Authors: Paul Griffin
Stay with Me (28 page)
Steamy rain. The flea market is empty. We’re pretty much the only car in the lot. We’re sitting in the Vic-mobile. We have the back open with the lamest hand-painted poster: C&C CORNBREAD. YUMMY. Hail pounds the windshield. Cue balls. Ma is knitting a hat for Anthony.
“It’s August, Ma.”
“Not forever.”
“But fuchsia and yellow stripes?”
“Only yarn I had.”
Bobby’s glasses are fogged up. He’s reading zombie Manga. His mouth is open a little, and his tongue kind of sticks out. I’m studying my belly button lint.
Rapping on the window. The one moron who bought a loaf. “This bread sucks.”
“I’m very open to suggestions on how to improve it,” Ma says.
“Next batch should not smell like hand soap and burned ketchup and be softer than the bow of an icebreaker. You should advertise it as a weapon.”
“We have several other varieties,” Bobby says.
“Get a load of this kid.
Several
. Like seven ain’t good enough. You don’t fool me, champ. What are you, three dollars an hour at the car wash, right? ‘Vacuum the seats for you, sir?’ Gimme my money back.”
Several
. Like seven ain’t good enough. You don’t fool me, champ. What are you, three dollars an hour at the car wash, right? ‘Vacuum the seats for you, sir?’ Gimme my money back.”
I trade him five dirty wilted dollars for the loaf, minus one very big bite. “Well, we sold negative one loaves.”
“Better than selling zero,” Bobby says.
I squint at Bobby. Ma pinches his cheek. “Let’s wrap it up and head back.”
Me and Bobby pack the bread into the boxes. Bobby knocks over a box: cornbread puddles. “Yup, yes, uh-huh . . .”
We drop the stinking bread off at the VA, but they don’t want it. The soup kitchen will take it only after Ma makes a forty-dollar donation. We drop off Ma at this support group for mothers of wounded soldiers, and then Bobby drives me home.
“You take the G and T, Bob?”
“Yeah, I think I did okay on the multiple choice, but my essay was ass. I’ll probably take it again. Maybe I’ll write something metaphorical about the tuba. Problem is, I’m not that good. Really the only thing I’m good at is watching movies. I like food-related activities too. Do you mind if I tell you something about your brother?”
“Absolutely. I mean, no, I don’t mind.”
“He remembered my name every time he saw me in the hall.”
“He remembers everybody’s.”
“Yeah, but he was the quarterback and I was in the band.” He takes out his old-man umbrella and waddles around to my side, slipping just once on the way. He walks me to my stoop.
“Wanna come in for some ice-cream sandwiches?”
“Definitely.”
“Seriously?”
“What kind?” he says.
“Carvel, Skinny Brown Cow, and this tofu-type thing.”
“Tofutti?”
“No, a Tofutti knockoff. I forget the name of it.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m relatively certain I’ll like it.”
“The tofu might be rotten. I bought it like three years ago.”
“Let’s check it out. The preservatives they use these days are excellent. You’d be surprised how that stuff keeps.”
We go in.
“Do you mind if I scroll through your DVR SAVED list?”
“Scroll away.”
I’m getting the ice cream. He calls to me, “
Biggest Loser
season finale?
Loved
it.”
Biggest Loser
season finale?
Loved
it.”
“We can watch it again.”
“Do you have two computers?” he says. “We can totally do a World of Warcraft team-and-slay.”
“I’m more an EverQuest girl.”
“Me too!” he says.
“God, I haven’t logged in since June.” Since I started hanging with Mack.
“Can I see your DVDs? Oh no you didn’t.
The Outsiders
deluxe edition? I might have to Mac the Ripper this. I totally wore mine out.”
The Outsiders
deluxe edition? I might have to Mac the Ripper this. I totally wore mine out.”
“Exactly how high up is it on your favorites, might I ask?”
“Are you serious? On my list of coming-of-age novel-toscreen adaptations featuring one or more Brat Pack actors, it comes in at number
three
.”
three
.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know. And it ranks even higher on my list of flicks featuring Matt Dillon when his hair was parted in the middle—number
two
in fact, second only to—”
two
in fact, second only to—”
“My Bodyguard.”
“Sorry, the correct answer is
Rumble Fish
.”
Rumble Fish
.”
“
Rumble Fish
,” I say, nodding. “Of course.”
Rumble Fish
,” I say, nodding. “Of course.”
“Has anybody ever told you that you slightly resemble Cherry Valance?”
I try not blush as I throw off a “Like, maybe once, sort of.” Yeah, right after the hair-frying episode and hunting fifty stores for the same exact baby blue bow-tie sweater she was wearing, and I asked Anthony, “Do I look like Cherry from
The Outsiders
?” And he said, “You look exactly like you’re
trying
to look like Cherry.” I rack my brain for a return compliment, but the only thing coming to me is, has anybody ever told Bobby that he greatly resembles Kermit the Frog?
The Outsiders
?” And he said, “You look exactly like you’re
trying
to look like Cherry.” I rack my brain for a return compliment, but the only thing coming to me is, has anybody ever told Bobby that he greatly resembles Kermit the Frog?
We hang and eat and he drops and spills stuff and apologizes. We play slap cards while we watch the gang fight scene from
The Outsiders
and then
Polar Express
for the seven hundredth time—he has the DVD too. He says stuff out of the blue, like, “Some people think that if cats grew thumbs before we did,
we’d
be
their
pets.”
The Outsiders
and then
Polar Express
for the seven hundredth time—he has the DVD too. He says stuff out of the blue, like, “Some people think that if cats grew thumbs before we did,
we’d
be
their
pets.”
“That’s actually rather interesting.” I pretend I don’t want to cry. It’s happening: I still think about him, worry about him, still love him when I’m not hating him, but I’m starting not to miss him so much anymore.
I reach under the couch for the Wii controls and I hear clinking. So this is where she’s been hiding her empties. I’ll wait till Anthony comes home to bring this up. It’s all good, huh? Then you handle her.
THE EIGHTY-FIRST DAY . . .
(Monday, August 31, morning)
MACK:
“Mister
Morse
.”
Morse
.”
“Mister Thompkins.”
“Please reconsider.”
“I can’t do it. I get nervous.”
“May I remind you that Old Dogs is a privately funded program. Publicity is critically important. We do not get many interview requests, and I am loath to let this opportunity pass us by.”
“I’m not real comfortable with folks knowing stuff about me.”
“Your comfort is not the primary concern here. If you don’t do the interview, you will be in breach of our signed agreement. I will have no choice but to terminate your contract and remand the dog to Animal Control. We’ve put too much time and money into Boo to restart him with another trainer. Your choice, Mister Morse.”
“What if I mess up?”
“Excuse me?”
“The AW told me he was hoping to get some of the other fellas training here too. But if I blow the interview, you won’t bring the program here, to the island.”
“Will you do the interview, or not?”
(The next morning, Tuesday, September 1, the eighty-second day . . .)
The dude they match me up with is all right. He’s in one of those alternative to incarceration programs where they try to get you a job based on what you like, go figure.
“What I really want to do is be a sports reporter,” he says. “Free tickets to the games, like that. Meantime, I have to do this kind of shit.”
“All right, then.” Me and Boo take him down to the junk field to show him how we play soccer. “Which it’s called tackle soccer with Boo. He was a rotten fetcher at first, till I got the peanut butter working. You bring me back that ball, you’re swimmin’ in Skippy. He got it quick after that.”
“Mm,” dude says, writing it down. Kind of cool, him writing down what I’m saying, like I’m a famous type of celebrity or something.
I kick the ball way deep into the field, over the junk heap. Boo runs for it and doesn’t come back.
“C’mon,” I say to my reporter. We hustle over the junk heap. Boo’s on his belly, whimpering.
“What’s he doing?” reporter says.
“See, about two weeks ago, we were out here, and he happened on this dead mouse in that exact spot. He real gentle nudged it with his nose to try to wake it up. He was fairly crying, I swear, the moaning he was doing. I pulled him off the mouse, but the next day, he cut straight through the field to this same spot, looking for that mouse, which it must have been carried off by a crow or such, right?”
“Mm,” kid grunts, writing it down.
“Every day he does the same thing.”
“Mm.” Man, he scribbles fast. “Dog’s in love with a dead mouse. Potent.”
“My friend says that word all the time.”
“He a writer?”
“He reads a bunch.”
“Then he’s an inside-the-head variety of writer,” dude says. “If you want to be a writer of any sort, you got to know
potent
.”
potent
.”
“Well, all right then.”
“Mm.”
“Leave it,” I say to Boo.
He’s whimpering and looking back over his shoulder at where the mouse died as I lead him away. He follows me lockstep, no leash.
Guard who’s watching us says, “I don’t know how you did it. I was sure that there dog was untrainable. Wash is right. You’re some kind of magic.”
I play it like it’s no big deal, but really I’m tingling with self-respect for myself, and self-respect for Boo too. I kind of look out of the side of my eyes to make sure the dude wrote down that the guard said I was magic, but I can’t make out his scratch. “You happen to catch that last little part there, with the guard?”
“I did.”
“All right, then.”
We walk the kid to where his escort will take him to the bus. The first razor-wire gate rolls open, and he steps into the slot, and the gate closes. We wait for the second gate to open before we say good-bye, because then he can leave fast. You don’t want to take a long time saying good-bye when you’re locked up.
“What name you want for your fake name?” dude says.
“Fake name?”
“They won’t let me use a real one.”
“I don’t care about it if you use my real name.” I was kind of hoping Céce would see it somehow.
“I know, but it’s the rules. Something about being a juvenile and stuff, you can’t let out the dude’s ID.”
“Like it matters when you’re locked up.”
“I know. How ’bout Ed?” dude says.
“
Ed
? You serious?”
Ed
? You serious?”
“Fredo then. Fredo’s a cool name.”
“Fredo’s all right. How ’bout Zeke? Yeah, let’s do ’er Zeke.”
“All right then, Zeke buddy.” He writes it in there. “I’ll call the dog Cosmos, if that’s all right, on account he is one of the biggest pits I’ve ever seen.”
“Cosmos. I like that.”
“Yeah. I like using imagery and that kinda shit when I write, you know? Gives you more of the
feel
for the dog’s
soul,
see?”
feel
for the dog’s
soul,
see?”
“Mm.”
“Mm.”
“No pictures then, huh? For this here article?”
“Nope.”
“Not even of Boo?”
“No names, pictures, or videos. No identifying geographical markers.”
“Anybody gonna look at this thing?”
“I know. Prob’ly not. It’s like for this lame-ass animal shelter website or whatever. They’re doing an online newsletter type of thing to raise money for your program, I think. But hey, I do a good job on this one, and maybe I get something better next time around. You gotta have hope, right buddy?”
“You do. You got to have hope.”
The second gate rolls open.
“Mack, buddy, thanks, all right? Y’all helped me a bunch.”
“Good luck to you, man.”
“Yeah, man. Luck back. Hey?”
“Yup?”
“Peace. Y’all stay cool now.”
“Yeah. Y’all stay free.”
Me and Boo watch him disappear. I crouch and headlock Boo and scratch him up real good behind his ears. “Been three weeks since she last visited, Boo. I think she’s on her way, bud. On her way to peace of mind.”
THE NINETIETH DAY . . .
(Wednesday, September 9, after dinner shift)
CÉCE:
“Howya doin’?” Vic says.
“School started this week,” I say. In addition to weekends, I’m working Wednesday nights during the school year to save money for the college I won’t get into.
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