How I Got a Life and a Dog

by Art Corriveau

  “Won’t he ask for the change?” I say. Actually, a hot dog sounds pretty good to me right now. I didn’t have any breakfast, except for the apples.

  “He won’t even notice. He’s way into this kite thing. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “You think it’ll work?” I say.

  “Trust me,” he says. “On the way back to Chucktown, you can have him drop you off at North Station.”

  “OK,” I say.

  “But if you tell anybody about the kite flying, I’ll beat you to a pulp.”

  “I won’t be going back to Chucktown,” I say.

  It’s a pretty good plan, I have to admit. I’m dying to ask him why he’s being so nice to me all of a sudden. But I don’t press my luck. Instead I hook Reggie to his leash and begin walking over to the kite-flying island.

  “Mind if I hold him?” Tim says.

  I do. I really do. But I hand him Reggie’s leash.

  Tim is right. Mr. Burns is way into the kite-flying thing. He can make Tim’s kite dodge and dip wherever he wants it to go. Tim and I both suck. We can usually get the kite up, but the minute we try to do any real tricks, it makes a nosedive for the ground. Then Mr. Burns says, No, no, not like that! and takes it back to show us. We don’t get to fly it again for ages. We don’t really care, though. We’re only pretending to have fun.

  Meanwhile Reggie just lies there, under a bench, panting. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so pooped out. That’s it. We’re definitely taking the train.

  After a while, Tim says, “Hey Dad, I’m getting hungry. Can you buy me and Nicky something to eat?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Burns says. “How about hot dogs?”

  Tim winks at me. “Sounds great,” he says.

  Mr. Burns takes a twenty out of his wallet.

  “It’s probably going to be a little more than that,” Tim says. “There’s three of us, don’t forget.”

  Mr. Burns takes out another ten, shaking his head.

  “Let’s go,” Tim says to me.

  “OK,” I say, trying not to laugh.

  “Come on, Reggie,” Tim says.

  Reggie’s ears perk up, but he doesn’t budge. He looks to me for a command.

  “Forward,” I say. Reggie struggles to his feet, but he hobbles right over to lick my hand. Attaboy! They say every dog has his day, and this one is Reggie’s. He’s not giving up the fight, even though he’s been wounded in action. He’s an honest-to-God trouper, which is what I would have named him if I’d been given the chance. And no kid ever had a more loyal sidekick.

  The three of us head over to the snack cart. Reggie needs to take his time, and Tim and I let him, since we’re talking anyway about what a goofball Gilmore can be.

  At the snack cart, we do a bunch of math and figure out that we can actually buy two hot dogs and a soda for Tim’s dad, plus one hot dog each for us, plus a large fries to split and still have enough for a train ticket for me, plus a dollar and change extra for emergencies—as long as we both skip sodas and take long drinks at the water fountain instead. We order the food, and while we’re waiting, we check out the stand that sells kites and Frisbees. I don’t tell Tim about the Superman kite Mom and I got. Instead I tell him I’ve been meaning to teach Reggie how to fetch a Frisbee but haven’t had the chance yet, what with his bum leg. Tim says dogs that catch Frisbees are awesome.

  When the food’s ready, we bring it over to a picnic table. I take a really big bite of hot dog. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Reggie giving me a What about me? look. Suddenly I feel terrible. I was so hungry, I didn’t even think. I immediately divide what’s left of my hot dog in half and give him the slightly bigger piece. He wolfs it in a couple of bites. I pop the rest into my own mouth.

  “What did you do that for?” Tim says. “I would have eaten the rest, if you’re not hungry.”

  “I’m starving,” I say. “But Reggie and I are in this together. It’s fifty-fifty, all the way—right, boy?” I pat his head.

  Reggie licks my hand.

  Tim doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s jealous.

  “We’d better bring your dad his food,” I say. “Before it’s totally cold.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Tim says.

  When we get to the stone bridge, though, Tim tells me to stop. He says he’ll be right back. He makes me hold his dad’s food box and runs over to the snack cart. A few minutes later, he comes running back with another hot dog and hands it to me. “Here,” he says. “Split it with Reggie.”

  “Where did you get the money?” I say. As far as I know, I have all the rest of the change.

  He grins. “I told the guy behind the counter you dropped your hot dog and Reggie snarfed it up on you,” he says. “I said you were too embarrassed to ask for another one yourself.”

  “Not bad,” I say.

  “You’re not the only smart kid in that stupid school,” he says.

  About an hour later, Tim complains he’s bored. Mr. Burns asks him if he wants to go bowling instead. Tim rolls his eyes at me and says, Yeah, whatever. We pack everything up and head for the SUV. Once we’re on the road, Mr. Burns asks me if I want to come along. I tell him no, my mom’s picking me up at North Station in a little while.

  “I thought you said her car was on the blink?” he says.

  Oops. “The garage she uses is right around the corner from there,” I say. “They promised to have it ready by this afternoon. We’ve got errands to run.”

  “Back in Chucktown,” Tim says, changing the radio station.

  “Yeah, back in Chucktown,” I say.

  “Oh,” Mr. Burns says. “Another time, then.”

  “Yeah, another time,” I say.

  At the station, I thank Mr. Burns for the ride and the hot dogs and stuff. Tim turns around and gives Reggie a final pat on the head. Reggie licks his hand. He seems to have perked up a little, thank God, with some food in his belly.

  “See you in school on Monday,” Tim says, winking again.

  “See you Monday,” I say.

  I help Reggie out of the car. Mr. Burns waves good-bye and peels out of the station, laying a big patch of rubber.

  Why do grown-ups think kids like to go bowling?

  here’s a conductor straight ahead, at the entrance to the platforms. He’s watching everybody pass through the gate. I pull Reggie’s work harness out of my knapsack and strap it on him. I put my big black sunglasses back on. I whisper, “You know the drill,” and command Reggie forward. Together we walk right past the conductor like we own the place.

  “Hang on a minute,” he says.

  “Stop!” I command Reggie. I turn in the conductor’s direction. “Yes?”

  “Ticket please,” the conductor says.

  I hand him the ticket I just bought with Tim’s dad’s money.

  “That your guide dog?” he says.

  Obviously.

  “We need platform six,” I say.

  “Here, I’ll help you over there,” he says. Before he can grab my arm, though, I say, “I would really prefer if you didn’t touch me, not unless I ask.”

  “Oh,” the conductor says. “What should I do?”

  “Show my dog where you’d like us to go. It’s his job to lead me.”

  “OK,” the conductor says. “Come on, boy, this way.”

  Reggie draws himself up to full attention. He puffs out his chest. He glances back, waiting for my command. Do I dare? Do I let him prove to me, once and for all, that he really is good at his job?

  I close my eyes really tight.

  Guide me, I think. “Forward!” I say.

  Gently, ever so gently, Reggie leads me in the direction of the conductor’s voice.

  The conductor’s heels slap against cement as he walks away. People rush past, trying to make their connections—their worry like wind on my face. Reggie strains against his harness to pull me forward. The harness leather creaks as the handle jerks and sways in my hand because Reggie’s limping. He has a raspy
edge to his breath that I don’t like. The conductor calls from somewhere ahead: Here, boy, over here. The train ticks and hums, getting louder and louder. The shadow of an enormous train falls, somehow, across my face. Dry heat and exhaust. Stench of oil and soot.

  “You’re almost there,” the conductor says, from above. “You’ve got a couple of steep steps now.”

  I don’t open my eyes. Reggie tenses at the end of the harness. He’s not sure he can make the steps. He waits for my command. “Forward,” I say. “Please, boy, for me.”

  Reggie jumps up onto the first step and groans. I’m desperate to open my eyes, but I don’t. Because if he can make it, I can too. If he doesn’t get to cheat, why should I? We’re in this together. Fifty-fifty. I put out my hand. The hot side of the train. Dirty and hot, smelling of soot. I grope for the rail. I raise my foot—to where? It feels like I’m jumping off a cliff—but my sneaker lands solidly on the first step. Reggie staggers up to the second. Together we make our way, step by step, up into the front of the car.

  “You OK?” the conductor says.

  I nod, trying to catch my breath. But I don’t open my eyes.

  “Can you take it from here?” he says. “The train’s about to pull out of the station.”

  I nod. But I’m not so sure. He steps off. When the car lurches forward a second later, I almost lose my balance. That throws me into a complete panic. I should have asked him how far away the seats are. I should just open my eyes now. Why don’t I just open my eyes and see where I am?

  No. Not yet.

  “Aisle or window?” a man says not too far away. “There’s an empty window seat right here beside me in the front row, but I’m not fussy.”

  “Window’s fine,” I say.

  “Here, boy,” the man says.

  Reggie leads me over to the empty seat. I slump into it. It feels like the best thing in the entire world. Because we made it. Because Reggie got me here safely. Because he did his job perfectly. He positions himself between my legs and I give him a congratulations pat. He hunkers down to the floor with a little groan.

  “Your dog doesn’t look so good,” the man says, beside me.

  “His hip bothers him sometimes,” I say, trying not to freak out. “I’m taking him straight to the vet as soon as I get home.”

  “Want me to put your knapsack up in the rack?” he says. “It’ll give you both more room.”

  I don’t, actually. I just want to sit here and hug it. But I hand it over, mostly because I don’t want Reggie to see how worried I am.

  The man stows my bag and sits back down. I can hear him turning the pages of a newspaper. I can actually smell the ink. I’m dying to sneak a better look at him, but I still refuse to open my eyes. By his voice, I’m guessing he’s about my dad’s age, maybe a little younger. I wonder if he’s handsome like my dad, if he has the same color hair and eyes, if he’s wearing a suit.

  The train starts to pick up speed.

  “Thanks,” I say. “For not grabbing me, I mean. It freaks me out—the thought of people grabbing at me when I can’t see them.”

  “No problem,” he says. “My nephew’s blind. I hear all the horror stories.”

  All the horror stories. I can’t even imagine what it would be like—to have people grabbing at you and pulling you after them all day, yelling at you when your hearing is probably twice as good as theirs, talking about you like you aren’t standing right in front of them. Seriously, what if you had to go through what I just went through all the time?—ten times a day, maybe? It wouldn’t be your own blindness that was a drag. It would be the blindness of everyone around you. I swear, as soon as I decide to open my eyes, I will never, ever pull this little blind-man’s-bluff again.

  I think of Alf Santorello.

  Truth is, I’ll probably never know what actually happened between him and Reggie. I’m off the case. Some other kid’ll have to sift through all the evidence and decide. And even if I did know what caused Old Alf to fire Reggie, I’ll never know what life was like for him as a blind taxi dispatcher before that, or a disabled veteran of the Korean War before that. I’m not blind. I’m only faking it for a train ride. Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at Old Alf up at Monument Square. But I’m sticking to what I said. Because no matter how frustrated he may have gotten with the world, it would still have been wrong to take his anger out on Reggie. Even if raising his cane was only a threat. End of story.

  “That was a heavy sigh,” the man says.

  “It’s been kind of a long day,” I say.

  “Tell me about it,” he says. “I hate working Saturdays.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say.

  “Shoot.”

  “What do you think about bowling?”

  “Stupid sport,” he says. “Ridiculous shoes.”

  “Can I ask you another question?”

  “Go for it.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Divorced?”

  “No,” he says. “You?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “The kids at school make fun of me because they think I have this girlfriend named Rita,” I say. “But she’s not my girlfriend, just a friend. She was the first person to be nice to me at my new school. Everybody else gave me a pretty hard time.”

  “Kids are rotten,” the man says.

  “So you don’t want kids?” I say.

  “No.”

  “Too bad,” I say.

  “Why’s that?” he says.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Seems like you’d make a decent dad.”

  “I doubt it,” he says. “Good parents always put their kids’ needs before their own. I don’t think I could do that yet. I’m kind of selfish. Right now I’m more interested in building my career, riding my motorcycle, having a few laughs with my friends.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “For what?” he says.

  “For telling me the truth.”

  “No problem,” he says.

  The train makes its first two stops. People get off. People get on. The next time the train slows, though, the man stands up. He fetches his briefcase from the overhead rack and shoves his newspaper into it. Then he takes my knapsack down and sets it into his empty seat for me.

  “This your stop?” I say. Obviously.

  “Yup.”

  “Have a good weekend,” I say.

  “You too,” he says, setting off down the aisle.

  That’s when I finally open my eyes. I lift the sunglasses up, so I can look out the window and watch a man who looks nothing like my dad stroll across the platform swinging his briefcase as he heads toward the parking lot. The train starts to move again. We round a corner. The man disappears.

  I check on Reggie. He’s totally passed out at my feet, poor thing. The corners of his mouth are all gummy with white spit. But at least he’s breathing a little easier now. I’m dying to scratch him behind the ears the way he likes, tell him how sorry I am for dragging him into this mess. Later. I don’t want to wake him. He’s going to need all the strength he can muster for whatever’s next.

  I put the sunglasses back on, just in case a conductor comes by. We’ve got at least a half-dozen more stops before Littleton. I fish around in my knapsack for the Braille cards. I run my fingers over the bumps of each one, trying to figure out which bumps are numbers and which mean spades, clubs, diamonds, and hearts.

  here’s a pay phone in the waiting room. I plunk one of my last quarters into the slot. Rita picks up on practically the first ring. “Nicky is that you?” she says.

  “I tried calling earlier, but your machine picked up. Things got a little crazy after that.”

  “Where are you?” she says.

  “At the train station in Littleton,” I say. “Did you find my dad’s address?”

  “There were a gazillion Flynns out there,” she says. “But only one had the first initial N. The address is 22 Resolution Road, Unit D. Do you want me to log back o
n to the Internet, call up a map of Littleton, and GPS you over there?”

  “No, I know where Resolution Road is,” I say. “It’s only a couple of blocks from my old house on King Street. In fact, I have to walk right past it.”

  “You want his phone number?”

  I tell her yes. She gives it to me. I repeat it three times until it’s burned into my memory.

  “Call me as soon as you know what’s what,” Rita says.

  “OK,” I say.

  Then I hang up. There’s plenty left on the quarter. I’ve just run out of words.

  he For Sale sign is still stuck into the front lawn. The mailbox still has our last name on it. Reggie and I stand under the maple where Marky and I were building our tree fort this past summer. I point out the house. “That’s where I used to live,” I tell Reggie. “Isn’t it nice?” Reggie doesn’t seem all that interested. He just sits and pants. Well, it’s more like wheezing now, and he’s all foamy at the mouth. Plus he can’t really put any weight on his hind leg. I guess I didn’t realize just how long the walk would take from the station—I only ever rode the commuter train that once with Dad, and we drove down there in his BMW.

  Actually, the old place isn’t looking its best. One of the shutters of a living room window is hanging at a crazy angle. The paint on the garage door is peeling. The grass hasn’t been mowed in ages, and no one has been looking after Mom’s flower beds—her asters and mums have all dried up and turned the same color brown. Still, this place beats anything in Chucktown by, like, a mile and a half.

  I show Reggie which window was my old bedroom on the second floor. I point out Marky’s house, a couple of driveways down. I describe where the in-ground swimming pool was supposed to go.

  I run out of things to say after that.

  “Mom had to put it on the market,” I tell Reggie. “She told me over and over again it was because she wanted a new beginning—a fresh new start—but I know that’s not the real reason. I heard her talking on the phone with her friends. The real reason is, she couldn’t afford to pay all the monthly bills on a house this size, even though Dad was willing to give her the place in the settlement. There’s no way Mom could ever find the same kind of decent-paying job Dad has. She hasn’t worked since college. That’s why she only answers the phone and types for the Ambulance Chasers. That’s why we live in the dump we live in now.”