This time the needle went into the muscle instead of into the layer just beneath the skin. Winslow yelped and Louie cried.
“I’m sorry, Winslow! I don’t want to hurt you. I can’t do this. I can’t make you better.”
Louie felt helpless.
He imagined himself in the incubator when he was born. Was he pinched and poked and prodded? Was it hard to get a needle or a tube into him? Did he cry? Did the doctors and nurses feel helpless? Did his parents cry?
There was a lump in the muscle where Louie had misdirected the shot, and Winslow flinched when Louie rubbed it.
The next shots were easier, but Winslow was slow to respond to the medicine.
“Why doesn’t he get better right away?”
“It takes time for the medicine to work,” Louie’s father said.
“But what if it doesn’t work?”
Louie wanted Winslow to get better immediately. He hated not knowing if he was helping or hurting Winslow. He hated not knowing if Winslow would survive.
Sometimes Louie felt that saving Winslow would also save and protect Gus, like the two were connected somehow.
One day, Mack and Claudine appeared at the door, calling out for Louie. They were surprised, when Louie answered the door, to see Winslow making his wobbly way down the hall behind him.
“Unsteady, but at least he’s walking,” Mack said.
“Awww,” Claudine said. “Diapers!”
It was true: a donkey with diapers. Inside the house. Upstairs, not in the basement.
“I know it’s weird,” Louie said. “But whenever I come upstairs from the basement, he looks so sad and bumps his head against the steps, over and over.”
Claudine put her hand on Louie’s arm. “But you have to, you know—you have to change the diapers?”
“Erm. Yes. Not my favorite job. I also have to give him shots.”
“Shots? You know how to do that?”
“Still learning.”
Claudine stroked Winslow’s head. “Will he make it?”
“He’ll make it,” Louie said. “He will.”
Claudine tilted her head sympathetically. “I guess I wouldn’t get too attached, though. If it were me, I mean. I would be so, so upset if, you know, if—”
Louie interrupted her. “Hey, where’s Nora?”
Claudine patted Louie’s arm. “Oh, she didn’t want to—you know—”
“What? ‘You know—’ what?”
“We should leave, Mack, right? Don’t you have to do that—that—thing—at the—?”
Mack blinked a few times and said, “Oh, sure. Better go. See ya, Louie. Talk to you later—”
Louie watched them head toward Mack’s house next door. Claudine was in front and Mack behind her as they followed the narrow shoveled path. The way Mack followed Claudine reminded Louie of Winslow trailing behind him all day long.
16
Are all donkeys sad?
Louie did not like to leave Winslow when school resumed after the winter break. He fed Winslow before he left the first day and tucked two stuffed animals in the pen with him, along with one of his own shirts that had his smell on it. His father and mother would take turns coming home from work for the noon feeding and then Louie would be home after school for the next ones.
All day long Louie thought about the donkey. Was he okay? Was he warm enough? Was he lonely? Louie could hardly concentrate on anything else. He doodled donkeys in the margins of his papers.
In the school library, he searched for books about donkeys, but found none. There were books about dogs and horses and sheep and cows, but no donkeys. The librarian handed him Winnie-the-Pooh, opening it to a drawing of a donkey.
“There you go,” she said brightly. “Eeyore! A very famous donkey.”
Louie was embarrassed. He was way too old for this book, he thought, and he already knew about Eeyore, the sad friend of Winnie-the-Pooh.
Are all donkeys sad? Louie wondered.
Louie was relieved, after that first day back at school, when he returned home and found Winslow standing in his pen, nose pressed against the wire, wagging his fluffy tail like a dog.
“Winslow! You’re happy to see me, aren’t you?”
Winslow wiggled and waggled and nudged Louie’s face and neck.
“You’re not sad, are you?”
Winslow burst out of the pen and flopped into Louie’s lap, his legs collapsing in a tangled heap, his big, sticking-up ears tickling Louie’s face.
17
You don’t have to do that
Louie rarely saw Nora at school, but when he did she was often alone, either trailing down the hallway after her classmates or seated by herself at lunch. He hadn’t recognized her at first, without her big coat and hat and boots. One day at lunch he sat down across from her with his tray.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, studying her sandwich.
“Do what?”
“Sit there.”
“I know that—I know I don’t have to. Maybe I want to.”
“Yeah, right.”
They ate in silence, until Nora asked, “How’s that thing—that sickly creature? Did it die yet?”
“It’s a donkey. His name is Winslow. He did not die.”
She looked up from her sandwich and said, “Yet.”
“He’s really doing good,” Louie said. “You should come by and see him again sometime.”
“I’ll think about it.”
The following Saturday was sunny and warmer than it had been in weeks. Most of the snow had melted. Winslow was following Louie as he circled the yard.
“Maybe you should get a leash for it,” someone said.
Louie turned to see Nora on the sidewalk.
“If you get a collar and a leash,” she said, “you could walk it like a dog.”
“Not a bad idea,” Louie said.
“I’ve got a collar and a leash at home.”
“You do? You have a dog?”
“Had. Had a dog.”
“I’m sorry,” Louie said. “That stinks.”
“What stinks?”
“You know, that you had a dog—but now you don’t—so it must have—did it, erm, I guess it died, right?”
“Well, it could have run away,” Nora said.
“Oh, it ran away?”
“No, it died.”
Sometimes when Louie talked with Nora, he felt as if she were speaking a foreign language.
“Do you want to pet Winslow?”
“Why’d you call him Winslow?”
“I don’t know—it just came to me when I first saw him.”
Nora removed a glove and tentatively patted Winslow’s neck. He waggled his head and twitched his ears.
“That means he’s happy,” Louie said.
“Maybe,” Nora agreed, “or maybe he waggles his head at any old thing.”
18
Remember me
Louie found one of Gus’s postcards on his bookshelf. It had been propped up there but had slipped between books. He liked rereading Gus’s words. Even though Gus rarely said anything important, seeing his handwriting and reading his words made Louie feel as if Gus could walk into the room at any time.
Hi everybody,
I’m sorry I haven’t written for the last couple weeks. We have been in some hard training and I fall into my bunk every night, too tired to read or write or . . . think.
I don’t have any news so I’ll sign off for now.
Remember me,
Gus
19
The girl with the yellow hat
One Saturday morning, after a fresh snowfall the night before, Louie’s mother said, “Nora is out there again. Why doesn’t she come to the door? Are you supposed to sense that she’s outside?”
Nora was walking back and forth in front of the house, swinging something—a rope?—in her hand.
“Nora? You want to come in?”
“I was just walking by. I brought the leash.”
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br /> “The leash?”
“For the donkey. If you want to walk it. Or not. I have a collar thing, too. You know what else?”
“What?”
“You could take the donkey over to the sledding hill.”
That is how Louie and Nora ended up taking Winslow for a walk down the street, in a dog collar and leash, and towing a sled to the sledding hill.
“Try it with Winslow,” Nora said. “Go on. He might like it.”
Louie bundled Winslow in his arms, climbed on the sled, and, with a push from Nora, off they went, careening down the hill.
Winslow’s ears flapped crazily in the wind, slapping against Louie’s face. The sled swerved left and then right and then straight down the last, fast slope.
“Wow!” Louie shouted.
Nora was standing at the top of the hill, clapping her gloved hands together, a bumblebee beacon in her yellow hat and black puffy coat and black boots.
“Your turn,” Louie urged.
“Naw. Naw.”
“You have to. And Winslow wants another turn, so here—” Louie shoved Winslow into Nora’s arms and held the sled ready.
“Well, if I have to—”
And all the way down the hill came the strangest sounds: urrrrawwp and urrrrawwp, and only half of those were coming from Winslow. The rest were from Nora.
20
Lovesick
Louie ran into Mack on his way home from school one day. Mack was not his usual peppy self. His head hung low, his arms limp at his sides.
“Hey, Mack, what’s the matter? You look—terrible.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“Are you sick?”
“Yeah, I’m sick.” Mack placed both hands on his chest. “Lovesick! I’m a goner.”
“Claudine?”
“Yes, Claudine, Claudine, who else but Claudine? She hasn’t spoken to me in two days. Two days, Louie! That’s an eternity.”
“You make her mad?”
“She said I was starting to suffocate her! Too much attention! Can you imagine that? How can you give a person too much attention? I thought that’s what girls wanted: attention.”
Louie had never thought about what girls wanted or even what boys wanted or if there was a difference or if it depended on each person. The only time Louie could recall feeling too much attention was in second grade. A new girl who did not speak much English had attached herself to Louie on the first day.
“Say me Cookie,” she said, clamping on to Louie’s arm. “Is bester name.”
The teacher seemed pleased that Cookie had found a friend so quickly. She asked Louie to sit next to Cookie and to explain things to her and to show her around the school.
“Me?” he said. “Are you talking to me?”
“Of course, Louie, I am talking to you. Thank you for welcoming Cookie.”
From that moment on, Cookie did not leave Louie’s side except when she or he went to the bathroom. She followed him from the moment she saw him in the school courtyard in the morning until the bell rang in the afternoon. She probably would have followed him home except that she rode a bus to the other side of town and Louie walked home.
After three weeks of Cookie’s attention, Louie had confessed to his mother, “I can’t stand it! Cookie is always breathing in my face or asking me questions or following me around or hanging on my arm. I can’t go back there!”
“Maybe you should mention to your teacher that you need a little break from Cookie.”
“How can I do that, when Cookie is always there, latched on to me?”
“You’ll find a moment, I’m sure.”
And he did find a moment a few days later, when Cookie went to the bathroom. Louie raced to his teacher and blurted out his dilemma, begging her to rescue him from Cookie.
“Hmm,” his teacher said. “I suppose one day you might long for such attention, but I understand. I’ll encourage Cookie to make other friends.”
And Cookie did gradually make other friends and soon she hardly seemed to notice Louie at all, and although he felt relieved, he also felt puzzled. Didn’t she like him at all anymore?
Now, walking home with Mack, who was lovesick for Claudine, Louie said, “Aw, leave her alone for a few days, see what happens. Maybe she’ll miss you.”
“When did you get so wise?” Mack asked, giving Louie a shove.
“Maybe it’s from hanging around Winslow. Come on, come see him, he’ll make you laugh.”
Winslow stumbled into their arms and flapped his floppy lips, and when Mack left, he was laughing.
“That donkey!” Mack said. “That donkey cracks me up!”
21
A painting
Above Louie’s bed hung a painting—or rather a copy of a painting—of a boy tugging on a rope tied to a calf who was resisting being led. It looked like a gentle tug-of-war between the boy and the calf, each equally determined. Behind them were golden haystacks and open fields with chickens pecking here and there. Two other boys stood near, watching the boy and the calf.
Another copy of this painting had hung in the hospital waiting room outside the infant intensive care unit where Louie’s parents had spent many hours after he was born. Something about the struggle of the boy and of the calf had spoken to them and calmed them. The artist’s name was Winslow Homer.
22
Something the matter?
It was spring, the early days of spring, when the shock of bright green sprouting from the ground and from trees was new and cheery, and when daylight was filtered through a gauzy curtain. Louie was out in the yard with Winslow, who was galloping about clumsily, and it was one of those good days, when everything seemed right with the world.
Nora came by. She said she was “just out walking,” which is what she always said. She appeared smaller and more vulnerable without her heavy black coat and boots and yellow hat, and as she came through the gate she seemed worried.
“Something the matter?” Louie asked.
“Naw. Not really.”
Winslow eagerly bumped his head against her arm until Nora petted him. She smiled, in spite of herself.
“He’s so used to you now,” Louie said. “I think he was expecting you—he kept looking up and down the street.”
“Aw. Makes me sad.”
“Sad? Why sad? I thought you’d be happy about that.”
“Well, what’s going to happen to him? Mack said you can’t keep him here much longer. He’s getting too big and too loud—”
This wasn’t a surprise to Louie. His parents had brought it up earlier in the week. Winslow was getting big and even the makeshift pen they’d added to the back of the garage did not have enough room for him, and his new, loud braying was becoming annoying, not only to the neighbors, but also to Louie’s parents.
Nora leaned her head against Winslow’s neck, her own black curls mixing in with Winslow’s gray and black tufts. “I bet you have to get rid of him. He will never be this free and happy again. He will probably get sick and die of sadness.”
Louie tugged at Winslow’s head, pulling it away from Nora. “Why do you always expect the worst?” he said.
Nora pulled Winslow’s head back toward her. “To be prepared. Why do you always stupidly expect the best?”
“Stupidly?” Louie yanked Winslow’s head back again, wrapping his arm tightly around Winslow’s neck. “I don’t always stupidly expect the best. I worry about the worst, but I hope for the best.”
Nora stood very still, her arms stiff at her sides. “Well, you must be disappointed a lot.”
“And you must be sad a lot.”
“Am not. I’m realistic,” she said. “And you’re being mean.”
“Am not.” Louie leaned in close to Winslow’s face. “Am I, Winslow? Am I being mean?”
Winslow’s lips flapped and he sucked his teeth.
“See?” Nora said. “He thinks you are being mean! He agrees with me.”
“No, he doesn’t. He agrees with me.�
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Winslow butted each of them with his head and kicked his hind legs in the air.
23
A letter from Gus
A collection of Gus’s postcards and letters was kept in a blue bowl in the living room. Every now and then, when Louie or his parents were especially missing Gus, they would select one to reread.
Louie chose one addressed to him to take up to his room.
Hey, Louie!
I miss you, Louie. Are you getting older? Don’t get too old before I come home, okay?
I wish I could be there to see you and Mom and Dad. I miss home. What’s this I hear about a donkey? Really? A donkey?
Today I ate a snake. Really. I had to kill it and cook it and eat it. Don’t tell Mom.
Remember me,
Gus
Louie read the letter while lying on Gus’s bed. When he finished, he pretended he was Gus lying there. He kicked off his shoes from the back, like Gus did. He tossed a pillow over at his own bed, like Gus used to do. He regarded Gus’s trophies lined up on the bookcase and Gus’s baseball hats, stained with sweat.
Louie opened the closet and smelled the smell of Gus on his clothes. He chose Gus’s favorite football jersey—the black-and-red one with number 21 on it—and put it on. He stood in front of the mirror and said, “I am Gus!”
And then he lay down again on Gus’s bed and felt the enormous absence of his brother.
24
Don’t go
With the arrival of warmer days and nights, Winslow was now kept in a pen attached to the garage. Louie’s father had fashioned an overhang that extended from the garage roof, and he had enclosed part of the pen to give Winslow shelter from wind and rain and sun. Another solution would have to be found soon because theirs was not a yard in which you could easily keep a donkey. Not only was the yard too small, but it was also too close to the neighbors.
Winslow was now practicing his braying, emitting croaky, loud honks and eeee-awes throughout the day. Neighbors begged for mercy.
Saving Winslow Page 3