Bayard Avenue by Scott Tucker Michael knew the people up one side of Bayard Avenue and down the other. He knew them from stories. He knew they were good people. Some of them were in the room with him now, or crows, or the rain drumming down hard. Or Toom. The smell of strong tea and disinfectant wrapped its arms around his bed. A bone bracelet he knew rattled. “Delmaine has always wanted to sleep with you,” he warned his wife. “Don’t go near him in the pool, or walking.” “There is my life to think of, too,” she said. “And trust.” “Only speak to him outside in the yard.” Or so it might go. The lion helps the lioness on a larger kill but otherwise he isn’t much use to her. “Do your fighting in the street,” she told him. “I will call you inside when I need you.” . . What I wish for now is Peace, he said to the new stone fountain in front of the last house on Bayard Avenue. The fountain brimmed with watery optimism gurgling out of its top center dish, and over, and over, and down, to the cold round basin at the bottom. Coyote scent marked hedges and fence posts from the fountain to the ravine below, spooking small dogs out on early morning walks with their masters who held stainless steel coffee mugs, retractable leashes, and clear plastic bags for picking up dog scat. Michael suspected the coyotes drank from the fountain during the dry season. Lost Cat posters appeared in July and August at the stand of mailboxes in the middle of the block, illustrating the larger problem. It’s good, Michael thought, the fountain drawing predators farther up the hill. Something is needed to control the rat and mice population in the city if house cats won’t do the job. “Mom, I want to go around once.” “Okay.” “What about two?” “Okay.” There aren’t many children anymore in the city, Michael thought, although our daughter Emily is ten years old now and a good soccer player, but not a good reader yet. . . “How is he?” 16 theMeadow
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