I liked the sound of that.
He said, “She’ll be woozy. She’s not in pain. We’ll keep her comfortable.”
Granddad said, “How long before she comes home, Dave?”
It took me a second to realize he was talking to the doctor. I know doctors have first names, of course, just I never called one Dave or anything that didn’t start with “Doctor.”
He answered the same way. “Ned, she’ll be home inside a week. Best I can do.”
I glanced at Mrs. Buttermark and caught her glancing at me. I figured she heard that best I can do the same way I did. It was the best he could do to get Granddad off the hook of babysitting for me as fast as possible.
He was going on to say other stuff, though. “She’ll use crutches for several weeks. You might arrange for a wheelchair for the first month.”
A wheelchair. Okay. Then crutches. Double okay.
In my mind, Mom was getting better.
The doctor said by next winter Mom would never know this happened. I did the math on that. We were about two months into winter this year, which left ten months till next winter. It seemed a long time to wait.
A tiny thought fell out of the back of my mind. Joey and I would make a contest of who could get down the hallway fastest on the crutches. I’d have plenty of time to learn how to do wheelies in the wheelchair. I could picture Mom cheering me on.
The doctor promised to call Granddad the next morning, give him a report. An update, he called it. And the whole picture fell apart. I knew Mom would get better, but we had a ways to go first.
A nurse came to stand nearby and the doctor went off with her. That left us sitting in the waiting room again. Granddad went out for a smoke.
I said to Mrs. Buttermark, “Granddad’s in a hurry to go home.”
I expected her to agree, but she said, “Why do you say that?”
“He told the doctor he wants Mom to go home as soon as she can.”
“We all want that.”
“I know. I think Granddad doesn’t want to take care of me.”
“I think he wants what’s best for you, Jake.”
“I know, I know. He also wants to go home.”
Mrs. Buttermark looked at her magazine, and after a moment said, “I really didn’t get that feeling at all.”
Granddad got back a few minutes later. He brought a handful of comic books for me and a newspaper for himself. I was set for an hour or so, and Granddad turned to the crossword puzzle.
Mrs. Buttermark came right out and asked him, “What do you usually do with yourself at this time of year, Ned?”
“I have a few buddies,” Granddad said, and then upped the volume to that hearty voice he used about swimming. “We order in ham sandwiches and cranberry sauce from a local restaurant. Sing a few carols if the mood hits us. Biggest poker game of the year.”
“Does it bother you to miss it?”
“Not a bit.” This was also a hearty voice, but not at all the same. This time, he really meant it. “I can play poker anytime.”
Mrs. Buttermark grinned at me.
“The Christmas flowers look really good,” I told her.
“Yes, you’ve made a real improvement,” Granddad said. “That tree was depressing.”
We didn’t get to see Mom for over an hour. Her leg was propped up in this little hammock that hung from the ceiling, and her hair was a flattened mess. But she looked pink and not too tired out.
I grinned the second I saw her. This was even better than wheelies.
Mom hugged me and called me “beautiful boy,” like I was still little. It was a little embarrassing in front of Granddad. I figured she’d been taking medication and all.
“Ooh, little Christmas tree,” she told Mrs. Buttermark, and sniffed at it. “Mmmm. Rosemary.” I figured the tree had its name on the tag or something.
We made up a list of everything else she wanted us to bring. Mrs. Buttermark had been calling Granddad Ned, and he called her Donna. Mom noticed this and wiggled her eyebrows at me. I felt good, seeing that. Mom had to be feeling pretty well.
A nurse came by and told us we had to go. Mom was supposed to go to sleep. We said okay, and then we talked for a few more minutes. Mom asked if the TV on the wall worked.
So I thought maybe that meant she didn’t expect to pass out the second we left. I mean, she never just goes to sleep. I thought maybe it would be like the doctor said, she’d be woozy. She wasn’t.
The TV didn’t work.
“Mrs. Buttermark brought some magazines,” I said. “Would you like to have a couple of those?”
“Magazines would be great.”
“I’ll go get them,” Granddad said.
“I just remembered,” Mrs. Buttermark said. “About your work. Should we call anyone?”
“Not yet,” Mom said. “If I have to be here more than another couple of days, I’ll figure something out. Borrow Ginny’s laptop, maybe, so I can work in this bed.”
The nurse came by again and shooed us out. I think Granddad was a little bit glad. Probably he was worried about his dog. His nightmare dog.
“Ned,” Mom called as we were leaving. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
Granddad said, “Dr. Dave expects you to run a marathon next week, that’s how fast you’re going to be up and around.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It had started to snow a little. No one said, Oh, no, snow on top of the ice.
There would probably be more people who slipped and fell tomorrow morning. Halfway home, a fire engine passed us, and I didn’t wonder where it was going. I wondered if I had been falling asleep.
We passed Christmas lights, but we didn’t say, Look how pretty.
We hardly said a word in the car. Except for the kinds of things people say in winter, like, “It’ll warm up in a minute.”
Also the kinds of things people say after they see a person who had surgery. “She looks good.” Of course they could say the opposite if that were true, they just wouldn’t say it in front of me.
Mom did look good. She looked like she had a broken leg. She looked regular, like I’d hoped. I didn’t have to be scared about her anymore.
I felt like Granddad had his dog on his mind, now that we were on our way home. I figured that was a good thing. Like knowing Mom would be thinking about me.
Parking his car, I noticed our car was there. It was too cold to look to see if our groceries were in there. “Nothing that can’t wait till morning,” Granddad said.
Mrs. Buttermark said, “We’re all tired,” and we were.
We had to walk around the side of the building where it stayed shady most of the day. Granddad took Mrs. Buttermark by the arm as we picked our way over the snow-covered icy spots.
“Remind me to buy a sack of salt,” Granddad said.
Mrs. Buttermark knew as well as I did that the super had dropped a truckload of salt on this side of the building. We were too pooped to say so.
In the summer, Mr. G would complain about how the salt messed up the blacktop. He’d paint over it with something that smelled like tar. That’s what Mrs. Buttermark said it smelled like, anyway. Some days this could’ve been a conversation. But no one said a word until we were saying good night in the hallway.
Mrs. Buttermark opened her door and found Mom’s car keys hanging on the inside doorknob. “Mr. G came by,” she said, and gave them to me as she said good night.
Granddad opened our door. The dog had waited there for us. I thought he might have heard us coming. Granddad put his hand on the carpet. “Feel here,” he said, with a voice like a bear.
It was warm. The dog had stayed there, sleeping maybe, but stayed there the whole time we were gone. Granddad looked like this meant he was quite a dog, and I made up my mind to reflect this right back at him. Sooner or later, Mrs. Buttermark would ask what I was reflecting to that dog.
“I’m going to walk him,” Granddad said as I was taking off my jacket.
“I’ll go with yo
u.” I zipped my jacket up again.
“Not necessary.” He didn’t act mad. More like he was saving words. Maybe he sounded that way on a mission in wartime. He wore a black zippered jacket that made me think of movies like that.
“He has to get used to me,” I said.
I had to get used to him too.
And I had to try to notice something Granddad liked about his dog. Something more than he could keep the carpet warm. I thought it might not count as such a compliment. The dog didn’t want to be in the apartment when we left, and maybe behind the door was as far away as he could get. If he had a choice, he might have been happier waiting in the car.
The other thing I was thinking, I had to get used to the way Granddad talked in that gruff voice. Maybe I had to try to find something I liked about him. Not the stuff he was doing that we needed him to do. Something I just liked, period.
And maybe I had to give Granddad something he could like about me. I didn’t want him to feel like I wasn’t even trying to like his dog. Maybe that was the place to start.
I thought about what I liked best about Joey Ziglar’s dog: it hardly noticed me. People were holding the leash or the food, or they weren’t, that’s all.
The dog sat down in the elevator, the way well-trained dogs do, and then stood up again. Then he sort of checked in with Granddad with a glance. This was a dog that paid attention to people.
“Your dog looks smart. This kid I know, Joey Ziglar? His dog doesn’t look that smart.”
I felt bad right away. I decided I’d tell Joey I said this and why, then I wouldn’t feel like such a crummy friend. Besides, Granddad did perk up a little.
He said, “Max is smart.”
“I guess you have to walk your dog a lot.”
“Max.”
“Right. Max.”
The dog sat down like he thought he had to obey the rules. But he didn’t look happy for the two seconds until the elevator stopped and the door opened. I figured the floor was too cold for sitting, even with a furry butt.
Joey Ziglar’s dog could be described as four legs that needed to be walked. And then it slept until the next walk or until somebody put food in its dish. I got along fine with that dog.
I said, “Joey Ziglar has a dog that has to be walked about five times a day or it pees on the rug.”
“Max won’t do that.”
“I wasn’t worried about that,” I said as we went through the lobby. “Joey’s dog is really old.”
“Max is old,” Granddad said. “Just not that old.”
I had to hand it to Mrs. Buttermark. Always saying the right thing was not the easiest thing in the world to do.
“How many times do you walk him?”
“Four, five times. Six. It’s good for me, the exercise.”
I decided to drop the subject.
It was even colder outside, of course. It seemed colder than when we’d been out here ten minutes before. There was no question of sitting. The dog took quick short steps, as if he also hoped we wouldn’t have to be out here too long.
Snow covered everything like sugar on a cookie, so I stayed away from the places that were shadiest during the day. Lucky for us, the dog wasn’t in the mood to walk around much. He peed on a telephone pole, a garbage can, and a tree that was stuck in a small square of frozen dirt. When the dog started pulling Granddad back to our building, we went.
“There’s a park with a dog run near here,” I said as we took the elevator. “I can show you tomorrow.”
“Do you want one of those sandwiches Donna left in the refrigerator?”
“Not really.” It was strange. I wasn’t getting hungry the way I usually did. It was like my stomach had too many other things to worry about. Surgeries and stuff.
Granddad had his own key now, but he still waited for me to unlock the apartment door. He was polite that way. I helped Granddad open the sofa bed and found the comforter for it.
The dog watched us from the corner of the room.
I wanted to go to bed. I’d begun to worry about walking around never knowing when the dog might go into nightmare mode. Besides, I wanted to prop my leg on a few pillows and see how Mom was doing. I got the extra pillows from her bed.
When I was in my pajamas, I went to tell Granddad good night. He had given the dog some leftover spaghetti and he was lighting up a cigarette.
I had forgotten about him smoking earlier in the day.
“You can’t smoke in here,” I said.
I might have liked it if he did. He smoked Camels. It was out of my mouth before I thought about it. Before I let myself like the smell of the smoke.
“Mom doesn’t even let Aunt Ginny smoke in here. You could go through the kitchen window and sit on the fire escape. That’s what Aunt Ginny does.”
Except I’d never seen Aunt Ginny do it in the middle of winter.
While it was snowing.
That’s what Granddad did. No complaint. He climbed outside and brushed off a snow-covered metal step so he could sit down. Then he stood up.
For a minute there, I wasn’t even worried about him liking me. I wondered if I was wrong to make him follow Mom’s rules. Not just wrong—rude. I felt like I ought to stick my head out there and tell him, never mind, Mom would never know if he did it this once. Only I couldn’t. It seemed more important to follow Mom’s rules than ever.
The dog had finished the spaghetti. He kept licking the plate so it went sliding around on the floor near the window. Mom never let our cat eat out of our dishes, so this was probably a broken rule too.
I didn’t know what Mom would have done if she was here, if she would have let Granddad smoke in the kitchen. I didn’t know why he couldn’t have thought of it while we were downstairs with the dog. Outside I could have liked that smoke smell for as long as it lasted.
The whole thing sort of irritated me.
Besides, how soon would the dog figure out there wasn’t any more flavor on that plate? What if he turned into nightmare dog? I went to bed before Granddad came inside. I figured if he wasn’t missing his poker game before, he was missing it now.
When he passed my doorway, he stopped and said, “Anything you want to talk about, Jake?”
I shook my head. I noticed the dog sat down behind him, sort of waiting for him.
“Your mom’s going to get over this. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know. It’s weird she isn’t here.”
“It won’t be long,” Granddad said. “A few days.”
I could see how hard he wanted to say the right thing. He had said the right thing, even if it didn’t make me feel better. All of a sudden, I knew the right thing to say too. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He sort of crinkled up around the eyes when he smiled. He didn’t look like somebody who ever sounded gruff. I guess Mrs. Buttermark had him figured out faster than I did.
Granddad got into bed after brushing his teeth, because I heard the bedsprings. I heard the dog jump up on the bed. Granddad told him “Shhh,” even though he hadn’t made a sound other than the jump up.
I wondered if Granddad thought it was against the rules to have his dog sleep next to him. I didn’t think it was. Our cat slept in our beds. I got allergic to cat hair after a while.
Granddad fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. At least that’s when the snoring began. I sat up.
Mom has a whole ritual that goes with falling asleep. She brushes her teeth, she makes tea, she puts on bed socks. She collects stuff she wants to read but doesn’t have to translate no matter what language it’s in. She gets into bed and maybe an hour later, or two, her light goes out.
Or not. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and turn it out.
So. It was really possible for people to fall asleep the minute their head hit the pillow. Mom wasn’t one of those people, and neither was I. The snoring got louder, like Granddad was falling even deeper into sleep.
He hadn’t turned out the light. I tiptoed to
the end of the hall and peeked in. The dog was curled up next to Granddad. He knew I was coming because his head was already lifted off his paws. As soon as he saw me, he showed his teeth.
I ducked away from the door. I went to my room and wrote Granddad a note. I left it on my bed where he’d be sure to see it.
I knocked on Mrs. Buttermark’s door. She opened it right away, dressed regular. I didn’t have to feel bad about waking her up, because I hadn’t.
“I’m sleeping over here tonight,” I said, and she opened the door wider.
When we were sitting at her little round table having apple pie and hot chocolate, I said, “I can’t sleep if I’m going to have to worry about getting up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and being attacked because I forgot for a minute that dog was there.”
“You wouldn’t forget,” Mrs. Buttermark said.
“True.” I looked at her. “I wouldn’t get to the bathroom alive either.”
“You’re sure your granddad will see the note?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m glad to have your company, Jake. I’m a little unraveled after seeing your mother that way.”
Sometimes Mrs. Buttermark talks like she’s a sweater. When she does, I try to do that too. I said, “I’m full of knots myself.”
She smiled. “What shall we do to untangle?”
I looked out the window and saw snow falling around the streetlight. “An old movie, I think.”
I slept on her couch that night, and Mrs. Buttermark slept in her recliner. The TV was still on when we woke up the next morning. A different movie was on.
It was dark outside. I could tell it was morning from the sound of cars warming up. “It’s a school day,” I said, remembering. “Today’s the Christmas party.”
I didn’t care that much about the Christmas party, I wanted to say. I cared last week. This weekend had changed things.
“Go tell your grandfather I’ll make breakfast,” Mrs. Buttermark said, sitting up in her chair. “I’ll shower and make pancakes.”
Our apartment door opened as I stepped into the hallway. Granddad had the dog on the leash. I had a sudden worry come over me. What if he was mad that I’d moved across the hall?
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