by Paul Griffin
(Monday, August 17, morning of the sixty-seventh day . . .)
Four days since I told her I never loved her. She hasn’t come back. It’s done. If I didn’t have Boo with me right now, I don’t know.
Thompkins stands tall to watch, arms folded with his lame hand tucked into his armpit. Wash watches from the door.
“Boo, sit,” I say.
Boo sits.
“Boo, pee.”
Boo puts up his paw.
“Boo, I want pee.”
Boo trots to the shower stall, lets loose over the drain, comes back out with a spinning tail for his baloney reward and a “Good boy” from me.
Thompkins scowls. “Can you make him go outside?”
I lay out a paper on the roof. “Boo, pee.”
Boo trots to the paper, lifts his leg, pees what dribble he’s got left.
“Mister T., this dog is housebroke.”
“I still don’t understand the reasoning behind getting the animal to eliminate in the shower drain.”
“Sir, a dog needs options. You take him outside, he knows it’s cool to make water outside. But if he’s stuck alone in the house or with a paralyzed veteran who can’t let him out—”
“He won’t be put with anybody who can’t let him out, as I told you. How many times must I say this? He is not a medical aid animal. He is a companion. The veteran may be physically disabled, but in order to qualify for the animal he or she at minimum will need to be able to provide for the animal’s basic needs, for example, letting the animal out to eliminate and for the last time stop, pinching, your wrist.”
Blizzard of radio static now. Roof cage hot. Day hazy gray. Heat lightning inside me. I see myself going crazy on Thompkins. My hands are getting tight to do it. I step toward him.
Boo cuts me off. He sits between me and the man. He nudges me for petting. Leans into my leg. Big eyes. Tongue hanging out his mouth. This bait dog from the fight pits. A dog that lived terror and came out the other side with his heart still open.
I can’t forsake this dog.
The radio static fades, and the world comes back with sounds of a hot summer day, men working a tar rig out behind the tent, an airplane climbing.
I hold my head up and look the man in the eye. “Mister Thompkins, due respect. These vets, sometimes they need to drink at night. You know, to keep from getting scared and sad, right? So, let’s say the poor vet passes out drunk. As a fallback, Boo can go into the bathroom, eliminate over a drain, where you can rinse away the mess. Better there than on a carpet or a bed, right?”
Thompkins looks at me for a long time. He makes a note in his book. He leaves.
Boo fetches his chewed-up Frisbee.
“Think Thompkins is gonna have to fire me, Wash?”
“I think he’s gonna have to rewrite his training manual.”
“I don’t know what that dude wants from me.”
“I expect he’s just one of those people who don’t know how to give praise. Son, deep inside, he sees you are doing just fine. He would have pulled you from the job by now if he thought otherwise. As much pressure as you feel to come through for him, he has that much pressure to come through for his people.”
“The vets.”
“I believe so. No, I wouldn’t ever expect a word of praise from Mister Thompkins. His praise is his silence, and he gave you that. Hey?”
“Yessir?”
“How you doing?”
I look at my boy Boo chasing his Frisbee. He isn’t on a caged-in rooftop. The incinerator stacks, low-flying jumbo jets, sun-faded concrete, and the razor wire—all fade away. Boo’s running through a field of wild grass. “Wash, I’m doing just fine.”
THE SEVENTY-FIRST DAY . . .
(Friday, August 21, just after lunch shift)
CÉCE:
Ma’s at the bar. She sips her coffee. Sober a week. She and Vic pretend to do the crossword.
Last night the doctor called to tell us the second surgery on Anthony’s larynx went well. He can’t talk just yet, but in a few days he’ll probably be well enough to have visitors. We can come down and see him next week, what’s left of him.
Ma’s phone blips with an e-mail. She checks the sender, pushes the phone toward me. “I can’t.”
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Yo
I can’t either. I give the phone to Vic.
Vic clears his throat. “ ‘ Ma, Cheech, Vic, it’s all good. We’re gonna get through this. I’m doing great. One request: Don’t come down here, okay? You’ll only get freaked out. I’ll be home soon and we’ll figure out this whole thing then. Do me a favor, keep sending that cornbread to the guys, okay? They love it and they sure could use it. Rehab is going great. I’ll see you in a month or so. Love you all like a madman. Chin up, folks. xox Ant.’ ”
Vic frowns, clicks the e-mail closed. “Well,” he says. He puts his hand on Ma’s shoulder.
Ma nods. “Well,” she says.
“You know,” Vic says, “I really think you ladies should get a dog.”
“Please?” Ma says to me.
“No,” I say.
“Yeah, a rescue,” Vic says. “Just think about it, I’m saying. You know, mull it.”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
“Oh absolutely,” Vic says. “One of those vet buddy dogs for Anthony, maybe a pit bull.”
“A pit bull?” I say. “Are you insane?”
“Almost certainly,” he says. “Kid, you need to do this.”
“I don’t and I can’t,” I say.
“Sure you can. You just do it. Perhaps I’ll make some inquiries.”
“Will you stop?” I say.
“Never,” Vic says.
“Céce”
“No, Ma.”
(Saturday, August 22, 3:00 a.m. of the seventy-second day. . .)
I’m in Ma’s bed. She’s not. I check the bathroom. No. Downstairs, probably cruising petfinder.com again. “Mel?” Not in the den. Kitchen? Nope. She dumped all the alcohol in the house after that last binge. Maybe she went out to a bar?
The basement.
The downstairs pantry, where we keep all the Costco crap. She’s on the floor, an empty bottle of vodka at her side. She started in on a jug of cooking wine with a straw. She’s slurring so softly, but I think she’s saying, “Was that bad, what I did? You and Mack? Saying you. Could sleep down. Here? Was that wrong?” Her eyes flutter and she passes out. I’m shaking her and screaming her name, but she won’t wake up. I call Vic. He calls an ambulance.
They pump her stomach. The doctor says, “The good news is, based on what you’re telling me, your mother isn’t so much the paradigmatic alcoholic as a self-medicating addict who engages in heavy episodic drinking.”
“What a relief, Doc. Really, thanks so much.” I head back into her room.
Ma’s asleep, Vic’s at his iPad. “You gotta keep going,” he says.
“Do you, though?”
“The answer to the Vaccuccia family’s situation is a dog.”
“Vic, say it again, and I’ll get the Hammerhead to sucker you into another game of cards.”
“Céce,” Ma says, except it comes out “She-she,” because she has an oxygen mask over her mouth. She’s still out of it. She waves me to her bed and works up a smile. “Ah ah ee.”
“Huh? I can’t hear you with the mask.”
“Ah ah ee.”
“Anthony? Anthony what?”
She shakes her head, frustrated. “Ah ah ee.”
“I can’t understand you.”
“Easy, ladies,” Vic says.
She’s crying. “Ah ah ee. Ah. Ah. Ee.”
“Goddamn it, Ma—”
“She’s sorry, Céce,” Vic says. “She’s saying I’m sorry.”
(Five days later, Thursday, August 27, morning of the seventy-seventh day . . .)
Anthony e-mails me a video: His face, throat and hand are bandaged. He’s balancing o
n the back wheels of his chair. His hospital buddies cheer him on. The video is pixilated and dark, and you only see him from the side, but I don’t see any feet on those foot holders. I see no calves. No knees. When he left home, he was taller than Mack, and Mack is six one. Was six one.
The video zooms to a close-up. Anthony rasps, “Don’t worry, kid. It’s all good. Love ya like a crazy person.”
Ma calls up from the kitchen, “Ready, babe?” We’re going to market with her cornbread, the flea market.
I can’t show her this video.
Bobby is at the curb with the Vic-mobile. Ma’s flipping him a few bucks to help us out. He wears old-man glasses. “I lost one of my contacts. I think it might be behind my eye.” He drives forty miles an hour in the fifty-five zone.
Steamy rain. The flea market is empty. We’re pretty much the only car in the lot. We’re sitting in the Vic-mobile. We have the back open with the lamest hand-painted poster: C&C CORNBREAD. YUMMY. Hail pounds the windshield. Cue balls. Ma is knitting a hat for Anthony.
“It’s August, Ma.”
“Not forever.”
“But fuchsia and yellow stripes?”
“Only yarn I had.”
Bobby’s glasses are fogged up. He’s reading zombie Manga. His mouth is open a little, and his tongue kind of sticks out. I’m studying my belly button lint.
Rapping on the window. The one moron who bought a loaf. “This bread sucks.”
“I’m very open to suggestions on how to improve it,” Ma says.
“Next batch should not smell like hand soap and burned ketchup and be softer than the bow of an icebreaker. You should advertise it as a weapon.”
“We have several other varieties,” Bobby says.
“Get a load of this kid. Several. Like seven ain’t good enough. You don’t fool me, champ. What are you, three dollars an hour at the car wash, right? ‘Vacuum the seats for you, sir?’ Gimme my money back.”
I trade him five dirty wilted dollars for the loaf, minus one very big bite. “Well, we sold negative one loaves.”
“Better than selling zero,” Bobby says.
I squint at Bobby. Ma pinches his cheek. “Let’s wrap it up and head back.”
Me and Bobby pack the bread into the boxes. Bobby knocks over a box: cornbread puddles. “Yup, yes, uh-huh . . .”
We drop the stinking bread off at the VA, but they don’t want it. The soup kitchen will take it only after Ma makes a forty-dollar donation. We drop off Ma at this support group for mothers of wounded soldiers, and then Bobby drives me home.
“You take the G and T, Bob?”
“Yeah, I think I did okay on the multiple choice, but my essay was ass. I’ll probably take it again. Maybe I’ll write something metaphorical about the tuba. Problem is, I’m not that good. Really the only thing I’m good at is watching movies. I like food-related activities too. Do you mind if I tell you something about your brother?”
“Absolutely. I mean, no, I don’t mind.”
“He remembered my name every time he saw me in the hall.”
“He remembers everybody’s.”
“Yeah, but he was the quarterback and I was in the band.” He takes out his old-man umbrella and waddles around to my side, slipping just once on the way. He walks me to my stoop.
“Wanna come in for some ice-cream sandwiches?”
“Definitely.”
“Seriously?”
“What kind?” he says.
“Carvel, Skinny Brown Cow, and this tofu-type thing.”
“Tofutti?”
“No, a Tofutti knockoff. I forget the name of it.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m relatively certain I’ll like it.”
“The tofu might be rotten. I bought it like three years ago.”
“Let’s check it out. The preservatives they use these days are excellent. You’d be surprised how that stuff keeps.”
We go in.
“Do you mind if I scroll through your DVR SAVED list?”
“Scroll away.”
I’m getting the ice cream. He calls to me, “Biggest Loser season finale? Loved it.”
“We can watch it again.”
“Do you have two computers?” he says. “We can totally do a World of Warcraft team-and-slay.”
“I’m more an EverQuest girl.”
“Me too!” he says.
“God, I haven’t logged in since June.” Since I started hanging with Mack.
“Can I see your DVDs? Oh no you didn’t. The Outsiders deluxe edition? I might have to Mac the Ripper this. I totally wore mine out.”
“Exactly how high up is it on your favorites, might I ask?”
“Are you serious? On my list of coming-of-age novel-toscreen adaptations featuring one or more Brat Pack actors, it comes in at number three.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know. And it ranks even higher on my list of flicks featuring Matt Dillon when his hair was parted in the middle—number two in fact, second only to—”
“My Bodyguard.”
“Sorry, the correct answer is Rumble Fish.”
“Rumble Fish,” I say, nodding. “Of course.”
“Has anybody ever told you that you slightly resemble Cherry Valance?”
I try not blush as I throw off a “Like, maybe once, sort of.” Yeah, right after the hair-frying episode and hunting fifty stores for the same exact baby blue bow-tie sweater she was wearing, and I asked Anthony, “Do I look like Cherry from The Outsiders?” And he said, “You look exactly like you’re trying to look like Cherry.” I rack my brain for a return compliment, but the only thing coming to me is, has anybody ever told Bobby that he greatly resembles Kermit the Frog?
We hang and eat and he drops and spills stuff and apologizes. We play slap cards while we watch the gang fight scene from The Outsiders and then Polar Express for the seven hundredth time—he has the DVD too. He says stuff out of the blue, like, “Some people think that if cats grew thumbs before we did, we’d be their pets.”
“That’s actually rather interesting.” I pretend I don’t want to cry. It’s happening: I still think about him, worry about him, still love him when I’m not hating him, but I’m starting not to miss him so much anymore.
I reach under the couch for the Wii controls and I hear clinking. So this is where she’s been hiding her empties. I’ll wait till Anthony comes home to bring this up. It’s all good, huh? Then you handle her.
THE EIGHTY-FIRST DAY . . .
(Monday, August 31, morning)
MACK:
“Mister Morse.”
“Mister Thompkins.”
“Please reconsider.”
“I can’t do it. I get nervous.”
“May I remind you that Old Dogs is a privately funded program. Publicity is critically important. We do not get many interview requests, and I am loath to let this opportunity pass us by.”
“I’m not real comfortable with folks knowing stuff about me.”
“Your comfort is not the primary concern here. If you don’t do the interview, you will be in breach of our signed agreement. I will have no choice but to terminate your contract and remand the dog to Animal Control. We’ve put too much time and money into Boo to restart him with another trainer. Your choice, Mister Morse.”
“What if I mess up?”
“Excuse me?”
“The AW told me he was hoping to get some of the other fellas training here too. But if I blow the interview, you won’t bring the program here, to the island.”
“Will you do the interview, or not?”
(The next morning, Tuesday, September 1, the eighty-second day . . .)
The dude they match me up with is all right. He’s in one of those alternative to incarceration programs where they try to get you a job based on what you like, go figure.
“What I really want to do is be a sports reporter,” he says. “Free tickets to the games, like that. Meantime, I have to do this kind of shit.”
“All right, th
en.” Me and Boo take him down to the junk field to show him how we play soccer. “Which it’s called tackle soccer with Boo. He was a rotten fetcher at first, till I got the peanut butter working. You bring me back that ball, you’re swimmin’ in Skippy. He got it quick after that.”
“Mm,” dude says, writing it down. Kind of cool, him writing down what I’m saying, like I’m a famous type of celebrity or something.
I kick the ball way deep into the field, over the junk heap. Boo runs for it and doesn’t come back.
“C’mon,” I say to my reporter. We hustle over the junk heap. Boo’s on his belly, whimpering.
“What’s he doing?” reporter says.
“See, about two weeks ago, we were out here, and he happened on this dead mouse in that exact spot. He real gentle nudged it with his nose to try to wake it up. He was fairly crying, I swear, the moaning he was doing. I pulled him off the mouse, but the next day, he cut straight through the field to this same spot, looking for that mouse, which it must have been carried off by a crow or such, right?”
“Mm,” kid grunts, writing it down.
“Every day he does the same thing.”
“Mm.” Man, he scribbles fast. “Dog’s in love with a dead mouse. Potent.”
“My friend says that word all the time.”
“He a writer?”
“He reads a bunch.”
“Then he’s an inside-the-head variety of writer,” dude says. “If you want to be a writer of any sort, you got to know potent.”
“Well, all right then.”
“Mm.”
“Leave it,” I say to Boo.
He’s whimpering and looking back over his shoulder at where the mouse died as I lead him away. He follows me lockstep, no leash.
Guard who’s watching us says, “I don’t know how you did it. I was sure that there dog was untrainable. Wash is right. You’re some kind of magic.”
I play it like it’s no big deal, but really I’m tingling with self-respect for myself, and self-respect for Boo too. I kind of look out of the side of my eyes to make sure the dude wrote down that the guard said I was magic, but I can’t make out his scratch. “You happen to catch that last little part there, with the guard?”