Rotten (9780545495899)

by Northrop, Michael

  “What?” he says.

  It takes all my willpower, but I double down. “Sorry, I just got a little — you know how I get — how’s it feeling? The hand?”

  He looks down at it, stuffed like a sausage into the end of the sling. The people start to move away. By the time he looks up again, he’s figured me out. He’s got that look in his eyes, that trickster look, the one he has when he’s about to do something crazy.

  “I’m not an idiot, you know,” he says.

  He shoulders past me, with his “good” shoulder. He doesn’t bump me hard, but it’s not soft, either.

  “And just so you know,” he says as he goes, “you’re going to be getting more than a bill for this. A lot more.”

  I head straight home after that. I even run part of the way, but I give that up pretty quick. This isn’t the sort of thing I can outrun, and by the time I find my mom out in the yard, she already knows. I start to tell her about the sling and what he said and how he said it, but she shakes her head.

  “I know,” she says.

  “Well, I don’t! What does it mean?”

  She looks down. It feels like a lot of people have been avoiding looking me in the eyes today. She’s speaking low and looking at the grass, but I don’t have any trouble hearing her.

  “I found out right after you left,” she says. “They’re suing. We’re going to court.”

  “Court,” I say. “Like Judge Judy?”

  That question probably doesn’t capture just how mad I am right now, but it does a pretty good job of capturing, you know, what the heck do I know about getting sued? All I know are the crazy stories that make it into the news, like the one about the guy who fell through a skylight trying to break into a house and then sued the guy he was trying to rob.

  And it always seems like people are suing for these huge, fantasy-land amounts of money, millions of dollars, because their herbal tea was too hot or the dry cleaner lost their pants. I should probably get less of my news online, but the more I think about it, the madder I get.

  I’m trying to ask Mom more questions, but I’m too mad to talk. And then I remember Mars and that smug look on his face: “You’re going to be getting more than a bill….” He already knew, Mom had already heard, and I was still clueless, still trying to be nice to him. Now I really want to punch someone, but Mom is the only one out here, and she’s one of the few people I don’t want to hit.

  I spot an old bobblehead figure that Mom rescued from the trash and put out by the little cement birdbath like an extra sporty garden gnome. I got the thing at a baseball game when I was a kid.

  Back then I could have been anything: a baseball player, a bobblehead collector, anything. But the last sport to interest me at all was skateboarding, and that was years ago, and the only thing I collect now is loud music. So I threw the bobblehead out as part of a larger room purge last year. And Mom rescued it, and now I have it again. For a second, I’m just holding it in my hand. The head bounces stupidly on its rusty spring, the blue cap going up and down, like: Yes, do it.

  “Oh, don’t,” says Mom, but she says it softly, and that just makes me madder.

  My hand goes up and then comes down hard as I throw the thing at the concrete base of the birdbath. It’s a direct hit. The fat little body goes one way, the head goes another, and the spring splits the difference. I turn back toward Mom. I don’t know if I feel better, but at least I can get the words out now.

  “They’re suing?” I say.

  She looks at me for a moment, then looks around at the broken pieces. Finally, she just shakes her head.

  “They’re looking for money,” she says. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Like, millions?” I say.

  “Not millions,” she says. Stupid Internet.

  “So what, then?” I say. “I mean … what?”

  “We’re going to have to go to court,” she says. She sizes up the blank look on my face, takes a breath, and continues. “They’ll ask for what they think they can get, probably more, and your uncle Greg will help us.”

  Greg is Mom’s brother. He has defended murderers, even a mobster once.

  “Wait, do we go to court against, like, the state?” I ask. “Or against them?”

  “Against them,” she says.

  “But what can they even — Mars jumped the fence!”

  “That’s not what they say.”

  And I can’t prove it. My head is swimming. How do a few bandages turn into a sling? How does a bite on the hand turn into a lawsuit? None of it makes any sense, but I guess it’s the law, so it doesn’t have to. There just has to be money involved.

  I look up at Mom. She looks sad and tired. She’s standing in the middle of the lawn and the house is directly behind her. She’s centered in it, like it’s a picture frame floating in the air. That’s the thing, I realize, the house — the mortgage that’s been hanging over her head. I don’t know all the details, but it’s called an adjustable rate mortgage, and a few years ago, the rates adjusted a ton. We could lose the house over this.

  “Dammit!” I shout, and then I shout something worse.

  Mom flinches the first time, at the volume, but not the second. Inside the house, JR starts barking. He heard me. Maybe he even thinks I’m in trouble. He has no way of knowing how backwards he’s got it.

  Someone knocks on the door on Sunday morning, and JR starts barking again. It’s not that early, but between getting sued, the failed walk-by with Janie, school starting up on Monday, and the Inherent Unfairness of the Universe I slept for crap, and I wouldn’t have minded the opportunity to at least try to sleep in.

  You know it’s bad when you’re hoping it’s Jehovah’s Witnesses, but when I look out the window, there’s an oversized cream-white BMW in our driveway. It’s Greg’s car — Greg’s latest car. To me it looks like the automotive equivalent of a pimp suit, but I’m sure he’d argue that it just “presents the right image.” Greg argues everything. He’s my uncle, Mom’s brother, and our lawyer. I’m not surprised he’s here, but I still get a really bad feeling as I look down at his pimpmobile.

  I hear a fresh explosion of barking downstairs. It’s JR, of course, but I’ve never heard him like this before. Even a floor away, the barks sound raw and angry. I throw on the same clothes from yesterday, with a clean pair of socks, and head down the stairs. By the time I reach the first floor, the barking has stopped, and I can hear Mom and Greg talking in the kitchen.

  I walk through the doorway, and there’s Greg, overdressed as usual. JR is nowhere in sight.

  “Jimmer,” Greg says, nodding.

  “Hey, man,” I say, and nod back.

  I’m not sure about this — it’s not the kind of thing that’s big in what’s left of our family — but I think he might be my godfather. That would be appropriate, considering what I know about his mobbed-up clients. And apart from the family stuff, I’ve already seen a lot of him this year; he was my lawyer, too.

  He turns back toward Mom to continue talking. Mom looks businesslike. You can see that she’s been up for a while. She’s already washed, already dressed for the day, already fully caffeinated. Greg is her older brother, but I guess it’s still a meeting with her lawyer. Mom is not the kind of person to ever fail for lack of effort.

  “I need some time with the animal,” Greg says, and that snaps me back. The “animal”? Like he’s a wombat or something.

  “His name’s JR,” I say. “And where is he?”

  “Out back,” says Mom. “He’s not a big fan of his legal representation.”

  Greg lets out a small laugh, and we all head toward the back door and straight through. Mom’s in front, I’m next, and Greg is last in line.

  “Careful where you step,” Mom calls back to Greg.

  JR is in a spot near the back corner. He’s sitting down when I see him, but as soon as Greg appears behind me, he stands up and starts barking. He looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him. He’s pointing his mouth up and really
going for it. His jaws snap shut in between loud, rasping barks, and his eyes are wide open and staring at Greg, who has the good sense to stay halfway in the door.

  Mom makes a beeline for JR. For a second, I think maybe I should hold her back, but he barely notices her. Even as she reaches him, his eyes stay on Greg.

  “He doesn’t trust grown men,” she shouts over her shoulder. “Bad history.”

  She grabs JR’s collar and gives it a hard tug. “Hey!” she says.

  I’m surprised at how rough she is, but it gets his attention. JR makes a sound like “Mmrrruhhh?” A few more small tugs and he’s quiet. His eyes still flick over toward Greg, but his mouth is just hanging open.

  “Come on over here,” Mom says.

  She’s talking to me. She thinks I can help keep JR calm, but I’m not so sure. I am still technically a dude.

  “Charming,” says Greg, behind us.

  “I’ve never seen that before,” I say, not taking my eyes off JR. “I mean, he barks at me sometimes, but not like that.”

  “Like I said, he has a problem with adult males,” says Mom.

  “You think?” says Greg.

  I reach JR and stand on the other side from Mom. He doesn’t seem to mind, so I reach down slowly and scratch him behind the ear. He’s calmer now.

  “You can come on down,” Mom says.

  It makes me think of a game show. Greg takes the back steps slowly and then starts across the lawn. JR barks a few more times, but not like before. It seems like that storm has sort of passed.

  “That’s probably close enough,” I say, just to be sure.

  “You got him?” says Mom, loosening her grip.

  She looks at me; I look down at JR; JR looks at Greg; Greg looks at us. It’s like a four-way gunfight is about to break out.

  “Sure,” I say, digging my hand in under his collar. I can feel his neck muscles against my knuckles, and they’re looser now, not as tensed up. “Got ’im.”

  Mom lets go and walks back toward Greg.

  “So,” says Greg, exhaling loudly, letting out some breath that’s probably been in there for a while. “He’s a rescue?”

  “Yes,” says Mom. “I got him from that big shelter just south of here.”

  “Yep,” says Greg. He nods and JR follows the motion with his own head, up and down, like he’s agreeing. Then he snaps off another bark, like he changed his mind.

  “Shush, boy,” I say, giving his collar a tug.

  Greg’s looking at him carefully, like he’s trying to guess his weight. He’s fully in lawyer mode now, and you can see he has mixed feelings about the rescue thing. I want to ask: What’s wrong with being a rescue? But I’m not an idiot and I already sort of know. A rescue has had it bad; a rescue can be mean. But it’s a good thing, too. You know, sympathetic. I’m sure Greg knows that. It cuts both ways. For a while, we’re all looking down at JR and JR is looking up at us.

  “What’s his name again?” says Greg.

  “Johnny,” says Mom, choosing the friendliest option, the one that she uses.

  “Hey, Johnny,” says Greg.

  JR cocks his head, closes his mouth, then lets it fall open again. He recognizes his name.

  “Good dog,” says Greg. I’m sure it’s not the first time JR has been patronized. “And the, uh, incident, it was here in the backyard?”

  “Yes,” says Mom, unable or just not trying to prevent a sour-lemon expression from flashing across her face.

  All of a sudden, my heart starts pounding. I need to tell him! I can tell him right now about Mars jumping the fence, cornering him. I can show him right where it happened. And Mom will vouch for me. This isn’t court or anything, but I can still make, like, an official statement. I don’t know why I’m so nervous about it, but I have to do it. It’s the only thing I’ve got.

  As all of these thoughts are rushing through my head, Greg slips something out of his pocket.

  “Let me get the dog first,” he says.

  I panic for a second. “What do you mean, ‘get the dog’?”

  Greg holds up his digital camera, and I feel like an idiot.

  “Could he move?” says Greg. “Could one of you move him over there? I want to get the tree in the background.”

  It’s like picture day at school. JR doesn’t understand what’s going on, but between Mom and me, we don’t have much trouble getting him into a more photogenic spot.

  “Nice,” says Greg as he takes the first picture.

  JR blinks at the flash, then looks at the camera a little more closely, trying to figure out what just happened. Greg takes another shot.

  “Even better,” he says.

  JR blinks again. He’s much calmer now, but I can’t tell if he’s gotten used to Greg or has barked himself out.

  “Is that, like, his mug shot?” I say.

  “They already took that,” says Greg. “But we can take our own, too. All ends up in the same place.”

  “Wait,” I say. “They were here? Who was here? They took pictures?”

  Greg lowers the camera and glances over at me. He looks a little surprised. Maybe he thought I knew already, or maybe he’s deciding how much to tell me. His mouth isn’t moving, though, so I look over at Mom.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says, but I don’t buy that.

  “When?” I say.

  She shakes her head: It doesn’t matter.

  “Who?” I say. “Was it yesterday?”

  I wasn’t here, but someone had to let them in, so when? “Was it yesterday?” I repeat. She told me she found out right after I left. I assumed she meant a phone call, but now I’m thinking they came here. They came with their lawyer, hammering hard on the door and demanding to take pictures. If that’s how it happened, they’re lucky I wasn’t here.

  “It doesn’t matter, Jimmer,” she says. My name is a signal to drop it.

  “But …” I say.

  “It was yesterday,” says Greg.

  He’s either saying that because it’s true or to shut me up. I’m not sure what to say next anyway. But someone was here, in our house. Some lowlife, some parasite. And I’m sure they got JR all revved up and took pictures of him barking like a maniac.

  “And where did it happen?” Greg asks, and that snaps me out of it.

  Now I have to say it, and I’m angry anyway. I mean, where it happened is the whole thing. I think Mom even wants me to tell Greg, because she doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns to me and says, “Jimmer?”

  My lawyer, my uncle — my luncle — turns and looks at me. “Lay it on me,” he says.

  So I launch into it. “He claims he was still on the other side of the fence and our dog jumped up at him, right? Stuck his head over the top of it and bit him?”

  “Yeah, that’s basically —” Greg starts, but I don’t really need confirmation. That’s what Mars’s mom told mine.

  “Well, that’s bull!” I say. “That’s over there.” I point to the side of the fence closest to us. “But he was over here.” I point to the corner.

  “Did you see him there?” says Greg. He has switched back to his neutral lawyer voice, which annoys me. He should be on our side!

  “No,” I say, “but that’s where JR was, and he was freaked and wouldn’t move for a long time.”

  “JR is the dog,” Mom says to him. He nods.

  “And,” I say, loudly, to get his attention back. “And there was a fresh footprint right there.” I point again.

  “A footprint in the grass?” he says.

  “A footprint in the dirt,” I say. “Definitely his sneaker, too.”

  He looks down, but the dirt is flat and slick.

  “Rainstorm,” I say.

  I can see him mulling it over.

  “Yep,” he says. “God’s cleaning service.”

  His tone has changed again. Neutral lawyer is gone, replaced by folksy lawyer. I’m sure he’s used that line on a jury more than once. I’m glad he’s thinking along those lines.

  �
�So that sucks,” I say. “But I saw it.”

  “So you’re saying he let himself in?” he says. “And then, what, back out again?”

  “Yeah, he hopped the fence. He’s been coming over for years, and for the last few of them, since he’s been tall enough, he’s always hopped it. So do I. It’s easier. So, yeah, he hops the fence, backs JR into a corner, and sticks his hand in his face. JR isn’t as freaked out by younger guys, but you see how excited he gets. You can’t just … He’s a rescue….”

  I still feel like I need to explain that last part, like why it doesn’t have to be a bad thing, but Greg waves me off. “Right,” he says, “and a big one. I understand.”

  “Dr. Sanderson says he’s getting much better,” Mom says. “Even right now he’s so much better.”

  “And then he hopped back over,” I say. “And that’s when I saw him. But he already knew to watch out for the dog crap in the yard because he’d just been in here. See? See?!”

  Something occurs to me and I rush over to the fence post closest to where Mars was standing. If he used his hurt hand to hop it on the way out, I figure there might still be some blood on the post. It’s like CSI: Stanton. But there’s nothing. God’s stupid cleaning service. My luncle is watching me. He probably knows what I’m looking for, and he sees me not see it.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Provocation’s tough to prove, regardless. He’s come over before, and then there’s the height of the fence to consider…. Let me get some more shots. We’ll talk inside.”

  “But I totally saw it,” I say.

  “All right,” he says, his voice more unreadable than ever. “We’ll talk inside.”

  Greg is supposed to be on our side, but it feels like I just lost him.

  “Do you still need him?” Mom says, meaning JR.

  “No,” he says.

  “Come on, boy,” I say. “Biscuit.”

  He looks up at me.

  “Pizza roll,” I add.

  He follows Mom and me toward the door. Greg steps to the side and JR gives him one last look, one last bark.

  “Watch your step,” Mom repeats from the top of the steps.

  Or don’t, I think. Mom and JR head inside, but I stop in the doorway. Greg takes a few pictures of the fence: the spot where Mars claims JR jumped up at him. He lowers the camera and is about to put it in his pocket, but he raises it again and takes one quick shot of the corner where I found JR. He barely even aims, but I see the flash go off and I head into the house.