It wasn’t exactly true, the thing I said about not knowing what Moira was talking about. I actually did understand some of it. At least I think I did. Not the part about the culturally instilled … installed?… desire women had to please men, maybe, but the part about succeeding on your own terms. Rising above … whatever it was she said … and fighting for the kind of life you wanted to have. That part I’m pretty sure I got.
Not that I’m anywhere close to fighting for my ideal life. I’m too busy surviving the tar pit I’m stuck in, the one that keeps trying to pull me down and suffocate me like I’m some sort of prehistoric ground sloth. I’m trying to help Mom survive, too, not that I’m doing a very good job of it. She’s as messed up now as she was the day we ran through this forest together, back to where my father lay dying, both of us terrified and desperate. She’s just as incapable—or maybe unwilling—to fight.
Moira is screwed up, too, but at least she’s willing to confront whatever’s wrong in her life. At least she’s not some cookie-cutter chick trying to be just like all the other cookie-cutter chicks out there. Maybe that’s what she meant about the culture and about women pleasing men. But if she thinks women are the only ones dealing with this crap, she’s pretty freaking clueless.
What about the stuff guys are supposed to think and say and do to prove we’re manly men, to prove we’re in control and strong as iron and fearless? What about the way guys call each other faggot in the hallway if one of them accidentally gets too close to another, or the way I have no choice but to fight whenever some punk decides he wants a piece of me. Refusing to fight makes me look like a pantywaist, and then every other guy on the planet wants to hurt me, too. That’s just how it is.
Moira acts like she’s the only one who has to deal with this kind of bullshit. Okay, so maybe she gets more nasty comments than most people, but isn’t she asking for it just a little? Everything about how she looks and acts is so in-your-face. How are people supposed to respond?
Like non-assholes, for starters, I think, answering my own question in my head. Like human beings who can see when someone has a lot of stuff going on, when someone’s in pain. (Jesus, my old man would punch me right in the face if he was here and knew what I’m thinking.) And what is Moira’s pain, anyhow? What the hell is she so angry about?
I bend down to pick another iris. I’m not so self-absorbed as to think she went to the Dark Side because of me. Not directly because of me, anyway. But I also know some of this stuff with Moira started years ago. I know this because I was there for it. I was there in sixth grade when she’d come into the Resource room to study with Agnes, and I was there when the three of us started hanging out together at lunchtime and recess. I can’t say I felt totally comfortable with that arrangement, but nobody else was offering. A few of the guys in our class were pretty cool to me every now and then, but most weren’t. Most wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out with the class dunce. Being with the girls was better than being alone all the time.
None of this had ever been a problem until that year. In fifth grade, I’d go to the Resource room at a certain point during the day, and none of the other kids thought a thing about it. But things went south for me in sixth. Maybe it was the specter of junior high on the horizon. Maybe it was testosterone. Who the hell could say? All I know is I basically became an untouchable overnight.
All of that changed one day toward the end of the year. Our class was going to play dodgeball for PE, and I got picked for a team early. I’d never been picked early for anything, unless you counted detention.
“We’ll take Boone,” Amanda Bevins said. She was one of the captains, and she’d already picked a couple of the most athletic boys in the class, including Jared Vandercamp. He was the one I got suspended for decking after he cornered Moira in the hallway. Stunned by the fact that I’d been picked near the start of the draft, I walked toward the spot where Amanda’s guys were standing. To my surprise, Jared raised his hand for a high five. A part of my brain started to work this equation, to weigh the rightness of what was happening, but I shut it down and high-fived Jared back. Who was I to argue if he was calling a truce?
“Shoot, I was going to take Boone.” This from Vince Goddard, the captain of the other team.
“Well, too bad, so sad,” Amanda shot back.
Were they … arguing over me? I wasn’t sure, but Vince seemed genuinely miffed that I wasn’t walking toward his group, and Amanda looked superior, like she’d gotten what she wanted. I could hardly believe it. I looked down at the ground to make sure everyone realized how humbled I felt, that I wasn’t encouraging the argument. It’s not like I was that great or anything, but could I help it if I was in demand? My head felt light from this new feeling of pride and acceptance. It felt like it might detach from my body and float away.
The remaining player pool dwindled as the captains picked the rest of their teams. Eventually, it was just Moira standing there. She was forced to join our team to keep things even, and you could tell it was killing her. To say she wasn’t athletic was an understatement. She scowled as she headed toward us, and I felt embarrassed for her. I felt embarrassed for me, too, for hanging out with her. I knew that was two-faced of me, but it was the truth.
Jared Vandercamp was still standing next to me. “Check out Gigantor,” he said under his breath.
I didn’t respond.
“I dare you to trip her.”
Moira was getting closer. “Shut up. I’m not going to trip her.” I made sure to smile when I said it, to show I was keeping his joke between us.
“It’s because you love her,” Jared taunted in a louder voice now. Moira was about to pass right in front of us. “It’s because you lust after her. You want to make babies with—”
My foot shot out like it was acting independently of the rest of my body. If I had known Agnes was standing right there off to the side and that she’d be hurt when Moira fell, there’s no way I would have let my foot do that. Even now, all these years later, I really like to think I would have stopped it. Instead, it seemed like time froze. I didn’t even think Moira would really hit the ground. I figured she’d see my foot and give me the stink eye, maybe tell me I was a jerk as she walked on by. But she did hit the ground. Hard. And Agnes was right there to break her fall. I’d done the unthinkable without even giving it a second thought. I was a monster.
The school called my mom immediately, but because she was down with the flu, my dad had to interrupt his workday to talk to the principal and pick me up early. Once we got home, he told me to go pick my switch from the oak tree outside. I did, and he proceeded to whip my butt with it. He did it behind the horse shelter so Mom wouldn’t see and throw a fit. She was always coming to my defense whenever he decided I needed to be punished. I knew I deserved it this time, though. Plus, I was wearing my jeans when he switched me, so it’s not like it was that bad.
When my suspension ended and I saw Agnes at school with her twig-like forearm all bandaged, I felt like I was going to throw up. The worst part was that Agnes and Moira wouldn’t even look at me. I tried apologizing to Agnes in the Resource room when Ms. Marilyn was helping another student, but Moira appeared behind Agnes’s chair and told me where I could stick my apology.
That was the end for the three of us. Maybe it wouldn’t have been the end if things had gone differently. Maybe I could have figured out a way to work myself back into their good graces. But the gulf between me and the girls only widened once seventh grade started. They had their lives, and I had mine. Well, at least that second part was true right up until partway through eighth grade, when life as I knew it came to an end as well.
I’ve picked two big handfuls of irises, and it’s time to head back to the house. When I get there, I fill a mason jar with water and try to arrange the flowers as best I can. I clear some bills and dishes and other clutter off the table before setting the jar in the middle, like a centerpiece. Who knows if she’ll even notice?
47
AG
NES
DAY 54: MAY 2
At first, I think it’s a wrong number.
The voice on the other end of the phone line Monday evening is garbled and hysterical. I check the caller ID. “Who is this?” I demand. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”
“… didn’t want to call and upset you. I’m calling from the vet’s. Bingo had a stroke, and the vet says there’s brain damage. We have to put him to sleep, Agnes. He’s dying!”
Moira.
“Oh, Em. I’m so sorry. Poor Bingo.” An image of the old chocolate Lab appears in my mind: Bingo as a puppy in that picture of sweet, happy toddler Moira. I knew they’d had to take him to the vet the other day, but I had no idea it was this bad.
“I can’t handle this,” Moira cries. “I love him so much.”
“I know,” I tell her. “I wish there was something I could do.”
We stay on the line for a while without saying anything. After a couple of minutes, Moira’s breathing slows down, and her voice gets mostly back to normal. “My parents are talking to the vet now. I should probably get off the line and go back in there.”
“Call me later,” I tell her. “And, Em?”
Sniff. “Yeah?”
“Bingo is lucky you’re his human. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Agnes.”
48
BOONE
DAY 53: MAY 3
Agnes is alone in the hallway. She’s leaning against a wall near the girls’ bathroom, looking down at her intertwined fingers.
“Hey,” I say. There’s something I want to tell her. Moira, too, someday, but I should probably start with Agnes. I’d better do it now before I lose my nerve. “So, remember back in sixth grade when you got hurt … when I caused you to get hurt?”
Agnes looks up at me, surprised. If she had eyebrows, they’d be raised. “Of course I do,” she says.
“Well, I just … I wanted to say I’m sorry. I never did say it back then, so I want to say it now.”
“Wow,” she says. “Okay.”
“I don’t even know what I was thinking. I mean, I wasn’t thinking. I was just a total assho—a total jerk.”
Agnes gives me a little smile. “Boone, it’s okay. It was a long time ago.” She still doesn’t move from where she’s standing, though.
“What’s going on?”
She glances at the bathroom door. “Moira’s in there. She can’t stop crying, but she doesn’t want anybody with her.”
“Crying?” As usual, the moment the word leaves my mouth, I half wish I hadn’t asked. She’s probably having girl issues.
“They had to put Bingo to sleep yesterday. You know, her old dog?”
“Oh, no.” I remember meeting Bingo the first time I went over to Moira’s house and helped her dad repair the VW.
“The vet wanted too much money to euthanize him, so they ended up taking him to the Humane Society. It costs a lot less, but they usually just cremate the animals and throw away the ashes. Moira’s had that dog forever. She’s freaking out.”
“Can’t they just bury him in their yard?”
“Not according to the city,” Moira says from behind me. I jump a little. I didn’t see her come out of the bathroom. “They’re already on my dad’s case about an illegal garden shed he built in our yard.”
“Hey, Em,” Agnes says.
“I’m sorry about your dog,” I tell her.
Moira nods, but she doesn’t look at me. Most of her makeup has been rubbed away, and the skin around her eyes is pink and puffy. “At least the Humane Society told my parents we could have Bingo’s body, but now there’s nowhere to bury him.”
“It sucks,” Agnes says.
Moira nods again. “So I was in there thinking. And I decided I’m going to put him out in the forest.”
Whoa, I think. Bad idea. “Were you just going to lay him out there?” I ask her. I remember the two drowned birds I threw over the fence earlier this year. Dead birds are one thing to leave out to become part of the circle of life. A dog’s quite another. Especially a big dog like Bingo. I don’t want to have to explain why.
“My dad will have to dig a hole,” Moira says miserably.
“The ground’s still frozen solid a few inches below the surface. You know that, right?”
Moira sniffles, and Agnes puts a hand on her shoulder again. “I guess I didn’t. What else am I supposed to do? I can’t just have them … cremate him and get rid of the ashes so I don’t know where he ends up.”
Everyone’s quiet.
“My place,” I tell her.
The girls look at me.
“Bury him at my place. It’s outside city limits.”
“But the ground—”
“I have a backhoe.” It’s true. We do have a backhoe. I’m just not sure if it works. It was running rough when I started it up last fall. Now that it’s spent the past six months behind the barn gathering hay dust and cobwebs, I have no idea what kind of shape the thing is in. I’ve been thinking lately that I should try to fire it up again when I get a little spare time, figure out what needs to be fixed. I’ll probably have to sell it soon for grocery money if things keep going the way they have been. I don’t even want to think about how much it’s going to cost to get the engine in good shape, but I’m pretty sure I could get it to run for at least an hour or so. I’m pretty sure I could use it to bury a dog. “I can do it after school, if you want.”
“I need to be there,” Moira says.
“Me too,” Agnes adds.
* * *
That afternoon, I drive the two of them in my truck to go get Bingo’s body. Moira wanted to use the El Camino as a hearse, but Agnes worried about her being too upset to drive safely.
“I can bring you back here when we’re done,” I said as we stood in the school parking lot trying to figure out a plan. I didn’t look at Moira when I said it, but not because I was mad. It was because she suddenly seemed delicate in a way I’ve never seen her; I didn’t want to be the one to push her over the edge with the wrong facial expression or the wrong tone of voice.
We stop at Moira’s house first so she can get Bingo’s favorite blanket to bury him in. Her parents come out and tell me and Agnes that they already bid Bingo farewell during his final moments at the Humane Society. “You kids take your time saying good-bye to him,” her dad tells us.
“Keep an eye on Moira, will you?” her mom asks after glancing back to make sure Moira’s still in the house. “This hit her really hard.”
Agnes and I both say we will.
When we get to the Humane Society, I park the truck and go inside. The crisp spring air is filled with the sound of barking dogs. I wish I’d left the motor running to help drown out the noise for Moira. A girl in scrubs is sitting behind the receptionist counter, and she looks up at me when I come through the door.
“I’m here for Bingo Watkins,” I tell her.
The girl can’t be much older than I am. She makes a sad face and tells me to drive around to the back of the building. A few minutes later, I back the truck toward a big metal door that rolls up to reveal a garage-like storage area. I get out of the cab when Moira does. We stand by our respective doors as a couple of techs come out with what I can only assume is Bingo inside one of those extra sturdy garbage bags. Moira gasps at the sight. The techs carry the dog out on a giant platter—a platter!—with a handle on each end. They set the whole thing onto the pickup bed and then slide the platter out from underneath. “There you go,” one of the techs says. He looks from Moira to me and back to Moira. “Sorry for your loss.”
* * *
Agnes sits between us on the drive out to my place. She rides backward without a seat belt so she can keep an eye on Bingo and make sure he doesn’t bounce around too much. Moira hardly seems to notice, though. She’s staring out the passenger side window with her chin in one hand and a blank look on her face. Her other hand is clutching Bingo’s blanket.
Thank God the backhoe starts up.
I was prepared to get out the pickax and the shovel to dig the hole myself if necessary, but it would have been a tough job. Once I’ve transferred Bingo from the truck bed to the big steel backhoe bucket, I climb up into the operator’s seat and navigate the machine carefully into the big field. There isn’t room for all three of us in the cab, so Moira follows on foot with Agnes on her back. The ground is too uneven for Agnes to walk safely out to the grave site on her own. From her piggyback vantage point, she keeps an eye out for prairie dog holes so the two of them don’t end up in a heap on the ground.
Once we’ve gone several hundred yards, I stop and idle the engine. “This is the spot I was thinking about,” I call down to them. I’ve always thought it was peaceful, with a line of trees to the east and a ridge overlooking a small slot canyon to the west.
Moira surveys the area and nods. “It’s perfect,” she says.
I climb down from the cab and lift Bingo, still covered by the plastic bag, from the bucket. The girls follow me as I carry him to a spot about a dozen yards off, set him down on the ground, and pull the bag away. At first, Moira doesn’t want to look. She puts a hand over her eyes but then lowers it. The dog is curled tight and frozen there, like he fell into a peaceful sleep during a snowstorm and never woke up. “Here,” she says, handing me the blanket. I drape it over him, tucking it in around the edges.
Moira and Agnes find a tree to sit under while I stab the edge of the backhoe bucket into the earth over and over again, scooping up dirt, rocks, and roots that I set off to one side of the hole. It doesn’t take too long, but I want the grave deep enough so there’s no chance of coyotes digging it up. Of course, I don’t mention this. When I’m done, the girls stand up and come over.
“Agnes needs to use the bathroom,” Moira says as I step down from the cab.
Agnes, standing behind her, rolls her eyes. “I can just go behind a tree.”
“No, you can’t,” Moira tells her. She looks at me and says, more softly this time, “She can’t.” It’s a plea.
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