Buddy (17 page)

“Buddy ain't your dog no more,” he says. “And we can't go to California. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm always saying I'm sorry.”

32

I don't think I can go to church the next morning. Eddie's going to be there. He's going to know I'm the kind of boy who would hit a dog like that. He's going to say, “That boy don't deserve to get his dog back from California.” And he's going to be right.

But Daddy says I got to go. And Mama says I'm not sick, I'm just lazy. She says if anybody ought to stay in bed it's her, because she can hardly raise up her arms, but one thing she's not doing is missing church.

I get off easy. Eddie ain't in church. I guess he's more worn out than he let on. We're filing out afterward, and three different people come up to me with work they need done. The lady who had all her bushes ripped out wants me to come plant her new ones. Mr. Nelson's decided he wants to do something about his front yard and wants me to come over and start whacking down the weeds so at least he can see what's going on in the street from his front window. An old lady I never noticed before says can I come over and help her move her sofa. She don't like where it is and she can't lift it by herself.

I'm making all my arrangements when Brother James comes up to me. “Got another letter yesterday,” he says. “It came after you left out. You'll like this one better.”

I grab it out of his hands and huddle off to the side of the steps while he's still shaking hands and Mama and Daddy are chatting up the neighbors.

“Dear Reverend James, We are the family who adopted Buddy. Katrina caused so much loss. It makes us sad to think that a family also lost such a wonderful, kind, dear dog as Buddy. Please put us in touch with the family who lost Buddy. We love Buddy very much, but we want to do the right thing. Perhaps something can be worked out.”

I don't even get to the “sincerely” part before I'm jumping up and grabbing Daddy's arm and saying, “Read this! Look here, Daddy! Read this!”

He says what happened to my manners and I say, “Read this. Here. Read it.”

So he takes it out of my hands, and he reads it, and then he passes it over to Mama. She reads it with her forehead all wrinkled up and says, “Well, I'll be.” Then she gives it back to Daddy and Daddy gives it back to me.

“Well, Li'l T,” he says, “I hope you got some of your Granpa in you. I hope you know how to write a good letter. It's all on you now.”

I write the best letter that's ever been written in the whole wide world. I tell them the whole story. How I'd been wanting a dog all my life and Daddy always said we didn't have the money and then—
wham
—we ran into Buddy on the way to church and it was meant that he would be my dog. I explain about why we left him and how it didn't turn out like we planned. I tell them about coming to the house and finding the note, all faded and pale. I tell them how we saw Buddy on TV and I'm working to earn money and I hope—oh, how I hope—when I get enough money, I can fly out to California and bring Buddy home.

I work on that letter all day Monday and put it in the mailbox just before Daddy gets home. He comes up the steps to the porch and I'm waiting for him with a copy of what I wrote. He says he don't see how anybody can say no to that letter. He washes off in the hose and pops open a beer from the cooler he keeps in the house, and he sits down to rest. It won't be long before we'll walk over to the widow's house and get some supper with Mama and the rest, but right now we're just going to sit on the porch and stare at the evening.

We ain't been staring five minutes when up comes Mr. Nelson. He's walking fast like he's in a hurry or like he's mad. I'm thinking was I supposed to go there today. Was it today?

He sits down beside Daddy on the step.

“You want a beer?” Daddy says.

He shakes his head. “I don't have time.”

“Was I supposed to come today?” I say.

He looks up at me like he's just noticed me. “No, no. Whenever.” He waves his hand at me like I ain't hardly there.

Daddy's looking hard at him. “What's troubling you?”

He takes a deep breath. “I got some bad news.”

Daddy waits a second but Mr. Nelson don't say anything. “Well, tell it,” Daddy says.

Mr. Nelson gives me a sideways glance. “It's about your friend,” he says, “that J-Boy.”

Daddy raises up his eyebrows.

“And about Eddie,” Mr. Nelson says.

Daddy sets down his can.

“Eddie wasn't at church yesterday,” I say.

“No,” Mr. Nelson says. “He's in jail.”

“Jail! What for?” Daddy says.

“He shot J-Boy.”

We can't think of one single word to say.

Mr. Nelson's sitting there nodding his head, then he twists to look at me again. “But don't worry,” he says real quick. “J-Boy ain't dead.”

“How—” I start.

Mr. Nelson holds up his hand. “I'll tell it. I just got to think how to start.”

We wait.

“It's like this. Turns out J-Boy's living here by himself. His mama's still in Houston.”

“I knew that,” I say.

“He ain't got nowhere to live. He's hanging with a bunch of thugs. They're camping out in empty houses.”

Daddy looks over at me and I look back at him.

“They're stealing to feed themselves.”

“And to buy their drugs,” Daddy says.

“That, too,” Mr. Nelson says.

“So what's all that got to do with Eddie?” Daddy says.

“Everybody knows Eddie's got guns in that place he's staying. Everybody knows he's over here Saturday helping you hang rock. He gets home Saturday evening and his place has been broke into. It's been tossed up and down. But Eddie ain't no fool. He's got his guns hid in a place he made in the floor. He hears a noise. He gets his gun. He creeps through the rooms. And there's J-Boy, pulling Eddie's clothes out of his drawers and stuffing Eddie's jewelry in his pocket.

“Eddie says, ‘Stop!' and J-Boy reaches for something under his shirt.

“Eddie shoots. J-Boy falls. Eddie calls the police. They take J-Boy to the hospital and Eddie to the jail.”

“But that ain't fair,” I say. “What's Eddie going to do?”

Mr. Nelson heaves a sigh. “Ain't nothing he can do,” Mr. Nelson says. “Ain't nothing at all.”

Wednesday night, we all go to prayer meeting. We don't usually go to that but Brother James is going to pray on Eddie and we want to be there. The church is full. Brother James starts out talking about sorrow and he moves on to strength. When he starts up the praying part, he asks God to forgive Eddie. I ain't sure what Eddie's done that he needs forgiving for but then Brother James says everybody needs forgiveness and he asks God to forgive J-Boy, too.

Then he gets to the “what are we going to do about it” part.

Mr. Nelson said there ain't nothing we can do about it but Brother James thinks different. He wants us to pray. He wants us to keep Eddie in our prayers every day. He wants us to remember Mrs. Washington and how she was so kind to everybody who crossed her path and how she raised up Eddie when there wasn't anybody else to do the job and how Eddie turned out so good and he went off to Iraq and served his country and how now it's our turn to serve him with our prayers.

Then Brother James changes it up a little.

“But we can do more, Lord,” he prays. “Lord, you know that old saying—‘God gives every bird its food, but he don't throw it in his nest.' What does that mean? It means you give us the tools, Lord, but we got to pick them up and use them. And what is the tool we've got that's going to help Brother Eddie? Right now, the one thing we've got that we can use is money. Lord, I hate to even mention that word in a prayer. Seems like we get all twisted up sometimes about money. But we've got to remember that money ain't nothing but a tool. It's what we use to get what we need. And right now what Eddie needs is to get out of that jail so he can go on with his work until that trial comes up and that jury finds him innocent of all charges—because we know that's what's going to happen, Lord, in the end. And it ain't right for Eddie to be sitting in that jail until that time comes. Lord, we've got to find a way to bail Eddie out of jail and the only tool we've got to do that with is money.

“So we're praying today, Lord, for you to show us the way to find the money to set our brother free. Amen.”

Lots of times when Brother James prays like that, people are shouting out during the prayer or hollering, “Hallelujah!” when it's done. But this Wednesday night, the whole church is sitting there quiet and still. Ain't nobody standing up and saying, “I've got a dollar I can give.”

I ain't surprised. Brother James is talking about a lot of money. Ain't nobody sitting there got much to spare. They've got houses to build and babies to feed. Maybe there's somebody else sitting in jail we don't know about. Maybe they've got sorrows they ain't shared.

Brother James is standing there at the front of the church with his hands held up in the air. He's looking out over the congregation. He's waiting for somebody to stand up and give his mite. He's waiting and he's waiting. But nobody stands up.

I poke Daddy. “Ain't you got a dollar?” I whisper.

“If everybody in this room gives one dollar,” he whispers, “we won't even make a dent.”

Brother James's arms are drifting down. That room is hot as Hades. I'm sweating and shifting in my seat.

All a sudden, I stand up. I can't believe it. My mouth pops open and I hear myself talking. “I've got some money to give,” I say. “I've got two hundred and fifteen dollars. I'll give that.”

I sit down fast so I don't faint. My heart is beating so loud I can't hear any other sound. Daddy's looking at me like I lost my mind. Mama reaches out her hand and puts it on my knee. Tanya's grinning with her mouthful of white teeth. I hear other people starting to stand up. I hear people singing out numbers. I bend my head down.

Oh, Buddy
, I'm thinking.
What have I done? What have I just done?

33

Daddy says I should be joyful that I'm giving all my money to bring Eddie home instead of Buddy. I don't feel joyful. I feel sad.

The next day, I stack up all my bills on my bed and I count them out. I said wrong at church. I don't have $215. I have $250. I'm sitting there looking at my stacks. I only promised $215. I can keep $35. But then I pick it all up and stuff every last bill in that envelope.

What am I going to keep $35 for? I can't do anything with $35. It ain't going to get me to California one day sooner.

I put that envelope in my pocket and I carry it to the church and I hand it to Brother James.

“Is that your California money?” he says.

I nod.

“Eddie's going to appreciate this.”

I nod again.

“You're still doing your jobs around?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You got any of your signs left over?”

I point to the church bulletin board.

“Maybe I can drum you up a little more business,” he says.

I shrug. “Maybe,” I say. “But I'm running out of time.”

“You've got your whole life, boy.”

“School starts up in two weeks. I have to study. And Daddy says I have to work at our house on the weekends. That don't leave me much time.”

Brother James is looking at me. “Your daddy's doing right, son,” he says. “School first, and family. That's how you get on in the world.”

I nod.

Then Brother James hands me another letter.

“I'm getting to be your post office, boy,” he says.

But this letter ain't from California. I start to get a little dizzy. It ain't from Chicago either, but I recognize Jamilla's writing in a second.

“She's looking for you,” Brother James says, and goes on back in the church.

I sit myself down on the front steps and hold that letter in my hands. It's clean and flat. She wrote it with a purple pen. It says it's from Virginia.

I reach in and pull out two sheets of paper. The top one is a letter. It says, “Dear Brother James, Do you remember me? I hope so. Chicago was too cold so we left. We're in Virginia now but it's cold, too. We miss New Orleans. We heard about Katrina. We're worried about Li'l T and his family. Where are they? How can I write him a letter? He wrote me about his dog. If you know where he is, please send him this picture.”

I look at the second page. It's a drawing of a dog. A black, three-legged dog. Across the bottom, in big, square letters, she wrote, “Li'l T's Dog—Buddy.”

I fold up the letter. I fold up the picture. I put them in my pocket.

I sit there a minute until I don't feel so dizzy, then I head home.

When I get back to the house, I start right in to taping Sheetrock. It's a quiet job. You mix up the mud. You smear it on the joints. You press the tape on top and smear on some more mud. When it's dry, you sand it smooth.

It's a job I can do all by myself. Mix, smear, press. Mix, smear, press. After a while, I forget about all the letters. I forget about Eddie. I forget about my money. I keep hoping I'm going to forget about Buddy, but there ain't enough Sheetrock in the world to make me do that.

The rest of that week, I think about writing Jamilla back but I don't do it. I guess she can wait. I did. I don't even tell anybody she wrote. It don't change anything, so what's the use.

On Sunday when I go to church I don't look at anybody as I walk in. I sit in the seat next to Daddy and I stand up when everybody else does and I open my mouth and I sing, but I ain't feeling joyful.

I look over, and Eddie's standing across the aisle and he's singing. He glances over at me and smiles, but I don't smile back. I'm feeling sad. I'm feeling angry.

When we get to the part where Brother James does his long prayer, I wish I had earplugs. I wish I could stick my fingers in my ears and hum.

“First off, Lord,” Brother James starts out, “we have so much to thank you for. Brother Eddie is here today because you showed us how to help him. You showed us the true meaning of money, Lord. It's a tool. It's something you use, not something you keep. You helped us help Brother Eddie, and we are eternally grateful.”

“Amen,” somebody sings out in the back.

I look over at Eddie. His head is bending down and his lips are moving. All a sudden I wonder what it's like sitting in jail. I wonder what it's like thinking about your aunt who raised you up. I wonder if you say a prayer of thanksgiving that she ain't there to see you. I wonder if you just want to shrivel up and die right there. I wonder if you think life just ain't worth living if you're sitting in jail like that.

“The Lord giveth,” Brother James goes on, “and the Lord taketh away.”

“That's the truth,” people say, and I agree with them.

Tanya starts banging her shoes on the chair and Mama pokes her.

“A few Sundays ago, Lord,” Brother James says, “this church was papered over with signs.”

I look up. Brother James's eyes are shut tight.

“Signs about a dog,” Brother James says.

I get all hot.

“Signs about a dog that ain't where he belongs. A dog that's been whisked away to a distant place.”

Daddy's beside me, sitting real stiff.

“Signs about a boy who wants that dog home so bad he thinks he can work his way out to California and get him.”

Tanya casts her eye at me and grins. “That's you,” she mouths.

I purse up my lips like I'm sucking a lemon. I bend down my head.

“Lord, you watched that boy give all his California money to set Brother Eddie free. There you were, Lord, sitting up in your heaven and looking down on us, and you saw him do that and it filled you up with joy.”

I'm hotter than I've ever been in my life. I'm thinking I'm going to melt into a puddle right there on that seat.

“Lord, we know you are proud of your child. You are proud of his generosity and his courage and his strength. And so you reached out your hand from on high, and you made a move.”

I've got myself tucked low as I can get but I still feel like there's a spotlight shining straight down on me.

“Those signs,” Brother James goes on, “didn't stay in this church. They made their way out into the world. People out there saw them. Phone calls were made. Letters were written. Hands were shook.

“Lord, the Bible says the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. But maybe they got it backward. Maybe it ought to say the Lord taketh away, and the Lord giveth back. Because you're giving today, Lord. You're giving to that boy who made those signs. Lord, you're the one who touched the people out there in the world who read those signs. You're the one who moved their hearts to generosity. You're the one who gathered them together exactly where they needed to be. And you're the one who, through your almighty power and everlasting grace, has delivered to this congregation on this very morning, two airplane tickets to California leaving on Wednesday.”

I can't help it. I pop up out of my chair without thinking. The whole congregation starts cheering. It ain't like a prayer at all. It's like a football game. They're all cheering and clapping. Eddie comes right across the aisle and starts pounding me on the back, and Brother James comes walking down from out of the pulpit with two folded-up pieces of paper in his hand and a grin as wide as the Mississippi River shining on his face.

“God picked you for that dog, son,” he says, and he hands the tickets to me. “You fly on out there, and you bring your Buddy home.”