Me & Jack

For Chris

chapter 1

I
'd never been afraid of heights, but pressed against the passenger window looking over the side of the mountain, it seemed like a good time to start. Seat belts? Yeah, good idea. They would make it easier for the rescue team to find our bodies. I pulled mine tighter and braced one hand against the dashboard.

The station wagon chugged up the mountain like a roller coaster straining to make that first peak. A couple of times, the rear wheels spun out, shooting stone torpedoes. Dad clicked off the radio. I didn't argue; I'd seen the drop as we made that last hairpin turn. If he wanted to concentrate, I was all for it.

The car followed the snaky road back and forth up the mountain. On one side, we were nearly grazing the jagged wall of the mountain; on the other side, we were inches away from plummeting over the edge. Below, barns and fields of crops looked like a paint-by-number picture. Dad cranked the wheel hard at each turn. When he finally steered off
let's-defy-death
road, my foot released an imaginary brake and my back relaxed against the seat.

The road we were on now was well hidden by trees and the angle of its entrance. Every now and then we passed a cabin or an old trailer. On one property, a rock fireplace with a chimney sat in the grass. Vines latched onto it and climbed around its base. I could see where the foundation once was. It made me wonder what had happened to the house.

Finally, Dad turned up onto a side road and into a gravel driveway. Nothing but woods on both sides, except for the old house we'd parked in front of. Even then, the trees crept up to the house and stretched their knobby branches toward the roof like they were trying to touch it. The sun lit the treetops, but the woods below stood in darkness. A black forest.

I peered at the mountain through the windshield. “You think any wild animals live up there?”

“Probably just squirrels and birds.” Dad took off his sunglasses. “Maybe bears.”

“Bears!” I said, shooting a glance into the trees.

“Joshua, I'm kidding.” He shook his head. “People wouldn't live here if it wasn't safe.” He got out, opened the back of the car, and grabbed a couple of suitcases. “Come on, help me.”

I struggled with a suitcase and followed him up the steps into our new home. The wood floor creaked and echoed our every footstep, and a draft blew at our backs. I shuddered right down to my feet.

When you move, you're homeless for a while. You don't live at the place you're leaving, and you don't live at the place you're going to. Sometimes you have to stay in a hotel for a couple of weeks, which is great because the hotel is full of other air force kids who don't care that they never met you before; they want someone to race with in the hallways or play catch with outside. But sooner or later, you have to leave and face your new life. Today's new life was in Cheslock, Pennsylvania, courtesy of my dad being an air force recruiter.

My room was upstairs, down the hall from Dad's. I ripped open a moving carton, pulled out my shoe boxes, and lined them up, one box of treasures for every place I could remember living. Six boxes so far, and that didn't include the new one for Pennsylvania. Lifting the lids, I eyed some of my stuff: my baseball trophy (best Little League team in Hickory, New Jersey), pieces of quartz (from a field in Tennessee), little bottles of sand (right off the dunes of Lake Michigan). I wondered what Pennsylvania would fill my box with. The only thing I really knew about Pennsylvania was one lame joke:
What's the biggest pencil in the world? Pencil-vania.
Yeah, I'd have them rolling in the aisles with that one.

I scanned my souvenirs one more time. My life, right here in these boxes. I pushed them under the bed and tore open more cartons. They were full of stuff like clothes and sheets, and I went through them all until the last box had been emptied. You learn to do that when you're in the air force.

I looked at the flattened cartons, then out the window. I'd done enough. “I'm going outside,” I shouted, running downstairs as I heard Dad yell the usual Dad stuff, “Be careful! Don't go too far!”

From the driveway, I spied on the house at the bottom of the road. No one in the yard. No hoop or bikes, either, so I was pretty sure I was the only kid around.

Crossing the side yard, I slipped past some bushes and into the woods. Oaks and maples towered over me, blocking the sky with their leaves. My skin felt cool and damp, and I picked up the scent of pine needles and blueberry bushes. Spongy green moss grew at the base of a tree. I brushed my fingers against it.

Then a flicker of movement caught my eye. I whirled around—bushes flashed their leaves, but I heard nothing and then everything was still.

“Hey!” I shouted. The woods absorbed my voice. My back prickled with chills. Suddenly the trees seemed too tall and the house too far, and I bolted through the woods until I reached our door.

Later, Dad and I sat on the porch and ate pizza off paper plates. Fireflies blinked across the yard. If Mom were here, she'd celebrate our first day in the new home by serving our pizza on china and our pop in wineglasses. She'd make up funny stories about people we'd meet and what would happen in our new town.

I sighed and pulled a pepperoni off my pizza.

“What are you going to do come Monday?” Dad asked.

I gulped down my lemonade. “What do you mean?” I took another bite of pizza, stretching the cheese till it broke.

“I'll be at work. You'll be alone all day.”

I kept eating. I wanted to see what he was leading up to.

“I don't want you by yourself in the house. It's not like the base; there's no one here to watch out for you.” He gazed past me into the woods. The trees looked even bigger now, black against the purple sunset. Dad shook his head. “I don't feel good about leaving you here alone.”

I just about choked on my pizza. “Dad, I'm almost in seventh grade! I don't need a babysitter!”

“Not a babysitter.” He turned, looked at me, and grinned. “A dog.”

chapter 2

T
he next day, Dad and I entered the back of the dog pound, where all the cages sat. A single dog barked, sounding the alarm; then the other dogs joined in, barking and jumping, and it seemed they were all saying
Pick me! Pick me! I'm the best!
The barking made it feel exciting, like this was a happy place, but when I saw the rows of cages lined up and stacked, it looked like dog prison. I wished I could take them all home.

“What kind of dog did you have in mind?” The worker had to talk loudly to be heard over all that barking. He stuck his finger into a cage and scratched a little brown dog's ears.

“A watchdog,” Dad said. “One to watch over the house and my boy while I'm at work.”

“I've got just the dog for you. Picked him up yesterday.” We followed the guy down the row to a large cage. “German shepherd. About five years old. He'll do the job.”

I looked at the German shepherd. He seemed all right, brown and black fur, dark brown eyes. He thrashed in his cage but kept his eyes on me, barking the whole time. His teeth looked sharp.

“I like him,” Dad said. “What do you think, kiddo?”

I shrugged. “He's okay.”

The pound worker told Dad more about German shepherds. I drifted down the row of cages and saw lots of mutts, a couple of poodles. I'd almost worked my way to the end when I spotted a dog standing at the back of his cage on the bottom row. I crouched to get a better look at him.

The dog stepped forward a bit and stopped. He didn't jump and bark like all the other dogs; he just held my gaze. His eyes were the color of caramel. A patch of white covered most of his chest, and a star appeared on his snout between his eyes. His ears stood straight up, like a rabbit's, and they were glowing red.

“Dad!” I yelled. “How about this one?”

Dad and the worker walked over. The dog backed up in his cage when they bent down to it.

Dad pointed at the dog's ears. “Kind of strange-looking, isn't he?”

I frowned. The dog rested his eyes on me openly, as if he knew me, as if he
trusted
me. Staring back, I felt the same way.

“I like him,” I said.

Dad stared at the dog and nodded. “He does look very intelligent. What breed is he?”

“I don't know. Just found him in a fancy cage outside one morning.” The worker straightened up. “He's been passed over a lot; most people say he doesn't seem friendly.”

“He's friendly,” I said. “He just likes to think about it.” Same as I did.

“Today's his last day here, if you know what I mean.” The worker looked at Dad.

Dad frowned and glanced toward the German shepherd. “I don't know. The other one seems a bit more—”

“This is the right dog,” I said and stood up. “This one.”

The ride home was short but took forever. The dog pushed against my arms, straining to stick not just his head but his whole body out the window. His nose twitched wildly and his skinny tail slapped my face.

When we got home, he darted from window to window, pressing his nose against the screens. I ran after him, but he ducked my every move like a basketball player. He pressed one screen so hard that it fell out and he coiled to spring after it, but Dad grabbed him.

“Shut that window!” he yelled. The dog squirmed in his arms, licking him and trying to escape at the same time.

I slammed the window shut and sat by Dad on the floor. “He likes you!” I said.

Dad smirked, pushing the dog off his lap. He wiped the slobber off his face. “I think this dog is going to be trouble.”

The dog and I sat on the floor at the foot of my bed. One thin branch scratched at the window screen and the dog kept putting his paws on the sill to see what was going on. I was glad he was the kind of dog who liked to explore, because that's exactly what I liked to do. But first, he needed a name.

“What about ‘Buddy'?” I asked. The dog did not lift his head. Buddy was not a good name. Not Rusty, either, or Lucky. “What about ‘Rex'?” The dog huffed and gave a big sigh. I stroked his back. His fur was smooth like velvet when I rubbed it the right way, but it prickled like bristles when I rubbed it the wrong way. So far, I hadn't been able to come up with the right name for him. He was lean and strong, and that's the kind of name he needed.

I pulled a shoe box out from under my bed and showed it to him. “These are all my treasures from New Jersey.” The dog snuffled into the box. A piece of paper stuck to his nose. I laughed and pulled off the paper. It was Scott's address, my best friend from New Jersey. He was the fastest runner in school. Reaching into the box, I grabbed a baseball. “This is from my Little League team. Everyone signed it.” The dog inspected each signature and licked the ball like he knew we had been a good team.

I put the baseball back into the box. The best box I'd saved for last. Mom's locket was on top, a long chain with a big heart on the end of it. When you pop the heart open, there's a picture of me and Mom. She's holding me tight and laughing with her head thrown back.

“This is my mom.” I held the heart open to where the dog could see it. Everyone always said I got my hazel eyes from her. I got my brown hair from Dad.

The dog looked at the locket and then looked at me. His eyes looked sad.

“She died when I was in fourth grade.” My eyes got that achy feeling, but I held them open to make it go away.

The dog licked my cheek and pressed into me, laying his head and chest on my lap. That almost broke me, him nuzzling me like that. I put the necklace down and scratched his ears.

I dug through the box and found a cardboard coaster from when Mom and Dad first met. On the front it said “Jack Daniel's Old Time Tennessee Whiskey.” Written in lipstick on the back was Mom's phone number from when she still lived with her mom and dad.

“See that?” I showed the dog. He lifted his gaze to the coaster and then looked at me like he wanted to hear more. “They met at a dance,” I began. “When he asked for her phone number, she didn't have a pen. So she used her lipstick.” I looked at him and he pawed the coaster.

“Jack Daniel,” I said. When the dog heard that, he popped his head up and stood. We looked eye-to-eye at each other. “Jack Daniel,” I repeated. Jack barked. I got up and jumped onto the bed. “Jack! Jack!”

Jack jumped around the bed barking and I jumped up and down whooping until we heard Dad holler, “Stop it! You sound like a bunch of wild banshees!”

I leaped off the bed. “C'mon, Jack! Let's go outside!”

We burst out of my room and raced downstairs to the back of the house, passing Dad in the living room. “Later! Me and Jack are going out!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dad shouted. Piles of paper covered the coffee table. The scrapbook Mom had started for Dad was on top; every time he made the newspaper, Mom would clip the article or photo and tape it into the scrapbook. Dad stood and stretched his back. “Jack, huh? Is that what you named him?”

I nodded. “He likes it.”

Dad clicked his tongue. “C'mere, boy.”

Jack's whip of a tail wagged as he loped over to Dad. Dad tousled Jack's ears. “You know, I've missed having a dog around. I always had a dog growing up.” His face gladdened as he roughhoused with Jack. “I like his name,” he said. “It suits him.” He glanced over the stacks on the table. “I'm going to need more coffee if I'm ever going to finish going through all these papers.”

Jack and I followed him into the kitchen. I pulled my shoes on. I never untie them; I just pull them on or push them off with my other foot.

“Put that collar on him, and the leash,” Dad said. “And stay out of trouble!”

“I will!” I said and barreled out the door with Jack close at my heels.