Stranger in Dadland (5 page)

So I made myself picture Ditz last fall when we brought her home from the Humane Society.

I’d always wanted a dog, but Mom had said no because of
my allergies. Then, right after I got home from Dadland last year, my doctor said that poodles are usually okay.

A poodle? Yecch! I pictured it all sissy-looking with bows. Figures I’d have to get a dorky dog instead of a
real
one, I thought.

Dr. Wong must’ve seen that I was bummed because he said, “The reason poodles are less allergy causing is that they don’t shed. Their hair has to be cut, like ours. But they don’t
have
to be cut goofy, you know. The pom-pom style is optional.” And I felt much better.

I called the Humane Society every day until they finally had a puppy that was a poodle mix. Mom drove me over there, fretting out loud the whole way.

Then we saw Ditz. Tiny black Ditz.

I shoved my face into her fur, let her lick me, rubbed my eyes. Dr. Wong had said to do everything I
wasn’t
supposed to do with cats, as a test.

Then we went home and I didn’t wash my face or hands. Hoping, hoping. Mom watched me closely. No red eyes, no rash, no sneezing, no wheezing!

Liz came with us the next day for test number two. Dr. Wong had told me to do it twice, to be sure.

Ditz was so wiggly and excited, I could tell she remembered me. “She’s sure no genius,” Liz said when Ditz peed on her shoe. “In fact, she’s a total
ditz!
” And the name stuck.

Still no tears. Eventually, I couldn’t swim another stroke. I got out of the pool and lay on one of the deck chairs. I’d
forgotten all about Beau, but there he was, floating on his back, eyes closed.

As much as I’d
wanted
to cry in the pool, I did
not
want to cry on land. Especially in front of Dad’s friend Beau—the boy who my dad probably wished was his real son. What father
wouldn’t
want Beau for his son? Beau was tall and friendly and funny. Does any man, when he has a kid, say, Gee, I hope he grows up short and unathletic! Please, God, make my son asthmatic and wimpy?

Then I wondered if Dad knew why Mom had called. Could he have known about Ditz and not told me?

Beau splashed me, shaking water out of his hair, then plopped down on the lounge chair next to mine. I turned to him and said, “My dog’s dead.” I heard my own words, but they sounded unreal, and I wondered if he’d think I was lying.

Beau blinked at me and his cheeks blotched up. Then his eyes got bloodshot. Wow! Could he just
do
that whenever he wanted to? Was he faking? I wondered. Making fun of me?

“Sorry,” he said, wiping snot on his arm. “What kind of dog?”

“Mutt,” I said. “Standard poodle, mostly. Black.” Then I remembered the white spot under her chin, and I felt myself gag, as if my throat were being twisted.

“I never should’ve left,” I mumbled.

“Huh?” Beau asked.

“She’s my dog,” I explained. But Beau still looked blank,
so I added, “She’s
my
dog. I’m responsible for her.
Was
responsible for her.”

“I dunno,” Beau said. “When your number’s up, your number’s up. Right?”

I shrugged on the outside, but on the inside I screamed, “
No!
” Ditz was still a puppy; she hadn’t even
picked
a number yet.

“Are you hungry?” Beau asked, changing the subject.

“I’m always hungry,” I said.

“Same here.”

We went up to Beau’s apartment. Beau’s mom was on the couch right inside the door. She had lots of dark hair, curling all over the place. Beau said, “This is my mom.” Then he introduced me by saying, “Mom, this is John. His dog got killed today, back in Kansas.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that, John,” Beau’s mom said.

I nodded.

Then Beau said, “And that’s baby Marcel.”

It wasn’t until that moment that I realized Beau’s mom had a baby in her arms—and that the baby was
nursing!
Right in front of me! And I could even see some skin. Worse, I heard slurpy noises that must have been the baby drinking!

I didn’t know what to say or where to look. I’d never been so embarrassed in my life, and I could barely hear what Beau’s mother was saying to me. Something about food, but
yecch!
My appetite was permanently ruined.

I stumbled into the kitchen after Beau, and I just
knew
my eyeballs were hanging out on threads. But Beau didn’t seem to notice or even care that I had seen what I had just seen! If someone caught
my
mother doing something like that, I’d die for sure.

Beau was pulling things out of cupboards and the fridge and piling the table with food. Gradually, I realized that maybe my appetite wasn’t gone forever after all.

We sat down at the kitchen table to a feast of cold chicken, leftover spaghetti, olive bread that was bitter but okay with butter, and some yogurt-garlic-cucumber stuff that tasted way better than it sounds. Just as I was reaching for seconds, a completely naked kid came waddling into the kitchen. It was a boy;
that
was clear. And bigger than the baby in the living room. Their apartment was crammed with boys.

The kid climbed right up on Beau’s lap. “This is Claude,” Beau said. “Claude, this is John.”

“Low,” Claude said, which I guessed was baby talk for hello. Then Claude reached into Beau’s plate and helped himself to a fistful of spaghetti. That killed my appetite once and for all.

“You got brothers and sisters?” Beau asked me, tipping his glass so Claude could drink, leaving a slimy spaghetti ring.

“A sister,” I said. “Older.”

Beau hit himself on the forehead. “Of course.
Liz!
Drama club, lead in the school play, right?”

“Right.”

“Yeah, your dad says she’s really talented.”

“How would he know?” I mumbled. “He’s never seen her act.”

“Yeah, well, my dad’s never heard me play tuba,” Beau said.

“You play
tuba?
”

“No,” Beau said, laughing. “Ha! Got you!”

I shook my head, watching Claude smear spaghetti all over his naked belly.

Beau’s mom came into the kitchen. Her shirt was in place, thank goodness. She said, “Shhhhh! I finally got Marcel down for his nap.” Then she asked me, in a whisper, what Dad and I had planned for my vacation.

I know grown-ups ask things just to ask them—without expecting real answers. But this time I said, “If it’s like all my other trips, the plan is that my dad works all the time and stays busy. And I either tag along, bored to death, or sit and wait, bored to death.”

Beau’s mom burst out laughing. Then Beau did, then I did too. But for a few seconds my laugh sort of took off without me and I was afraid it would turn lunatic. That happens to me sometimes with Liz. She calls it the
screaming meemies.
Mom calls it hysterics. In either case, I call it something not to do in a stranger’s kitchen.

Then Eric came in and loomed over the table, surveying
the remains of our lunch. He ripped off a hunk of bread and shoved it in his mouth without saying anything. He wasn’t ugly, I realized—at least not on the outside. Actually, he looked a lot like Beau.

Eric grabbed a chicken leg and his mom said, “Sit down like a human being.” She got up and handed him a plate. Then she looked at Beau and said, “You’re on Claude duty.”

Beau nodded. He carried Claude to the kitchen sink and wiped the spaghetti off him. Then I followed Beau and Claude outside. The kid still didn’t have a stitch of clothes on. Everything about this place was wacky.

We leaned over the balcony railing and tried to toss gravel from the flowerpots into the pool. Beau missed as often as I did. Claude threw gravel too, and thought it was hilarious until some hit him on the head and he started to howl. Beau scooped him up and jiggled him until he started giggling again.

Then harmonica music started wailing out of Beau’s apartment.

“He’s going to wake the baby!” Beau spat, looking disgusted.

“Who?” I asked.

“His Ugliness.”

“He’s pretty good,” I said.

“Not as good as he thinks he is,” Beau said. “He thinks he’s the new Chet Carter.”

I nearly choked. “The new
who?
”

“Chet Carter, a blues harpist. That’s another word for a harmonica.” Beau put Claude down, bare butt on the cement. “You probably never heard of him.”

“I know what a harp is,” I said. “And I
know
Chet Carter. I didn’t realize he was famous all the way out here! I thought he was sort of a Kansas thing.”

Beau looked at me. “He’s Eric’s god.”

“Well,” I said, starting to laugh, “he’s my friend Theo’s
father!
”

“Get out!” Beau said.

“For real! Whenever he’s not off recording or on tour, he takes me and Theo and this other friend of ours, Brad, bowling.”

“You’re kidding,” Beau said. “Chet Carter bowls?”

I nodded.

“You’ve been
bowling
with Chet Carter? Eric will flip!”

“Eric ip!” Claude chirruped.

Then out of the apartment came a wail that was louder than the harp. “
Waaaaaa!
” Beau nodded an I-told-you-so nod, and Claude said, “Arcel!” which must’ve meant Marcel.

“Watch Claude a second,” Beau said, and he ducked into the apartment. I looked down at Claude and my heart started to hammer. I’d never been alone with a little kid before. What if he suddenly took a flying leap down the stairs or over the railing? It would be my fault. I stuck my arms out to block him in case he was planning any quick moves. And I guess my eyes were bugging out, because Claude looked up and bugged
his
eyes back at me. Then he cracked up. It turns out it’s pretty humiliating to be laughed at by a naked squirt.

Better laughing than crying, I told myself. Then, panicking, I wondered what I was supposed to do if he
did
start crying. No way was I going to pick him up and get peed on
or worse. There was no telling if he was loaded. What was taking Beau so long, for Pete’s sake?

Finally, Beau showed up and I was off duty. I practically danced with relief. Then Beau chased Claude around and wrestled him into shorts and shoes. It all seemed like way too much work, and I was grateful that my mom had quit having kids after me.

“I gotta take Mr. Claude to the park,” Beau said. “Wanna come?”

I shrugged.

“Little kids are real chick magnets,” Beau said. “You’ll see.” Then he batted his eyelashes and raised his voice in imitation of a girl: “Oh, he’s
soooo
cute!”

So I went with them. A few old men were there playing cards, but there were no girls—not one. Beau pushed Claude on the swing. I thought about Ditz. She loved parks.

Whenever Beau stopped pushing the swing for half a second, Claude kicked his stubby legs and hollered. And if Beau dared to speak to me instead of paying total attention to him, Claude threw a fit. I wanted to clock him one. I didn’t know how Beau could stand it, and I said so.

I’d heard that dads treat their kids the way their own dads treated them, so I asked Beau, “Is your dad like you, real patient and stuff?” But Beau just laughed.

Eventually, Claude became such a drag that even Beau admitted it was time to go home. Just as we got back, my dad appeared—with Cora. “Hi, guys,” Dad called. He was carrying two big bags.

Beau and I said hello.

“We brought Chinese, Big Guy,” Dad said, handing me a bag to hold while he got out his key.

Then Cora put her hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m so sorry about your dog, John.” Dad had his back to me, unlocking the door. Beau shuffled his feet.

So, I thought, Dad
did
know about Ditz. He’d just been too chicken to tell me himself. And
now
he was too chicken to face me alone. I shoved the bag into Cora’s hands and stooped for a fistful of gravel to hurl off the balcony. I threw it as hard as I could. Cora followed Dad inside.

“So you gotta go now?” Beau asked.

I shrugged. I didn’t want to go in there.

“Guess me and Claude’ll go tell His Ugliness that you know Carter.” Beau snickered. “He’ll croak!”

Claude giggled. “Uggiess oak!”

It seemed the food had gotten cold on the way home, so Cora was in the kitchen heating it up. Dad had the TV on, of course. Over its babble, he said, “Sorry I lost my temper back there, Big Guy. It was a rough day.”

His
was a rough day?

I went into the guest room and called home. Liz told me they had decided to have Ditz cremated and to spread her ashes around the backyard. “Do you want us to wait till you get home? Have a memorial service together?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You want to think about it a while?”

How would I think about
that
? “I never should’ve left her,” I said.

“Left Ditz?” Liz asked.

I grunted.

“You blaming yourself?” she asked.

I grunted again.

“Well, don’t. You wanna blame someone, blame me. I was there.”

She didn’t get it.

“Listen,” Liz whispered, so I figured Mom had come into the room. “Forget guilt. Grief is bad enough.” Then in her regular voice she said, “Here’s Mom.”

“I miss you,” was my mother’s hello. “Isn’t it time to come home yet?”

“Almost,” I said.

“Have you been okay?” That was her worried-about-my-asthma voice.

I heard Liz in the background say, “
Mom!
Give the kid a break!” Then she grabbed the phone back and asked, “How’s the Phantom?”

I laughed. “Same.”

“Maybe he can’t help it,” Liz said. “I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe he
wants
to be a good father but he’s just entirely clueless. That’s what Jet thinks, anyway.”

“Dad didn’t tell me about Ditz,” I whispered. “He knew but he didn’t say anything.”

Liz sighed. “Maybe he couldn’t think what to say. I know that sounds totally lame—no one
ever
knows what to say, and they just go ahead and say something anyway. But still, maybe Dad’s just, I don’t know, scared of you. Of us. Of doing the wrong thing. Of being a crummy father.”