When Dad Came Back (13 page)

Gabe crept to the kitchen door. He touched the doorknob with a single finger first, as if it might be hot, and then with his whole hand wrapped around the knob. He opened the door, peeked in, and, seeing no one, entered on tiptoe. He moved quickly through the kitchen—dirty dishes were piled high in the sink—and stopped as he looked in the living room—no one. He sped to the back bedroom.

When Gabe entered, he encountered a large cop going through a cardboard box. The cop slowly raised his face and set the box down. His rough face said,
What do you want?
His even rougher voice said, “You're not supposed to be here.”

Gabe took in everything about the cop: the two stripes on his sleeves, the holstered gun, the mace and handcuffs, the row of bullets attached to his belt, and the thick-soled shoes—one was scuffed and the other shiny. Gabe considered backtracking out of the bedroom, but he had unfinished business. He stood his ground. He and the cop looked at each other, like David and Goliath.

Finally, the cop asked, “Did you hear me? You're supposed to be outside.”

“My dog,” Gabe replied. “Let me get him.” Gabe figured that the cop would think that he was one of the sons of the man on the front lawn. What would be the big deal? Let the boy have the pup.

Lucky had risen, tail wagging. The cop jerked his head at the dog. The gesture said,
Go ahead, take him.
The cop returned to examining the contents of the box.

When Gabe called his pooch, Lucky ran into his arms.

At home, Gabe drank from the garden hose in the backyard and held out the hose for Lucky to drink. Water splashed off the dog's snout. Gabe threw himself on the lawn, and Lucky leaped into his lap.

“You're a brave dog,” Gabe told Lucky.

Lucky licked Gabe's face, wetting it with affection. Gabe chuckled when the licking ventured behind his ears. He had figured it out: Frankie would find the dog gone and blame the police—a door was left open, and Lucky trotted off to freedom. Gabe would just have to keep off the streets until Heather came. That would be easy. He would hunker down and watch television, play his Game Boy, and do chores for his mother. He decided to be a very good son.

In the darkness of the yard, Gabe watched the sky and counted two shooting stars within minutes of each other. When the cold began to seep into his body from the dewy lawn, he rose, brushed grass from his pants, and boosted Lucky through his bedroom window.

The next morning, Gabe grubbed on soy
chorizo
with Egg Beaters, imitation egg.

“It's better for you.” His mother placed a plate in front of him. “It doesn't have so many calories.”

Gabe realized that his mother was serious about losing weight. And she was dressing better. Because of the man in her life? He would ask more about Bobby in time. For now, he praised the meal, including the imitation
chorizo,
on his plate. He tore a piece of tortilla and pinched up some egg.

His mother left for work, but not before running a finger across the coffee table and showing Gabe the dust that covered her fingertip. She posted a smile on her face. “The house needs a little TLC, don't you think?” She gave him a list that included mopping the kitchen and bathroom, vacuuming the living room and hallways, and mowing the front lawn.

The chores were OK by him. After all, he was under self-imposed house arrest. He wasn't going to be seen on the streets. And Heather wasn't due until late afternoon tomorrow.

He mopped and vacuumed, did the dishes, and took damp paper towels and wiped the dust off the television screen. He ran the same paper towel along the windowsill, gathering up dead flies. He untangled the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet a second time when Lucky toppled a small planter. Lucky galloped from the room when the vacuum began to howl.

The phone rang. A dark, skinny image rose in his mind: Frankie. But when he answered, it was Uncle Mathew, who had called to ask how he was holding out.

“Everything's cool,” Gabe answered. He had a damp sponge in his grasp, as he had started to clean the stains around the light switch in the kitchen.

“Did you call Heather?”

The real reason for the call, Gabe figured. At that time of day, Uncle would have already spent a couple of hours in the garden patch or in the barn. Sweat would have lathered the hair under his cowboy hat.

“Yeah, she's coming to get Lucky.”

“Who?”

“Lucky. I told you about him. She's going to take him.” Gabe lacked the energy to explain how Lucky had been nabbed. Instead, he said, “I think she likes you.”

“What? Who likes me? The dog?”

“You heard me. Heather, she likes you. And you like her!” Gabe had to smile—Uncle Mathew's in love!

His uncle laughed falsely. “Yeah, right,” he said, with lightness in his voice.

Gabe couldn't help grinning. He pictured his uncle in the kitchen, the big black telephone to his ear. Uncle Mathew wanted to be encouraged and, Gabe thought, I may as well make up some stuff.

“She thinks you're handsome. She says that you're naturally intelligent, that you can do anything.”

“You're such a little liar.”

“She said that you had bazookas for arms.” Gabe willed himself not to crack up.

“Don't be funny, boy.” Uncle Mathew told Gabe that he would make a good Cupid, and then he hung up, happy.

Gabe beamed happiness at Lucky, who was pawing at the roll of paper towels. “He's in love,” Gabe said.

They went to the backyard. While Lucky sniffed for a place to mark with a quick spurt, Gabe ventured to the front. He strode to the curb and gazed up and down the block. Sprinklers were going. Some kids were in those sprinklers, playing. It seemed like a day on the move. Soon the old folks would come out to putter in their yards.

Gabe didn't relish cutting the lawn. It wasn't so scraggly as to be an embarrassment on an otherwise tidy street. Still, he brought out the mower from the garage and was about to start it up when Pablo rode past on his bike.

Pablo saw him and circled back.

“Hey,” said Gabe, walking out to meet his friend in the street.

“Hey, did you hear about Frankie's dad?” Pablo straddled his bike. He was breathing hard.

Gabe feigned ignorance.

“He had stolen goods piled to the ceiling, Nikes and Hollister stuff.” Pablo raised a hand over his head to show how high the stuff was piled. “Now he's got a bus ticket to Happy Valley Prison.”

Gabe pretended to be surprised. “Oh, wow.”

“The family's moving out.” He pointed over the rooftops, toward Frankie's house. “I was just riding by and there were like three vans out in the yard.”

Pablo rode away, neither hand on the handlebars, a balancing act that was a cinch for a jock like him. He said he was off to Holmes Playground to play a pickup softball game.

For Gabe, this was the best news since the beginning of time—Frankie and his family moving away! He sprinted to the backyard and whistled to Lucky, who was pawing at a deflated soccer ball. The two climbed the stairs and went inside. Gabe called Heather on the landline telephone. She picked up on the third ring.

“Heather, it's me,” he began, his hand on Lucky's scruff. “I have something to tell you.” Gabe figured that if Frankie was gone—out of the neighborhood, out of his life—he could keep Lucky. Heather would understand. She had owned dogs before and would know the pain of giving up a dog.

“And what is that?” Heather's voice was light, full of happiness.

“You know that boy that was bothering me? The one who took Lucky?” He explained that the cops had hauled the father away and that the family was packing up as they spoke. He was direct: “Heather, if it's OK with you, I can keep Lucky now.” He felt guilty about retracting his promise.

“Oh, that's good,” she replied.

“You're not mad?” He was surprised. “You sure it's OK?”

“I'm sure,” she answered, then giggled. “It's OK. I got another dog.”

“Another dog?” Gabe became confused and suspicious. He pushed Lucky off the couch and wagged a finger at him to behave. “What do you mean?” he asked Heather.

“I have a new dog. He's not yet house trained, but he will be.” She chuckled and added, “He needs a flea bath, too.”

Uncle Mathew, Gabe guessed. The guy's already at her place! Gabe looked up at the clock on the wall. It had been—what?—less than an hour since Uncle had called? Gabe realized that he had teased his uncle into action. For the sake of romance, he hoped that his uncle had at least brushed his teeth and changed clothes.

“That's cool. But tell Uncle to get a TV,” Gabe said. “That's the least he can do for you.” He hung up, the picture in his mind of his uncle scratching fleas—the dog!

Gabe went back outside, pushed the lawn mower into the garage, and made his way over to Frankie's house to see for himself. The last van was leaving, a heavyset guy at the wheel. The van rode over the curb, springs squeaking, and slowly drove away. Things clunked inside the van when it turned the corner.

Gabe could have danced in the street. Instead, in spite of the heat, he walked eight blocks to Holmes Playground, with the hope of joining the softball game that Pablo was playing in. But he stopped in his dusty tracks. Pablo was sitting with a girl in the kiddie swings. They were sharing a bag of sunflower seeds and laughing.

Dang, Gabe thought. That dude gets them all.

From the playground, he wound his way downtown, kicked through the Fulton Mall, and crossed the railroad tracks. He considered splurging on
churros
from a street vendor, and a soda to wash it down. But when he pushed his hand into his pocket, he fingered only forty-three cents. Plus, he had promised himself to give up sugar.

Across the tracks was Chinatown, a once-booming district that had fallen on hard times. Most of the buildings were boarded up. The vacant lots were weedy places to dump refuse.
Ranchero
music blared from passing cars or trumpeted from bar doors as
Mexicanos
spilled out onto the sidewalk.

“Hey, boy,” a man called from across the street. “I know you.”

It was the brother who had saved him from the vampire gangsters. Instead of the sombrero he had been wearing before, he sported a do-rag at an angle that seemed hip. He strode over, pulling up his pants.

“Hey,” Gabe greeted.

“Hot, huh?” the brother remarked. He grimaced as he wiped his neck with a thick finger.

“It's going to get hotter.” Gabe pulled at the collar of his T-shirt to show his agreement.

When the brother said that he was thirsty and could use a soda, Gabe gladly held out the forty-three cents pulled from his pocket. They slapped palms, and each went his way.

Gabe strolled past a few stores—Central Fish was bringing in both flies and customers—and crossed Ventura Avenue. If his dad was anywhere, it would be near the freeway, where the homeless made their camps. The street shimmered with yellowish heat, and the cars didn't make things any cooler. They blew out exhaust and heated arguments.

Gabe noticed a man with an unlaced sneaker on one foot, a boot on the other. When another man, well-dressed and carrying religious pamphlets, approached him, Gabe scampered away. He didn't bother to look back when the man yelled, “I just want to talk to you.”

For an hour, Gabe ghosted through Chinatown, before boarding a bus on Tulare Street. He patted his pockets, forgetting that he had no coins to deposit. The bus driver waved him in and said, “It's too hot to walk.”

I'll remember that, Gabe promised himself. It was a nice thing to do. He strode down the aisle and took a seat in the back of the nearly empty bus. Now that he was sitting still, he began to sweat. He wiped his face on the front of his T-shirt. All his energy had been used in trekking to a part of town his mother had warned him against.

At a red light, Gabe glanced out the window, which was smeared with fingerprints, and noticed a man bent over a city trash bin. He was going through it, roughly pulling out plastic bottles and aluminum cans: garbage to some, a treasure to others. The man was dirty; his clothes seemed to have been dragged through a field. He wore no socks.

Gabe clicked his tongue at the disheveled figure. At least it's not my dad, he sighed. But when the man turned—the bus now beginning to move—he saw that it
was
his dad. He was holding up two plastic bottles, shaking out their contents—drops of liquid falling like tears on the hot cement.

The image burned into Gabe's memory.

For days, Gabe wondered what his dad was doing at the trash bin. Was he one step from living in the gutter, or was he already there? He didn't inform his mom about the sighting. She was too happy starting a new romance. Gabe liked her boyfriend, Bobby, a regular guy with a job.

His mother was shedding the weight around her middle, whole handfuls disappearing weekly. She joined a gym. She and Bobby had taken up walking in the evening, wearing sweats that were the same color: pumpkin orange.

Gabe smiled at their outfits and felt joy for them. The first time he spied them holding hands, he had been a little embarrassed. But by the end of summer, it seemed a natural thing.

When school started, Gabe and Pablo joined a soccer team called the Renegades. One Saturday, after an away game, the team stopped at a supermarket to buy snacks. The store was in North Fresno, which just about everyone claimed was the better part of the city.

The team, still in cleats, strolled through the supermarket. Gabe went in search of beef jerky, his favorite snack. Then, to offset the salty treat, he made his way to the produce section for something sweet but healthy.

He halted, his cleats slipping from the abrupt stop. His dad was standing at a produce island, building a pyramid of oranges. His busy hands looked like the hands of a magician as he juggled the oranges and put them in order.

His dad looked up. Eyeglasses dangled from a chain around his neck. He put the glasses on and peered through them at Gabe, who wondered for a moment whether he should skate away on his cleats.