Bluefish (3 page)

Travis handed him the fox.

"Why'd you choose this one?"

Travis shrugged.

"You like foxes?" McQueen held the book up, tapping the cover.

Travis nodded. The cover of that book was the most open space in the room.

Rolling snowy fields and distant pines against a gray winter sky.

"You ever see one in the wild?"

Travis nodded again, remembering the fox pups he'd watched in June. The way they'd rolled and dodged as they wrestled, and that one who'd jumped straight up like a lit furry firecracker.

"What was it like? Did you see it up close?"

"Pups last summer," Travis said. "They were cute."

"Lucky!" McQueen popped his eyes wide. "Not many people get to see that - but you're good at being quiet, blending in. Do you spend a lot of time in the woods?"

"Used to, at our old place."

"Miss it?" McQueen flipped through the pages.

"Yeah."

"Well, if it's woods you like, you picked the right book. Kjelgaard is terrific with outdoor and animal stories, beautiful. I mean, listen to this:

"Chapter One. The Raider. It was a night so dark that only the unwise, the very young, or the desperately hungry ventured far from the thickets, swamps, and burrows where wild things find shelter in times of stress."

McQueen continued to read in his deep, rumbly voice, and Travis sat back in his chair. McQueen's voice brought a starless winter swamp night to life, with rattling leaves and the movement of a fox through the snow. Travis closed his eyes, shutting out the crowd of books, breathing in the cold, clean air.

McQueen stopped reading, and Travis opened his eyes. The swamp disappeared.

"Nice writing, isn't it?"

The mass of books leaned in from the shelves again, waiting to hear what Travis would say.

"How far have you gotten?" McQueen tapped the cover.

"Not very."

"Anytime you want to talk about it, let me know. Or if you need help with anything."

"Okay." Travis stood and reached for the doorknob.

"Some nice line drawings at the start of each chapter,"

McQueen said. "Funny how a little thing like that can add to a book."

Travis took the book from McQueen and went back to his desk. He spent the rest of the period paging through and looking at the sketches. The second chapter had a drawing of a hound that looked just like Rosco - floppy jaws, skinny tail, and ribs showing. He wished McQueen would have read more.

The bell rang, and Travis headed for lunch, wondering if Velveeta would sit with him again. Returning the shoe was good enough for two days, but probably not three. He almost knocked into Bradley Whistler coming around the corner into the lunchroom.

"Hey, Travis."

Travis stopped short.

"Thanks for my shoe the other day."

"Sure."

Bradley stood there looking up at him as if he had something else to say, but Travis didn't know what it could be. Bradley was a smart kid, for real. He had his hand up all the time with the right answer or another question, and he went over to the high school for math.

"Well, anyway, thanks. See you around."

Travis nodded, and Bradley went to sit with a group of guys. Travis got in line and loaded up his tray. When he came out, Velveeta was half standing at the back table, and she waved him over.

"Hey, why are you smiling?" she said as he set his tray on the table. "I haven't said anything funny yet. That means you're thinking something funny and not letting me in on it. Not fair, Mr. Confidential Comedy Man.

Come on, share."

Travis shook his head, still smiling.

"Maybe you're thinking how beautiful I am, and you're too shy to say. Hey, look, you're blushing! Is that it? You're filled with passion for Velveeta?"

"Shh!" hissed Travis, although no one was paying any attention.

"Interaction! You're actually in there!"

The girl at the end of the table looked up from her book.

"Don't worry, Rural Robo Cop." Velveeta lowered her voice. "I won't tell anyone.

Unless you keep stonewalling me. If you don't start talking soon, I'll tell everyone you're madly in love with me and you pay me twenty dollars every time I sit with you at lunch.

It's my lunchroom prostitution scheme."

Travis's face burned hot- red. Velveeta sat back and drummed her fingers on the table, watching, until his skin was about to explode off his skull.

"Fine," she said. "Keep your funny thoughts to yourself. But don't keep them too long, or I'll get hurt feelings.

Hey, you were in there with McQueen for a long time.

Did he hypnotize you?"

"What do you mean, hypnotize?"

"McQueen and his hypno- eyes - don't tell me you didn't notice. You ever see The Jungle Book, old Disney animation? No? You got something against Disney? Anyway, there's this python, and he hypnotizes his prey by staring into their eyes and swaying back and forth and singing, 'Trust in me.' That's McQueen, all the way."

As usual, Velveeta polished off everything on her tray in a hurry. When he looked up, she was staring at his brownie. Maybe she sat with him to get the extra desserts.

Was he supposed to give up half his dessert every day?

"So, tell me one of your still water running deep thoughts," said Velveeta.

"I don't have any," said Travis.

"Okay, then give me a shallow one."

"I like your scarf."

That popped out all on its own, before Travis could reel it back.

Velveeta's head jerked, as if his words had leaped across the table and slapped her. She blinked a couple of times, then pushed away from the table and walked off without another look at his brownie.

on FRIDAY

I had a theory that Travis didn't talk because he's dumb as a post. As of today I am trashing that theory.

I brought the scarves back over here yesterday. You never know when the madre is going to decide she needs a rag to wipe up spilled beer or something. I don't want her touching them - they're mine. They're all shimmery and soft and old- lady- looking, and they go perfect with my gray hoodie. Did you give them to me because you knew you were about to leave? If so, you should have told me so it wouldn't have been such a shock.

Does being dead mean that you don't miss Janet anymore? Your wedding picture is still on the kitchen table. I haven't moved anything.

I remember that time you said, "Velveeta, you may be full of baloney, but you are a realist." I wasn't sure what you meant. Now I know. Dead is dead is dead.

You're not watching me. You won't ever read this.

I never talk to anyone else like this. If I don't write it to you, I'll stop thinking this way and I'll turn into whoever I would be if there'd never been a Calvin. I can't even think about how horrible that would be. I can barely even think about tomorrow with no Calvin. Or tomorrow after that.

The madre saw me coming out of here yesterday. It freaked her out. She said it's creepy that I hang out in your trailer. But she said that even when you weren't dead, just old.

Rosco!"

The word tore up from Travis's gut, burning through his chest, but he couldn't get any sound out. His voice caught in the back of his throat, strangling him, keeping him trapped in the dream.

The trees on the path to the swamp wavered and morphed and became the crowded hall of Russet Middle School. A whiff of warm, dense smell let him know Rosco was close, weaving among the sea of legs and sneakered feet. He scrambled behind, trying to catch up. Grandpa stepped in front of him, laughing, and blocked his vision.

Travis shoved, and Grandpa flew back. His head bounced off the lockers, and he crashed to the floor. Blood came out of his ear and trickled down his neck.

Suddenly, the hall was empty. No kids, no dog. No smell.

Travis's voice finally came out in a squeaky whimper, waking him. His heart hammered, and he lay there, sweaty and shivery, alone, no warm stinky dog weight at the foot of his bed. A soft light shone through the yellow towel he'd stapled around the curtain rod. Cool fingers of breeze stretched through the half- open window, and the birds hollered a racket outside. The house was quiet -

Grandpa left early for the bakery on Saturdays.

Travis got dressed, opened the front door, and looked out on the day. Five houses in view, all with their empty eyes looking back at him. He grabbed a jacket and a day- old muffin, took a right out of the driveway, and headed away from town. He took another right, turning onto a narrow asphalt road with no centerline. By the time he finished the muffin, the houses had thinned out and dropped off to nothing. No cars, either, just his feet scuffing along the gravel shoulder. Cornfields stretched on either side of the road.

Travis hadn't gone for a walk since they'd moved, unless you counted his runaway from school. That day, he'd been in the same not- thinking place he went in a fight - no planning or figuring or feeling. Sometimes his body just did things on its own.

Like in the dream, when he shoved Grandpa. The pain and panic of letting Rosco slip away through the crowd had been so real. Not the everyday dull-tooth chewing in his chest, but sharp like the morning cold where the sun hadn't touched yet.

If only he had taken Rosco with him that morning a few weeks ago. "Stay," he'd said, knowing he was more likely to see the fox pups if Rosco wasn't along.

Rosco had flopped in the driveway and watched him go, sad- eyed.

And Travis hadn't even seen the pups, just a few chipmunks and a woodpecker. On his way home, he'd given the high- low whistle, expecting Rosco to come trotting along the path. He hadn't, and when Travis came out of the woods, the truck was gone. That's when his stomach got nervous. Rosco never went anywhere without him or Grandpa. And Grandpa never took Rosco anywhere except to the vet.

He went inside and shuffleed around the house, looking out windows and waiting. Lunchtime came and went without a phone call. The truck finally pulled up in the driveway late in the afternoon, and Travis ran out to the front porch.

"Where's Rosco?" he asked as Grandpa got out of the truck.

"Not with you?"

"No, I made him stay. He wasn't here when you left?"

"I thought he was withyou."

Travis followed Grandpa into the house. Grandpa cracked a beer and slugged it back, his Adam's apple moving under loose skin as he swallowed.

"That means he's been gone for hours," said Travis.

"We'd better go look for him."

Grandpa took another drink, then looked at Travis for the first time.

"He's an old dog, Trav. Old dogs sometimes go away and don't come back."

"What do you mean?" Travis's voice cracked high.

"I mean he might have left for a reason, and we should leave him be."

Travis walked miles through the woods that afternoon, along the roads and fields until after dark. His throat hurt from calling, and his whistle went dry.

When he got home, the truck was gone. Maybe Rosco had come back, hurt or sick, and Grandpa had taken him to the vet.

Travis turned on the TV and stared at it, waiting for the sound of truck tires on the gravel. When it finally came, it pulled Travis out of a deep foggy sleep, and early- morning sun filtered in the window. He jumped off the couch and ran out to the porch.

Grandpa got out of the truck, unsteady.

"Where's Rosco?" asked Travis.

"How should I know?"

The words shot liquid hot rage surging through

Travis. Grandpa hadn't been at the vet; he'd gone to the bar. Stayed out all night with Rosco missing, maybe sick or hurt somewhere. Travis stepped forward hard just as Grandpa grabbed the railing. Grandpa flinched, lost his balance, and fell slow- motion off the stair. He landed in a crumple on the gravel.

The hot liquid inside Travis turned immediately to cold sludge, the way it did every time he blew and someone ended up on the ground. Grandpa stared up as if he'd never seen Travis before. Then he shook his head and awkwardly pushed himself off the gravel. He limped back to the truck without a look or a word. He got in, slammed the door, started the engine, and left.

Travis spent hours in the woods again, calling, whistling, looking under bushes. His stomach was a wrench of gut juice, and his mind spun with half hammered excuses. I didn't touch you! You fell all by yourself. And over it all: He's an old dog, Trav. Old dogs sometimes go away and don't come back.

The truck was in the drive when he got home.

"Rosco?" he called softly as he opened the screen door.

Grandpa got up from the couch. He looked like he'd been crawling under bushes himself.

Whitefaced, the skin around his jaw sagging. He picked up his keys from the counter, and his hand shook so much, they clanked together. "I'm going out for a bit."

"I didn't find him," said Travis. "Don't you even care?"

Grandpa walked out the door without answering.

Travis stared at the refrigerator. Did drinking really make it all go away? As if nothing happened, nothing hurt, and you just don't care? Maybe it was worth a try. He pulled the handle and looked in. Milk, eggs, cheese. A few apples.

Not a single can of beer. He checked the liquor cabinet.

Completely empty. No wonder Grandpa had to go out.

The house was creepy- quiet. No doggie snores, no click- click of toenails or thump of scratching, no slurping in the water dish. Quiet in a way Travis had never heard, not as far back as he could remember.

Grandpa always said a good dog needs work, and the night Travis's mom went to the hospital and didn't come back, Rosco found his job.

Travis's dad died in an accident three months later, and then Rosco forgot all about being anyone's dog. He became Travis's mom and dad and a couple of brothers thrown in. That's what Grandpa said.

For almost a month now, Travis had woken up every day with no Rosco. No mom, no dad, no imaginary brothers. Grandpa had given him up from the first day. He didn't even care. What if Travis disappeared? Oh, well, sometimes kids go away and don't come back.

Travis kicked a beer can. It landed with a dull tink on the road ahead, and a roar exploded from the ditch on the other side of a driveway. Travis jumped straight sideways and came down eyeball- to- eyeball with a snarling, mean-eyed dog. Its lip was curled all the way back to show pink and black gums above sharp white teeth.