Storm Dog

by L. M. Elliott

  Oh, I had forgotten. I’d been so balled up in being mad and disappointed with all the emphasis on G-L-O-R-I-A that I had forgotten these kinds of moments between us. And they had existed—before George left, before Gloria’s and Mama’s disgust with me and mine with them had hardened up.

  Daddy kissed me on my forehead. “You know, Ariel, you are growing into a graceful young woman.”

  “Really, Daddy? You really think so?”

  He held me out at arm’s length. “Of course, honey.” He cocked his head at me—the same way George did when he was questioning something I said as being way harsh on myself. I realized for the first time how very alike they really were.

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  He was about to say something else when through the floorboards we heard: “Eddieeee? Eddieeee? Time for Wheel of Fortune!”

  No, No, NO! Not now. Just a few more minutes, I silently begged.

  Daddy shrugged, almost like he was acknowledging on what a short leash she keeps him. “Your mama got all the word puzzles right last week—every single one—and she’s thinking of auditioning for the show.” He climbed the stairs and paused at the door. “Coming?”

  “No thanks,” I answered. What I really wanted was to plead with Daddy to not leave. But in my disappointment, I simply defaulted to snarky. “She hates it when I guess the puzzle before she does.”

  “Eddieeeeeeeeeeeeee!” Mama was annoyed now.

  Daddy smiled down the stairs at me, then was gone. Like music turning off.

  I stood on the bottom step, trying to memorize the feel, the melody of the last few minutes, like a hymn of possibility. Maybe, just maybe, if he saw Duke and me dancing my choreography in the parade, Daddy would actually remember which of his daughters he was watching.

  Nine

  Subject: vacation plans

  From: jazzlver

  To: AplusGirl

  Hey A,

  Can’t wait to be with you in Rehoboth. I’ll be playing Whac-a-Mole until I see you. First thing I’m going to do is eat a month’s worth of Thrasher’s fries. It’ll be a cakewalk on the boardwalk—LOL! Big hug, G

  Saturday morning, I sat in front of my computer, rereading the last email I’d gotten from George. To anyone else, his words would make no sense. But I understood George’s code. Leave it to him to be so clever while maintaining army secrecy. We weren’t meeting in Rehoboth, although I wish. No, talking about our family’s favorite beach and Whac-a-Mole was George telling me he was going out on reconnaissance to look for Taliban insurgents. And the bit about the amount of boardwalk French fries he was going to eat meant he’d be on the move for four weeks or so.

  Bottom line? George was letting me know he wouldn’t be able to Skype for a while but not to worry. He expected the patrol to be easy, “a cakewalk.”

  I tried not to be baby-selfish, but I was really disappointed. I wanted to tell him about Sergeant Josie and Duke and dog dancing. And get his advice. To be honest, I was starting to have a lot of doubts about the whole thing.

  Not dancing in general—that was coming along well. I’d choreographed a pretty sweet routine, and Duke was getting it. I was even training him to shake his head and lift his front paws—alternating left, right, left, right—in time to Stevie’s beat, barking right on cue with the saxophones on the verse about big-band legends like Louis Armstrong, Count Basie, Glenn Miller, “and the king of all—Sir Duke.” (Bark, Bark!)

  No, I was just getting cold feet about crashing the parade. How mad would everyone be, I wondered. Could I get arrested? Would Daddy represent me in court if they threw me in jail? What if Mama or G-L-O-R-I-A convinced him to let me stay locked up?

  Maybe the whole idea was just too crazy. Besides, what made me think I could create something anyone would be interested in watching? And dancing in front of people who thought I was ugly and a troublemaker and destined for H-E-double toothpicks? I’d just be giving them ammunition to make fun of me.

  Plus, I’d been so obsessed with Duke and dog dancing, I was screwing up big-time in school—the only place where I’d always done well. I’d managed a D plus on my latest Algebra quiz, which I suppose was a step up from an F minus. But that sure wasn’t saying much. Ms. Math had even asked me if I thought I belonged in her class. There it was, the question of my life: did I really belong?

  I kicked at a growing pile of dirty socks. I managed to stub my big toe bad on shoes hidden beneath.

  “You are so stupid, Ariel!” I screamed at myself.

  Dropping to the floor, I rubbed my throbbing toe, the pain shutting me up for a minute. Sitting there in my laundry reminded me that George was always asking us to send replacements for the socks his combat boots wore thin. So I eased down my panic and switched to thinking about stuff that really did matter—like George being in Afghanistan and out on patrol, where all sorts of truly bad things could happen.

  Well, if I couldn’t Skype, I could write a letter and send it in a package of stuff he always needed. Every month, I organized a family box to send George. The post office was good about making sure flat-rate packages found their way to service people pretty fast, even if they were out in the field.

  I went down to the front hall closet, where we kept shipping cartons and the required customs forms. I knew Daddy had already written his monthly note and been collecting things to send George. On his desk, I found his sealed letter atop a pile of toothpaste, gummy bears, batteries, granola bars, lemonade crystals, the latest edition of Rolling Stone magazine, and toilet paper. I gathered them up, knowing Daddy was still in bed. Mama insisted that Friday be date night. If their evening included going to see a movie, that meant driving thirty minutes of back roads to Leesburg or Winchester. On those nights, they never got home before midnight, which had to be way late for a sixty-four-year-old guy.

  Opening the box, I put in Daddy’s items first. George had asked me to send stuffed animals that he could give to Afghan kids when he was on patrol—out where tribal villages had next to nothing, not even running water.

  Back when they were all the rage, Mama had purchased a gazillion Beanie Babies, thinking she’d make a fortune reselling them. But when the Wall Street Journal reported a while back that no one wanted the little creatures anymore and they were only worth fifty cents apiece, she threw them into the trash in a fury.

  Their little faces had looked so sad in our garbage can, I fished them out. None of them are the ones that eBay is suddenly listing for ridiculous prices, so I was sending them to George a handful at a time. I dropped in an owl, dragon, snake, parrot, and bat. That pretty much crammed the box full.

  My letter became a long one, all about Duke and the storm and Sergeant Josie and dog dancing. How hard it was. How excited I was. How much I wished he could see my choreography. How much I wished I could ask his advice. Here’s the last bit of it.

  You wanted me to find what would make me feel “invulnerable.” Like music does for you. Maybe this is it? Maybe. It’s kind of crazy, though, dog dancing. Right? But it makes me feel like Charlie and Sam and Patrick in The Perks of Being a Wallflower at the very end when they finally found the tunnel song and they’re zooming, driving in Patrick’s pickup, and for that one precious moment, Charlie feels infinite.

  Thank you for telling me about that book, George. I wish I could be friends with those three characters.

  Oh! I have a book for you. I’ll send it, too. Swing. I think you’ll really like it. It’s about a lot of stuff, but JAZZ runs through the whole thing. It calls Benny Goodman “the fixer . . . the sway and swoon,” his music “melody in your steps” and “a chance to dance offbeat.”

  Be safe. Please.

  xoxo, A

  I blew on the paper to dry the dumb tears I’d let drop onto the letter and then placed it and the book so they’d be the first things George would see when he opened the box. Balling up newspapers to tuck around the edges to keep things from sliding around, I chose sections I knew George would be interested in flattening out and
reading. I was just about to tape it closed when I heard Gloria’s alarm go off next door. Nine o’clock—that was way early for her on a Saturday. She must have a princess meeting, I figured.

  Now, about the only thing G-L-O-R-I-A and I had ever agreed on was that our brother was Mr. Wonderful. It’d be a real jerk move on my part to send him a box and not ask if she wanted to include something. I started to tape the box up anyway. I sure didn’t owe her anything these days.

  But George has always been a good influence on me, whether he’s in the same room or on the other side of the world. He wouldn’t ever be that nasty on purpose. He might think less of me if I were. Plus—as much as I worried that G-L-O-R-I-A might manage someday to turn George against me, too, if she got a lot of time with him—I knew his feelings might be hurt if there was nothing in the box from Gloria. So I forced my feet to walk across the hall to her bedroom.

  Knocking, I shouted, “Gloria, you up?”

  No sweet singsongy response from our Blossom princess. “What do you want?” she snarled.

  “Want to put something in our box for George?”

  I heard blankets being thrown around, then shuffling. Rubbing her eyes, Gloria pulled open her door. For someone who is so gorgeous most hours, she sure can look strange in the morning. To give herself soft curls, her hair was pulled up and threaded in and out of a headband. The updo actually worked, but she always woke up with her hair sticking out in tufts like a crazed chrysanthemum. Gloria still wears a retainer to keep her smile Hollywood perfect, so her teeth were rubber-banded. Her face was lathered with white acne medicine. And, I’m sorry, her big pink slippers with feathery poufs at the toes looked like clown shoes to me.

  She seemed so put out by my standing there, I couldn’t help myself. I wrinkled up my nose and said, “You might need some more beauty sleep there, girl.” Part of me meant it to be a joke, you know, teasing as if we liked each other, but it came out mean, G-L-O-R-I-A caliber mean. I deserved what I got next.

  “As if you would know anything about beauty.”

  We glared at each other.

  I shifted the box in my arms.

  Gloria put up the truce flag first. Our half brother had that effect on her, too. Her tone was almost civil as she asked, “Did you say something about George?”

  Following her lead, I answered with normal politeness. “Yeah. I’m going to mail our box to him today so it’s waiting for him when he gets back from patrol. Do you have something you want to put in?”

  She looked at me funny. “How do you know he’s out on patrol?”

  I figured George had emailed Gloria the same kind of message he had me but she just didn’t get his code. “You know, the one about vacation plans.”

  “Vacation?” she interrupted. “The army lets George go on vacation? Where would he go?”

  “He was being cryptic. Vacation obviously means patrol.” I stopped myself from putting on the duuuh expression she and Mama always hurled at me. But I gotta admit I was feeling it.

  Biting on her lower lip, Gloria asked, all weird: “He emails you?”

  Her surprise set me off big-time. “What? You think he doesn’t care enough about me to email me?”

  Those turquoise eyes of hers—that everyone is so gaga about—bugged out as big as robin’s eggs, I swear. But she didn’t say anything. Which also was way weird. I had no idea what she was stewing on. But I could see she was thinking hard on something.

  She turned slowly, like she was considering taking some jab at me. Or maybe asking another question? But then she stomped to her bureau, where she picked up a letter and, of course, her cell phone. She kissed the note and then held it toward me, without looking up as she scrolled through the text messages that were already coming in fast, one little chime after another.

  I could see scrawled across the pink envelope: Guess what? I’m a princess! Biting my tongue to keep from making an obvious sarcastic remark, like “could you help me out here, Your Majesty?” I rattled the box to show her my hands were full.

  Letting out a Hollywood-worthy sigh of exasperation, Gloria looked up long enough from her phone that she could drop her letter into the box. It landed on Swing. “What’s that?” she asked.

  There was an edge to her voice now. Her usual impatience with me, I assumed. But ask me about a book and I am going to open up, hungry. “Kwame Alexander writes really cool verse novels. All razor-sharp, to-the-soul poetical. This one he co-authored with a lady named Mary Rand Hess, and it has a lot about jazz. George and I have been reading books and talking about them while he’s in Afghanistan. I thought George would like this one since he loves big-band music so much.”

  Again, Gloria looked at me all weird.

  I kicked myself for being so honest and earnest, making me all vulnerable.

  “You and George are such nerds.” She said that strangely quiet and thoughtful. But then, as if some other thought hit her upside the head like a harsh wind, she shifted to G-L-O-R-I-A grade nasty: “Nobody likes know-it-all girls. Or book geeks. No wonder you don’t have any friends.”

  She started to close the door, but a new text popped up on her cell phone. She froze. “What is this?” She held it up so I could read a text from Marcus: Tell Ariel I’ll pick her up at 9:30. We have some dogs to beautify.

  He remembered! I hadn’t been sure Marcus really meant the part about taking me to the animal shelter. And I’d figured Gloria had told him to ignore me just as she’d threatened. I grinned. As big as a princess.

  That really infuriated Gloria. “What does he mean about beautifying dogs? Where are you going?”

  “Just to the animal shelter. He asked if I’d like to help clean up some of the dogs so they look more adoptable when people come in.”

  Again, a momentary, out-of-character quiet. Then she gave a dramatic who-the-heck-cares kind of shrug. “I couldn’t see Marcus today anyway. I’m busy with a dress fitting for the parade. I won’t be able to spend much time with him at all during the Festival. Then after that . . . ,” Gloria trailed off, and gave a very different kind of shrug. For a moment she looked sad almost. Definitely pensive. Then, just like before, a sudden swing back to that mean-girl, princess-up-on-a-high-horse voice: “So he’ll have time to do a little charity work with you.

  “And I’m sure you can be a help to the dogs there. After all”—Gloria leaned toward me and looked me in the eye to slap me with that dehumanizing, sexist, old-time slur for a woman someone thinks is unattractive—“it takes one to know one.”

  She slammed the door in my face.

  Did I say I was having second thoughts about sticking it to G-L-O-R-I-A at that parade?

  Ten

  G-L-O-R-I-A DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO COME down to say hello to Marcus when he arrived at nine thirty sharp. He was disappointed, I could tell. But he looked over my shoulder up the staircase only a couple of times before refocusing his gaze back on me as we talked. Marcus was also incredibly nice about agreeing to run me by the post office to mail George’s package. He said he had an errand he needed to do, too, and both stops were right on the way to the shelter (even though I knew for sure the post office wasn’t).

  “Your parents know where you’re going, right?” he asked as I came out the front door behind him.

  “I didn’t have a chance to tell them last night,” I fibbed. I didn’t want him to know I hadn’t mentioned it because I hadn’t believed he’d actually show up to take me.

  “Hold on.” Marcus put his hand up like a school crossing guard. “Run back in and tell them.”

  “Daddy’s in the shower. Mama’s still asleep.”

  “You need to write them a note, then. Make sure you turn on your phone so they can get ahold of you if they need to.”

  I frowned. I tended to light out from the house without anyone ever wondering where I was going. I know a lot of my classmates would think that was dope, like I was being granted some big freedom. But I’ve always suspected that my family just didn’t care enough about me
to wonder where I was. “They won’t want to get ahold of me, Marcus. They never do. Besides, my cell loses its charge fast. I only turn it on when I need to use it. I need a new phone, but Mama says I have to do a month of folding laundry and dinner dishes to earn a replacement.” That was a month of her basically not having to do much housework.

  It was Marcus’s turn to frown. He herded me back through the door. “Write a note. We’ll give them my cell number. Tell them they can call me if they need to find you.”

  As I left the scrap of paper on the front hall table, tucked up under the old engraved silver vase, I wondered if anyone would notice it.

  When we got to his Mustang, Marcus took George’s box from me to put in the back seat next to an unopened Jesus Toaster. Then he held my door open for me—like I was a grown-up lady or something. As I slid in, I was impressed with how neat and clean the car was. No cigarette odor at all. One of those pine tree air fresheners—red to match his car—hung from the rearview mirror along with the tassel from his high school graduation cap.

  He got in and reached over to turn on the radio. “What type of music do you like?” he asked, as thoughtful as if I were a guest in his home.

  I couldn’t help it. No one was ever that nice to me. I blurted, “You have such good manners, Marcus.”

  The dark look he gave me made my stomach flip-flop.

  “Think because I live in a trailer park and not some old fancy house like yours that I can’t have good manners?”

  “Oh no, Marcus, I didn’t mean that.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  He turned the ignition, and the engine revved with a pop out the exhaust pipe. He drove out our long drive slow as a turtle, like maybe he was considering not taking me after all. I kept quiet, afraid I’d ruined things, just like I almost did with Sergeant Josie and my dumb comment about The Odyssey.