Crenshaw (3 page)

When he learned he had MS, my dad acted like it was no big deal, even though he had to quit his job, which was building houses. He said he was tired of listening to hammering all day long. He said he wanted to wear fancy shoes instead of muddy ones, and then he wrote a song about it called “The Muddy Shoes Blues.” He said he might work from home, so he taped a sign on the bathroom door that said
OFFICE OF MR. THOMAS WADE
. My mom put a sign next to it that said
I'D RATHER BE FISHING
.

And that was that.

Sometimes I just want to ask my parents if my dad is going to be okay or why we don't always have enough food in the house or why they've been arguing so much.

Also, why I couldn't have been an only child.

But I don't ask. Not anymore.

Last fall we were at a neighborhood potluck dinner when Aretha ate a baby's disposable diaper. She had to spend two nights at the vet's until she pooped it out.

“Poop in, poop out,” my dad said when we picked her up. “It's the cycle of life.”

“The cycle of life is expensive,” my mom said, staring at the bill. “Looks like rent's going to be late again this month.”

When we got to the car, I came right out and asked if we had enough money for stuff. My dad said not to worry. That we just were a little financially challenged. He said sometimes it's hard to plan for everything, unless you have a crystal ball and can see the future, and if I knew someone with a crystal ball, he would love to borrow it.

My mom said something about winning the lottery, and my dad said if they won the lottery, could he please get a Ferrari, and she said how about a Jaguar, and then I could tell they wanted to change the subject.

I didn't ask any more hard questions after that.

Somehow I just knew my parents didn't want to give me hard answers.

 

10

After I got
ready for bed, I lay on my mattress and thought things over.

I thought about the stuff I'd put in my keepsakes bag. Some photos. A spelling bee trophy. A bunch of nature books. My teddy bear. A clay statue of Crenshaw that I'd made when I was in second grade. My worn-out copy of
A Hole Is To Dig.

I thought about Crenshaw and the surfboard.

I thought about the purple jelly beans.

Mostly, though, I thought about the signs I'd been noticing.

I am very observant, which is a useful thing for a scientist to be. Here's what I'd been observing:

Big piles of bills.

Parents whispering.

Parents arguing.

Stuff getting sold, like the silver teapot my grandma gave my mom and our laptop computer.

The power going off for two days because we hadn't paid the bill.

Not much food except peanut butter and mac and cheese and Cup O Noodles.

My mom digging under the couch cushions for quarters.

My dad digging under the couch cushions for dimes.

My mom borrowing toilet paper rolls from work.

The landlord coming over and saying “I'm sorry” and shaking his head a lot.

It didn't make sense. My mom had three part-time jobs. My dad had two part-time jobs. You'd think that would add up to two whole actual jobs, but it didn't seem to.

My mom used to teach music at a middle school until they cut her job. Now she worked as a waitress at two restaurants and as a cashier at a drugstore. She wanted to get another job teaching music, but so far nothing had come up.

After my dad had to quit construction work, he started a handyman business. He did small fix-it stuff, but sometimes he wasn't feeling well and had to cancel appointments. He also gave private guitar lessons. And he was hoping to go to community college part-time to learn computer programming.

I figured my parents had a plan for making everything okay, because parents always have a plan. But when I asked them what it was, they said stuff like maybe they could plant a money tree in the backyard. Or maybe they could start their rock band up again and win a Grammy Award.

I didn't want to leave our apartment, but I could feel it coming, even if nobody said anything. I knew how things worked. I'd been through this before.

It was too bad, because I really liked where we lived, even though we'd only been there a couple of years. Swanlake Village was the name of our neighborhood. It didn't have any real swans. But all the mailboxes had swans on them, and the community pool had a swan painted on the bottom.

The pool water was always warm. Mom said it was from the sun, but I suspected illegal peeing.

All the streets in Swanlake Village had two words in their names. Ours was Quiet Moon. But there were others, like Sleepy Dove and Weeping Wood and Sunny Glen. My school, Swanlake Elementary, was only two blocks from my house. It didn't have anything with swans on it.

Swanlake Village wasn't a fancy place at all, just a regular old neighborhood. But it was friendly. It was the kind of place where you could smell hot dogs and burgers grilling every weekend. Where kids rode their scooters on the sidewalk and sold lousy lemonade for a quarter a cup. It was a place where you had friends you could count on, like Marisol.

You wouldn't have thought it was a place where people were worried or hungry or sad.

Our school librarian likes to say you can't judge a book by its cover. Maybe it's the same way with neighborhoods. Maybe you can't judge a place by its swans.

 

11

I finally fell
asleep, but around eleven I woke. I got up to go to the bathroom, and as I headed down the hall, I realized my parents were still awake. I could hear them talking in the living room.

They were thinking of places we could go if we couldn't pay the rent.

If I don't become an animal scientist, I would make a great spy.

My mom said how about Gladys and Joe, my dad's parents. They live in an apartment in New Jersey. My dad said they only had one extra bedroom. Then he declared, “Plus, I couldn't live under his roof. He's the most pigheaded man on the planet.”

“Second-most pigheaded,” said my mom. “We could try borrowing money from our families.”

My dad rubbed his eyes. “Do we have a rich relative I've never met?”

“I see your point,” said my mom. Then she said how about my dad's cousin in Idaho who has a ranch, or her mom in Sarasota, who has a condo, or his old buddy Cal, who lives in Maine in a trailer.

My dad asked which of those people would take in two adults, two children, and a dog who eats furniture. Besides, he said, he didn't want to accept anyone's handouts.

“You do realize we can't live in the minivan again,” my mom said.

“No,” said my dad. “We can't.”

“Aretha's a lot bigger. She'd take up the whole middle seat.”

“Plus she farts a lot.” My dad sighed. “Who knows? Sunday at the yard sale somebody might give us a million bucks for Robin's old high chair.”

“Good point,” said my mom. “It comes with extra Cheerios stuck to the seat.”

They fell silent.

“We should sell the TV,” my mom said after a while. “I know it's ancient, but still.”

My dad shook his head. “We're not barbarians.” He clicked the remote and an old black-and-white movie came to life.

My mom stood. “I'm so tired.” She looked at my dad with her arms crossed over her chest. “Look,” she said. “There's nothing—nothing at all—wrong with asking for help, Tom.”

Her voice was low and slow. It was the voice she used when a fight was coming. My chest tightened. The air felt thick.

“There's everything wrong with asking for help,” my dad snapped. “It means we've failed.” His voice had changed, too. It was sharp and hard.

“We have
not
failed. We are doing the best we can.” My mom gave a frustrated groan. “Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans, Tom.”

“Really?” My dad was yelling. “So now we're resorting to fortune cookie wisdom? Like that's going to help put food in our kids' mouths?”

“Well, refusing to ask for help isn't going to.”

“We
have
asked for help, Sara. We've been to that food pantry more times than I care to admit. But in the end, this is my—our—problem to solve,” my dad shouted.

“You're not responsible for getting sick, Tom. And you're not responsible for my getting laid off.” My mom threw her hands in the air. “Oh, what's the point? I'm going to bed.”

I slipped into the bathroom as my mom stormed down the hall. She slammed her bedroom door so loudly the whole house seemed to tremble.

I waited a few minutes to be sure the coast was clear. When I headed back to my room, my dad was still on the couch, staring at the gray ghosts moving across the screen.

 

12

I didn't sleep
much after that. I tossed and turned, and finally I got up to get some water. Everyone was asleep. The bathroom door was closed, but light was sneaking out of the cracks.

I heard humming.

I heard splashing.

“Mom?” I said softly. “Dad?”

No answer.

“Robin?”

No answer. More humming.

It sounded like “How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?” but I couldn't be sure.

I thought about whether it might be an ax murderer. But taking a bath didn't seem like an ax murderer kind of thing to do.

I didn't want to open the door.

I opened the door an inch.

More splashing. A sudsy blob floated by.

I opened the door all the way.

Crenshaw was taking a bubble bath.

 

13

I looked at
him. He looked at me.

I flew into the bathroom, shut the door, and locked it.

“Meow,” he said. It sounded like a question.

I did not say “meow” back. I did not say anything.

I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

He was still there when I opened them.

Crenshaw seemed even bigger up close. His white stomach rose from the bubbles like a snowy island. His enormous tail draped over the side of the tub.

“Do you have any purple jelly beans?” he asked. He had thick whiskers that poked out from his face like uncooked spaghetti.

“No.” I said it more to myself than to him.

Aretha scratched at the door.

“Not now, girl,” I said.

She whined.

Crenshaw wrinkled his nose. “I smell dog.”

He was holding one of Robin's rubber duckies. He looked at the duck carefully, then rubbed his forehead on it. Cats have scent glands by their ears, and when they rub on something, it's like writing, in big letters,
THIS IS MINE
.

“You are imaginary,” I said in my firmest voice. “You are not real.” Crenshaw made himself a beard out of bubbles.

“I invented you when I was seven,” I said, “and that means I can un-invent you now.”

Crenshaw didn't seem to be paying attention. “If you don't have purple jelly beans,” he said, “red will do in a pinch.”

I looked in the mirror. My face was pale and sweaty. I could still see Crenshaw's reflection. He was making a tiny bubble beard for the rubber duck.

“You do not exist,” I said to the cat in the mirror.

“I beg to differ,” said Crenshaw.

Aretha scratched again. “Fine,” I muttered. I eased open the door an inch to make sure no one was in the hallway listening.

Listening to me talk to an imaginary cat.

Aretha bulldozed through like I had a giant, juicy steak waiting in the tub. I locked the door again.

Once she was inside, Aretha stood perfectly still on the bath rug, except for her tail. That was fluttering like a windy-day flag.

“I am positively flummoxed as to why your family felt the need for a dog,” said Crenshaw, eyeing her suspiciously. “Why not a cat? An animal with some panache? Some pizzazz? Some dignity?”

“Both my parents are allergic to cats,” I said.

I am talking to my imaginary friend.

I invented him when I was seven.

He is here in our bathtub.

He has a bubble beard.

Aretha tilted her head. Her ears were on alert. When she sniffed the air, her wet nose quivered.

“Begone, foul beast,” said Crenshaw.

Aretha plopped her big paws on the edge of the tub and gave Crenshaw a heartfelt, slobbery kiss.

He hissed, long and slow. It sounded more like a bike tire losing air than an angry cat.

Aretha tried for another kiss. Crenshaw flicked a pawful of bubbles at her. She caught them in her mouth and ate them.

“I never have seen the point of dogs,” said Crenshaw.

“You're not real,” I said again.

“You always were a stubborn child.”

Crenshaw unplugged the tub and stood. Bubbles drifted. Bathwater swirled. Dripping wet, he looked half his size. With his fur slicked down, I could make out the delicate bones of his legs. Water rushed past them like a flood around trees.

He had excellent posture.

I didn't remember Crenshaw towering above me. I'd gotten a lot taller since I was seven, but had he? Did imaginary friends actually grow?

“Towel, please,” said Crenshaw.

 

14

With trembling fingers,
I passed Robin's faded pink Hello Kitty towel to Crenshaw.

Thoughts zapped through my brain like summer lightning.

I can see my imaginary friend.

I can hear him.

I can talk to him.

He is using a towel.

As Crenshaw climbed out of the tub, he reached for my hand. His paw was warm and soft and wet, big as a lion's, with fingers the size of baby carrots.

I can feel him.

He feels real.

He smells like wet cat.