Fragile Beasts (19 page)

The other person who’s disappeared on me is Shelby. We’ve been texting like crazy—much more than we ever did before I started living with a member of her family—but I haven’t seen her since the night we met Miss Jack. At first I thought she was mad at us for the way dinner ended, but she said that wasn’t true and she’d just been very busy at school.

I’ve decided that the worst part of loneliness isn’t being alone. It’s being forgotten. I went through the same thing after Mom left. For a year, I followed Dad around like a shadow. The sight of him was assurance that I still existed, like glimpsing my reflection in a mirror.

In my old life, I may have been shut up in my room for hours doing my own thing, but I knew Dad was around if I needed him; and if I went looking for him, he’d make time for me even if all that meant was clearing a place next to him on the couch while he watched TV. Dad made me feel wanted. Now that feeling’s gone and when I look in the mirror of my new life, the image is dark and blurry.

I walk over to the dresser and pick out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Even my clothes look small here. In my old dresser back home, I could barely get everything stuffed into four drawers. Now it doesn’t even fill up one drawer, which is big enough to hold a person. I should tell Tyler about this. It’s the kind of thing he’d like to do: hide in a drawer.

I grab a sketch pad and my pencils and charcoals and slip Krystal’s Barbie shoe into my pocket along with my knife. I’ve been carrying the shoe around
ever since Dad’s funeral. I don’t know why exactly. I guess because I found it the night Dad died.

I head downstairs to grab some breakfast in Luis’s immaculate blond wood and white kitchen with its walls covered in shiny silver pots and pans, knives of every size, ropes of colorful dried peppers and beards of garlic, and shelves holding rows of corked glass bottles filled with herbs and oils. I see a list sitting on one of the countertops. It’s written in Spanish. I know enough food vocabulary now, since Luis announces every meal in Spanish, to recognize that it’s a lengthy grocery list of some kind. At the top is next Saturday’s date.

I take my cereal and a bowl of Cat Chow for Mr. B and go sit on the porch steps to eat. About halfway through my Corn Pops, Mr. B shows up. He rubs up against me, purring like mad, and gives me a few head butts. He knows the sound of a spoon hitting against a bowl means I’m eating cereal and there could be milk left when I’m done.

I don’t disappoint him. When he’s finished lapping up his treat, he cleans his face, sniffs his own food with disdain, and stretches out on the step next to me.

I took a big risk bringing Mr. B with me, but I figured the worst that could happen would be Miss Jack telling me to get rid of him and then I’d just have Bill take him back to his place.

S
HE WAS WAITING
on her front porch when Bill dropped us off a month ago. She wasn’t dressed up this time, and she didn’t look nearly as intimidating or rich. She was wearing a military green overcoat with big pockets, a scarf tied over her hair, and old hiking boots. I would find out soon enough that she went for a walk on her land every day, and this is what she always wore.

Bill didn’t want to get out of the truck, but I told him he had to because staying in the truck would be rude and Miss Jack had a thing about people being rude. Klint said Miss Jack had a thing about everything, and the only reason I cared about what she thought was that I was a hypochondriac. I told him he meant I was a necrophiliac, a guy who had sex with dead people. A hypochondriac was a guy who always thought he had some rare disease he didn’t have. He smacked the side of my head and called me a fucking geek. I jerked back when he did it, and the movement made Mr. B hiss inside the box
sitting on my lap. Bill gave me a panicked look and told me he didn’t know what to say to Miss Jack. I told him just to say nice to meet you. Klint told him to ask her if she’d like to go to the Rayne Drop Inn for Hot Wing night. Bill looked even more panicked, and Klint and I cracked up when we realized he was taking Klint’s suggestion seriously. Klint really, truly laughed like he was happy and for that moment, everything was good.

We all got out of the truck and trooped over single file to stand in front of Miss Jack like grunts waiting for a drill sergeant’s inspection: Klint with his big, beat-up gray equipment duffel bag slung over his shoulder and his rolled-up Roberto Clemente poster held delicately in one hand; me in the middle grasping my mystery box to my chest, trying in vain to keep it from jostling around; Bill leaning on his cane staring intensely at the ground like eye contact with Miss Jack might turn him into stone.

Luis was standing behind Miss Jack back by the front door like he didn’t want her to know he was there but he wouldn’t miss this for the world. Even Jerry, the old handyman caretaker, came silently sauntering over from the barn, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Miss Jack greeted us.

“Good morning,” we all muttered at various volumes and levels of clarity.

She stared at Bill, who didn’t notice because he was busy staring at his feet. I nudged him with my elbow.

He took a step forward and stood nervously in front of her looking just like the Cowardly Lion asking the Wizard of Oz for some courage.

“Hi, there, Miss Jack. I’m Bill Fowler. I’m their next-door neighbor. I mean, I was their next-door neighbor. Well, I still live there but they don’t anymore …” His voice trailed off as he noticed her glaring at his head.

He quickly pulled off his ball cap and she seemed to lighten up a little.

“You’re a good friend, Mr. Fowler. The boys are lucky to have you.”

He glanced at me, amazed, and a small embarrassed smile crept onto his face while he blushed noticeably.

“Well, you know, they’re nice kids,” he stammered.

“Kyle,” she announced, cutting him off. “Your box is growling.”

Mr. B had stopped moving around, which was probably a bad sign. He was lying heavily in the middle of the box now, crouched, poised to attack, and letting out a long, low, sinister warning wail.

“I have a cat,” I blurted out.

Miss Jack drew back.

“There will be absolutely no animals in this house.”

“He doesn’t like to be inside,” I quickly explained. “He lives outside. Even in winter. If you put him in your house, he’d run right to the door and cry to get out.”

I set the box down.

Jerry walked over.

“Does he hunt?”

“He’s a great hunter,” I cried happily, realizing this could be the talent that saved him.

Jerry reached down and pulled open the top of the box.

Mr. B escaped with one graceful leap. He circled me several times, then sat down at the bottom of Miss Jack’s wide porch steps and began indignantly cleaning his face with his paw while casting slit-eyed bored glances at each of us in turn that seemed to say, “Yes, yes, I’m here. I’m fabulous. Now back off.”

“Good Lord,” Miss Jack exclaimed. “He’s huge.”

“We could use a good mouser around here,” Jerry told her. “We’ve got a chipmunk problem in the barn. They’re destructive little buggers.”

“Chipmunks don’t stand a chance around him,” I gushed. “If chipmunks had an FBI top ten most wanted list, he’d be number one on it.”

“Would you shut up?” Klint said to me.

“It’s true. You know he kills chipmunks like crazy.”

“So what? You sound like an idiot. Chipmunk FBI lists? How old are you?”

Miss Jack interrupted us.

“Shelby’s mother has a Chihuahua, a horrible shivering bug-eyed thing. I think this cat is three times its size.”

“He’s killed full-grown squirrels,” I told her. “He’s even killed rabbits that are probably bigger than this Chihuahua you’re talking about.”

“Really?”

She seemed very intrigued by this last bit of information.

Mr. B finished washing himself. He stood up, surveyed his surroundings, and trotted off toward the nearest tree with the tip of his orange tail flicking behind him as if he’d lived here his whole life.

“What do you call him?” Jerry asked.

“Mr. B. The B stands for big.”

He nodded his approval.

I looked at Miss Jack.

My Spanish was limited to what I’ve heard on TV cop show episodes involving drug cartels and learned from the Taco Bell menu, but it was enough for the simple translation I wanted to do.

“Or you could call him señor Grande.”

Luis barked a one-note laugh, and Miss Jack shot him a look that made him laugh harder.

“I don’t plan to call him anything,” she said.

For the first five days we lived here, I didn’t see Mr. B at all. I started to worry about him, not about his safety or well-being but that he was pissed off at me for moving him and had decided to go live somewhere else. On the sixth day, I came home from school and found a trail of two dead voles and a chipmunk leading from the driveway to the front porch where Mr. B was stretched out on one of Miss Jack’s little wicker sofas.

Jerry showed up with a shovel and disposed of the dead rodents without a sound but gave the sleeping cat a nod that I think was a sign of approval.

I
RETURN MY
bowl and spoon to the kitchen making sure to wash and dry them and put them away, then I go back outside and find a good spot away from the house where no one can find me and start to sketch.

Today I’m working on a picture of Miss Jack’s house set against the autumn hillsides. The leaves are at their most colorful right now. In a couple more weeks they’ll fade and fall off the trees and the mountains will become a cool smoky shade of lilac, but right now they are covered with patches of pumpkin orange and eggplant, coral and rain-slicker yellow, gingerbread brown and the deep burgundy of Krystal’s velvet Christmas dress.

My plan is to eventually do a painting and make the colors of the leaves even more vivid than what they are in real life. I want them to be neon and unnatural like the ones on the bullfight posters in Miss Jack’s house. It turns out she has more than just the one we saw downstairs. I’ve found six altogether. All of them mention El Soltero and are from 1958.

The bullfighter’s face is never clear. He’s always dark-haired and wearing the crazy pink socks, but the colors of his gold-encrusted suit vary from emerald green and turquoise, to Valentine red, peach, and lavender.

The contrast of the carnival colors of the suits and capes next to the bulls barreling past is surreal to me.

I put aside the sketches I’ve been working on and start a new one of a solitary gigantic tree where the leaves are tiny bullfighters snapping their capotes and the trunk is a stack of bulls slick with blood fitted together like puzzle pieces.

I’m really into the idea and forget about the time. It’s not until my hand starts to cramp and my butt starts to hurt from sitting on the hard ground that I decide to stop, but before I quit altogether, I do a quick sketch of Coach Hill dressed like a woman just for the fun of it. I give him long gray hair and an old-fashioned lady’s hat with flowers on it. I put him in a lacy blouse and tight skirt. His bare hairy legs end in big feet stuffed into high-heeled shoes. He carries a pocketbook in the crook of his arm. He’s smiling and waving. Along the bottom I write the words: Mrs. Hill says, “Good luck, boys!”

I’ll definitely show it to Klint if I can ever get him in a good mood again.

I’ve been drawing and painting since I was a little kid. Last year my painting of two Hamilton dairy cows grazing around a rusted, broken-down old red Chevy pickup with masses of goldenrod growing out from under its hood won second prize at the middle-school art fair. It was very traditional. Usually I’m more off the wall with my subject matter, but I knew it was what the judges wanted. First prize went to a painting of a puppy lying in a field of daisies. I’m not kidding.

I kept the ribbon and gave the picture to Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton as a gift. They bought a nice frame for it and hung it in their living room as if it were a real painting by a real artist.

Members of my own family have never been very enthusiastic about me wanting to be an artist.

My mom says artistic people think they’re better than everyone else, that their art is a form of snobbery done only to make people who don’t have any talent feel bad about themselves. My dad wasn’t as hostile toward the subject as my mom was, but he made it clear that he thought it was a waste of time. He had much more respect for a guy who could throw a horseshoe ringer than one who could paint a mural.

Klint thinks the fact that I’m artistic is just one more sign that I’m a fairy, yet I know deep down he likes my pictures. He still has a sketch I did for him
at the beginning of last season. Coach Hill’s screaming face takes up almost the entire piece of paper. His eyes are bulging, veins are popping out in his neck and forehead, spit’s flying everywhere. In the background are three players in shadow: one’s standing with his arms folded over his chest, cocky and defiant; another is sitting on the bench with his face in his hands, destroyed; the last one is walking away with his bat over his shoulder, ignoring everything. Klint knows which one is him. At home, he kept it in a desk drawer. Here I noticed it sitting on top of his dresser next to Dad’s antlers.

The only person who openly liked my drawings was Krystal. I used to paint and sketch for her all the time. Usually the subjects were at her request. Draw me a flower. Draw me a castle. Draw me a horse. Draw me a Barbie swimming pool party. Draw me a birthday cake. Draw me, me, me!

She never threw away a single picture. She kept them in a folder I gave her that she decorated with glitter glue and sequins. I wonder if she took the folder with her when she and Mom left us or if she threw it away. I never saw it in the trash after they left, and I went through the trash looking for signs of what we’d done to make them go. I didn’t find any answers.

As I’m making my way across the gravel drive back to the house, Luis practically runs into me. He’s striding toward the barn with an uncharacteristically stern look on his face, deep in his own thoughts, but when he notices me, he seems happy to see me and smiles.