The Firefly Hours (A Silas Sharp Metaphysical Mystery): Chapter 11

 

Fireflies
by Michael Creese

Day 11 – Murphy

There's a reason people say all dogs go to heaven. Nobody ever says all accountants go to heaven. Or dentists. Or assistant regional managers. Dogs earn the benefit of the doubt. They forgive quickly and love unconditionally. And somehow manage to convince us that throwing the same tennis ball three hundred consecutive times is not only reasonable, but the highest purpose a human being can aspire to. If there is a flaw in the universe, it's that dogs don't live nearly long enough.

Jason and Rebecca Collins family had lived on Willow Lane for almost twelve years. Along with their mortgage they had acquired two children, Cody and Carson. And one golden retriever named Murphy. He'd died three summers earlier at the respectable age of fourteen.

The Collins children had buried him beneath a flowering dogwood in the backyard with a tennis ball, a faded blue collar, and what Rebecca described as "an unreasonable amount of crying."

Now, according to the stories, Murphy came home every evening.

Rebecca Collins answered the door with the expression of someone who'd spent several days wondering whether telling the truth made her seem unstable.

"I know how this sounds,” she told me.

"I've learned that's usually an encouraging way to begin."

She laughed despite herself.

The backyard was immaculate. Freshly cut grass. A wooden playset. Raised flower beds. A dogwood tree. Its trunk was still young enough to be supported by two stakes. At its base rested a weathered granite marker no bigger than a shoebox.

MURPHY

Good Boy

Sometimes simplicity is all grief requires.

"My husband hasn't seen him." Rebecca folded her arms. "Not because he doesn't believe me."

"But?"

"He works late."

"The children?"

"They've both seen him."

"And you?"

She nodded. "Every evening."

"When?"

"After the fireflies."

There it was.

She smiled to herself. "You know what the strangest part is?"

"I have a list going," I said in a lame attempt at levity.

"He still waits by the back door."

We waited together on the patio. The familiar transition settled over the neighborhood. The fireflies emerged. The air cooled. The sounds of lawn mowers and distant conversations seemed to drift another block away. Rebecca leaned forward.

"There."

A shape moved between the flower beds. Golden fur. Gray around the muzzle. Tail wagging with slow, dignified enthusiasm. Murphy. He trotted across the yard exactly as Rebecca had described. He paused beneath the dogwood tree. Sniffed the ground. Then ambled toward the back steps. His nails clicked softly against the concrete.

I frowned. I hadn't heard footsteps from Harold. Or bicycle tires from Ben. Murphy's paws made noise. Rebecca's eyes filled with tears.

"He always did that."

"What?"

"Checked the yard before asking to come inside."

Murphy sat politely beside the back door. Then looked at Rebecca. Waiting.

Without thinking, she opened the screen door.

"Come on, Murph."

The dog stood. Walked through the doorway and disappeared. One second Murphy was there, the next he was gone. The kitchen beyond the doorway was empty. Rebecca didn't immediately react. She simply stood there, smiling. Then her shoulders began to shake.

"I keep doing that,” she said.

"What?"

"Opening the door." She wiped at her eyes. "I know he won't be there."

"But you still do."

"Every night."

"Why do you it?”

She looked genuinely surprised by the question.

"Because he always waited for me," she said. She glanced toward the empty kitchen. "It doesn't seem right to leave him standing outside."

I couldn't argue with that.

The fireflies continued blinking beneath the trees. Murphy reappeared a few minutes later near the swing set. This time he had a tennis ball in his mouth. He bounded toward the younger of the Collins children, Carson, who had wandered quietly into the yard. He couldn't have been more than nine. The boy laughed when Murphy dropped the ball at his feet.

"You want me to throw it?"

The dog barked once. Carspm threw the ball. Murphy took off after it with the joyful determination only old dogs and young children possess. For the next several minutes they played exactly as though nothing unusual was happening. Just a boy and the dog he'd missed every day for three years.

Then the fireflies slowed. I noticed the rhythm of their blinking stretched. Longer pauses, dimmer flashes. Colton noticed, too. He stopped smiling.

"It's getting late,” he mumbled.

Rebecca looked toward the trees.

"Murphy,” she called. The dog continued chasing the ball. "Murphy."

Nothing. He ran farther toward the edge of the yard. Toward the line of trees beyond Arthur McCreary's property.

Rebecca's voice sharpened. "Murphy!"

The dog stopped, looked back. For one hopeful second I expected him to return. Instead he turned and trotted deeper toward the trees with his tail still wagging as though someone else had called his name. Someone we couldn't hear. Rebecca took one step after him. I caught her arm.

"Don't."

"He'll get lost."

I heard Arthur's voice in my head. The Hour isn't dangerous. Staying is.

Murphy disappeared beneath the branches. The last patch of golden fur vanished into the deepening twilight. The fireflies blinked once. Twice. Then all at once. The sounds and colors returned as the neighborhood settled back into itself. The evening resumed.

Murphy did not.

Rebecca stared into the trees.

Barely above a whisper, she said, "That's never happened before."

Neither of us moved.

Because somewhere beyond the edge of Laurel Lane, a dog who had faithfully come home every night for three years had decided not to.

*****

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