. There is a dip on one section of fence where it appears to have bent from a tree limb falling on it or perhaps a large child trying to scale it. Either way, the break in pattern makes something vibrate underneath Errol's skin coming close itchiness.

As the boys lift the latch to the gate leading in, the squeak of the old hinges act as purposefully as a doorbell would. Before they reach the bottom of the steps, they hear movement inside heading toward the front door.

For as normal and kept as the house appeared from the sidewalk on the way up, the closer the boys got, the more they start seeing some accuracies in their imagination. The grass isn't very maintained. There are patches where nothing grew, burnt away from what appeared to be dog spots given the mounds of crap peppered around the lawn. Most of the yard is crabgrass with yellow dandelions nestling low in the thicket. Bits of candy bar wrappers and various packaging clings to weeds near the steps and a plastic grocery bag rustles in the wind around a large, dead rose bush on one side of the steps like a flag of surrender.

The wooden steps squeal upon the weight of the boys as they approach the screen door leading into the covered front patio. The Jenkins' deck is covered in scratchy feeling plastic grass, worn down to the base in some areas making a strange oblong circle. As the first screen door shuts behind the boys, the one leading into the house gives way and a disheveled looking woman takes up half of the frame.

"Mrs. Jenkins?" Roadie half-greets.

"Who are you?" the voice asks. It sounds strained and distant like someone who's asleep talking from beneath their sheets.

"My name is... " Roadie saves giving his name to see just how much he can get away with first. "I go to school with Frankie, this is my brother." Roadie gives Errol a light tap on the shoulder. Mrs. Jenkins doesn't seemed put off by the lack of name.

"Did you want to come in, have some Kool-Aid," at the end of the word, something rekindles in her eyes. There is a flash of pain, recalling memories of making the drink for her boy who went missing perhaps.

"Sure," Roadie accepts and with it, the wince in Mrs. Jenkins' face is gone and she holds open the door.

"Do you have a dog?" Errol asks.

"Yeah, two of 'em. Why, you allergic?" Mrs. Jenkins replies.

Errol shakes his head.

"You don't have to be worried about them, my husband took them along. He went out to a spot where Frankie used to go, seeing if they might pick up on something." Mrs. Jenkins escorts the boys in past the living room piled with clothes, some clean, some not. There are magazines and toys and dirty dishes lying about haphazardly. 

"What kind of dogs?" Roadie asks while surveying the place where Frankie Jenkins calls home. Everything has a layer of grey to it in the form of dust that's accumulated well before Frankie went missing, hell maybe before Frankie entered the fifth grade or passed fourth.

"A German Shepard and a Golden Retriever mutt of some sort," Mrs. Jenkins opens the fridge right through the doorway and digs in, pushing an aluminum can aside. "You boys can clear a seat at the table and I'll bring this over. Grape okay?"