Mad Dog

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  Dakota and Mrs. Coolidge talk on the way to Nice Manor, but I tune them out. My mind is locked on my mom. I imagine her sitting in jail, counting down the hours until my visit.

  When we pull up to the Manor, Buddy and her archrival, Miss Golf, the activities director, come out to meet us. The two women look like opposing coaches who’ve agreed to put on a united front for the sake of the game. Buddy’s wearing what looks like an official Chicago Bears jersey with her Cubs ball cap. Miss Golf, in a pink jogging suit, reminds me of a pink lemonade Popsicle, like my grandma used to make in her freezer.

  “How are you, Carol?” Mrs. Coolidge hollers out the window. “You’re looking in the pink today.” She doesn’t make a move to get out of the car. Instead, she revs the engine, making Dakota and me move faster to get the dogs out.

  “I’m just fine, Georgette. And you?” Miss Golf returns, the frost in her voice fitting right in with the Popsicle image. “Let’s get this straight from the get-go: Nice Manor will consider adopting one dog. One. I’m allowing you to bring four so that we can choose one. That is, if any of the dogs work out, which at this point seems like a long shot.”

  Finally, I get the last dog out of the car.

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Coolidge mutters. Then before Miss Golf has a chance to react, Mrs. Coolidge shouts, “Have fun!” and drives off waving.

  Buddy wheels closer. She lifts the cowering terrier onto her lap. “I told Miss Golf she was welcome to spy on our clandestine canine activities today,” she says.

  “I’m not spying,” Miss Golf protests. “It’s my responsibility to make sure nothing threatens the—”

  “Time out!” Buddy signals, making the classic T with her bony hands. “Let’s kick off this game. Play ball!”

  I reach for Moxie, thinking the terrier will be scared with Buddy yelling like an out-of-control ref. But Moxie’s ears perk up, and she tries to lick the old woman’s face.

  “You bet, Moxie!” Buddy hollers. “Let’s show ’em what we’re made of!”

  The others are waiting for us in the rec room, the same place we brought the dogs Wednesday. They shout greetings as we walk in. Munch, Bag, and even little Lion wag their tails and scurry around, greeting their new pack.

  Dakota and I stand up in front. I know everybody’s waiting for me to get things started, but I can’t wrap my mind around what we’re even doing here. It’s like I’m already on my way to Chicago to see Mom.

  After a couple of minutes of strained silence, Dakota takes over. “Great to see you guys again.” Her voice is shaky, but she keeps going. I don’t try to stop her. “Okay,” Dakota continues, “where do you think we parked this morning?” She doesn’t wait for the answer. I know the answer. Popeye has told this one a million times. “In the barking lot!” Dakota finishes.

  Leon hoots, and Buddy whistles through her teeth.

  I get them to sit in twos. April and June. Velva and Rose. Leon and Buddy. “We’re going to work in pairs to get the dogs used to things. Usually a dog’s socialization time comes in the first three or four months of life, but with these guys we need to start over.”

  I dole out the dogs, giving Lion to Velva and Rose, and Bag the Blab to April and June. The terrier, Moxie, is still on Buddy’s lap, so that one stays with Buddy and Leon.

  That leaves the slobbering Munch, who’s about twice as big as the other dogs. There’s only one solution. “Miss Golf, you and Dakota will need to team up for Munch.”

  “Munch?” she repeats.

  I scratch Munch’s ears. “This cute little girl.”

  Miss Golf’s eyes grow to golf ball–size. “I’m just an observer. Besides, isn’t this the one that spits?”

  Dakota takes Munch’s leash and slides onto the seat next to Miss Golf. “Munch is a sweetie,” she promises. “You’ll see.”

  “I’m not good with pets,” Velva says, scooting her chair farther away from Rose, her partner. “What if I hurt this poor little one’s leg?”

  “Too late for that,” Rose replies. She hugs the Pom, and the wrecked leg sways, as if Lion is waving at Velva.

  I get them to do the basic bonding exercises, stroking the dogs’ backs, then their heads, then the ears. “Don’t forget the inside of the ears. Some dogs will do anything for you if they think it will get them a good ear scratching. Same goes for a tummy rub. Whenever you can, get yourself low with your dog. If you’re eye level with a dog, it says that you’re not trying to hurt him or take over his turf.”

  Leon gets down on the ground to look into Moxie’s eyes. The terrier wags her tail. “She likes me!” Leon declares. “Just like every woman.”

  “Foul! Out of bounds,” Buddy cries.

  I want to get caught up in the bonding too. But it feels like I’m watching all of this from the moon. When I tune back in to the voices in the room, I hear April’s baby talk: “That’s a good little Baggie. Ooh, my Bagger Wagger.”

  I’ve already told them about sticking to one form of the dog’s name.

  Then I hear Dakota: “Munchie, you sweetheart. What a nice Munchster you are! How’s my Baroness von Munchster?”

  “Dakota!” I shout. She should know better than that. “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?”

  The room goes silent. Everyone stares at me.

  “What did I do?” Dakota asks.

  I hadn’t meant to shout that loud. I take a deep breath and hold in the fury that feels like it could explode. “Don’t forget to call the dogs only by their real names, okay?”

  “Oops,” she says, turning back to Munch. “Forgot about that one, didn’t I, Munchie—I mean, Munch.”

  I let them go back to the bonding exercises while I pace the room. When I turn around, I almost trip over Buddy’s wheelchair. She’s rolled into my pacing lane. “Is there a problem with Moxie?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head. “Is there a problem with you?”

  I fake a smile. “’Course not.”

  “Sure you don’t want to call it a day? I can round up the team and get them back tomorrow, if you want,” she offers.

  “I won’t be here tomorrow.” The answer is too loud, as if she’s just threatened to make me be here tomorrow. I lower my voice and explain. “I’m visiting my mom tomorrow. In Chicago.”

  “That right?” she asks.

  I nod. “I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

  “Her move or yours?” Buddy asks.

  “Not mine,” I answer quickly.

  “That what’s got you angry as a sacked quarterback on a muddy field?”

  The question throws me. “I’m not angry. Not at my mom.”

  “Right,” Buddy says. “Well then, you tell her for me that she’s got one fine son.”

  Before I can thank her—or argue with her—she wheels back to Leon and the terrier, who are nose-to-nose on the floor.

  I finish the session early and get Dakota to call Mrs. Coolidge to pick us up. Then I try to figure out how I’ll get through the rest of the hours before I’m face-to-face with my mother.

  Sixteen

  Saturday morning I’m ready two hours before Popeye’s takeoff time. I don’t know if I slept at all. My thoughts kept bumping into each other. I tried to imagine what I’d say to Mom, what she’d say to me, how she’d look. I pictured her lying awake too, worrying about what we’ll talk about.

  Hank tears into the house with Dakota on his heels.

  “Hank! Answer me!” she shouts. For the last few days, Hank has been Dakota’s horse helper instead of me.

  “Dakota, we’re doing everything we can,” he says.

  “Then why isn’t Blackfire better? Why isn’t the sore draining? Maybe nothing’s there?”

  “The abscess is there, Dakota.” Hank sounds more frustrated than I got with her. “I guarantee pus and junk are inside that hoof.”

  “You don’t know that,” Dakota snaps.

  Hank stops and looks down on Dakota. He’s over six feet tall, but he’s still no match for her. “I
can feel the heat when I touch Blackfire’s hoof. There’s that much pressure underneath. One of these times it’s going to come pouring out. Then the hoof can start to heal. Until then, there’s nothing else we can do.”

  Dakota mutters something to Hank, then runs upstairs.

  Hank plops down on the couch next to me. I’ve been pretending to watch TV. Now I notice there’s nothing on but an infomercial for bald guys.

  “You all set for today?” Hank asks. He stares at the TV like I’m doing.

  I shrug.

  “Hey, sorry about your mom. Dad said it’s a setback, but she’s going back into the rehab place on Monday, right? So that’s good.”

  I nod. Popeye never told me Mom was going to rehab on Monday. Anger bubbles in my chest. He told Hank and not me. It’s not right for Hank to know something about my mother that I don’t know.

  “Anyway,” Hank says, obviously uncomfortable sitting in silence with me and watching a guy get hair planted into his head, “I’ll be praying for you and your mom all day.”

  Hank’s for real. I’ll give him that. He’s not one of those people who always say they’ll pray for you but you doubt they ever do. If Hank says he’ll pray, I know he will. So now I’m torn between being mad at him for knowing about my mom and being grateful because he’s praying for her.

  Popeye thunders down the stairs. “Wes, wagons ho! Chicago!”

  On the drive to Chicago, Popeye does all the talking. He tells me about Mom going to rehab on Monday. I act like it’s news to me.

  For the next half hour he tells me about a children’s book he’s writing. The plot isn’t bad—some kid who finds a dog on the roadside, gets attached to him, then meets the owner, who’s been searching for the dog. Problem is, Popeye loves rhyme, so he tries to rhyme the whole story. His rhymes are pretty awful. Like, “A dog on the roadside? Now that, I can’t abide.”

  Once we hit heavy traffic, I think we both get a case of nerves. “So,” Popeye says, swerving into the slow lane, “what did the little girl say when her dog was lost?”

  I shrug, then remember that the last thing I want him to do is look at me for an answer. I don’t want him taking his eyes off the road. “I don’t know,” I answer fast.

  “What did the little girl say when her dog was lost? ‘Doggone!’”

  Neither of us manages much of a laugh.

  My mind is on where we’re headed. I’m remembering the first time I visited my mother in county lockup. My grandmother made me wear a tie, and I griped and told her Mom wouldn’t have made me wear it. I can’t remember what the place looked like, but I know my grandma had to talk somebody into letting her go in with me. I sat on her lap behind a glass window. Then my mom walked out and sat in a chair on the other side of the glass. I couldn’t touch her or hear her. Grandma talked to her on a phone that gets you through to the person on the other side of the glass. Before we left, Grandma let me talk. I hollered, “I love you!” so loud I wouldn’t have needed that phone. We took the bus back, then walked home, and my grandma cried the whole time. That’s what I remember most about that day, because my grandma never cried. We’d just gotten to see my mom, and I was feeling good about that. I didn’t understand why Grandma cried.

  I understand now.

  “We’re almost there,” Popeye says, moving to the exit lane. “Would it be okay if I prayed for you, Wes?”

  It’s weird that he asked. Popeye prays all the time and never asks if anybody minds. “I don’t care,” I say.

  He doesn’t close his eyes, which is a good thing since cars are flying around us. They whiz by and jerk into the slot in front of us.

  Popeye starts out thanking God for me and for everybody in his family. Then he gets down to business and prays I’ll have the right words to say to my mom, which is the exact thing I’ve been worrying about. He asks God to take care of Mom and for both of us to find a deep friendship with Jesus.

  I try to climb up on that prayer, to have it be from me, too. It feels like I’m holding on to the tail of a comet. I’m hanging on for life.

  Popeye finishes his prayer: “Father, will You let Wes know how much You love him and how much You care about his mother? Help them both understand that love and feel Your love, even in jail. I missed the exit!”

  Popeye takes the next exit and gets back on the busy expressway in the other direction, then catches the right exit. But it takes too much time getting off and on the highway. He’s so slow to jump into the flow of traffic that I want to grab the wheel and stomp the gas pedal. Visiting hour is just that—one hour. We’ve lost 10 minutes of it already.

  By the time we find the right visitors’ building, sign in on a clipboard, empty our pockets into a plastic tray, walk through metal detectors, and answer a list of questions about who we are and what we’re doing here, we’ve got less than half of our hour left.

  “I’m really sorry, Wes,” Popeye says for the 10th time. “I should have left earlier. Then I missed that exit. I’ve always been a bad city driver. We should have waited until my Annie could drive us.”

  Sweat’s pooling on his bald head and dripping down the sides of his face. Dark circles are growing like fungus around the armpits of his shirt.

  “It’s okay, Popeye.” I’m not just trying to make him feel better. Since we walked in here, I’ve stopped rushing. An hour, even a half hour, can be a long time. I don’t think I’ve ever talked to Mom that long.

  The waiting room is half-empty, or half- full, depending. It reminds me of a small bus station, with back-to-back chairs in three short rows. A woman is crying in one of the chairs. Behind her, with only the plastic chair backs between them, an older man and woman hold hands and look like they’re watching TV, but there’s no TV. Three younger women are laughing on the other side of the waiting room while they take off their watches and jewelry and hand them to the guard.

  Popeye walks over to the guard and asks, “Could we get in to see the boy’s mother now? I got here late, so we’re in a hurry.”

  The laughing women toss me weak smiles full of pity.

  I look away. That’s when I see the sign: One visitor at a time.

  “Have a seat over there,” the guard says. He doesn’t look like a prison guard. He’s got white hair, a big belly, and glasses.

  Popeye and I take the seats at the end of the crying woman’s row because it’s closest to the visitation room. A guy comes out of there so fast, the crying woman stops crying. He’s got more tattoos than a tattoo parlor. He storms through the waiting room and out the door. The woman goes back to crying.

  Finally, the white-haired guard ambles over to us. Popeye and I stand.

  “I don’t suppose you’d let us go back there together?” Popeye asks.

  The guard shakes his head. “One at a time.”

  “I understand. Can Wes go back, then?” Popeye asks.

  “Well, not just yet,” the guard answers.

  Popeye glances at the wall clock. We’re down to 20 minutes left in the visiting hour. “Listen,” Popeye pleads, “Wes hasn’t seen his mother for months. We’re running out of time. Why can’t he just go back now?”

  The guard points to the sign. “One visitor at a time.”

  “We know,” Popeye says. “I’ll wait right here.”

  “You’re not the problem,” the guard says. He looks at me. “She’s already got a visitor.”

  “She does?” I can’t even imagine who would visit my mother in jail. Or out of jail. She doesn’t really have friends she hangs out with, like Dr. Annie does. There aren’t any relatives to come visit her. “Who?”

  The guard shrugs.

  I don’t know if he can’t tell me or if he won’t. “I don’t care who it is,” I tell him, my chest heaving because it’s hard to breathe in this place. “I’m the one who’s visiting. She knows I’m coming. She’s counting on me visiting her.”

  “Take it easy, son,” he says.

  But I don’t want to take it easy. We’re running out of tim
e.

  Popeye steps between me and the guard. “Would you please go back and tell his mother that Wes is here?”

  “I told her,” he says.

  My face feels like it’s on fire. “Tell her again!” I know he’s lying. He’s just too lazy to go back there and tell Mom that I’m here.

  Popeye puts his hand on my arm, and I realize I’ve been shouting. The crying woman has stopped crying long enough to stare at me.

  “Would you mind, Officer?” Popeye says. “Tell her Wes is out here and really wants to see her.”

  The guard nods. “I’ll tell her.” He disappears through the metal door. It closes behind him, leaving Popeye and me standing, waiting.

  I have too much time to think. Maybe my mom is mad at me for being late to visit her. Maybe she was so disappointed when I wasn’t there that she doesn’t want to see me. I should have told the guard to tell her I’m sorry for being late.

  I keep checking the clock. Fifteen minutes left. Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. “Popeye, why isn’t the guard coming back?”

  The door swooshes open, and the guard walks out. He goes to the crying woman first, leans down, and says something to her. She stands up fast, picks up her purse, and leaves. Then he strolls toward us.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  Thoughts are crashing in my brain like waves on sand, pounding, then backing off, then crashing in another part of my brain until I can’t think straight. “What’s the matter with her?” I demand. “Is she hurt? Is that why you won’t let me see her?”

  Popeye puts his hand on my arm, but I shake it off.

  “Tell me! Why can’t I see my mom?”

  The guard takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Son, she says she wants to keep the visitor she’s got.”

  I don’t believe him. He’s a liar. My mom would never say that. She was counting on me to come and see her. I was counting on it.

  “Maybe you can come back next time? Work something else out?” the guard suggests. His eyes are soft, sad, filled with pity. I hate looking at him. I hate him.

  I stare at my shoes. I washed these shoes, my best tennis shoes, even though I knew Mom probably couldn’t see my feet. But I washed them just in case.