“Did you hear me, Ro?”
The train whooshes to a stop and passengers get off and their voices drift through my window screen.
“This is so frustrating.” My mum inhales deeply, then breathes out one-two-three. She relaxes her voice. “I want to tell you something.”
My toes brace themselves. I reach for Augustus.
“My mother—you never met her, but she did nothing with her life. Nothing. She cleaned 7-Elevens. That was her job, a whole string of 7-Elevens, one after the other, six days a week. On Sundays she slept. I wanted more for my life, and I want more for you. What I don’t understand is why don’t you want it, too?”
I wonder what she thinks of me sweeping the donut shop, scrubbing all the glass, wiping crumbs off the counters a million times a day.
I feel the irritated huffs in my mum’s breathing. There’s a long pause before she says, “I could fight for custody if I wanted, and unlike your grandfather, I could afford a long battle. But what I really want is for you to want to come.”
There’s a blank space in my throat where words used to be. I hear my papa in my head: Harry came looking for you how many times now?
I dive further under the army blanket. “I’m not leaving my dog.”
My mum’s disappointment in me rushes through the wire.
“I have some brochures for boarding schools that I want to look at together.” My mum pauses. Then: “A school like that could help you become anything you want to be.”
I wonder if you can bring dogs to boarding school. I decide that you can’t. And my papa says, What about Harry?
After a minute, I whisper, “I’m fine here.”
Her only reply is a quick impatient burst of breath that races through the phone, then she hangs up.
The thing about my Augustus is that when he wants to be patted, too bad for you if you don’t feel like it.
He shoves his nose into my side, tickling me. He licks the donut jelly stuck between my fingers. When I push him away, he pokes at my smashed elbow and pulls at the new bandage from the doctor’s office.
“Stop that!” I am irritated that his dog drool is the reason Harry is making me wash all the shopwindows on a day when I can only use one arm and the sun is so hot that steam hisses off the sidewalk.
I push my very bad dog away but he comes back for more, and this time he steals the cleaning cloth and runs off down Main Street, dangling it between his teeth.
I toss the bottle of Windex and chase after him just as Mr. Peterson rides down the hill on his bike, his twins hollering and waving cherry-red Popsicles from the bright orange cart bolted to the back. Balloons flap off the rear reflector light.
I hear my papa in my head: This isn’t good.
Eddie the Barber is just leaving the donut shop when Mr. Peterson shoots by—his youngest one in a baby backpack, fat little dumpling legs hanging down, pea-sized toes wiggling.
Mr. Peterson flies over the biggest pothole and the back wheel wobbles and the cart tips and Mr. Peterson has to stop and that’s when Augustus drops the cleaning cloth and gallops over. The twins shriek as my very bad dog jumps in and tries to find a spot for his moose rear.
“No, Augustus! Bad dog. Bad, bad, bad dog.”
My very bad dog licks the twins’ Popsicles and waits for the patting of his life. I grab his collar and pull. Mr. Peterson pushes, but we can’t get past the thumping tail.
“Augustus, get off.”
Already the balloons are soaring for the sky but the twins haven’t noticed because they are hugging Augustus. Then the baby howls from the backpack and Mr. Peterson looks around for the binky but Augustus has seen it first and dives for it.
“Bad dog!” I pry his mouth open—because my Gloaty Gus would never give up a prize so wonderful as a baby-licked binky on his own—and then I wipe the dog goo off on my shirt and give it back to Mr. Peterson. He looks at it, at the baby wailing, then wipes the pacifier on his shirt and pushes it into the baby’s mouth.
“I can fix this,” I blurt out, trying to grab my dog’s collar, but he is much more interested in the Popsicle sticks. The cart is twisted at a funny angle on the ground. The wheels spin. More than anything I want to get out of this mess before Harry sees.
Of course, as we wheel Mr. Peterson’s bike and cart up the driveway, Cynthia has to come right over. Her lips glisten from grape soda.
“Go away,” I snap.
“Wow, I never had a teacher come to my house before. Are you going to tutor all of us, Mr. Peterson? I really want to be in your class, can I when I’m old enough? I know Philippe is going to your class, but Rosie didn’t get good grades.”
My blood boils. “Get your nose out of my business, Cynthia.”
Mr. Peterson frowns and turns to Philippe. “I’m looking forward to having you in my class this year. Your cartography skills will be a big help to me when we begin our Age of Exploration unit.”
I don’t even know what cartography means. I also don’t know why Philippe gets to go to his class and I don’t. I roll my eyes.
When Mr. Peterson steps away to change the baby’s diaper and Augustus follows him, all interested in the smell, I let Philippe have it: “I told you not to tell Harry about the snake! You could have gotten me in so much trouble.”
“Shut up, Rosie. Your grandfather was really worried and you don’t have to be so mean to everyone.” There are spikes in Philippe’s voice, tall as skyscrapers. His coat is unbuttoned all the way down to his high-tops and this fires me up even more because he never used to do that with me. Blood pounds through my ears. I crush his bones with my eyes.
“I don’t need you to tell me how to be nice to Harry.” My toes warn me about going too far, but I see Philippe not bothered at all about the nest in Cynthia’s hair or about how she scratches and how they don’t even ask me to do things with them anymore (not that I would say yes anyway) and I stomp further into the angry ocean churning all around me: “I bet if you had a decent mother, Philippe, she’d think you were so horrible she’d pretend she didn’t know you.”
He gulps and turns radish red. Cynthia’s eyes pop. “Oh yeah, Rosie? How come you’re here, anyway? I thought they locked the zoo so you couldn’t get out.”
I ball my fists until they are the size of watermelons.
“I didn’t know you were friends,” Mr. Peterson says, all of a sudden back beside us with a stinking diaper in his hands and Augustus on his heels.
“We’re not,” Philippe mutters. He pulls Cynthia’s shirt. “Come on.”
Philippe’s coat hangs so far off his shoulders that it’s not much more than a loose cape. My toes whisper something ridiculous like isn’t it nice that he doesn’t have to button up so far anymore, but I ignore them.
“You don’t let kids wear stupid coats like that in your class, do you, Mr. Peterson?” The twins hear the lasso-whipping snap in my voice and stop scruffing my dog’s fur. Philippe sinks into his coat and now Cynthia pulls at him, saying, “Come on, you don’t have to listen to her.”
Mr. Peterson raises both brows. “In my class, Rosie, you can wear mittens on your ears if you want.”
I seethe. The stink of dirty diaper soars up my nose and there’s a bad taste in my mouth. Mr. Peterson sends the twins to the worm pile to dig with Augustus and I get Harry’s toolbox. The wheel is pretty easy to straighten with a few quick (one-armed) turns of the wrench.
The problem is the nut that holds the tow bar to the bike. I get it to twist a quarter of a turn before my wrench slips off.
“Your mother called.”
I can’t help the screech that flies out of my mouth.
“She asked for the principal, but unfortunately I was the only one around.”
I squeeze the wrench and twist. Sparks fly.
“She thinks you’re not making much of yourself. I agreed with her, at least as far as school goes.”
Augustus lets the twins rub dirt in his fur. He rolls over so they will rub his belly. I grit my teeth, use both my arms,
and twist harder. My head throbs. I could use an ice cube.
I get the wrench to turn a bit more.
“She wants me to move to California.” I twist so hard the wrench nearly melts.
“You don’t want to go?”
“I can’t bring my dog to boarding school,” I snort.
The wrench slips. Fire shoots out my ears. Mr. Peterson takes the screwdriver and wrench but his fingers are too thick to reach the tight space.
I try again. I give the wrench steady pressure and begin to twist only after I count to five. This time it works.
When we finally get the cart hooked on right, Mr. Peterson loads his twins back in, snuggles the baby into the backpack, and climbs onto the bike.
“I told your mother you’re no fool, Rosie. Your grandfather tells everyone who comes in the donut shop how you got your dog back—and now the whole town is talking about it. “I’d say a kid like that can do just about anything she puts her mind to, wouldn’t you?”
The next morning Augustus sulks.
“Stop that.”
He buries his soft muzzle under the army blanket. Every so often he makes that sigh that big dogs make and gets up, circles to find a better spot, and flops back down.
Later he turns his nose up at his kibble. The train roars through town and he drinks a little water from the toilet bowl, then jumps back on my bed. I check his eyes, scratch him between the ears, and sneak him some of Harry’s sardines, which he gobbles in one bite.
“You live here now,” I snap.
Harry comes home for lunch and sees my dog is acting like a flat tire. He reaches in the refrigerator for his sardines, notices they are nearly gone, and tosses the can on the table.
“You might as well give him the rest.” He opens another can and toasts rye bread and makes a sardine and onion sandwich. “I told Mrs. Salvatore I would build a raft for that boy,” he says between bites. “I could use some help.”
I roll my eyes.
Of course Cynthia wants to go build a raft, too, and Harry says she can come if she keeps her big trap shut. When she sees me, she asks Harry why aren’t I going? Harry ignores her and tells Philippe, “You can’t build a raft with a coat on. Take it off.”
I open my window, wedge myself through the skinny space, and climb onto the fire escape. The iron ladder sways as the wind gusts down from the sandpits.
My dog is uninterested. He snoozes under the army blanket.
I go in and hook his leash on and make him come out. He whines the whole time. I frown and tell him, “You’re not going to amount to much if you don’t put a little effort in.”
Another train roars into town, shaking the apartment building, sending grit up my nose. Passengers get off and more get on and the train rumbles away. Soon it will pass the far fields at Swanson’s, where I know Queenie is waiting.
The truth is this: now that my dog has a job to do, he is making something of himself.
“Oh, all right,” I snort. “All right!”
When I finally get the Blackbird’s wheel straight and the chain back on, Augustus practically pulls me up Main Street, which is pretty fun if you think about it.
Swanson seems to know we are coming, because Queenie already has her harness on.
I hold Augustus and unhook his red leash (the one with gold stars all over) and he flies for Queenie. They spend many minutes sniffing each other and then Augustus licks her nose and she licks the clumpy fur behind his ears.
I think about making her stop because I just used the no-tangle spray Harry bought at Walmart, but Augustus is thumping his tail and he has that grin on his face that used to be reserved for only me and now I have to share it.
“Augustus misses her.”
Swanson nods, a smile in her eyes.
“I think he’s happier here, but I don’t want him to be.” I let a little moan escape from the bottom of my heart.
After a few minutes of watching them, Swanson motions for me to come inside and she pours me a glass of lemonade. My eyes fill but I gnaw at the inside of my cheek until they stop.
Swanson’s little notebook is already on the table. She writes:
Your dog needs YOU!
She underlines the last part and waits for me to say more.
—
The good thing about Swanson is she doesn’t hog the discussion. She nods and listens and every so often pats my hand but mostly she looks straight at me and waits for me to get to the next sentence. And I suddenly have a lot to say: about Augustus wanting to be with Queenie so much, about my mum wanting to move me to California, about living with Harry, about Philippe and his coat, and about Cynthia being such a pest. I even tell her about my papa and how Harry wants me to visit and how I don’t think it’s a very good idea.
Not many people have a listening ear like my papa, but Swanson does. It helps if you don’t talk much, but it’s more than that—the difference is you listen with your heart open and you are not thinking the whole time about what you are going to say next. It’s not about trying to figure out your next move, like you do in Monopoly. It’s about love. I decide I might try this with Augustus.
He looks up from where he is lying next to Queenie and he looks at me with those gooseberry eyes and this time I know what he is feeling.
When I get all the words out, Swanson fries me a peanut butter sandwich.
I lick the melted peanut butter dripping off my little finger and watch Augustus and Queenie flop on the floor.
“How did you teach a blind dog to do so much?”
Swanson pulls out her notebook and writes a few sentences. Then she makes that chicken cluck and calls Queenie over. She shows me how she guides Queenie through the house, every day, never taking a day off, showing her the hot stove, the sharp edges of the table, the steep cellar stairs, the coffee table, the tall lamp, the couch, the grandfather clock.
It is the same outdoors. Swanson walks Queenie out through the apple orchard every day, carefully passing by big boulders and fallen logs, letting Queenie stop to sniff everything, which, if you’ve ever had a dog before, you know can take a thousand years.
Eventually Queenie learned where the trees were in the apple orchard and how to find the barn and the chicken coop on her own. She learned she could chase squirrels—barking happily—if she knew where the trees were so she didn’t plow into them.
When Augustus moved in, Swanson yoked the dogs together while she showed Queenie—over and over—where the danger spots were. Each day she made the course more difficult and finally she took both dogs across town to the sandpits after working hours.
Now Swanson’s eyes fill. She bends over her notebook and writes:
I was surprised the day I let go of the leash and they continued on without me.
We are interrupted by a car screeching outside. Augustus roars.
I fly to the window in time to see Avery Taylor running up the driveway with a bucket in his hand. His friends yell and hoot as he throws fire-engine-red paint at Swanson’s jeep.
Augustus leaps at the window and then Avery Taylor climbs back into his Camaro and revs his engine and peels out, screeching his tires like they are cats.
Augustus knocks out the window screen.
“No, Augustus! Bad dog. Bad, bad, bad dog!” I yell, grabbing his collar, pulling him back inside. He wriggles out of my grasp and lunges for the window.
In one jump Swanson pulls him and makes her chicken-clucking noise and snaps her fingers, and Augustus sits.
He whines, looking mournfully at me, but he keeps his big moose rear on the floor, where Swanson says it belongs.
Huummmppff, I think.
“Why don’t you tell the police?”
The noise that comes out of Swanson’s throat sounds something like she thinks I am an idiot.
Her eyes are incredulous. She grabs her notebook from the counter and bears down hard.
NO!
I push the notebook right back.
“Why?”
We are interrupted by Augustus, who, after investigating the jeep and the new paint splashed all over, wants to come back inside. Queenie has red paint on her nose.
Swanson wipes Queenie’s nose with Joy dish soap. I wait for a hundred years for her to answer my question. When she doesn’t, I switch to the other thing I am thinking about.
“Why don’t you talk, ever?”
Swanson tries to distract me with another sandwich but I say no, sit back down, I know what she is up to. Augustus follows the tone of my voice like a bouncing ball and watches me from his spot on the rug. I tell him to mind his business.
“Everybody gets you wrong. So why don’t you give them a chance to know you?”
God’s bones, she motions for me to go home.
I tell her no, I am not going. I stand my ground. “Kids are afraid of you, don’t you know that?” I hand her the notebook. I tell her I am not leaving without an answer. I am serious about this.
Augustus is all interested in the situation. He stands up, stretches his long legs, and comes over by me. I scratch behind his ears the way he likes.
I push the notebook closer.
Swanson stares out the window for what seems like a day and a half.
I push the notebook even closer, pick up the pencil, hold it out.
When she takes it, she sits down and very slowly begins to write:
I haven’t talked since I was eight.
I wait for her to write more, but she sits there.
Gently I prod her: “And that was it? You never talked after that?”
She shrugs.
“Not even in school? Don’t you get lonely? Don’t you want friends?”
I think about Cynthia saying I am a terrible friend, and who would want a friend like me, and I’m not sure I want friends, but sometimes I do. Life is very confusing.
After a while, I ask, “Well, do you have any black paint?”
Philippe rolls a three and lands on Baltic and buys it. I laugh at him because has there ever been a more worthless piece of property?
Chasing Augustus Page 14