supposed to.” A tremor follows her words, so they sound like she doesn’t believe this. “And I’m serious, he can’t move, so don’t be surprised.”
Surprised? What could be more surprising than the guy who to my silly kid eyes seemed bigger than trees being unable to move?
“Does he know we’re coming?”
“Of course he knows.”
I don’t ask what I’m thinking. If it were me, I wouldn’t want anybody else around. If I were too tired to eat, I’d probably just feel like pulling the covers over my head and sleeping. But if I couldn’t move, then what?
Along the approach to the highway, there’s a major intersection. “I’ve been thinking about what I said to you the other night,” my mother says, her eyes watching the dangling traffic light.
What night? I do not say this out loud because I do not want to say anything out loud to her. And why is she doing this now? But okay, it’s either last night’s charming conversation about Loretta Getz’s drug mishap, or it’s Monday’s nightmare . . . my poor Lucky. I do not want to talk about it. I glance at my hands, clenched into fists—red, not pale at all.
“Look,” I say, hoping to end any chat here, “I don’t take drugs.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about your dog.”
Oh, no, not now. “Is he still in the den?” I ask, because I can’t help it. I had moved Lucky’s bowls and blanket there this morning because the den is quiet. I hope he will sleep there when I’m not around.
“He’s in the den. I just went home; he’s fine. Answer me.”
Will this light ever change? My eyes veer away from it, land on the red side of the Dairy Bam. I hate the Dairy Barn because there seems to be one everywhere I go.
Everything is red. I feel like a bull. If it’s red, why can’t I be in my room, looking at my favorite red box? I have a collection of boxes. I could just sit and peacefully look at the red one for as long as I wanted. I could sing to my dog. It’s impossible. I can’t ignore her.
| | | | | |
I know my mother never wanted Lucky, but I didn’t know why. On Monday, I agreed to work three days a week for Dr. Wheatie, in exchange for Lucky’s operation and cast. I said I would start when school ended for the summer.
When Mr. Utley dropped me off, the first thing I did was grab the special green blanket from its place by his food bowl in the kitchen. I fluffed it and smoothed it and laid Lucky down. Then I washed the blood off my hands. With a warm, damp cloth, I wiped all over him, searching for any spots of dried crud the vet might have missed.
I murmured and pleaded in the nonsense language that seems to flow in emergencies and that, really, lies. “It’s okay, boy, you’re so so good. It’s okay, my little dog-head, baby bark.” Nothing was okay, but Lucky finally stopped shaking. I carried him, in the new cradle way, to the den, where it was cool and dark, and I started shaking. For a few minutes it seemed like I might never stop. Then Eileen called, but I couldn’t talk to her; my throat seemed to close when I tried. So I sat there shaking, waiting for Lucky to fall asleep on the couch.
Then my mother called from the engineering firm where she worked. My would-be pet-murderer mother. “So you didn’t go to school.”
“Eureka,” I said. My throat ached.
“Well, how are you?” she asked in her everything’s-fine office voice.
Was she joking? Delusional? Pretty good for a person with a dead dog, I thought. I wanted to spit into the phone. She thought Lucky was dead and I would go to school anyway. Such a big heart.
“Poor Lucky; I’m sorry.” Her voice strummed with something. Was it satisfaction?
“Lucky’s fine too.” Saying his name seemed to empty me. I was drained. So how could my eyes fill with tears?
“What?” If satisfaction had strummed, its opposite snapped.
“He’s got a cast. He’ll have a limp.” There was just
Surprised? What could be more surprising than the guy who to my silly kid eyes seemed bigger than trees being unable to move?
“Does he know we’re coming?”
“Of course he knows.”
I don’t ask what I’m thinking. If it were me, I wouldn’t want anybody else around. If I were too tired to eat, I’d probably just feel like pulling the covers over my head and sleeping. But if I couldn’t move, then what?
Along the approach to the highway, there’s a major intersection. “I’ve been thinking about what I said to you the other night,” my mother says, her eyes watching the dangling traffic light.
What night? I do not say this out loud because I do not want to say anything out loud to her. And why is she doing this now? But okay, it’s either last night’s charming conversation about Loretta Getz’s drug mishap, or it’s Monday’s nightmare . . . my poor Lucky. I do not want to talk about it. I glance at my hands, clenched into fists—red, not pale at all.
“Look,” I say, hoping to end any chat here, “I don’t take drugs.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about your dog.”
Oh, no, not now. “Is he still in the den?” I ask, because I can’t help it. I had moved Lucky’s bowls and blanket there this morning because the den is quiet. I hope he will sleep there when I’m not around.
“He’s in the den. I just went home; he’s fine. Answer me.”
Will this light ever change? My eyes veer away from it, land on the red side of the Dairy Bam. I hate the Dairy Barn because there seems to be one everywhere I go.
Everything is red. I feel like a bull. If it’s red, why can’t I be in my room, looking at my favorite red box? I have a collection of boxes. I could just sit and peacefully look at the red one for as long as I wanted. I could sing to my dog. It’s impossible. I can’t ignore her.
| | | | | |
I know my mother never wanted Lucky, but I didn’t know why. On Monday, I agreed to work three days a week for Dr. Wheatie, in exchange for Lucky’s operation and cast. I said I would start when school ended for the summer.
When Mr. Utley dropped me off, the first thing I did was grab the special green blanket from its place by his food bowl in the kitchen. I fluffed it and smoothed it and laid Lucky down. Then I washed the blood off my hands. With a warm, damp cloth, I wiped all over him, searching for any spots of dried crud the vet might have missed.
I murmured and pleaded in the nonsense language that seems to flow in emergencies and that, really, lies. “It’s okay, boy, you’re so so good. It’s okay, my little dog-head, baby bark.” Nothing was okay, but Lucky finally stopped shaking. I carried him, in the new cradle way, to the den, where it was cool and dark, and I started shaking. For a few minutes it seemed like I might never stop. Then Eileen called, but I couldn’t talk to her; my throat seemed to close when I tried. So I sat there shaking, waiting for Lucky to fall asleep on the couch.
Then my mother called from the engineering firm where she worked. My would-be pet-murderer mother. “So you didn’t go to school.”
“Eureka,” I said. My throat ached.
“Well, how are you?” she asked in her everything’s-fine office voice.
Was she joking? Delusional? Pretty good for a person with a dead dog, I thought. I wanted to spit into the phone. She thought Lucky was dead and I would go to school anyway. Such a big heart.
“Poor Lucky; I’m sorry.” Her voice strummed with something. Was it satisfaction?
“Lucky’s fine too.” Saying his name seemed to empty me. I was drained. So how could my eyes fill with tears?
“What?” If satisfaction had strummed, its opposite snapped.
“He’s got a cast. He’ll have a limp.” There was just
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