As I sat upstairs, getting my story straight, I heard Paul say: “What’s this? Looks like fourteen shades of mud.”
“Oh, that’s Franklin’s idea. It’s milk paint. No volatile organic compounds.”
“Huh?”
“There’s no outgassing.”
“Get him down here. I’ll show him outgassing.”
“Paul!”
You might think a comment like that would have stayed my progress, but no, I remained determined. As I crept downstairs, I noticed that my mother had given Zero one of the rawhide bones she’d purchased at Chow Hound. Rawhide is a nice word for “dehydrated skin of a dead cow.” Shards of saliva-soaked rawhide were now sprinkled across our carpet.
Must not run for vacuum with HEPA filter. Must stay focused.
“Mother,” I managed to say, holding tight to the banister. “I intend to be with Bernie all day Saturday. We’re going to the library to get information for our database, then, um, lunch at Perkins’ Drug Store, followed by…a trip to Van Hoek’s. Bernie needs new tennis shoes and, well, he’s requested my presence to evaluate the footwear for durability and safety. Following that…”
“You’ll be gone with Bernie all day?”
I braced myself for the interrogation to follow.
“Okay.” My mother grabbed Paul’s arm. “Hey, we can go to that countertop-and-tile place in Conklin.”
Paul took this opportunity to put his face in my mother’s hair. “I hear they’re doing karaoke at the Whistle Stop now.”
My mother peeled a few bills from her money clip and held them out to me.
“Lunch is on me. Perkins’ Drug Store, eh? Don’t eat too many cinnamon rolls, Franklin. You know, too much sugar isn’t good for you.”
Though Paul laughed heartily, I thought this a very lame joke. So much for an interrogation of my movements. She was happy to be rid of me. I wonder what she would think if she knew I was boarding a Transit Authority bus bound for the bowels of the city.
This is not where they listen to the carillon chimes by the town square, a less mature Franklin might have shouted at her. This is the ’hood, Mother. Think feral dogs, rusty nails. I might even see a discarded needle that was once used to inject drugs.
The very thought sent me rushing back upstairs to double-check my vaccination record.
Back in my room, I pulled out Sarah’s backpack and began to empty it of all but the figure skate and the teddy bear, reasoning that there was no need to take her school folders to Grand River. Though they had a generally crumpled appearance—one even bore a bicycle tire tread!—the folders obviously hadn’t seen much use.
I was surprised to see my own name on her health folder.
“Tell Franklin!” she’d written and underlined several times. I opened the folder to find it stuffed with—not handouts and notes on healthy vs. unhealthy love or the toxicity of cigarettes—past-due bills and notices of cancellation of service.
Tell Franklin!
Sarah Kervick had almost confided in me. She’d actually believed, at least for a moment, that I could help her out of her difficulties. I sat on my bed and looked over her possessions. I was beginning to feel a bit, well, petrified about what I was about to do.
I couldn’t help it. It was late on Friday. She wasn’t in the office and there was nothing she could do, but I wanted to hear Gloria’s voice before I departed. After two quick rings, her machine began:
“This is Gloria Nelots. Did you know that 85 percent of the people who drowned in boating-related accidents last year were not wearing life jackets? If you’re heading out for a boat ride, for heaven’s sake, buckle into a life preserver. Oh, and check for power lines before launching. Now leave me a safe message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Beep.
“Gloria? This is Franklin. You won’t get this until you return, but I think you should know I have located Sarah Kervick and I am going to, uh, visit her tomorrow…that is, Saturday. I hope I make it back okay. I was just calling to ask you about something, but…I guess I would go even if Grand River did have shocking crime statistics. Because I promised that I would. And because, well, I bet William would have gone. I mean, if he knew Sarah Kervick. Even if he was only eleven and three-quarters years old…” I sighed. “Well, that’s all for now, Gloria…. Allright, then. Good-bye.”
The next morning, after I purchased my ticket at the post office, I had just one more errand to run before setting off for Grand River. It was something I’d been thinking about for days. Though the ticket had been covered by my allowance, I had to raid the envelope with the remainder of my birthday money for this one.
Fields’ Flowers was located on Main Street two doors down from the post office. It was run by a Mr. Tranh, who came to America as a young man. Our local paper, The Pelican View, had just done a big write-up on his becoming an American citizen. Certainly, no one was more careful with his American flag than Mr. Tranh, who took it down at the end of each business day in the official manner set forth by the United States Code.
I entered Mr. Tranh’s shop. It was cool and dark and smelled pleasantly of green growing things. Mr. Tranh was behind the counter near the cooler.
“Good morning,” I said. “I would like to buy some flowers.”
Without looking up, Mr. Tranh studied the index card on which I’d copied Gloria’s address. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Washington, D.C. We send them FTD.”
Mr. Tranh pulled out a book with thick plastic pages and began flipping through them.
“Anniversary? Wedding?”
“No. Birthday.” I tried to focus on all the possibilities, but Mr. Tranh was flipping very quickly.
“Oh, lovely. Birthday.” He began paging in a different direction. “How old?”
“Well, he would have been fifty-seven.”
Mr. Tranh tore a piece of paper from a thick pad next to the cash register. An official FTD form. I began to fill it out, hoping thirty-five dollars was enough to buy something in this book.
“Yes, yes. How old is he now?”
“Uh, he’s dead.”
Mr. Tranh looked at me as if his understanding of English had failed him. “Birthday flowers to dead person? No, no. Sympathy.”
This required another book altogether. I looked over the bouquets appropriate for when someone died. Lots of white lilies and silver. They didn’t seem right. Gloria had said William was like Sarah. I pictured him on the ball field, weaving between the other players, narrowly avoiding disaster. Like she was, full of energy.
“No.” I shook my head firmly to make sure Mr. Tranh understood. “Happy flowers. Happy birthday. He is fifty-seven next week.”
Mr. Tranh sighed and repositioned his glasses. He seemed to think he would be held personally responsible for sending the wrong kind of flowers across the nation. He put the sympathy book away and slowly flipped through the “Happy Birthday” section again.
“Message?” he asked, pointing to a box on the form. “We type. It go through computer, come out in Washington, D.C.”
“I want to use this poem.” I passed the poem over to Mr. Tranh. To remember William, I had chosen “Passing Love” by Langston Hughes—over the years I’d learned Gloria was a big fan of his poetry.
Because you are to me a song
I must not sing you over-long.
Because you are to me a prayer
I cannot say you everywhere.
Because you are to me a rose—
You will not stay when summer goes.
I tried to wait patiently as Mr. Tranh copied the poem into the message box.
When he was finished, he said, “From…”
“Do I have to say who it’s from? Can’t we just have the poem?”
He shook his head vigorously. “Always say. Always sign card. Creepy for Gloria to get flowers from no one. Especially for dead person on her birthday.”
“But it’s not her birthday. It’s his. Her brother’s. Her brother died in Vietnam.”
Mr. Tranh stopped short. His eyes got bigger. “Aah, I see. This is very special. Fallen soldier. Memorial flowers.” He paged furiously to a veritable riot of red, white, and blue. “We use special ribbon, with stars.”
I almost didn’t have the energy to fight with him. He seemed so anxious to help, but these red carnations and white roses just weren’t right.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tranh, but I need a different kind of flowers. Don’t you have anything…wild…and restless?”
Mr. Tranh kneaded his face in his hands. He pulled yet another book from under the counter and paged through it. He smoothed the pages and turned the book around.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s it!” Wildflowers spilled out of the vase in no particular order. Big purple sprays and clusters of orange. Long blue tubes of color. Not my taste, exactly. But just right all the same.
“I hope I have enough,” I said as Mr. Tranh tapped energetically on the cash register.
“How much you have?” he asked.
“Thirty-five dollars.”
He stopped tapping. “We do it without vase. Nice bow. Thirty-five dollars. Even.”
The bell behind me jingled, and another customer walked in. “Aah, here come my best customer. Mr. Bernard come in every day to get rose for his sweetheart.”
“Hey, Franklin. I’m just on my way to your house. Getting a little something for Glynnis?”
My news traveled fast. I faced Paul, who looked tidier than usual in a blue-checked plaid shirt tucked in at the waist. For some reason, I was unable to compose a reasonable answer. Had I just blown my cover by being seen in the flower shop? What exactly had I told my mother I’d be doing at this hour? Come to think of it, if Paul bought a rose for my mother every day, what happened to all those flowers? Did she throw them out? Hide them?
“Gloria” was the only word I could manage.
“Gloria?”
I held out the FTD form. “To remember her brother. He would have been fifty-seven.”
Paul read over the form. “Can I see?” he asked, picking up the book with the bouquet.
“A Vietnam veteran,” Mr. Tranh said. “Very special memorial flowers.” Obviously Mr. Tranh did not have to take the kind of privacy oaths that lawyers and doctors did.
“Well, you’re going to put a rose in there, aren’t you? It’s got a rose right in the poem.”
“I’m afraid that would be over my budget.”
“I will add red rose to bouquet,” Mr. Tranh announced expansively, “to honor American hero.”
“No need for that, Anh Dung,” Paul said, pulling bills from his wallet. “Just add it to my tab today. And give me one of those French beauties you got in the back.”
As Mr. Tranh disappeared into the cooler, Paul said: “So, Franklin, I thought you were allergic to flowers.”
“Well, some varieties do cause mild sensations of itching—”
“I just assumed that’s why your mom always kept hers in the van.”
“I—”
“But now that I know you’re a flower man, like myself, well…you know, Franklin, I’ve been thinking…” Paul leaned up against the counter as if he was warming up to say something. It was most disconcerting.
“We should spend a little time together, you and me…. You know…” He scratched his chest, thinking. “Uh…maybe pick up some health food and…I don’t know. Hit the museum?”
Mr. Tranh had returned with a single apricot-colored rose. He sprayed it with a fine mist and held it up for Paul’s inspection. Paul nodded his approval.
“Tissue color?” Mr. Tranh asked.
Paul thought for a moment. “Dark gray,” he said. “So what do you say, Franklin? You and me?”
I glanced at my watch. It was almost time for my scheduled departure. I placed my money on the counter and began backing toward the door. “Sounds good,” I said, attempting a casual tone. “See you around, Paul.”
I hurried to the parking lot behind Perkins’ Drug Store, clutching my bus ticket in my sweaty palm. Sarah’s skate kept whacking me on the back. The thought occurred to me that if my bag was searched, the skate could be considered a lethal weapon. Weapons of any kind were strictly prohibited on any Transit Authority bus.
For the sake of convenience, I’d memorized the lengthy code of “Riding Rules.” It would be easy to refrain from using alcohol or other illegal substances; using obscene, threatening, inciting, or insulting language or gestures; spitting, littering, or picking trash from receptacles; vandalizing; fighting, mock fighting, or roughhousing; standing, sitting, or walking in a way that inconveniences other passengers; loitering, pan-handling, or soliciting; or using a radio, CD player, or other sound-producing device without headphones.
But if Gammy Donuthead could have her knitting needles confiscated on her most recent flight to Florida, could not Sarah Kervick’s recently sharpened skate be cause for concern?
I was thinking I would just have to risk it when I saw—as if in a dream—Glynnis Powell running toward me across the asphalt. She was wearing a loose-fitting pair of slacks with a belted cardigan. One hand kept a beret atop her head. I squinted. Could it be a mirage? No, there was Bernie Lepner, bringing up the rear and trying to hold on to an enormous German shepherd clad in two canvas bags and a harness.
“Franklin!” Glynnis came to a stop directly in front of me, looking quite disheveled. She pressed a hand to her heart. With the other, she straightened her little hat and combed a few loose hairs behind her ear.
“I…” But she was too out of breath to continue.
“We made it!” Bernie had managed to keep hold of the animal that now sat, barely winded, and gazed up at Glynnis with adoration. The lettering on his harness read: PAWS WITH A PURPOSE. I AM IN TRAINING.
“Franklin, I…” Her eyes met mine and she faltered again. Only this time, she wasn’t out of breath. I saw her perfect mouth form a little O of embarrassment, and she blushed deeply.
“I told Glynnis where you were going, and she wanted to help,” Bernie said.
Glynnis put her hand on the dog’s head. “I brought you Bartleby,” she said.
“Bartleby?” I repeated. “As in…”
Glynnis smiled and looked at the ground. “The Scrivener.”
I sighed. Hardly anybody our age reads Melville. Glynnis really was a reader.
“Is he…yours?” Somehow, I’d never pictured Glynnis with a dog before. She seemed too…well, too neat.
She nodded again. “My stepfather is Trevor Thompson.”
“He’s the one on TV,” Bernie said, oh so helpfully. “You know, Thompson Treats, TrevorTime dog and cat food, T & T Hairball Remover…”
“I’m familiar with the product line, Bernie,” I replied, hoping to silence him. I wanted just a moment to absorb the scene in front of me, zooming in on Glynnis and cropping Bernie and the dog from the picture.
“Your real father?” I asked her.
“My parents are divorced.”
“Is it strange…? I mean, I might be getting a stepfather…someday.”
“It’s a little strange,” she said. Her gaze had come up to my chest. She combed the same hair behind her ears. “Well…” She exhaled sharply. “A lot strange if you really want to know.”
“Here’s the bus!” Bernie shouted, far louder than was necessary.
“Oh!” Glynnis seemed to recall why she had come in the first place. “He’s not really in training. He’s a personal-protection dog. But they let dogs go on the bus like this. Just hang on to the handles, Franklin, and he’ll protect you.”
“Oh, I don’t think a dog—”
“It’s a jungle out there, Franklin,” Bernie said. “Two years ago, my aunt and uncle got their disability check stolen.”
“I guess you neglected to tell me that, didn’t you?”
The bus door whooshed open.
Glynnis kneeled down in front of the dog. She put her hands on his ears and stroked them.
“Say good-bye, Bart
y.”
What I saw next pains me even to repeat. Glynnis allowed that dog—that dog whose mouth may have come into contact with toilet water, its own reproductive organs, even day-old Dumpster trash—to lick her on the mouth.
I took a step back in shock. I felt sick to my stomach.
She leaned forward to whisper: “Unless you’re in hot water, don’t say the state motto. It’s his signal to attack. Good luck, Franklin.”
“Need some help there?” the driver shouted. “We’re on a schedule, pal.”
Still incredulous, I took the handle on the dog’s harness and pulled slightly. Bartleby’s head swiveled back and forth between me and Glynnis. Her eyes were on him, urging him forward. She made a gesture with her hand.
I didn’t know dogs could sigh. But Bartleby let out a long one before trotting up the steps with me.
“Handi-dogs in front,” the driver said. She was what the weight charts call “morbidly obese,” with iron-gray hair that didn’t quite cover her head. And she was chewing gum. With her mouth open.
I sat down in the front row of seats, the ones that face each other rather than forward. HANDICAPPED ACCESSIBLE, the sign read. SECUREMENTS AVAILABLE BENEATH THE BENCH. Bartleby and I looked at each other for a long moment before he chose a spot half under and half extending out into the aisle. This would clearly be a problem, as it blocked the aisle for future passengers. I knew what would make him attack—the state motto. I knew various other dog words, such as come, sit, and stay. But I did not know how to communicate: Can you please scoot back a little so you’re not blocking the aisle?
The bus lurched to life, and I looked out the window at Glynnis and Bernie, standing side by side, waving at the retreating bus. I could not shake the image of Bartleby licking Glynnis. Talk about bursting my Ivory-soap bubble. The distressing thought occurred to me that there might be other things about Glynnis that—when I discovered them—would tarnish my image of her perfection.
And yet, there were Glynnis and Bernie, growing smaller by the moment. What would they do now? I wondered. Go over our geography assignment? Conjugate a few Spanish verbs? Whatever pleasant activities their day held, my course was set. I was heading for Grand River, the eighth largest metropolis in the Midwest, heading to the heart of the city, to deliver one figure skate to its rightful owner.
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