He chortled in his joy.
What could be happier than that? Ruby took Beamish under the covers with her, something she hadn’t done lately, maybe not for a year or two. She’d been neglecting him, hadn’t even noticed that his plastic eyes were cracked.
The house was quiet; last night she’d heard the ocean. Ruby turned off her bedside light, gazed up at the ceiling, all fuzzy and dark but with a very faint reddish tinge from the glowing digits of her clock. She had pretty much decided that there was no God. The fact that people had been squabbling about it for so long was proof enough. If she was God, she’d make damn sure that every single earthling knew about it in no uncertain terms from the get-go. Or there’d be hell to pay, she thought, and almost smiled for a second in the darkness. So, almost certainly no God: but that didn’t stop her from speaking out loud just before falling asleep, to no one in particular: “Please bring Zippy back.”
Scott was at his desk, connected to the Raging Bull live-time quote site, when the market opened. Codexco: $8.40, down another dime. Another dime meant another fifteen grand.
Tom poked his head in. “How was the trip?”
“Great.”
“What’d you do?”
“Hit a little. Snorkeled. Ate like pigs. Brandon went on a scuba trip. I played a little blackjack.”
“How did you do?”
“Up about a grand or so.”
“And the stock?”
Scott glanced at the screen: down another nickel, made $7,500, just sitting there talking. “Doing what it’s supposed to,” he said.
“You’re on a roll, bro,” Tom said.
Bro was new.
At school, Ruby got the office ladies to make lots of copies of the Zippy flyer. She gave one to Ms. Freleng and to each kid in the class, including Amanda, who surprised her by saying how cute Zippy looked and promising to keep an eye out for him, and Winston, who asked why she didn’t just get another dog. Amanda surprised her again: “Don’t have a clue, do you, Winston?”
Winston didn’t say another word, sat quietly on the bus going home, not even picking his nose. Ruby watched for Zippy the whole way, saw no dogs at all. Her house came in view. No Zippy out front, no pawprints on the fresh sprinkling of snow on the lawn or the driveway, and Julian hadn’t called the school. That left a little window of hope, the possibility Julian had gone somewhere to get him while she was on the bus. But she knew Julian: he’d be waiting with the front door wide open, Zippy beside him, probably on his leash.
Ruby handed a flyer to Mr. V. as she got off. “Don’t you worry,” said Mr. V. “He’ll turn up.”
“You think so, Mr. V.?” said Ruby, pausing on the bottom step.
“They almost always do,” said Mr. V. Then, while a few cars, a FedEx van and a Poland Spring truck waited behind the bus, its red lights flashing, he taped the Zippy flyer to his side window, facing out, at the same time telling a long story about a dog Mrs. V. had owned before they got married, a half-Schnauzer half-beagle who’d gone missing and ended up walking home all the way from Meriden. “Look what the cat brought in.” That was what Mrs. V. said when the poor mangy thing came staggering up the driveway. “So don’t you fret, beautiful,” said Mr. V.
Ruby got off the bus. There were things about Mr. V.’s story that didn’t add up, but she felt a little better anyway.
She went in the house, heard Julian on the phone. “. . . wearing a blue collar,” he was saying. “Answers to the name of Zippy.” He hung up as she entered the kitchen. “No news, I’m afraid,” he said. He sat at the table, surrounded by lists, notes, phone books, balled-up pieces of paper. “I’ve been putting ads in the community newspapers.”
“Good idea,” Ruby said.
“I also bought this staple gun,” he said. “I was going to tack up more flyers, maybe even a few in the woods.”
“I’ll do it,” Ruby said.
“Want me to come with you?”
“You’ve done a lot already.”
Ruby took her binders out of the backpack, stuck the staple gun in there with the remaining flyers.
“Heavy homework night?” Julian said.
Ruby nodded. Spelling, worksheets on the Mayans, the Toltecs and one other bunch she couldn’t remember the name of, plus extra math: she’d had her worst Mad Minute ever, not even beating Winston.
“Can I help?” said Julian.
“I’ll be okay.”
Julian smiled. “No doubt in my mind,” he said.
Ruby went into the garage. Her bike wasn’t hanging from the hook. Right: Jeanette had it. For a moment, Ruby was a little annoyed that she hadn’t brought it back yet; not annoyed, how could she be annoyed at Jeanette? But she needed the bike. And then she spotted it, leaning against the wall beside the lawnmower. A Post-it note was stuck to the seat: Here’s your ride, Rubester—use with care. J. P.S. That means a helmet. Ruby found her helmet, dusted it off, hit the door button and rode out of the garage.
Lots of flyers were already up in the neighborhood, on Poplar Drive, Indian Ridge, Larchmont. Ruby went farther, across Larchmont as far as West Mill Wine and Spirits, back all the way to the health food store in the other direction. The health food store had a big bulletin board outside. Ruby was stapling the Zippy flyer right in the center when a woman coming out with a bag of groceries stopped beside her.
“Oh, yes,” she said.
Ruby whipped around, looked up at her. “You’ve seen Zippy?”
“Unfortunately not,” said the woman. “But I know about him. A very nice man was going up and down our street yesterday. He was so concerned. I’m sure your dog will show up—that’s what I told him. I had a dog once who . . .” And she told a long story, a lot like Mr. V.’s except her dog walked all the way back from Waterbury instead of Meriden, and was missing an ear.
Ruby stopped at the pound on the way home. The pound was next to the Little League fields, and Ruby had often wandered over there during Brandon’s games. She saw Zippy flyers on the boarded-up Little League concession stand and on a telephone pole by the pound office. The dogs heard her coming and started to bark.
Ruby walked around the office to the kennels at the back. The dogs were in their individual fenced-in cages, each with an opening at the back for going inside. They stopped barking when she came in sight—two big skinny ones and a little fat one. They watched her closely, tongues hanging out.
A door opened and a man in a green uniform came out.
“Help you?” he said.
“My dog’s lost,” said Ruby, handing him a flyer.
“Right,” said the man, “Zippy. Nothing so far. I’ll call soon as I got news, like I said.” The man smelled strongly of dog, wore a patch on his arm that said Animal Control Officer.
Ruby gazed up at him. “You’re an expert, right?”
“Expert?”
“On this kind of thing.”
“You might say that.”
“So where is he?”
The animal control officer rubbed his chin; she could hear the rasp of his stubble. “Lots of possibilities,” he said. “Specially if you’re a dog.”
Ruby waited for the rambling story of some dog’s strange journey home—really wanted to hear it this time—but it didn’t come.
Beyond the outfield fence lay the town woods, with a path that led to the pond and just past it the crossing path to her own backyard. Ruby walked her bike through the woods, the snow packed hard and slippery by the feet of others. She stopped from time to time to staple Zippy flyers to the trees, and once called out, “Zippy! Zippy!” A sheet of snow slid off a branch above, thumped down nearby.
Ruby came to the pond, saw that all signs of the high school party—bottles, cans, butts, boxes, keg—were gone. A thin coat of black ice covered the pond, except out in the middle where she could see tiny ripples. She stapled a flyer to a big tree by the water, where anyone circling the pond would see it. All of a sudden, there in the quiet woods where Zippy loved to play, even if he wou
ldn’t fetch sticks thrown in the pond like he was supposed to, Ruby had a strong feeling that this flyer would be the one. She took a felt pen from her backpack and wrote at the top: I miss him. She hadn’t meant to write that, had meant to write Please help, or underline the reward part, or do something else a little more useful.
Ruby rounded the big rock, came to the spot where Zippy had found the slice of sausage and pepperoni pizza. No pizza now, the snow smooth, even Sergeant D’Amario’s deep footprints all gone, and of course gone too the tiny depression where Zippy had dug out the crack pipe. Ground zero in The Mystery of the Anonymous Caller. And that case was connected to The Mystery of the Varsity Jacket. Now here she was again, working on a third case, although it felt so different she didn’t like to call it that. The Mystery of Zippy’s Disappearance was so much realer. Not realer—they were all real—but bigger, maybe. That didn’t mean she didn’t care about Brandon, just that he wasn’t missing and Zippy was.
None of that realer or bigger part had anything to do with the point she’d been trying to get at, though. She shoved it from her mind. The point had to be this: here she was again at ground zero for case two, which was tied to case one, only she was working on case three. At that moment, she thought of “The Musgrave Ritual,” one of her favorites, where Holmes discovers the secret chamber under the stone floor of the old manor. But before that discovery, he says something very, very important. Ruby tore off her backpack, took out The Complete Sherlock Holmes, leafed through, found it: “I was already firmly convinced, Watson, that there were not three separate mysteries here, but only one.”
27
Everyone was at dinner when Ruby got home, and they all seemed to be in a good mood, laughing and talking in the dining room. Did that mean Zippy was back? She hurried in and it got quieter right away. That was her answer, but she asked anyway.
“Is he here?”
“No,” said Mom. “And where have you been?”
“Did anyone call?”
“Not about Zippy,” Dad said.
“And I asked you a question,” Mom said.
“At the pound.” She froze Mom with a look, or tried to. Didn’t Mom care about Zippy? Didn’t any of them?
“Well, come and eat,” said Mom.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Gotta eat,” said Dad.
Julian pushed the platter of steaks in front of her empty plate. He cared more than any of them and Zippy wasn’t even his dog. Yet it had been on his watch, as he himself had said: not a nice thought, holding him to that, but Ruby thought it. She left the room.
The phone rang in the hall. She snatched it up.
“Hello?”
“Brandon there?”
“Dewey?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Ruby.”
“Hey. How’re you doin’?”
“Have you seen Zippy?”
“Zippy the dog, you mean?”
What other Zippys do you know, you fucking crackhead? “Yes,” Ruby said.
“Nope,” said Dewey. “Is he missing or something?”
“I’ll get Brandon,” Ruby said. She took the phone into the dining room—Dad was saying something about Codexco and Julian was listening with interest—and held it out to Brandon, not quite in his reach.
“Did you pass out the flyers?” she said.
“Flyers?” said Brandon. “Sure.”
“Or did you dump them in your locker? Maybe you didn’t take them in the first place.”
“Huh? Give me the phone.”
“Hey, kids,” said Dad.
“You didn’t bother, did you?”
“Back off.”
“Because you didn’t even tell Dewey. You don’t care at all.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Brandon said. “It’s only a dog.”
Ruby tossed him the phone—threw it at him, actually—and ran from the room.
“Heard the news?” said Dewey.
“What news?”
“Problem shot Unka Death. He’s in critical condition.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“Turn on your TV.”
Brandon was already on his feet.
“Brandon?” said Mom. “Is it something about Zippy?”
Brandon hurried down to the entertainment center. The story was on a dozen channels: some dispute in a Manhattan strip club that afternoon, gunfire, vigil outside the hospital, clips from the video, over and over.
Fuck you, good as new, all we do, then it’s through.
And Problem with that deep background voice: Where the sun don’t shine, where the sun don’t shine.
The video, over and over: the girl in the gold shorts and the white old-lady wig got in the Bentley and put her head in Unka Death’s lap; Unka Death’s diamond tooth sparkled as he turned the key; the trunk opened and Problem got out with the cleaver, the gold AK-47 medallion around his neck. Brandon didn’t know what to think.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“Life sucks,” said Dewey.
Ruby was in a fury, all brake lines cut. No one really cared about Zippy. They just wanted her to get back to her normal self, weren’t even trying. Take the flyers, for example, probably still in Brandon’s backpack. She would take them into the high school herself, first thing in the morning.
Ruby went up to Brandon’s room, hunted through the mess on his desk, on his bed, on the floor, found no flyers. She opened his backpack without compunction: no flyers. Where else? She went down to the mudroom. His varsity jacket hung on the peg. She searched the pockets. No flyers balled up in there, nothing else either.
But what was this? Through the pocket, inside between the quilted lining and the leather or leatherette outside material, she felt something hard. Ruby explored the object with her fingertips: a vial, no doubt about it. And another, and another: sewn in between the two layers.
Ruby went into the kitchen. Taking scissors from Mom’s sewing drawer, she heard Julian in the dining room.
“Perhaps a college visit?”
“Perfect,” said Mom. “Let’s make a list.”
Sing Sing, San Quentin, Devil’s Island. Back in the mudroom, Ruby cut through a one-inch length of stitching at the bottom of the lining. No brakes. She could see where Brandon had done the same thing, and restitched with thread that didn’t quite match, the gray slightly too dark. When had he learned to sew? And then she thought: Trish. She liked Trish. Was it completely impossible to know people on the inside?
Ruby squeezed the vials out through the hole. One, two, three—a dozen in all, like he was some kind of dealer. Ruby gathered them in her hat, put on her boots and jacket, went outside.
One of those dark nights with no moon or stars. Ruby understood how people who’d lost an arm or a leg still had those phantom feelings. Being out on this kind of night without Zippy was like that. She could feel his phantom occupying the empty space beside her, but quiet now, and unfrisky. Ruby walked into the woods, all the way to the pond. She threw the first vial, remembering while it was still in the air that the pond was frozen except in the middle. But it must have warmed up, because she heard a splash. She threw in the others, twelve splashes in all, and started for home.
Stepping out of the woods and into the backyard, just by the woodpile, Ruby noticed a tiny red glow. First she thought it came from inside the house, then realized it was outside, by the silhouette of the bird feeder. She got a little closer and saw a second silhouette.
“Julian! You smoke?”
“Oh my God,” he said. “You scared me.” The red glow spiraled away, vanished with a faint sizzle.
“Sorry,” Ruby said.
“I didn’t see you, that’s all.” He came closer. “Out for a walk at this hour?”
“Looking for Zippy.”
“Ah.” She smelled tobacco smoke when he said that. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
She didn’t want to hear that anymore. “I’m not giving up.”
�
�Of course not,” Julian said. “Me either.”
“Thanks,” Ruby said. At least he was helping, which was more than she could say for the members of her own family. But he smoked. That was stunning.
Tuesday was a half day, another teacher conference about the statewide tests. Brandon liked half days. The classes whipped by twice as fast, and sometimes the teachers showed a movie, or let them talk about whatever they wanted. In the afternoon came parties in adult-free houses. But not this afternoon: Julian was taking him on a college tour.
Trish passed him a note in English: unka death’s in a coma.
He wrote duh and passed it back. Mr. Monson started handing back last week’s grammar and vocabulary test. Trish passed him another note: this aft—yr place or mine? He wrote can’t, started handing it back.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything, Brandon,” said Mr. Monson.
“No,” said Brandon.
“Would that missive be of general interest, by any chance?” said Mr. Monson.
“No.”
“Sure about that?” said Mr. Monson. “Sure you know what I’m talking about? The meaning of missive, for starters?”
“Note,” said Brandon. “Message.”
Mr. Monson’s eyebrows rose. “You’re surprising me lately, Brandon.” He dropped Brandon’s test on his desk. At the top it said: 100. The first perfect score he’d had in high school. “Been eating your Wheaties?” said Mr. Monson.
Someone groaned.
“What?” said Mr. Monson. “They don’t say that anymore?”
“Can we talk about Unka Death?” said someone else.
“Unka Death?” said Mr. Monson. “Who dat?”
Brandon didn’t even have to look to know that the three black kids in the class didn’t like that at all; he could feel it. Mr. Monson was an asshole.
“A better poet than half the old farts we study in this class, Mr. Monson,” said Trish.
Mr. Monson reddened, right up to his comb-over, whether because of the statement itself or just the word fart, Brandon didn’t know. There was a knock at the door just as Mr. Monson had his reply ready. He closed his mouth, opened it again, said: “Come in.”
The Tutor Page 27