My mum breathes in sharply. She turns up her nose at the fish smell. “People change.”
“Yes, they do,” my grandpa says in that gruff Marines voice that makes even the silverware march. “And that’s why you should see that Rosie needs to make this decision herself. Too much has happened without her say.”
Well, isn’t that the truth. I reach down and scratch Augustus between the ears. He thumps his tail and the floor hums. “I’m fine here.”
“Yes, I understand that, Rosalita, but what about college? It’s never too early to begin making something of yourself.” I watch my mum’s frustration spread like fog.
Harry eats another sardine and another. “If you’d open your eyes, Deborah, you’d see Rosie is already making something of herself.”
I open my mouth, shut it. I am?
My papa says in my head: You are.
My mum says, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I say, “Me and my Gloaty Gus are staying here.”
While my mum tries to think of the next thing to say, Augustus jumps half on my lap. I scratch him between the ears and realize I know something my mum doesn’t: life is better when you love a dog.
“This is so frustrating, Rosalita. I just want to be part of your life.”
Harry crushes the sardine tin in his hands. “You can, Deborah. I won’t stop you, as long as that’s what Rosie wants. She can visit you in California…as long as you’ll invite her dog, too.” I see the grin in Harry’s eyes. “Or you can come here as often as you want. But for Pete’s sake, she wants to be called Rosie.”
I snort. Augustus thumps his tail. The train rumbles into town and shakes our building. Harry whittles the calluses off his thumb. He told me he wants to talk to my mum about finances—“get her to be a little more generous without going to court”—and since Harry can make even the newspapers refold themselves with straight creases, I know this is a real possibility.
Harry pours another cup of coffee and this seems a good time to leave them. When my grandpa gets started, my mum won’t know what hit her, which, considering she is the one who left my papa and me for greener pastures all those years ago, she probably deserves.
I open my window and climb out onto the fire escape, and this time Augustus jumps out without me making him.
I hear Mrs. Salvatore yelling next door—“Philippe, stop that roughhousing!”—and I can’t help but grin that he’s getting yelled at because it means he’s found a real place for himself in that family, which is a nice change, considering what he’s been through. Then Paulie is yelping and Francesca is howling and Sarah is screaming will everybody be quiet so she can just read her book and then Mrs. Salvatore is shushing everybody and saying what in God’s name did she ever do to deserve this, and I know they are getting loved over there. I can hear it through the walls.
Augustus sniffs deeply into my shirt. The last time I wore it I was at Swanson’s. I scratch his ears. I’ve been thinking about something, and maybe it’s time to tell him.
I say, “You could go to Swanson’s during the day while I’m at school. That way you can help Queenie and come home with me in the afternoon. It would be like sharing.”
A sand truck roars by. Augustus makes that sigh that big dogs make. I sink my nose into his warm clumpy dog fur and he snuggles up to me. After a few minutes I tell him, “Stay here.”
I climb in my window and get the black-and-white-speckled notebook and crawl back out again. I read the throw-up page that Mr. Peterson wrote. I think about all that’s happened to me.
I smell a cake baking in Mrs. Salvatore’s kitchen—chocolate, maybe with cherries. I think maybe heaven must smell like that—yum.
I take a deep breath, pick up my pen, and begin:
I, Rosie Gillespie, am unsinkable.
Here’s how I got that way.
Augustus looks up and tries to sniff the page.
“Mind your business,” I tell him.
Harry does not believe in Heinz ketchup.
He thinks the cheap kind from Walmart is good enough.
“This doesn’t taste anything like Heinz.” I whine because I can do that with Harry now.
“You need to get your head examined,” he snaps. “Ketchup’s ketchup.”
I know that it’s not. I glare at him as he pounds the bottom of the bottle with his fist and covers his scrambled eggs with a sweet sticky puddle. By the time he finishes, there is only a dime-sized spot inside the bottle for me.
God’s bones, I snort.
“Oh, give me that.” He grabs the bottle and stomps to the sink, turning on the faucet and streaming water into the bottle. Then he snaps the cover, shakes, and hands it back to me.
“I’m not eating that! It’s tomato soup.”
Smoke spurts out his ears. You can tell he is trying to stop the loose cannon inside him. “If it’s that important to you,” he growls, “we’ll get more on the way.”
Augustus whines from his spot under the table. I hold my fork midair.
“Where are we going?”
“For a drive.”
I consider this. My toes tap a slow warning.
“I already told you I’m never going back to where my papa is.” I am serious about this.
“Did I say anything about that? Now get your dog.”
—
Augustus hits his head when we bounce over a pothole and then we speed past St. Camillus and turn onto the road leading to the sandpits.
I run through my head all the places we could be going. Just this morning, when he caught Augustus drinking from the toilet bowl, Harry said, “This dog is a huge pain in the butt,” then, not half an hour later, he roared, “There’s dog fur all over. Clean it up. And he got into the dog food again. I already told you to keep that pantry door locked.”
I glare at my grandpa, even though we are far away from Swanson’s. “I’m not giving my dog back, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Stop talking,” my grandpa says.
He turns out onto Route 54 and we zip past Charlie’s Place, where Cynthia’s mama works. I let Augustus crawl over me so he can stick his nose out the window. We pass the high school, the hockey rink, and a furniture store. About a mile later he pulls into a strip mall with a Dairy Queen, a tile and carpeting outlet, and a bicycle repair shop.
“I thought it might be time we fixed that bike, that’s all.” Harry climbs out of the truck and pulls the Blackbird out from where he has hidden it under a tarp.
My mouth is hanging open, I can tell you that.
I try to keep my dignity.
I am not very successful.
A few days later (when I still haven’t been arrested for what I did to Avery Taylor and nobody has told Harry), Philippe and Cynthia invite me on the raft.
“Did you tell?” I snap.
“Tell what?” Cynthia’s eyes are very big.
God’s bones. “Did you tell about the dumpster? Did you tell your mother or anyone else what we were doing?”
She backs up as my eyes ignite.
“I didn’t tell anybody. Why would I do that? Philippe told me why you did it and I think it was very brave. I want to be your friend, not tell on you all the time. We just wanted you to come out on the raft. You can bring your dog.”
I glare at Philippe.
“She didn’t tell, all right? She just wants to be friends.” He is not wearing his coat.
I snort at them both. “And Augustus can come?”
“He’ll make everything more fun,” Cynthia says. “If I had a dog, I would want a dog just like Augustus and I would bring him everywhere and he would be my best friend. My mama says I can’t have a dog, but if I could, I would bring him on the raft with me. I would want a dog that could swim just in case we fall off. Can your dog swim, Rosie?”
“Of course he can swim, Cynthia. He can do anything he wants.” I hold up my hand to stop another elephant stampede from rushing out of her mouth.
Augustus thinks it’s the best
idea in ten thousand years and I have to stop him from eating all the worms. I bring Harry’s fishing pole and the life jackets he bought at Walmart.
After I calm down, I start feeling grateful that they are okay about bringing a dog. Not everyone would be, because the chances of flipping over are pretty high, especially with a big galumph like Augustus. This makes me think a little more about friends and what you have to put up with to have some.
—
It is good to be on the water. There is the slowly drifting raft, the peaceful feeling in your heart, and Augustus is sitting up, watching me cast the line, thumping his tail.
Harry believes in teaching all kids to fish, and it turns out I am excellent at it. “What about your papa? Can he fish, too?” Cynthia wants to know. “My father left before I was born, but if I had a real papa like you do, I would want one who could fish.”
“Mind your business,” I tell her.
I settle back, look up at the clouds overhead. I eat a huge chunk of the gooey chocolate chip banana cake that Mrs. Salvatore packed for us (“Good Lord, you better not share it with that dog”).
I pull out the black-and-white-speckled notebook that I bring everywhere now. I am finding that if I tell myself I will write just three sentences, before I know it, I have filled a page and my whole life is gushing out. Mr. Peterson was right. Writing does light a fire. “Have you been to see your papa?” Cynthia wants to know. “If I had one in the hospital, I would go visit.”
Philippe punches her in the arm. The raft tips. “Will you just shut up, Cynthia?”
“I just wanted to know what it’s like. If I had a papa in the hospital, I would want to know what it feels like.”
Augustus whines for cake. Cynthia says, “I won’t tell.”
I give a chunk to Augustus, write some more.
I don’t want to tell them, because some things are your own business, but this is what it’s like to lose your papa.
You dream about him. And pretty much it’s always the same dream. It’s like you leave a thread in the morning to pick up the next night, and here’s what happens.
I am doing something, like maybe being in Miss Holloway’s class, or riding the Blackbird or watching my Gloaty Gus galloping through the sandpits, and then for some reason I remember my papa and why have I forgotten him? He’s been waiting for me the whole time.
And in my dream I drop what I am doing. Usually it is homework or something I don’t want to do and I throw it on the ground but sometimes it’s a piece of cake that doesn’t taste so good anymore and I race off to find my papa. I can’t breathe from running so hard and my heart is pounding. And I have to run about a thousand miles and I can’t go fast enough, I can’t go fast enough—and I fly through wet sand and rush through ponds and jump over sandpits and sometimes all of a sudden I am on my bike but I don’t remember pulling it out of the toolshed or even climbing on.
And then finally, finally, my papa is standing right in front of me. And he is saying, Where have you been? and my thoughts are clanging and interrupting each other and then my papa is fading away and I am whispering, No, no, don’t go—I just got here, and then he is all faded but he can still whisper in my ear.
And he is saying, I am right here and I will never leave you.
One day when I am finally ready, Augustus and I walk up to St. Camillus. There is English ivy twirling at the gate and some of the roses are still in bloom. I am glad for that.
We sit on the bench and wait for Harry. There are pink geraniums here and somebody planted a row of late-blooming chrysanthemums because school starts next week and fall is nearly here.
My very bad dog Augustus wants to jump up right beside me and of course I have to let him and then he wants the best spot on the bench and that means he pushes his big old lumpy moose self right on top of me.
“Move over, you big lug. I have a story to tell you.”
Finally, when he is done thumping his tail and licking the grit off my face, I open the first page in the black-and-white-speckled notebook, where I start with how I, Rosie Gillespie, am unsinkable.
“When you lose your papa, there’s a hole in your heart,” I read.
My Gloaty Gus sighs. So I keep going.
“But sometimes, if you’re very lucky, you get a dog—a big lumpy pain in the neck who jumps out windows and chases the milk truck.” Augustus wags his tail and then a cat runs by and I grab his collar just in time because he has that thing about cats. Then I scratch between his ears, which he likes very much. His eyes close.
“Don’t fall asleep, you big galumph. I’m reading to you.” My dog opens one eye and raises an ear and thumps his tail and my heart swells to the size of Jupiter because I know the true way of things.
I know what it’s like to love a dog.
Harry is carrying a paper bag of flags when he reaches us.
I push over and give him room. I think about cutting some of the roses and taking them in to see my papa, but I don’t because that is Harry’s job and he will do it when he goes in after me.
I told my grandpa I want to go in without him so I can tell my papa how I am getting on. I will tell him all about my Gloaty Gus and how I found him and how my papa was right all along about Swanson, about how she never had anything but now maybe she will. I’ll tell him I’m not moving to California and how Avery Taylor hasn’t bothered Swanson again. So far I haven’t been caught.
My grandpa tries to give me a few flags to take in. “If you would just put a little time into this…”
I roll my eyes before he finishes. God’s bones.
I tell my very bad dog Augustus that he better keep four paws on the floor and no jumping up on my papa’s bed to steal the fattest pillow. He can sit and sniff, that is all, maybe whine a little to let my papa know he is there, and thump his tail when I am reading and we get to the good parts.
Harry got special permission for me to bring my Gloaty Gus inside. He believes in stretching the truth when you have to. They don’t let dogs in St. Camillus unless they are trained therapy dogs, with proper visiting manners, so my grandpa bought a bright orange dog vest at Walmart and told the doctor it just so happens that Augustus is a therapy dog for the sight-impaired. None better.
I hand Harry my notebook. I can’t carry everything and manage my dog. After I visit my papa, my grandpa is driving me out to Mr. Peterson’s because nearly three-quarters of the pages are filled. Harry said enough’s enough.
“Don’t read it,” I tell Harry.
“You think I got time to read your rooster scratch? I’m taking a nap.” He leans back and pulls his fishing hat over his eyes.
I stand up, take a step toward my papa, and sit back down again.
Harry clears his throat from under his hat, sounding more goose than grandpa.
My Gloaty Gus watches me with those gooseberry eyes and I know he knows what I am feeling about everything. A year is a long time to lose your papa. I scruff the fur on his neck the way he likes and scratch his back and then I stand up and tuck The World Book of Unbelievable and Spectacular Things under my arm and together we walk up the steps of St. Camillus—and toward all the beeping.
A few days later, when it’s too hot for the fire escape, I bring the lemonade and the box of strawberry Popsicles that Harry bought at Walmart and sit out between the toolshed and the maple tree with Philippe and Cynthia.
I brace myself for Cynthia to rev up her motormouth about Avery Taylor or my mum or my visits to see my papa or even to ask about if I got into Mr. Peterson’s class after I showed him the notebook, but for a while, at least, the heat is too much for even her.
I am trying harder with both of them, which isn’t an easy thing when you think about it.
Philippe begins counting cans. Five black yard-sized garbage bags sit beside us, stuffed full. He opens the ledger he keeps for his recycling profits. His coat is lying in a heap on the grass.
“How much?” Cynthia says, Popsicle juice already running down her hands.
“At least five dollars per bag.”
I am bored to death in thirty seconds. “Swanson’s roof is leaking something awful,” I cut in. I give Augustus some lemonade. He slurps like a horse.
I turn to Philippe. “Will you help me nail some new boards up there? We can use Harry’s tools.”
“She shoots squirrels, Rosie,” Cynthia blurts out. Her hair is brushed, and I don’t see the nest underneath. I wonder how that happened.
Philippe writes in his ledger. “I already told you I’m never going back there again.”
“Please,” I say, sitting up on my heels, trying to find a cool spot in the shade. “My papa told me she doesn’t have anything and never did. But now she could have us.”
Without looking up from the ledger, Philippe says, “I’m too busy. And it’s hot.”
“But we can’t just let it leak like that. And she’s got a really nice dog. And she makes the best sandwiches of my life.”
“Forget it, Rosie.”
Cynthia stops her Popsicle midair. “But I like to help people, Philippe, I really do, I did ever since I was little, and maybe it’s just like Rosie always says, maybe Swanson doesn’t shoot squirrels or chase kids or all the other awful things folks say she does. I’ve never actually seen her do it, have you? Maybe it’s just people being mean. Did you ever think about that part, that maybe some people are just dumb and wrong, the same way they sometimes are about us?” She takes a teeny breath. “So maybe we should help her. What kind of sandwiches are they, anyway, Rosie?”
Philippe scoffs and turns back to his cans.
“I’ll tell you what,” I say, kicking off my flip-flops and pushing my toes into the grass. “I’ll help you load all the cans in the back of my grandpa’s truck. I bet he’ll take you to the recycling center. It’s too hot to walk. And I’ll come, too, and I’ll help and then maybe I’ll go out canning with you sometimes—I mean, I’ll see if I like it.”
Chasing Augustus Page 16