Jake (11 page)

I saw a car that ran on corn oil.

I saw proof that everything, people, animals, paramecium—vegetables, even—have light shining from them all the time. It was possible to take pictures
of that light. It even shone from a maple leaf with a corner torn away—it shone as if the leaf was still all there.

At the time, I thought it was more exciting that I went to New York City and rode in a subway. Stayed in a hotel and ordered room service.

I thought about the fact that everything has a little light in them. Aunt Ginny’s idea of reflecting made sense to me.

Max looked at me again, like maybe he was getting used to me. I imagined I could see that light in him and reflected it with a big smile.

He sat down and then he stood up again because the ground was cold. I remembered he’d been sick lately and he was old, even if he didn’t look it to me.

Granddad was taking his time coming out, so I walked Max along the street until we’d passed two stores and then I turned around and walked him the other way. This was so Granddad would see us when he came outside.

Max looked nervous about the whole thing. Me walking him, and no doubt he wasn’t quite used to being reflected at so much. Probably the last few days hadn’t been easy for him either, hanging around by himself in the car and then in the apartment.

I made up my mind to sleep in my bed that night.
Partly, I had the feeling Max understood now, I belonged there. And partly, he probably got it that Granddad wanted us to get along. If there was one thing I knew about Max, it was how much he tried to please Granddad.

When Granddad came out, I still had to hold Max’s leash, because Granddad had too many bags to carry and walk his dog at the same time.

Mrs. Buttermark was dressed to go out when we got upstairs. She was coming to the hospital with us, although we weren’t going until we’d eaten. Granddad said sometimes he had to eat as soon as he got hungry or he felt peckish, whatever that is.

“Are you catching a cold?” Mrs. Buttermark asked Granddad. “You sound a little stuffed up.”

“No, no,” he said. “I have a turtleneck in my suitcase.”

“Well, it won’t do you a bit of good if you leave it there,” Mrs. Buttermark told him. What really amazed me, Granddad grinned. “I made fresh sandwiches,” she said, sort of ignoring this miracle. “All we have to do is unzip them.”

“I could wait until we get to the hospital,” Granddad said.

“No, no,” Mrs. Buttermark said, heading for her
kitchen. “We can’t have anyone feeling peckish. Besides, these sandwiches are best if they’re eaten right away.” Mrs. Buttermark turned to me and said, “Would you like a cream cheese and olive sandwich?”

“No, thanks,” I said. “Peanut butter and jelly will be good.”

We sat down at her usual window spot, with an extra chair pulled up to the table. “Do you by any chance play chess?” Mrs. Buttermark asked Granddad.

“I used to, but it’s been years,” Granddad said.

“Your grandson is a strong player,” Mrs. Buttermark said.

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah, play with me,” I said, “because you’ll never win if you play against Mrs. Buttermark. That’s what she isn’t telling you.”

They went on talking about the game.

I noticed Mrs. Buttermark had spruced up her place since we left that morning. Dusted, okay, but also washed or polished. Things looked like she’d spent the whole day taking care of them.

The thing Mrs. Buttermark doesn’t do much of is cooking and housework. Even her Christmas tree lights had already been turned on. I’m sorry to say she saw me noticing.

“Having fresh company has brought me up to speed,” Mrs. Buttermark said. “I’m afraid things had gotten a little drab around here.”

“Don’t do anything on my account,” Granddad said. “Everything they say about men living alone is true. I have a young mother living next door who does my housework. It helps us both out.”

Mrs. Buttermark said, “About housework. I did the math. It doesn’t pay.”

I remembered her telling Mom it takes her four minutes to clean her kitchen sink and wipe it dry. Four minutes at least twice a day to keep it looking good. So 375 days a year, that’s 3,000 minutes, or 50 hours, or more than two days of that year. For weeks after, Mom was doing the math on all kinds of stuff we do around the house.

“I made up my mind to wash my dishes once a day and count that as cleaning my sink. I do a real sink cleaning once a week,” Mrs. Buttermark was telling Granddad. “By the end of one year, I’ve washed my sink for less than three and a half hours instead of more than two days, leaving me forty-eight hours, or two days, to do something more interesting.”

“I like the way you think,” Granddad said.

“If I live with a few dust bunnies, so be it,” Mrs.
Buttermark said. “I heard on TV every old person should have a pet. It helps us live longer.”

“You’re hardly an old person,” Granddad said.

Both of them blushed. I pretended not to notice. They made me blush too, I think. I got embarrassed in some weird way.

“How about some tea?” Mrs. Buttermark said. “I hear it’s good for a cold.”

“Never catch the things, myself,” Granddad said.

“Well, then, let’s get over to the hospital,” Mrs. Buttermark said. “Was your sandwich okay?”

“Best I ever had,” Granddad said. He’d eaten two.

Here’s what I know about Mrs. Buttermark: cream cheese and chopped green olive sandwiches are what she makes when she wants to impress somebody.

Granddad did look impressed.

“It’s time we
took a meal over to your mother,” Granddad said as we were putting on our coats. “Serious food.”

“Egg rolls and orange chicken,” I said. It took me about one second to figure out this wasn’t Granddad’s idea of serious food. “It puts Mom in a good mood.”

“That’s it, then,” Mrs. Buttermark said. “That’s as serious as we get around here.”

“I’ll put Max in Liz’s apartment,” Granddad said. “He’ll be fine until we get back.”

Mom had a food tray on the bed table when we got there. Under a lid, there was some kind of chicken and rice dish sinking into a thick gravy and gray peas. Yuck.

“Eat this,” Granddad said, eyeing the plate as he handed over the orange chicken. “We’ll use the container to make a doggie bag for Max. He’ll think he’s died and gone to heaven.”

“I know how he’s going to feel,” Mom said, opening the container and taking a deep breath.

While Mom ate, Mrs. Buttermark told us what good company Max turned out to be. I told them about Granddad buying the old lady some plants. How happy she was to have them.

Granddad changed the subject by saying, “Since you won’t be home for Christmas, Liz, I think we ought to talk about how to bring it to you.”

“Christmas Eve,” Mom said. “It’s tomorrow? I’ve completely lost track of time.”

Me too.

“Do you open gifts in the morning or the night before?” he asked, like he was Captain Christmas. It was nice.

“A little of each,” Mom said.

“For the last few years, I’ve been joining them,” Mrs. Buttermark said.

“Last year we had a pajama party with Ginny and Suzie,” Mom said. “We haven’t told them about this
yet. Oh, I haven’t thought about anything outside this room, have I?”

“Please,” Granddad said. “Donna and I hoped you wouldn’t have to.”

“We can have a party here tomorrow night, as late as the hospital will allow us to stay,” Mrs. Buttermark said. “Then we’ll be back first thing Christmas morning. I’m sure we won’t be the only family with this plan.”

I don’t know if Mom or Mrs. Buttermark or Granddad noticed she called us a family. They started planning how to do things.

But I noticed. I liked it. That’s all.

The next morning, Granddad woke up sick.

I said, “I don’t think you should go out.”

“I hab to,” he said, looking over at his dog. Whenever anybody talked about going out, that dog came to attention. I’m serious. It sat like a little soldier.

I said, “He’d probably salute if he knew how.”

Granddad gave me an odd look and then grinned. “Max,” he said, and saluted the dog.

He lifted one paw and brushed at his ear.

“Wow,” I said. Okay, he brushed a couple of times. It wasn’t a real salute. It was impressive, though. I tried to reflect how impressive I thought that was. I sent Max the best beam-me-up-Scotty look I could muster.

“I’m taking him out,” I said. “I’ll call Mr. G. He has a pretty old dog, so Max will be comfortable. I can walk with him after dark tonight.”

Granddad looked like he was about to say no. He felt his forehead for fever and said yes. That is, he said, “I think you’b god a good idea there.”

Aunt Ginny is right. Ten is a turning point, maturity-wise.

I said, “First I’m going to let Mrs. Buttermark know your cold is worse.”

“Ohhh,” he said, like this was his worst nightmare.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “She has a cure. Three days from now you won’t know you had a sniffle.”

I sounded the alarm.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Buttermark said. “I’ll put on the tea.”

“I’ll come help squeeze the lemons and oranges after I walk the dog.”

“Tell Ned not to eat a thing.”

“I remember,” I said. “If you feed a cold, you have to starve a fever.”

I went to our apartment and put the leash on the dog. Actually, I held the leash out and waited to see how he’d react to this idea. We hadn’t consulted him.

He came to me. He didn’t look thrilled about it. He looked at me like I was wearing a name tag that read STAN. Not that he could read it even if I was. I was the substitute for what he really wanted and he knew he had to deal with it.

“Don’ led him loose in the dog run,” Granddad said. “He isn’t strong jus’ now. If some bid dod picks on him, he can’ defend himself.”

Max looked perfectly capable of defending himself. It was fine with me if he didn’t get to run around with the other dogs. I didn’t care to bump into those dogs myself.

Max’s tail went up the minute we hit the lobby. Tail up means: getting down to business. Outside, he went from tree to tree, peeing in little spurts. Everybody knows this is a message another dog will come along and read. Sniffing is reading. That’s how dogs operate.

He didn’t take any notice of other dogs writing
the same message, though. He was trotting along pretty fast between short stops. I figured he was just interested in getting to the apartment, where it was warm.

That was what I wanted too. We had something in common besides being puppies together—cold feet. I sent a sunny smile straight at him, even though he wasn’t looking at me. I hoped reflecting worked like that.

The other thing I noticed, Max’s tail wagged the whole time we were out there. I felt good about that. I really did. It probably didn’t have a thing to do with me, though. He wagged his tail a lot of the time.

As soon as I opened the door, Max raced in to let Granddad know he was back. I heard him jump on the bed and Granddad telling him about his wet feet. He sounded like wet feet were something to be proud of, and I realized Mrs. Buttermark was right—Granddad was crazy about that dog.

Aunt Ginny called in while I was taking off my shoes and leaving them by the door. She’d gotten home and heard our message. She started the conversation with, “How’s your mom?”

“She got operated on,” I said. “Now she wants magazines and Mrs. Buttermark’s sandwiches.”

“Everybody wants Donna’s sandwiches,” Aunt Ginny said. “If ever I don’t want one of Donna’s sandwiches, you’ll know I’ve died.”

I lowered my voice. “Granddad’s here with me.”

She whispered, “Sitting next to you?”

I whispered back, “On the sofa bed in Mom’s office. He caught a cold.”

“Is he what you expected?” she said, still talking low.

“I didn’t know what to expect,” I said, using the low voice.

“Come on,” she said. “You know what I mean.”

“He’s not somebody I’d walk up to at the school book fair and say, hey, you could be my granddad,” I said. “He looks like somebody I might see somewhere and think he might be cool.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“We went swimming, that’s how he caught cold.”

“The plot thickens.”

“Huh?”

“
You
went swimming? There’s a lot to this story you haven’t told me yet.”

“Listen, will you visit Mom this morning? We’re going to be busy here, making tea and stuff. We were
going to sit around the hospital with Mom. I don’t think Granddad can go now.”

“Let me talk to him. Don’t get him out of bed. I’ll hold on while you go give him the office phone.”

I hung around to see if I needed to explain anything. Granddad did fine, giving Aunt Ginny the details on Mom. He filled her in on our plans.

Suzie checked in later in the day, when she got home. Mrs. Buttermark picked up the phone. They talked in whispers. At least Mrs. Buttermark did.

And then I talked to her. “Earmuffs,” Suzie said instead of hello. “What do you think of them?”

“For who?”

“Anybody. Are they something only dorks wear or are they an acceptable item of clothing?”

“They’re pretty dorky,” I said. I couldn’t remember seeing anybody cool wearing them.

“What if you were skiing? Would you wear them then?”

“Suzie, are you going skiing?” I hoped she wasn’t going to miss Christmas.

“Would your granddad like them?”

“Oh.” I lowered my voice. “I think a warm hat would be good. No pom-poms or anything. Black, I guess.”

“Any other ideas? Something from you.”

I usually signed my name to the cigars Mom bought. I tried hard to think of what kids send their grandparents. I saw Granddad’s shoes by the door and hurried over there. “Slippers,” I whispered. I looked inside his shoe and found a number stamped on the side. “Size eleven and a half.”

Here’s how we
worked Christmas out. Aunt Ginny and Suzie and I would spend Christmas Eve at the hospital with Mom. Granddad’s cigars had already been shipped to North Carolina, so Aunt Ginny took me with her to buy some more.

“What else?” she said to me. “We want him to feel Christmasy.”