by Jean Little
“Nope,” he said.
Once he had taken his medication, he wouldn’t be hungry for hours. Then, all of a sudden, he’d be ravenous. Why didn’t she remember?
“Okay. Forget I mentioned it,” she said in her Poor Me voice.
As the car merged with the highway traffic, it dawned on him that she might be hungry even if he were not. Feeling ashamed, he bent and put his shoes back on without any socks. Before she could notice, he kicked the socks under the seat. She’d like him to tell her, “You ought to eat something. Go ahead and stop,” but the words stuck in his throat. She was the grown-up, not him.
“Are you excited, Bird?” she asked, trying once again to make the day a glad one.
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, sure.”
Maybe he really was excited. After all, the two of them were getting away from the city where Dad had left them. Nobody knew anything about them in Riverside. The people at the bank knew his mother, but his father had never once been there.
Even more important, he would never again have to watch out for the Bridge-man brothers. The kids in the new place had not known him before he started taking his pills. Maybe they wouldn’t throw names at him. Before he got the medication, he had been a bit hyper. He still was sometimes. He kind of liked it once in a while, going wild and screeching and bouncing off the furniture.
“Wired,” the doctor called it.
“Off the wall,” his mother said.
“Zoo boy,” the girl next door had said once.
“Just being an active child,” his dad had said, but he had been wrong. Gregory in his class was an active boy, good at sports, a born sprinter. He, Dickon, was hyperactive. The doctor had said so.
“How far is it now?” he burst out, the words exploding out of him like corn popping. “How far? How long? When will we be there? What’s the house like? Is my room big?”
“Settle down, Birdie,” she said, her voice tired but half-laughing. “You sound like a cap gun. I’ve told you all that stuff. Quit winding yourself up.”
Probably she had told him. He half-knew bits and pieces but he needed to hear it all more than once. Why couldn’t she just tell him?
Drumming his fingertips on the edge of the window, he peered out at the busy highway.
“Can you get me some Kleenex out of my purse?” she asked.
He reached back, swung her bag up off the floor, found a little package of tissues and handed it over. Then he dropped the unzipped purse back with a thud.
His mother blew her nose. Then she answered his questions, all but one.
“You didn’t say what the house is like,” he prompted when she stopped speaking.
“Wait and see,” she told him. “It won’t be long now. Remember, even if it isn’t a palace, it is ours. It was the only place I could find for the money I had that was all ready to move into. I am no good at fixing things.”
Dad could fix anything. Both of them thought of him, but neither said so.
Dickon put his glasses in their case and slumped down, letting his eyelids plop shut. Quietly, so she wouldn’t notice, he dug his knuckles into his closed eyes and watched the colors swirl and float and pinwheel around like those in his old kaleidoscope. Blue, purple, flashes of green, bursts of yellow. He loved the whirling rainbow colors. They were so much brighter, more vivid, than anything in his real world. They soothed him, smoothing down the spikes of prickly tension.
“Stop that, Birdie,” she said.
Why? What harm was it doing her? Glowering, he muttered, “Okay. Wake me up when we get there.”
It seemed only seconds before she called him.
“Nearly there, Birdie,” she said.
He sat up and stared out the car windows. They were creeping along one of the most boring streets he had ever seen. They passed a street sign that said Applewood Road. His mother turned into another street as dull as the first. Orchard Drive. Dickon looked for fruit trees but saw only a row of spindly maple saplings, one in front of each house.
“Where … ?” he began.
Before he could finish, she stopped in front of a house. It was one in a long row of houses identical except for their color: brown, gray, slate-colored, brown … His mother had parked in front of a gray one.
Hope, which had been so bright inside him, faded. That wasn’t a home. It was a box.
“Put on your glasses,” his mother urged. “It’s not that bad. And it’s our very own. We even have a tree.”
Dickon dug out his glasses case once again and put on the spectacles. Then he peered through them. The house looked even worse. He strained to keep his face blank and forced his lips to smile.
But she was not fooled.
“You hate it,” she said flatly.
“I haven’t seen inside yet,” he said loudly, doing his best to meet her searching gaze. “I was expecting something … different, that’s all.”
She had gotten out of the car and now she just stood there, staring at the house, not answering.
He climbed out and tried for a better smile.
“Let’s have the Tour, lady,” he said. “I never judge a house by its … its front door.”
“Follow me,” she said, starting up the three gray steps to the door. “You’ll at least have your own room.”
Dickon did not remind her that he had always had his own room. He fell in behind her. Then a strange voice said, “Hello, Mrs. Fielding. Welcome to Orchard Drive. You must be Dick.”
“That’s the Humane Society …”
Julie Fielding turned to the next-door neighbor who had come out to welcome them.
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Nelson. Please, call me Julie,” she said. “Yes, this is my son. He’s Dickon, not Dick. I’m about to give him his first tour of our new home.”
“You call me Amy. I won’t hold you up then. Hi, Dickon. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.”
She had short fat curls all over her head that bobbed as she moved. Her face was rosy and she had a warm smile. Her dress was covered with pink flowers and she wore a pink apron. Even her glasses, which were hung on a chain around her neck, had pink frames.
“I named him after Dickon in The Secret Garden, the boy who charms the animals,” Dickon’s mother said.
“I’m not much of a reader,” Mrs. Nelson said, “but my granddaughter has the video. I watched some when I was babysitting. Wasn’t Dickon the one with the lamb?”
“Yes,” Julie Fielding said. “But you really should read the story.”
Dickon grinned. His father had called The Secret Garden “Julie’s Bible.” Dad usually called him Dick, which made Mum mad because it made people think that his long name was Richard. She had started calling him Dickybird when he was too little to make a fuss. He had not paid attention until his parents began squabbling over it.
“Julie, stop. It’s as bad as calling the boy Tweetie,” Dad had yelled once.
Not long after that, she had shortened it to Bird or Birdie. He had been about to tell her he wanted to be called Dickon when Dad had left and it was too late.
Like it or not, he was Birdie for now. But someday, he would be Dickon. Maybe it would happen here in this new place. Maybe it would be part of the fresh start.
He wished he could be like Dickon Sowerby in The Secret Garden. That boy had all the pets he wanted. And he was so free! If he had wanted a dog …
“I don’t have a pet lamb,” their new neighbor said, smiling, “but I do have a pet. You’ll have to come over and meet Charlie after you’ve had the tour.”
Mum waved goodbye to Mrs. Nelson and beckoned Dickon into the house. He took a last look at the outside as he started up the steps. On either side of the door was a narrow window. The roof had a little slant, but he saw at once that there was no upstairs. It reminded him of the houses he had drawn in kindergarten before he had learned to make the roof go up to a point and add a fat chimney. There was no chimney here. Santa Claus would be left out in the cold.
“Ri
ght this way, Mr. Fielding,” his mother was saying.
Dickon marched in like a soldier ordered into battle, hoping against hope that there would be something for him to rave about. She wanted him to be pleased. If there was not one single good thing, what would he do?
The front hall was a small, square space, almost too tiny to hold the two of them. He peered through the two doors opening out of it on either side. The living room was on the right and the kitchen on the left. The bathroom was straight ahead of him and there were two bedrooms, one on either side of the bathroom. Stacks of boxes and a couple of bulging garbage bags blocked their way. That was all.
“We’ll eat in the kitchen,” she said. “It’s cozy, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he lied. “I like eating in the kitchen.”
Cramped was a better word.
And ever since Dad had gone, the two of them had eaten in front of the TV.
“That’s your room,” she said, pointing.
Her voice shook. She’d fall apart in ten seconds if he didn’t snap out of this gloom. He came to life with a jerk and lurched forward, squeezing past all the boxes, into his new room. His bed, his huge box of Lego and his bookcase almost filled the narrow space. His desk was jammed behind the door with his chair upside-down on top of it.
Oh, no! She had hung his old teddy bear curtains in the windows! She’d probably brought his teddy bear mug too.
“It’s cool,” he bellowed. “I like it a lot. Honestly, Mum. I think it’s great.”
“No, you don’t,” his mother answered, squeezing past him. “It’s too small and it only has one little window and the walls are lima bean green. I hate it too. But my walls are eggplant purple.” She sank onto the bed and gave a small smile. “We won’t be here forever, Bird. Just until I find a job that pays a bit more. We can make a new start here, though. As soon as I get some free time, I’ll paint your bedroom.”
“But I do like it. I do. Really,” he insisted, crashing across to the window. “Look at my view.”
He shouldn’t have said that before he checked.
The squinchy little backyard ended in a chain link fence. On the far side was a large building and a huge grassy fenced-in area. What was it? It could be a baseball diamond almost, but he couldn’t see any bases. There were no trees either.
“That’s the Humane Society,” his mother told him. “They said we would hardly hear the barking, but I’m not so sure. The cages have runs on the other side, but they may well exercise the animals inside that fenced-in field.”
The Humane Society! Dogs!
Long ago, when Dickon was four, Dad had brought home a puppy from the Humane Society. Dickon still remembered that puppy even though his mother had been so upset that his father had taken it back an hour later. Maybe being so close to lots of dogs would change her mind about them. Then, at last, he would get a pup all his own.
“It is superb, excellent, Mum!” he shouted, putting on a maniac act. “It’s my dream house!”
He whirled to hug her. She hated the house as much as he did. But they were getting a fresh start. She had said so. And, all at once, a real grin spread across his face for the first time since she had left him behind the day before.
Her big gray eyes filled with tears. She hugged him back. One tear plopped down behind his ear and made him jump.
“You should go next door for that cup of tea,” he told her, wiggling free. “I’ll stay and unpack my stuff.”
“Oh, Birdie, you should come too,” she said.
He knew how to change her mind. He shot away from her, leaped onto his bed and began to bounce. He had been cooped up in the car so long that he felt as fizzy as a shaken pop can. He could not sit and sip lemonade like a good boy.
Wham, wham, wham!
“Oh, baby, do calm down,” she begged.
He thudded to the floor and glanced through his window. Two women were coming out of the building and walking up the street that ran along the end of the block. Did they work at the Humane Society? He stared at them, taking in every detail of their appear ance. One was black and extra tall with short curly hair. She had on jeans and a denim shirt and she took long steps so the other one had to trot to keep up. The smaller woman only came up to the tall one’s jaw, and her hair, which was long and shoved behind her ears, was so fair it was nearly white. She turned to speak to the other one and her white teeth flashed.
Then they paused and looked up at a sign attached to the fence. He could not see the words, of course, but he was curious. He would have to drag Mum out on a detective walk.
His mother looked to see what had caught his attention.
“I wonder who those two are,” she said idly, “and what that sign says. NO DOGS ALLOWED would be nice.”
“No, it wouldn’t. If I had a dog …” he began in spite of himself
“Now, Birdie, you know it isn’t possible,” Julie Fielding said, heaving a sigh. “I wish they were not right in our backyard. That had better be a good stout fence. At least you can’t get through it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dickon said.
If he didn’t get a dog before he grew up, he would have one then for sure. Suddenly, the idea of being this close to the Humane Society made him so excited that he spun in a circle with his arms stretched wide. His mother leaned out of the way.
“All right,” she said weakly. “I’ll go. I have a few questions to ask. But I’ll take my cell phone.”
“Fresh start,” he hummed to him-self once the door closed. “Fresh start, fresh start. Dogs, dogs, DOGS!”
Maybe, like Mary in The Secret Garden, he would find magic on the other side of the fence.
Kids and Dogs
After supper, Dickon coaxed his mother out for a walk. He wanted to see that sign.
“Wait up, Mum,” he said when they had reached it. “I have a stone in my shoe.”
He hopped on one foot while he read. It was not easy. She waited, never guessing what he was up to.
DOG CARE PLUS OBEDIENCE TRAINING
July 2 — July 26
Children 10 to 14
Weekday Afternoons 1:00 to 3:30 p.m.
Learn to train, groom and care for your dog.
Snacks provided for kids and dogs.
The class began on Tuesday!
“Have you got it out?” his mother asked.
He stared at her blankly. Then he remembered the phantom stone in his shoe.
“Yup,” he said and walked on, dreaming of dogs.
His mother studied his face.
“You are to stay on our property, remember,” Julie Fielding reminded her son sternly.
“Okay, okay,” he said.
“You’ll miss your friends, but you can make new ones when school starts,” she put in.
Friends? That was a good one.
Well, he reminded himself, here nobody knows I’m weird. They haven’t heard the Bridgemans calling me names. If the kids here start, at least they’ll be different ones. I won’t let them hear Mum calling me Birdie, not if I can help it.
“Home again, home again,” she said in a cheery voice.
“Jiggety-jig,” he said, heading into his room.
“You need a bath, Birdie,” she called after him.
“I’m Birdie for now,” he muttered, “but I won’t be Birdie forever. Even Mum can’t call a grown-up man ‘Birdie.’”
The next day was Canada Day. Dad had taken them to a great fireworks display two years ago. Last summer, neither of them had even noticed Canada Day. This year was going to be another Non Canada Day, Birdie was sure.
He was watching TV when Mum groaned.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, not re-ally interested.
“They are going to be running a dog training school of some kind right behind this house,” she said. “Oh, dear. You’ll have to keep away from that.”
Hadn’t she read the sign He jumped up and ran to look over her shoulder. There was a picture of the tall woman, smiling. She was holding a do
g in her arms.
LESLIE HAWKIN TEACHES DOGS MANNERS, the headline read.
“Read out what it says,” he urged.
Leslie Hawkin, Mum read, from the Riverside Humane Society, was running a summer program for children whose dogs needed to learn some manners. Basic Dog Obedience would be taught, plus tips on grooming and general care for a pet.
“They will learn to brush their dogs’ teeth,” she read.
“She must be crazy,” his mother said with a shudder. “When the kids get bitten, she’ll be sued pronto.”
Dickon opened his mouth to argue and then knew he should let her forget. But he was so excited that he had to go to his room so she would not guess.
The two of them spent all day Monday unpacking boxes and putting things in new places. If only Tuesday would hurry up and come!
His mother left him a list of instructions when she went to work the next morning. His food was all prepared. He would not even have to make himself a piece of toast. Her cell phone number was written up everywhere. She had set an alarm to ring every hour. When he heard it, he was to check in with Mrs. Nelson. At least he didn’t have to go over and spend the day with her. Neither he nor the neighbor lady had liked that idea.
He watched TV all morning. When the programs got too babyish, he began building a Lego wall across his bedroom door. It left room at the side for him to get in, but it let him leave his door open without his mother seeing out the window. She would see his Lego wall instead with its windows and doors, steps and terraces. He was good at Lego when he could do whatever he liked with it.
He took breaks, checking his window view and calling the lady next door whenever the alarm went off. She told him all about Charlie, who turned out to be her pet hedgehog. He went over to see Charlie and was astounded by the tiny animal who, when he rolled himself up, was about the size of a tennis ball.
After Dickon ate half his sandwich and drank his first glass of milk, he settled down cross-legged on his bed and gazed out at the Humane Society yard. Nothing was happening. But he stayed put, watching. His teachers would have been amazed.
“If you’d stop fidgeting and concentrate instead,” Mrs. Abcock had said to him in front of them all, “you might make some progress, Dick. You need to pull up your socks or you’ll spend your entire life in Grade Two.”