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she
would say to herself, “There’s an accident waiting to happen, the damn steering
wheel is on the wrong side.” Even though she couldn’t prove it, she was sure
the wrong-sided steering wheel was in play when Scout met with his demise.
    She had seen the tragedy happen up close and personal and
was standing over Scout when the dog took its last breath. Scout had begged
her, with sad and frightened eyes, for help, but there was nothing she could
do, other than hysterical screaming and blind panic, she had limited experience
in dealing with sudden tragedy.
    Sometimes she would dream about that horrible day. In her
dreams, it’s the mail lady screaming hysterically and Alice is the one kneeling
beside Scout, stroking his fur, and gently coaxing him toward the light. She is
the one who had told him, that it was okay to pass on and how wonderful puppy
heaven would be, where ancestor dogs chase an abundant supply of bunnies
through tall grasses. In this version of what happened, she also takes the mail
lady’s hand and comforts her, assuring her that it wasn’t her fault.
    Of course, she had done none of those things on the day the
dog lay dying at her feet, in fact, she had repeatedly screamed—almost chanted—
“You ran over Scout, you stupid cunt!” In fact, she
had not rendered any form of comfort or aid, but she felt she would have, had
she not been in shock over the traumatic event. Sometimes in her dreams, it
wasn’t the mail lady driving, but Alice, and it wasn’t the neighbor’s dog
Scout, but the kid from across the street. Alice took a big gulp of beer to
wash the dog and the kid out of her head.
    The memory of the dying dog caused her to re-evaluate the
grief she felt for Nolte, and after careful contemplation, she realized she was
mistaken, she, felt no grief for Nolte, none at all. As a matter of fact, she
felt the angel of death had finally stilled the hands of perversion and for
that, she was grateful and truly happy.
    Alice was quite sure; Nolte never had a passing thought,
without some deviate act, or perverse behavior, or sinister motive attached to
it, so there probably has never been a more justifiable case of good riddance,
than the death of Nolte, that’s what Alice thought.
    The angel of death had finally stilled the hands of perversion;
the nasty old man had not only been quick with his paws but was as skilled in
the art of ‘sleight of hand’ as any magician. He could have fingered Mother
Teresa to orgasm, in full view of the pope, before she even realized her
panties were missing.
    For as far back as Alice cared to remember, the pervert had
grabbed her ass and pinched her nipples, every chance he got. The entirety of
her adolescence was accompanied by the after-burn of a tweaked nipple. Even
now, her skin crawled at the thought of his touch. Even though he lay safely
dead, on a cold slab, in a funeral home fifty miles away, her skin still
crawled. However, imagining Nolte’s cold dead body on a slab, brought with it
another twang of faux guilt, but this time, the twang was tinged with beer and
she felt less guilty, for not feeling guilty.
    Alice took another swallow and tried again, to think of
something nice about the old man, after all, he was dead, and she’d been taught
one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Maybe she had seen that in a movie. Well,
it matters little where it came from; to her, it seemed to be a sound
characteristic a person would do well to have, and to prove she really felt
that way, she would adopt it as one of her own. And so she did. She took
another swallow of beer to seal the deal and held the cool can to her forehead
to help her think.
    There had to be one redeeming quality about the man. Even
with the coolness of the can helping her, she was drawing a blank; she could
come up with nothing. At least nothing that wouldn’t be considered nasty, when
compared to the moral standards of most social circles, who frown upon child
sacrifice.
    Alice hadn’t been