Strays

by Ron Koertge

  A few minutes later, Astin roars up, parks the bike, covers it and tucks it in, then hustles my way.

  “How’d it go with Wanda?”

  “Great. She’s nice.”

  “Did you make out?”

  “We danced and then she said for me to call her.”

  He pats his leather jacket until he finds his phone, then hands it to me. “So call her.”

  “She didn’t mean now. I just saw her.”

  “When did she mean?”

  “I don’t know. Probably somewhere between two and five days. I saw this movie, and one day means you’re desperate but anything over five means you’re not into her at all.”

  “Screw the movies. What do they know — they’re make-believe. Call her now. She’ll love it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He watches me read off the lined notebook paper, then punch in numbers. I lick my lips while her phone rings.

  “Wanda? Hi, it’s Teddy.”

  “Teddy? What’s wrong?”

  “Uh, nothing. You said to call, so I’m calling.”

  Then there’s an ominous silence. Finally she says, “Are you nuts? I just saw you, and now I’m right in the middle of something. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I hand the phone back to Astin. “She hung up on me.”

  “Don’t sweat it.”

  “Hey, she was fun today. Now I can’t call her back ever. I feel stupid.”

  “What exactly did she say? Word for word.”

  “Word for word she said, ‘Are you nuts? I just saw you, and I’m right in the middle of something. I’ll talk to you later.’”

  He leans back and grins. “There you go. Talk to her later.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Now she’s mad. I shouldn’t have called her so soon. I shouldn’t have listened to you.”

  “Oh, bullshit. If I did anything, I made you more interesting.”

  And he was right. Not that I was so interesting, but Wanda looked for me at school the next day and I called her that night.

  Pretty soon we’re talking a lot — me outside on the porch with the Rafters’ phone and her in bed just before she goes to sleep.

  It’s just ordinary stuff: what happened at school, my new haircut, how Megan was mad at Astin. Sometimes I hear the Rafters arguing in the kitchen, just like my parents used to.

  But there’s no reason for me to get a stomachache. They aren’t my parents; they’re my foster parents. And I’ve got somebody to talk to.

  It’s not even a week until Astin graduates and he can’t sit still: motorcycle runs up Angeles Crest, over to Blue’s, even down to the beach, which he doesn’t even like. Sometimes he takes me, every now and then C.W., but mostly Megan.

  Tonight we’re under the awning just outside Borders books on Colorado Boulevard. All the motorcycles are lined up side by side at the curb: Astin’s chopper; a couple of classic Indians; two or three big Yamahas; Noah’s bar hopper, which is so cherry he only rides it at night in warm weather; and Warren’s Ducati. I dial my new cell phone.

  “Wanda? It’s me.”

  “Teddy! Where are you?”

  “Uptown with Astin.”

  “Are you wearing your leather jacket?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you tell yourself from the other guys, or do you get confused?”

  “I’m the one drinking the frappe.”

  Wanda laughs. I really like to make her laugh. She says, “One CPA, one college dropout, a children’s book illustrator, a guy who hangs drywall, a transit cop, and a funeral director. Six divorces, a felony for possession, severe liver damage, a heart attack waiting to happen, and about a dozen bad kidneys. What do you see in that scooter trash, anyway?”

  “They’re Astin’s friends; I just keep him company.”

  “And then there’s that. Are you two registered at the Harley-Davidson store yet? It’s an all-chrome wedding, isn’t it?”

  “You are so funny.”

  “Has Scotty said his bike can blow the doors off anything on the road?”

  “Only about six times.”

  “Do you want me to come get you again?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Give me forty-five minutes.”

  “Why so long?”

  “Those guys think I’m just a dumb Betty, but I’m not going to be a dumb Betty who smells like turpentine. I’ll take a shower and put on a tank top; that’ll start their hearts.”

  I fold up my little phone and look for someplace to sit down. The only empty chair is at the card table, where three guys I don’t know very well are playing Texas Hold ’Em. We’re not really supposed to gamble, so there’s no money showing; we just remember our bets. I lose a couple of bucks to a guy with a dagger tattooed on his neck, then take a ten-dollar pot when the river card gives me a straight.

  Thanks to Astin, I know what to do next. “I’m buying.” Actually, thanks to Astin I know what a straight is.

  The café is inside the bookstore. I’ve been here with Astin two or three times now, and I always see somebody from my old high school. They’re hanging out or buying a book or just cruising the boulevard. I totally avoid them. I get in another line or pretend to read a book until they’re gone. I don’t even want to think about that old stuff.

  I carry the little cardboard tray outside and hand out the coffees to Matt, Terry, and Sid. I like the way shoppers give these guys their space. Somebody’s always got his boots sticking out farther than he should, but nobody ever says anything. They just take a little detour on their way to Urban Outfitters or Restoration Hardware.

  Then I sit down by Russ, who carries a fancy chess set in his saddlebags and plays speed chess with anybody who’s got ten dollars. But not tonight.

  “Hey, Teddy.”

  “Hey, Russ. Why aren’t you playing? You’re usually up about fifty bucks by now.”

  He’s wearing a bandanna covered with little skulls. He tugs at it before he says, “I’m bummed. My grandma died, and I got to go back to St. Louis and take care of stuff. There’s just me, right? So I gotta find a funeral home and pick out a casket and do all that morbid shit.” He sits up straighter. “Everybody says, ‘Oh, what a pain in the ass,’ but it’s not. She was a cool old lady. I lived with her until I went in the service. Without her, man, I’m in jail, you know? She wasn’t all churchy or anything. She was just solid. Standin’ at the stove when I came home, new notebooks for school, gave a shit if I was late, the whole nine yards.”

  “My folks haven’t been gone all that long.”

  “Yeah, I remember Astin saying something.”

  “If I’m out of line here, just tell me, okay?” I scoot my chair a little closer. “When I had to do what you’re going to, I just stood there in front of this wall of caskets and listened to some guy in a suit try and sell me something that’d keep my parents dry forever.

  “But I get through that. And I find a minister and he picks a day, and I’m just like walking in my sleep the whole time.” I look over at him. I ask, “You okay with this?” But I know he is. He’s leaning in.

  “Absolutely, man. Keep talkin’.”

  “So it’s finally Saturday and the service is at ten, but I’m there two hours early because the zoo isn’t open. I’m walking around, right? Trying not to think too much, and I kind of get toward the back of the place and I can hear these two guys talking behind a door and one of them says, ‘I’m not kidding. Twenty-four miles to the gallon.’ And all of a sudden I was okay. Or at least a whole lot better.”

  Russ shakes his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “They were just doing their job, see? My parents weren’t my parents to those funeral guys. They were just things to work on. So your grandma is fine. I mean, she’s probably in heaven or someplace nice. All you’re going to see is her body. All you have to do is take care of business. You can do that.”

  “Teddy!”

  I look over at Astin. I nod and stand up. Russ reaches across the table, puts h
is arms around me, and pounds on me hard.

  “Thanks, man. I mean it.”

  I make my way over to Astin, who grabs my arm and pulls me into an empty chair. “See that girl in the three-hundred-dollar jeans, the one with the bulldog?”

  I look down the block. “Yeah.”

  “She wants to talk to me. Next time she comes by, call that dog, okay?”

  “Will you relax.”

  “What’s up with Russ?”

  “His grandma died.”

  “I thought he didn’t like you.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, he thinks you’re a poser because you don’t have your own bike. But a minute ago he was all over you.”

  “I just gave him some advice.”

  He nudges me. “Here she comes. Oh, man, she is haughty all over.”

  “Aren’t you going by Megan’s in about twenty minutes?”

  “I just want to talk to her.”

  So I say to the dog, “Hey, come over here, okay?”

  Bulldogs really do resemble Winston Churchill. This one just looks at me like he’s about to address the nation.

  I say, “Please. My friend here wants to talk to your owner.”

  He drags her a step or two in my direction, and that’s enough for Astin to start laying out his charms like things at a yard sale.

  I put out one hand, but the dog doesn’t move. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Does she treat you all right?”

  “So you’re . . . one.”

  “I’m one what?”

  “One we . . . an tlk to.”

  “You’re breaking up on me here. It’s like we’re on cheap cell phones.” His eyes get a little brighter. He comes closer, close enough to put his paws on my knees. I reach out and rub at the loose skin around his neck. I say, “What’s going on, anyway?”

  “Teddy,” he says, “what . . . ou . . . xpect. You’re running with . . . other pack now.” Then he drops onto all fours and walks away.

  Another pack?

  Just then, Wanda pulls up in front of the bookstore, puts her flashers on, gets out, and walks around to the passenger side. She’s wearing cutoffs and a red tank top.

  “Wanda!” somebody yells. “Dump this kid and ride with me. I need somebody to keep my back warm.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re too old, Scotty. I like ’em very, very young.”

  Astin hails me. “Cover for me with the Rafters, okay? I might never come home.”

  I get behind the wheel. Wanda’s truck is a lot cleaner because I’ve been washing it lately. “Thanks for coming up.”

  “I was tired of packing, anyway. Not that there’s all that much. I just talked to my mom on the phone. She’s a little mad that the house is going to be empty.” She shakes her head. “I’m not having kids.” She glances over at me. “Do you want kids ever?”

  “God, I don’t know.”

  One hand comes across and rubs my neck. “You okay, Teddy?”

  “I guess. I was talking to this guy a few minutes ago and his grandma just passed away, and that made me think of my folks, and then this girl came by with her bulldog, and my mom loved bulldogs, so . . . you know.”

  “Do you just want to go home?”

  “I think so. Is that okay?”

  “Sure. We’ll do something tomorrow night. I should study, anyway. I’ve got one more test, the last one I’ll ever take in my life. How weird is that?”

  That thing about my parents isn’t the real reason I don’t feel like doing anything tonight. The real reason is I could barely hear that bulldog. The only thing that came through loud and clear was that I’m running with another pack. How can I explain that to Wanda when I don’t know what it means myself?

  When we get to the Rafters’, C.W. is on the porch talking to Barbara and Bob. Standing beside him is a real mutt — wiry-haired, skinny, and seriously in need of a bath.

  Wanda parks the truck and we walk up together. We can hear Barbara from the sidewalk,

  “It’s a dog, Bob. Not a baby. Nobody wants you to adopt a baby. And it won’t cost you a penny, so don’t worry about your precious certificates of deposit.”

  C.W. says, “I’ll do everything — feed him, wash him, pick up after him. All you got to say is he can stay in the backyard. He’ll be a great watchdog, especially when Barbara’s all by herself.”

  I glance down at the mutt and try to picture him going for some felon’s jugular. I say to him, “Can you hear me at all?”

  He just pants a little and leans against C.W.

  Barbara says, “He needs a bath.”

  Wanda says, “He is kind of cute.”

  C.W. appeals to me. “We can give him a bath, can’t we, Teddy?”

  “If there’s anything I know how to do, it’s give a dog a bath.”

  Mr. Rafter looks like one of those guys on Mount Rushmore.

  “Why don’t you take the dog for a walk or something,” says Barbara. “I’ve got a few things to say to Bob in private.”

  “Sure,” C.W. says. “Absolutely. Just remember: nothing out of pocket for you guys. I’ll take care of that. All I need is a backyard for him to live in.”

  As we go down the walk toward the street, I say, “He needs a leash.”

  C.W. shakes his head. “You don’t need no leash, do you, boy? You’ll stay right beside me.”

  And he does. I know that he’s just scared; his tail is down and kind of tucked under his belly. He probably won’t run away.

  Wanda puts one arm around me, kisses my cheek, then does the same to C.W. “I’m going to leave you two to deal with this. Call me before you go to sleep, Teddy, okay?”

  We watch until she drives away.

  “She’s nice,” C.W. says.

  “Yeah.”

  “But you guys don’t do nothin’.”

  “Not like you mean.”

  “’Cause she’s goin’ away and all.”

  “Sure.” But I don’t exactly know why we don’t. We just don’t. And I’m okay with that.

  We walk up Wayne Street, past the same houses I saw that first day from Ms. Ervin’s van. Except now I know who lives in them. Mr. and Mrs. Spires, Mr. Patterson, Wyatt and Maggie Nelson, Ellen Watson and her little boy, Forrest.

  The Rafters wonder how people like Wyatt and Maggie, and Ellen, too, I guess, can afford to buy with real estate prices the way they are. I just guess they saved up or it’s worth it to scrimp and cut some corners to live on a pretty street with real trees that’ve been here forever.

  I tell C.W., “Dogs aren’t cheap. He needs shots, and if he’s not fixed, he needs to get fixed, and he’s already big enough to eat like two dollars’ worth of food a day.”

  “I don’t care, man. I’ll get a job. Listen to this — I’m playin’ ball by myself and he just trots up, okay? Watches me shoot. One bangs off the rim and he goes and like gets it. Pushes it with his nose and shit. Almost brings it back to me. What am I supposed to do after all that, leave him there?”

  I say to the dog, “You picked yourself a good one, didn’t you?”

  Nothing. He glances at me, but he takes C.W.’s hand in his mouth and tugs on it.

  “Do you believe that, Teddy? He loves me. What kind do you think he is?”

  “Just a mix, but that’s good. He’s for sure not overbred.”

  “No way Bob says no, does he?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve seen this a hundred times. He’s going to be all hard-nosed about him. Lots of rules and what the dog can’t do and when he can’t do it. Then in about three weeks he’ll go to PetSmart and buy him a two-hundred-dollar bed so he can sleep in the same room with him and Barbara. And she’ll want to take him whenever she goes anywhere because he’s so cute with his head out the car window. No, my friend, your problem is not can he stay. Your problem is going to be visitation rights.”

  We’re walking back when Mr. and Mrs. Spires (he’s a physicist and she’s married to a physicist, if you get my meaning) stop us. They’ve
got their granddaughter, Kim, in one of those pricey carriages, and the dog puts his paws on the side and looks in.

  Mrs. Spires laughs. “What a charming animal,” she says. “What’s his name?”

  I say to the dog, “This is your last chance. Tell me, or who knows what it’ll be.”

  He just leans into C.W.

  When I get in bed that night, I’m totally alone. Totally. The lions are gone, the giraffe is gone, and C.W.’s dog won’t talk to me. The dark seems darker, the noises louder. Then I remember how Russ told me about his grandmother. How Wanda came and got me, Astin paid for my coffee, and C.W. asked for advice about the pooch.

  Is this the new pack I’m running with?

  No way am I going to sleep with all that bouncing around in my head, so I just get up and start working out. Which is something I’ve been doing for a few weeks now. Not much weight, lots of repetitions. I do what Astin says, which is to concentrate on the muscle that’s working, because that fills up my mind.

  I don’t look all that different. Well, maybe I do. A little, anyway. I only check when I’m by myself.

  I’m right in the middle of my third set of twenty-five when I hear Astin on the stairs. Clomp, clomp, clomp. And then — boom! He’s right in the room. Tripping over one of the dumbbells. His dumbbells.

  “Goddamn it, Teddy.”

  I carry the weights back where they belong, even though I know it’s too late. “I thought you weren’t coming home.”

  “What the fuck is my stuff doing all over the floor?”

  “I’m working out. I was going to put everything away at the same time.”

  “I told you not to mess around with my stuff.”

  “You said to ask. And I asked you a long time ago. And you said okay.”

  “Put this shit away now and keep your goddamn hands off of it, okay?”

  “Sure, fine. If you’d give me the sixty dollars you owe me, I could buy some weights of my own.”

  For some reason Astin zips up his jacket. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel cold all over. I put on my pants and tuck my cell phone in one pocket while he asks, “What fucking sixty dollars?”