by Linda Benson
“No. Not one word. I think they get telephone privileges once a week, but she doesn’t have the money to call up here. Aunt Trudy says she could call collect, but that Mom’s probably too proud to do it.”
“I know you got kind of a raw deal there, kid, with me leaving and Mom getting sentenced. And everything happening at once. I still can’t believe she’s in jail.”
“Same here.” My voice squeaks.
“Are you doing okay with Aunt Trudy?”
I swallow a lump in my throat and compose my thoughts before I speak again. “Yes. Me and Rags have our own room, and I’m helping her with the stray animals. Right now we’re trying to return a yellow Lab to its owners. There’s plenty to do.” I try to sound upbeat.
“Well, at least I know she’s feeding you good,” he says. “Probably a lot better than I could ever have done. We all know I am not the world’s greatest cook.”
I laugh. Pendleton has been known to burn every kind of food known to mankind.
“She’s got pancakes waiting for me right now. And fresh peaches.”
“Man, that sounds better than Army mess. I’d do almost anything for fresh peaches.” Pendleton laughs.
I picture in my mind the almost-six-foot frame of him. He’s got my same freckles, and the same blond hair. I miss him something fierce. I try to think of something else to say.
“I’ll call you again when I can, little sis.”
“Take care of yourself,” I mumble, and he is gone.
I sit on the bench by the phone and duck my head between my knees.
“Hey, hey.” Aunt Trudy is suddenly there, rubbing my back. “Your pancakes are sitting on top of the stove keeping warm. You want your peaches on top of them, or on the side?”
I turn my head sideways and look at her. “On top, I guess.”
She takes the corner of her apron and wipes a stray tear from my face. “Come on, then. They won’t keep.”
I hobble into the kitchen and let Aunt Trudy shovel pancakes onto my plate. “More?” she asks, and I keep nodding. I pour syrup over them all, and whipped cream over the fresh peaches.
“Well, now look who’s here,” says Aunt Trudy, as a truck bounces up the driveway. She sneaks a peak at herself in the shine of the microwave, poufing up her hair with both hands. “Swede has brought us a load of hay.”
“I thought you told him off last night,” I say, inhaling another big bite, “and told him to keep his peacock home.”
“Oh, he’s just bringing us some extra bales for the horses. He used to keep horses when he was a kid, you know.”
I shake my head slowly. I still have a lot of pancakes on my plate.
“You finish what you want there,” she says. “I’m just going to go out and show him where to put it.”
“I’ll come.” I lay a paper towel over my remaining pancakes. I guess my eyes were bigger than my stomach. That’s what Mom always said to me and Pendleton, when we took more food than we could eat. Swede drives his Dodge pickup slowly down the rutted lane. The hay smells sweet and the old horses nicker from the corral as we follow the truck out to the back of the property.
“Anywhere in there will be fine,” Aunt Trudy is saying. “Just be careful of the barn swallow nest. They’ve got babies up there, and if you stack it too high the cats might reach ’em.”
I watch the barn swallows dart and swoop through the barn, cheeping for their babies.
Swede has the pickup backed squarely into the opening of a small, sloping shed. Sitting in the corner, only two old bales of hay remain, and he tosses those aside to make room for the truckload of new hay.
Swede is a huge, barrel-chested man with a thick mane of gray hair on his head. He flings the bales off the truck like toothpicks, and stacks them neatly to the top of the shed, making sure to avoid the swallow’s nest. Shakespeare and Paintball wander into the stall and eyeball us with curiosity.
“Well, I had to get the rest of these bales picked up out of the field anyway, before it rains,” says Swede.
Rain? It’s hot as tamales outside. Why is he talking about rain?
“Yep, I saw the weather report on television this morning,” says Aunt Trudy. “They talked about thundershowers this afternoon.”
“The weather’s a tad unpredictable, so I’m glad to get this into the barn before it gets ruined.” Finished with his work, Swede tosses the hay hooks into the bed of his truck. “Now you’ve got enough food to keep these old pensioners going for a while longer, Trudy.”
“They are all up for adoption, Swede. You know that. They are not here permanently.”
“Well I can’t imagine who is going to adopt these old nags,” he grins, nodding at the grizzled old horses poking their heads over the manger. “And who is this little stray?” He’s looking straight at me. “Where did she wander in from?”
Stray? My jaw clenches, and I want to melt right into the ground and become invisible.
Aunt Trudy grabs me around the waist and pulls me out in front of her. “This is my niece, Olive,” she says in a no-nonsense voice. “My sister’s girl. She’s staying with me for as long as she likes. She’s family.”
I chew on the side of my lip. At least Aunt Trudy didn’t mention the real reason that I’m here.
“Nice to meet you, Olive,” says Swede. “I’m sure you’ll be a lot of help for your aunt. She gets her hands full around this place, and she tends to bite off more than she can chew sometimes.”
I nod slowly.
“And I’m mighty glad you do have someone staying with you, Trudy,” he says, “what with your dizzy spells and all.”
“Oh, phooey. There’s nothing at all wrong with me, Swede Hanson. I just don’t do well on extra-hot days. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Nonetheless. I’m glad you’ll have company for a while. Say, I saw one of those Tellington kids, the youngest one, riding his bike up here this morning. Believe he was coming from your driveway. Isn’t he about the same age as you, Olive?”
“Maybe,” I say, finding my voice. “I don’t know for sure.”
“What was he doing up here?” Aunt Trudy asks.
“He came to tell me that one of his mother’s friends is looking for their yellow Lab.”
“Really?” says Aunt Trudy.
“Nice-looking boy,” says Swede.
I feel color come to my face.
“The two oldest boys are both off to war, you know,” he says.
Aunt Trudy cocks her head sideways. “Both of them? I wasn’t aware of that. Must be hard on the parents.”
“David’s going to go to the Air Force Academy someday,” I pipe up, wanting to add something. “He told me himself.”
“Well, that’s just great,” says Swede. “Give him a good start in life.”
“A good start? Getting ready to go to war?” says Aunt Trudy. “Besides, I don’t see how any mother should be expected to send all three of her children into harm’s way. Doesn’t seem right.”
“Now Trudy,” soothes Swede. “Calm down. We’re only talking about young men serving their country. Don’t get your feathers all in a fluff.”
“It’s just my opinion, Mr. Hanson. And my feathers are perfectly fine, thank you. A lot better than the ones on your peacock are going to be if I find him over here again. Besides, that blasted thing carried on all night, and about scared Olive half to death.”
I stifle a giggle. Swede Hanson certainly does seem to ruffle Aunt Trudy’s feathers.
10-David
I park my bike and sneak in through the garage before my mom even makes it down for her first cup of coffee. I tear up the note I left for her and rush upstairs to get my essay finished. It’s going to be blazing hot again today, and hopefully James is off restriction. Then he and Sherman and I can still take the raft down the river.
James is a year older than me, already big and stocky. But he’s only gonna be in ninth grade, same as me, because he pretty much messed around and cut class during most of eighth. His p
arents made a huge hubbub about how holding him back would damage his self-esteem, but he had a strict teacher who wouldn’t let him off the hook. So he had to do eighth grade over again, and he still screwed around, but at least he passed this time. Barely.
Sherman’s also a year older, but he’s kind of a short dude. He’s going to be a sophomore this year, and he’s already got his learner’s permit to drive. His parents even told him they’re going to buy him a car for his sixteenth birthday, so he’ll be a good person to know when that happens. Riding around in a car with friends certainly beats riding a bike, hands down.
But for now, we’ve got our bikes. I call James from the upstairs bedroom while my mom’s in the shower.
“Dude,” says James. “I whined a whole bunch to my parents about it being summer and everything, and they let me off restriction. I’ll go get Sherman and we’ll come over with his raft.”
“Cool. We can put in right at the shallow spot behind my house,” I say. “We can probably float all the way down to the bridge at the highway. It’ll be great.”
“Yeah,” James says. “Remember last year, when we saw your second grade teacher lying topless out behind her house on the river?”
“Miss Zandusky? How could I forget?” I chuckle.
My mom picks up the extension from downstairs. “David,” she says. “Are you on the phone? I didn’t even know you were up yet.”
“Yep,” I answer. If she only knew where I’d already been this morning. “I’m off of here. See ya, James.”
“Later.”
I hang up and my mother hollers up the stairs. “Did you get your essay ready for me to read, David?”
Great. Will she never give up on the stupid essay? “Yeah. Almost,” I lie.
“I’m going to call my friend, Denise, and tell her you might have seen a dog like hers.”
No. I almost say it. I almost stop her from calling, and tell her I was mistaken. I hate to see that nice dog go back on a chain. But it’s not really my dog, anyway. Besides, I don’t have time to get involved with some stray dog. I’ve got to hurry up and write this stupid essay.
Before she can even make a phone call to Denise, the telephone rings again. “It’s for you, David. It’s some lady named Trudy Alfresca.”
Trudy Alfresca? Oh, maybe Aunt Trudy, that girl Olive’s aunt? I pick up the receiver again. “Hello?”
“Is this David Tellington?”
“Yes.”
“My niece says you might know someone who is missing a dog.”
I think about Olive and how she looked early this morning, throwing the stick for the dog. Now’s my chance to do the right thing—to help find that dog a different home—without a chain. But I choke. “Yeah. It might belong to a friend of my mom’s. Someone named Denise. I’ll go get my mom.”
With a sinking feeling for the poor yellow dog’s future, I holler down the stairs for my mom to pick up the phone again, and I hear her give all the information to Aunt Trudy. I think about the invisible sign Olive was describing at the end of her driveway: Lost Animals Stop Here. I bet that dog will wish he never stopped there at all if he just ends up back on his chain. I’d like to have a nice dog like that. Maybe someday. I sure won’t keep it on a chain.
But maybe that Lab’s future is just written in stone. Maybe it’s his destiny to be chained up, just like it’s my destiny to finish this essay and go to the Air Force Academy. That’s what everybody expects me to do, right? I mean, it’s not like I have a choice.
I open my computer and begin—Why I Am a Good Candidate for Advanced Placement in Math and Science. Blah blah blah.
In less than an hour, I turn out a pretty respectable piece of bullshit. I spell-check it and print it out. Glancing out the window, I see James and Sherman heading up the driveway on their bikes. Sherman is riding one-handed and wobbly, balancing a three-man raft on his head and his back. Excellent. Perfect timing. James carries two oars crosswise over the handle bars of his bike. Something is slung across his back, too. It looks like a BB gun.
11-Olive
I’m almost disappointed when Aunt Trudy gets the phone number of the yellow Lab’s owner. In about fifteen minutes, a bright red Chevy Tahoe pulls down our driveway and a woman steps out. She’s dressed in expensive slacks and a silky blouse, with dangly bracelets on both hands. “I’m Denise,” she announces, in a high, whiny voice. “Calypso. Here, Calypso.” She claps her hands and the yellow dog races toward her. Her expression turns to horror as he smashes against her, leaving dog slobber and fur on her fancy clothes.
She stands in the driveway and tries unsuccessfully to wipe the grime from her shiny pants.
“Calypso? Is that his name?” I ask. This dog should be called Charlie, or Hank, or Goofball, or Fred. Or anything besides Calypso. That sounds like a name for a dainty poodle.
“Yes,” she says as she opens the back of the SUV and the dog jumps inside. “My husband and I were taking dance lessons when we got the dog. He was such an adorable puppy. But look at him now.” She rolls her eyes, shaking her head and slamming the hatchback down. “Well, thank you for finding him.” She is starting the ignition when Aunt Trudy comes roaring outside, dangling the old red collar, and blocks Denise from turning her car around.
“Just a minute, please,” she says in her firm but no-nonsense voice.
“Yes?”
“This is the collar your dog was wearing when he arrived yesterday.”
“Oh, thank you.” Denise holds out her hand as if accepting a present.
“Well, I’m not giving it back to you. It’s about two sizes too small and was choking him. I took it off.”
“Yes, my husband mentioned he was growing out of it. I’ve been meaning to go by the pet store and pick him up a bigger one. I just haven’t had time.”
“Time enough for him to break his chain, come running up here, and almost get hit by a car,” Aunt Trudy roars. She’s really getting worked up now. “Why have you been keeping this dog chained up?”
“Well, I’m gone most of the time working down at the jewelry store. The dog was really for my husband, and he runs off if we don’t chain him up. It’s a very long chain,” she says. “He was so cute as a puppy,” she repeats, lamely.
“They all are,” says Aunt Trudy. “But they need a lot of time and attention when they grow up also.”
“I know. But there’s just not enough time in the day to give everything the attention it deserves, now is there?” Denise smiles at Aunt Trudy. She has bright, white teeth and appears like she is used to getting her way.
“Well, I put a bigger collar on the dog,” says Aunt Trudy, “and he should be more comfortable now. But you need to make sure he gets exercise every day. Big dogs need exercise.”
“Oh, I will. I’ll try. Now, what do I owe you for the collar?” Denise asks. She is checking her makeup in the rearview mirror and looks anxious to be gone.
“Not a thing,” says Aunt Trudy, who has never worn a spot of makeup since I’ve been here. “It was my pleasure to make the dog more comfortable.”
I have a sick feeling in my stomach when they drive away. “I hate to think of that dog being back on a chain,” I say. Maybe we should have just turned him loose and not called anyone.
“Well, the dog does belong to those people,” says Aunt Trudy. “From what I hear, he’s purebred, and they paid a lot of money for him. I don’t like it either, but it was the right thing to do.”
“How come the right thing doesn’t feel so good?” I say. My stomach is turning over like a rollercoaster.
“At least that dog has a home,” she says. “These dogs back here don’t belong to anyone.” The beagle, the husky, the pit bull, and the shepherd mix are barking up a storm. “Ah, pipe down, you beggars,” Aunt Trudy hollers to them.
I think they have a pretty nice home here at Aunt Trudy’s. They have food and a big yard where they can run around. But why do they bark all the time? I guess they’re kind of like me.
I mea
n, Aunt Trudy gives me food, too, and a nice place to stay. But it doesn’t mean I really belong here. I wonder how much longer until Mom gets out of jail. I’ve only talked to her one time right before she went in, and that was for about two minutes. She got sentenced to nine months, but she thinks she will only serve about six. Or maybe less. Then what? Will we just find another place to live somewhere? It’ll be weird if it’s just me and Mom, now that Pendleton’s gone. I can’t even imagine how that will be. The more I think about it, the more tangled up I feel inside.
12-David
“Don’t let my mother see that gun,” I say as I walk down the driveway to meet my friends.
“It’s not even a real gun,” says James. “Just a BB gun. I mean, your brothers are in the service. What’s the big deal?”
“Things have been kinda weird lately, okay? She might freak. Take my word for it.”
“Fine,” he says. “I’ll walk behind Sherman, and the raft will hide it.”
“Stash it behind the bushes when you get around the side of the house,” I say.
We go inside and grab some Ritz crackers and string cheese, and a few cans of pop. I shove it all into a backpack, and then stuff a full package of Oreos in there, too.
Mom lingers in the kitchen door, watching us. She’s dressed in a pink jogging outfit, but I’m pretty sure she’s not jogging anywhere except to the couch today. “Are you sure you want to go?” she says. “It’s not supposed to be as warm as yesterday, and there’s a quite a breeze outside.”
“It’s fine,” I say, anxious to be gone. “We’ll be fine.”
“How are you going to get back home?” she asks.
“Sherman’s mom is gonna pick us up at four o’clock,” I say.
“Oh, I forgot,” says Sherm. “She can’t meet us. She’s got an appointment or something.”
Great. Well, I guess we can just walk back, although it might be a long walk if we float a few miles downriver.
“Do you want me to come get you?” asks my mom.
“Would you?” I don’t want to take up any of her valuable television time. I fiddle with the class ring on my finger. Grant’s hands are bigger than mine, and it’s always been a little loose.