The Dog in the Freezer (10 page)

“My nose is dwippy.” It was Connie, on the phone. “I widn't go to school today,” she said in a croaky voice.

“You sound great,” Jake said. He was tightening his violin bow.

“Mr. Kweiner's wog is wed.”

“What?”

“Mr. Kweiner had him wapped up in newspapers,” she sniffled.

“Newspapers?”

“In the ewevator. He was bwinging the wog down to the incinewator room.”

“Who?”

“The wog,” she said thickly. “Mr. Kweiner's wog is wed.”

“Mr. Kleiner's dog is dead?” Jake didn't believe her. “I just saw him on Saturday. He bit me. My leg still hurts.”

“He bid you?”

“Not much. Just a little. He's not dead.”

“You don't bewieve me?”

“No.”

“Thanks. You're pwobabwy wight. The wog is upstairs, sitting at the table with Mr. Kweiner wight now, weading the newspaper.” Connie started laughing, then choked, then couldn't speak at all.

“Anyway, it's not my dog,” Jake said, and he hung up.

Standing at the window, he let the bow move over the strings of the violin. He played a little tune that moved like the uneven ups and downs of buildings and roofs. In the distance, an American flag hung at half-mast, barely stirring in the wind. Somebody important must have died. Big Boy!

He played a major scale. Then a minor one. Big Boy, dead? Was he really dead? He could still hear the dog snarling and feel his teeth in his leg.

Maybe Connie just thought he was dead because Mr. Kleiner had him wrapped in newspapers. Mr. Kleiner could have been bringing him to the vet. Things weren't always what they seemed. People might say Jake's father didn't care about him, because they never saw them together, but they'd be wrong.

Jake practiced his scales, one after another. Then he
took a break and called Mr. Kleiner's number. There were some things you had to find out for yourself. The phone rang a couple of times.

“Hello!”

“Uh, hello. Mr. Kleiner, uh—”

“Who is this?”

“Is your dog okay?”

“What business is it of yours?”

Jake was sorry he hadn't disguised his voice. “I heard your dog died. He didn't die, did he?”

“Maybe you want to pay for a funeral? I can arrange that.”

Jake hung up fast.

A little later, there was a knock at the door, and he almost dove into the closet, he was so sure it was Mr. Kleiner.

“Jake, open up!” It was Connie.

Jake opened the door. “The dog's dead,” he said.

“I towd you.” She held her hand to her nose. It looked red and sore. “Give me a dissue.”

Jake handed her a paper towel. “I called Mr. Kleiner.”

“Did he say he was wed?”

“No. But he is. I could tell. Weird.”

“I'm sowwy he's wed. I feel bad. I hade it when a wog wies.”

Jake nodded. He felt bad, too. He didn't know why.

The incinerator room was in the second basement. It was hot and airless. The corridor was in shadows. The elevator motors whined. Big Boy was lying under newspapers on the floor, legs stuck out. His head was covered.

Jake lifted the edge of the paper. The dog didn't look dead. He seemed to be asleep. His hair was black and bristly and his ears were as sharp as ever. Jake squatted and touched the dog with the tip of his finger. The hair on his side was rough, but the belly hair was soft. He touched the dog again, and he stirred, he definitely moved. He was warm. He seemed to quiver and sigh.

Jake stayed there, waiting. Would Big Boy move again?
He lay there, motionless. “I didn't want you to die,” Jake said. “I didn't hate you. I never hated you, just when you bit me.”

It was true. He'd said
die
, but he hadn't meant it. It was just something he said because the dog came at him so fast and scared him and made him want to strike back. There had been times he had said things to his mother that he didn't really mean. Once he'd even wished his father's sore pitching arm wouldn't heal, so he'd have to stay home longer. They were just things he thought sometimes. He never meant them to really happen.

He kept hoping the dog would wake up. Was Big Boy holding his breath—faking it? He remembered his father's trick of lying on the floor and playing dead. That was when Jake was little. He'd shake his father, pull his hair, but he never moved. Then, just as Jake began to cry, his father would jump up, bear-hug him, and call him a soft-hearted sucker.

The incinerator room was full of cans and soda bottles in black plastic bags for recycling, and stacks of papers and magazines. The super had told Jake that Sanitation sent a special truck when an animal died, but that they all ended up in the same place in the same landfill, with all the rest of the garbage.

A dog wasn't garbage, though. It wasn't something you used and then threw away. The dog was part of Mr. Kleiner's family. He'd been a good guard dog. He probably loved Mr. Kleiner. Maybe. Mr. Kleiner didn't act very loving, but maybe he loved Big Boy anyway. Loved him
in a rough way. Jake's father was like that a little bit. He liked to play rough, but he really loved him. Not the way his mother did, of course. There were just different ways people loved.

“Well, I'll go now, Big Boy.” He lingered, though, still hoping the dog would move. He wouldn't even care if it jumped up and showed its teeth. But it didn't do anything. Finally he said, “Good-bye, Big Boy,” and left.

At the elevator, he heard something and ran back one last time. The dog was lying there. Sometimes people went into a coma and didn't wake up for days, weeks even. And then one day they woke up and looked around and said,
How are you all doing today?

What if the dog woke in the middle of the night and didn't know where he was? What if it didn't wake up till the special truck came? What if he woke inside the compactor, and the motor was going and they couldn't hear him barking?

Jake picked up the dog. He didn't know he was going to do it till he did it. He wrapped the dog in newspapers. He was surprised how light it was. It didn't weigh anything.

In the lobby, two people got on the elevator. Jake kept the dog hidden in his arms. Upstairs, he got lucky. His mother was in the shower, and he brought the dog into his room and shut the door.

Jake folded a blanket under the dog. He moved its legs and blew in its face. He pressed the dog's soft belly. “Breathe,” Jake said softly. He was doing the CPR the way his mother had practiced on him when she took the Red Cross class for her job. When he pressed, the dog breathed, but when he stopped, the breathing stopped.

Jake knocked on the bathroom door. “Mom? Where's the heating pad?”

She opened the door. Her wet hair lay flat around her face. “What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”

“No, it's an experiment,” Jake said.

“For school?”

“Uh-huh.” It was half true. If the dog woke up, Jake would have a fantastic story to tell his friends in school.

He plugged in the heating pad and covered Big Boy with it so only his bristly little face showed. Then he went to the kitchen, got a piece of bread, and filled a bowl with water.

“Don't eat now,” his mother called. “We're having supper soon.”

Jake locked the door to his room. He tore the bread into small pieces and put them near the water dish. Then he lay on his bed and watched the dog. He imagined him waking up, sniffing the water and bread, then sousing Jake. If he got mean, Jake would just have to remind him of a few basic facts, starting with who'd saved his life.

He touched Big Boy. He was warm now. “Big Boy,” he said softly. He'd always wanted to have someone to talk to, especially at night when he woke up and the room was dark and there were shapes and things in the corners.

“Breathe,” he ordered. He punched the pillow hard so the dog would hear him. “Breathe!”
Whomp!
Into the pillow. Like his father's pitches into the catcher's mitt. Leather hitting leather. Ninety miles an hour. Dust kicking up.
Whomp!
Jake punched the pillow. It was going to happen. He was making it happen. The dog was going to wake up.

He held one of the dog's paws and moved it around, so it was more comfortable. Was he alive? Touching something dead was creepy. “Big Boy, can you hear me? Wake up.”

“Jake…Jacob.” His mother was at the door. “Who are you talking to? Open up, Jake. I haven't seen you all day.”

“Okay, wait a minute.” Jake carefully pushed the dog under the bed. Then he opened the door.

“Why do you have the door locked?” his mother said, coming in. She was wrapped in a blue terry-cloth robe and wore gorilla slippers. “What's the smell in here?”

Jake fanned the air. “What smell?” He opened the window.

“Oh, honey, close that! My head's wet and it's cold outside.” She pulled the sheets straight on his bed and smoothed the blanket. “How about a hug?” She kissed him. “You smell like something burning. Have you been playing with matches?”

“Mom, I'm not a baby.” He was worried about the smell. If she kept sniffing around, she was going to find Big Boy. “When are we going to eat?”

“What have you eaten since you came home?”

“Nothing.”

“Give me five minutes. I'll make something.”

When she left, he checked under the bed. Big Boy's head had slipped off his paws. Jake rearranged him again so he looked more comfortable. “If you wake up,” he said, “I'll just be in the next room.”

His mother was chopping peppers and tomatoes for an omelet. The smell of onions frying in a pan made him hungry. She brought the omelet to the table with hot pita bread and sliced cucumbers.

“I don't know why a chiropractor's office is such a
madhouse on Friday,” she said. “Maybe people want to feel good so they can wreck themselves over the weekend.” She brought him a napkin. “You aren't going to like this, but I have to work tomorrow.“

“I thought we were going to do something.” Jake got the jar of salsa from the cupboard and spooned some on the omelet.

“It's just the morning.” She cleaned out the sink and put the garbage in a plastic bag. “We'll have the afternoon. How can you taste anything with that junk all over it?”

He poured on more salsa. “You don't like it, but I like it, and Pop likes it, too.” He hadn't said anything to his mother about his father being cut from the team. He was hoping his father would call soon with good news. Maybe he was on the phone to Kansas City right now. “I hope Pop's shoulder doesn't tighten up the way it did last year.”

She didn't reply. “I'm going out tonight with Lucy,” she said. “Just the two of us. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You don't mind?”

“Don't mind.”

She put her face close to his. “You've got salsa on your face.” She tried to wipe it off, but he pushed her hand away.

When he went back to his room, there was definitely a smell, but the exciting thing was that Big Boy had moved. Jake was positive. The dog had been lying with his head on his paws. Now he was on his side.

“He's in my room,” Jake said when Connie opened the door to her apartment.

“Who is?” She was reading a book.

“The
dog
is,” he said, stepping into the narrow hallway.

“What dog? What are you talking about?” Connie said. She was speaking normally again.

“The dog. Mr. Kleiner's dog. He's under my bed. I can't stay long. I think he's going to wake up.”

“You took a dead dog into your apartment? Are you crazy, Jake?”

“He's not definitely dead.” Jake looked into the living room. Mr. Martinez was sitting on the couch with his
hands over his eyes. “What's the matter with your father?”

“He just parked the car.” Connie pushed Jake toward the door, whispering, “Put the dog back where you found it.”

“I can't. They'll throw him in the garbage.”

“Jake. Jake.” She sounded exactly like his mother. “The dog is dead. What difference does it make where he goes?”

“I told you, he's probably going to wake up.”

“Oh, sure. And then he'll bite you.”

“No he won't. I saved his life. He'll be grateful.”

“Then you'll have to give him back to Mr. Kleiner. It's his dog.”

“Not anymore. He threw him away. Finder's keepers, he's my dog now.”

They stood in the dark hall. There was a shine in her large eyes. “I admire you for what you're trying to do, Jake. But you know he's not going to wake up.” She was whispering, and she shook his arm. “He's dead, Jake. Right now, in your room. Don't feel bad. Dying is natural.” She was like a teacher sometimes. “If you live, you're going to die. Everything living dies. Dogs die. Cats die. Goldfish die.”

Families die
. It just popped into his head. He hated the thought. “I got to go,” he said.

Upstairs, Big Boy was lying where he'd left him with his head on the newspaper. The smell was bad. Really bad. Jake opened the window, then stood looking down at the dog. His eyes were closed. They weren't just shut—they were
sealed
shut. He felt suddenly like the worst
thing in the world had just happened. He wished he could call his father and talk to him.

He put the dog into a black plastic bag. Now that he knew Big Boy was dead, he didn't want to touch him anymore. But he didn't want to bring the dog back to the incinerator room, either. He didn't know what he was going to do. He went into the kitchen and emptied the freezer and put the dog all the way in the back. Then he replaced the frozen dinners and the bagels and the pint of Wavy Gravy ice cream.