Underdog

by Marilyn Sachs

  Not that I could remember her but I could remember that he liked me the best. Why should anybody blame him for my mother’s death? Hadn’t my uncle called it a freak accident—a once-in-a-million kind of accident? My father didn’t know what he was doing. I put my hands over my ears and made myself stop thinking about my father. I only wanted to think about Gus, about finding him again and making it up to him.

  But maybe he’s happy now, I thought as I let myself into the apartment. Maybe the S.P.C.A. found a wonderful family with a girl like me and they’re all crazy about Gus. It was funny but even though I tried my best to feel good for Gus I couldn’t help being jealous of that girl who was just my age and who Gus loved as much as he had once loved me.

  No, not as much, I thought. But if he’s happy with her and if she’s good to him, I suppose I can learn to accept it. I picked up the phone in the guest room, dialed 411 and asked Information for the number of the S.P.C.A. It rang for a long time before a man picked it up. I could hear dogs barking behind him.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’d like some information on a dog who was brought in about seven years ago. His name was ...”

  “What?” he said.

  “... Gus. His name was Gus and I’d like to know what happened to him.”

  “No, no, no!” the man yelled but not at me. “Wait a minute. You’re hurting him.” I could hear a dog howling. “Now, what was that?” he said again to me-

  “Uh ... I was wondering ...”

  “Look,” said the man, “we’ve got an emergency here. Let me transfer your call.”

  “Well, but ...” The line went dead for a moment or two and then another man picked up the phone and said, “Hello.”

  “Hello,” I said quickly, “I wonder if I could get some information.”

  “Certainly,” he said, politely. “What would you like to know?”

  I took a deep breath. “About seven years ago, a little dog named Gus was given to the S.P.C.A. by a lady named Mrs. Firestone. He was my dog. I mean, I was only four years old then so it wasn’t my idea to give him away. But anyway, I was wondering if you could please tell me where he is. I moved away and now I’m back and I want to see him again.”

  Just as he began to answer, I heard the outside door to the apartment open.

  “I’m very sorry,” the man was saying, “but that’s not possible.”

  I heard footsteps crossing the living room, coming down the hall, and a young woman stuck her head in the doorway and smiled at me. The cleaning woman! I’d forgotten about the cleaning woman.

  “Hello?” said the man on the phone. “Hello?”

  “Uh—hello.”

  The young woman nodded and moved away.

  “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Yes, I did,” I said, lowering my voice, “but I don’t understand why you can’t tell me.”

  “We consider that kind of information confidential,” he said. “Once a dog is placed in a new home it is not in his best interests to see his old owners.”

  “But I just want to see if he’s happy,” I said. “I’m not going to make trouble or bother anyone.”

  “I’m sure he’s happy,” said the man. “We only put our animals into homes where we feel people will take good care of them.”

  A wonderful idea came to me.

  “Well, why couldn’t you just tell them about me? About how I’d like to know how he is. Maybe they could call me and tell me or write to me.”

  I felt certain that once Gus’s new owners contacted me, they could be persuaded to let me come and see him.

  Even the girl, the one he loved nearly as much as me, even she could be persuaded.

  The man hesitated.

  “Please,” I said. “It’s very important to me. Something terrible happened. My mother died and I was too little to ... to stop it. We moved away and ... Gus was given away ... please!”

  “I’m sorry,” said the man. “I’d really like to help you.

  “Please!”

  “How long ago did you say the dog was brought in?”

  “Seven years ago. His name is Gus. He’s a little black dog—a mutt, I guess, and the lady’s name who gave him up was Mrs. Firestone.”

  “In a few months,” the man said, “all our records will be computerized but now it’s very, very difficult to find anything especially that long ago.”

  “Please!” I guess my voice cracked and the man took a deep breath and said in a very cranky voice, “We’re very short-staffed right now. We don’t have enough people to take care of our present situation.”

  “Please!”

  “And it: would take weeks even if we could find somebody to look.”

  “I’ll come,” I said. “I can look. I can start today.”

  “Impossible!” he said, but he didn’t sound so mean anymore. “I’m not promising but if you give me his number I’ll see what I can do. Just remember, even if we do find him, I’d have to contact his owners first and see if they would agree.”

  “Oh yes,” I said, “but why can’t I help you look? It’s such a long time to wait,”

  “What is the dog’s number?” said the man.

  “Number?”

  “Yes. When an animal is brought in, we assign him a number.”

  “But his name is Gus.”

  “All our records are kept under the animal’s number. The old owner has the number as well as the new.”

  “I don’t have it,” I cried.

  “Then I’m afraid we can’t help you,” the man said gently. “There is no way we can locate an animal unless you have that number.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. Not even okay.

  “Hello?” said the man.

  “Hello.”

  “You know we have some wonderful animals right now looking for a home—a beautiful little Siamese kitten and a very friendly German shepherd dog.”

  “No,” I told him. “I just want Gus.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  I could hear the cleaning woman rattling around outside the room and I tried to think of something to say to her. But my mind was on Gus. All I could think of was Gus.

  She must have been listening for me to hang up because she stuck her head back into the room again and said, “Hi —I’m Gina. I know you’re Izzy but your aunt said you wouldn’t be home until three.”

  “Well ...” I said, “well ...”

  “I guess she thought you were eating lunch in school.”

  “Well,” I said, “yes, I ... I changed my mind.”

  Gina made a face. She was young and looked a lot like Sandy. “I never could stand school lunches either. Do you want me to make a sandwich for you?”

  “Oh no,” I said. “I can make my own.”

  “Do you know where everything is?”

  “Not exactly, but ...”

  Gina showed me around the kitchen and talked nonstop all the time I was eating my lunch. She was a college student working her way through school but most of her classes were night classes except for one at four in the afternoon and she actually preferred not working mornings except for that one day when she had the four o’clock class. She was planning to go into marine biology and her boyfriend’s name was Doug but he was interested in art history. She didn’t ask me anything about myself which was lucky for me and I didn’t really need to ask her anything to keep her talking. But I did ask her one question.

  “Do you have a dog?”

  “No, I don’t like dogs. They’re too mushy. I’ve got a cat named Felix—a big, independent tiger. He goes his way and I go mine.”

  When I was ready to leave, she said she would be waiting for me at three.

  “I might be a little late,” I told her. “I might—uh—want to pick up a few books in the school library.”

  “Well, I’ll be here,” she said, and asked me to take the garbage out on my way down.

  It’s always a good time to think when somebody’s talking on and on and you’re
only half listening. All I had to do was eat my sandwich, smile, and nod at Gina while she was talking and say, “Oh?” or “No kidding” from time to time. It came to me, while she was describing her boyfriend, I guess, so I’m not sure if she said his eyes were gray and his hair brown or his eyes were brown and his hair gray that if I had the number I would be able to find my way to Gus. All I needed was the number, and grownups, I knew, even weird ones like Mrs. Firestone, always liked holding on to numbers.

  I was getting used to taking buses in San Francisco. Nobody asked me why I wasn’t in school and I knew where to get off when we reached Mimosa. As I climbed up the street, I noticed this time that there were other rhododendron bushes blooming in front of other people’s houses. Some were white and some were pink and some had dark purple spots. I slowed down as I came to Mrs. Firestone’s house. I knew she had the number. She had to have that number. I was in a great hurry to get that number and to find Gus but as I passed Number 126 my shoes felt as if they had lead in them.

  Slowly, very slowly, I leaned on the old, crooked gate and looked into the yard. No rhododendron bushes bloomed in Mrs. Firestone’s yard. Only a few cats circled the spot where the fire had burned that morning. Mrs. Firestone was not in sight. Slowly, I opened the gate, walked down the yard to the crooked house at the end, up the crooked steps, and knocked at the door.

  “Go away!” somebody shouted from inside.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Firestone was at home.

  “Mrs. Firestone,” I called out. “It’s me, Isabelle Cummings. I’m the girl who came this morning, looking for my dog, Gus. You remember Gus, Mrs. Firestone, the little black dog my uncle gave you seven years ago,”

  The door opened and Mrs. Firestone stood there, smiling.

  “How nice to see you again,” she said in a very ladylike manner. “Have you come back to see Spencer?”

  “No, Mrs. Firestone, not Spencer. I’m still trying to find my dog, Gus. You remember, Mrs. Firestone. Loretta scared him and you gave him to the S.P.C.A.”

  Mrs. Firestone shook her head. “Poor little thing. Loretta scratched his nose and chased him under the bed. I told her to stop it. I ...”

  “Mrs. Firestone,” I interrupted. “I need the number the S.P.C.A. gave you when they took Gus.”

  Mrs. Firestone’s eyes were so pale it was hard to know what color they were. And her eyelashes were as white as her hair. She looked at me but didn’t answer.

  “The number the S.P.C.A. gave you, Mrs. Firestone. I called them and they said that whenever a dog is brought in they give it a number and that the old owner has the number as well as the new owner.”

  Mrs. Firestone shook her old head.

  “They said they gave you the number, Mrs. Firestone. You have to find the number.”

  “I don’t remember a number,” said Mrs. Firestone. “It was so long ago.”

  “I’m sure you have it,” I cooed at her. “Maybe I could help you find it.”

  “Do come in,” said Mrs. Firestone, opening her door.

  I followed her into the living room this time and both of us sat down on a filthy, torn couch and looked at each other. There were boxes and boxes stacked up on top of one another lining all the walls. I tried not to look at them.

  “Maybe you put it away in your desk,” I suggested, looking around the room for a desk.

  The large gray dog who had snarled at me in the yard padded over and sniffed my knees.

  “His name is Rudolph—after Rudolph Valentino,” said Mrs. Firestone.

  The dog sniffed both of my knees thoroughly and then, suddenly, he licked my hand.

  “There, you see,” Mrs. Firestone said. “He likes you. He knows you like animals. He’s a very good judge of character.”

  I patted Rudolph’s head. It felt good and I wondered if he had known Gus, if he had been there at the same time as my dog.

  “How old is Rudolph?” I asked, scratching behind one of his ears.

  “I don’t remember,” said Mrs. Firestone.

  “Do you think he was here when Gus came here? Do you think they might have known each other?”

  “It’s possible,” Mrs. Firestone admitted. “Would you like a cup of tea? And what is your name, my dear?”

  “Isabelle but people call me Izzy.” Rudolph rested his head on my knees and looked up at me.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, Izzy?”

  “No, thank you, but I do need to find that number, Mrs. Firestone. Do you have any idea where it might be?”

  A small black-and-white cat jumped up on the sofa and began rubbing herself against me.

  “That’s Norma,” said Mrs. Firestone. “She’s named after Norma Shearer who was a beautiful actress. And there’s her brother, Clark, that black cat with the white paws. He’s named after Clark Gable.”

  “How many cats do you have, Mrs. Firestone?”

  “It’s hard to say. I never count.”

  The cat continued rubbing herself against me. I didn’t mind even though I like dogs better.

  “I need that number, Mrs. Firestone,” I tried again.

  “What number, Izzy?”

  “Gus’s number. The one the S.P.C.A. gave you.”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  “It was on a paper, Mrs. Firestone. Maybe you put it in your desk or maybe in one of those boxes or maybe in a drawer?”

  Mrs. Firestone slowly began looking around the room. Norma stopped rubbing against me and settled down in her lap. Then her brother, Clark, jumped up on the couch and plopped down in her lap too. She began stroking his head and his eyes opened and closed as her wrinkled old hand moved back and forth. “I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I burn papers. Especially ones with numbers on them.”

  Rudolph raised his head from my knees and moved over to Mrs. Firestone. He laid his head on her lap, right next to Norma’s face and the two animals looked sleepily into each other’s eyes. The room was quiet but my despair pounded so noisily inside my chest that I could not keep it there. “I’ll never find Gus now,” I cried.

  “Why not?” Mrs. Firestone asked in her dry old voice.

  “Because the S.P.C.A. can’t find out where he is unless they have his number. I’ll never know who they gave him to.”

  “But I know who they gave him to,” said Mrs. Firestone. “Why didn’t you ask?”

  Chapter 7

  My father used to say if you want the right answers, you have to know how to ask the right questions. Looking back, I realized that I had not asked the right question which was “Where is Gus now?”

  “They came and took him away, poor little thing,” said Mrs. Firestone. “I think I cried the whole day. You know, Izzy,” she said, putting her pale old face up close to mine. There were white wispy hairs on her chin and I tried not to look at them. “Sometimes they kill them—the S.P.C.A. does. I never like to give an animal away but he wasn’t happy here.”

  “Where is he now, Mrs. Firestone?”

  “Sometimes,” Mrs. Firestone continued gloomily, ignoring my question, “they say they put them to sleep but I know they kill them. So I felt bad all day. But then, later, when I was shopping, the grocery man, Mr. Holland, was telling a customer that his dog had died. I never liked his dog. He always used to bark at me and once he chased my Rudolph down the street. The dog was a lot like Mr. Holland. But, of course, I was sorry he had passed on and I extended my sympathies to Mr. Holland. I also told him about Gus and do you know what happened?”

  “He went to the S.P.C.A. and took Gus?”

  “No, he wasn’t interested but his customer was—a young woman with a little boy. She said she was looking for a dog. I told her Loretta had scared him and what a sweet, gentle dog he was. She said she wanted a gentle dog to play with her little boy and I said that Gus would be the perfect one. So she went and got him.”

  “Are you sure, Mrs. Firestone? Are you sure she went and got him?”

  “Oh yes, because a couple of times I saw her in t
he store with him and once Mr. Holland told me that he had—you know what—all over the cans of tomatoes. So he asked her to keep him tied up outside.”

  Mrs. Firestone went on talking about other things but I was thinking about Gus. No girl like me for his owner but a boy. I preferred a boy. I wasn’t going to be jealous of a boy.

  “What kind of a boy was he?” I asked Mrs. Firestone.

  “Who?”

  “The boy who was with the lady who went and got Gus.”

  “Oh, that boy!”

  “Was he a nice boy?”

  “Well, Izzy,” said Mrs. Firestone, “in general, I don’t have a very high opinion of boys. Girls laugh at you and call you names but boys throw things.” She lowered her voice. “You see my goose, Franklin—the one with the spotted neck? He’s named for my favorite president, Franklin D. Roosevelt. I found him in the park. Ah, those were the days!” Mrs. Firestone had a faraway look in her eyes. “When I was younger, I used to take my baby carriage and go to the park and oh, the things I found! Watches and hats and umbrellas, toys and blankets and bottles of wine. Ah, those were the days!”

  “You were telling me about the boy, Mrs. Firestone, the one who has Gus.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Firestone, “so on that day, I saw them, three of them, three boys, throwing stones at Franklin here. They were running after him on the grass and he was hurt. So I hit one of them with my umbrella and I kicked another one and they ran away.” She laughed a dry, high little laugh and her false teeth jiggled around in her mouth. “They called me names and threw stones at me but I’m used to that. Franklin was hurt. He had a cut on his back so I took him home with me in the baby carriage. I fixed him up but I could see he wasn’t happy. So another day, I went back and took Eleanor home for him. Now he’s happy.”

  “But that boy, Mrs. Firestone, the one with the lady. Did he look like a nice boy?”

  Mrs. Firestone shrugged her shoulders. “He looked like a boy, a little boy.”

  “Did Gus seem happy?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “He used to come right up to me whenever he saw me at the grocery store and he would wag his tail. Yes, I think he looked very happy.”

  “Do you know the lady’s name?”