Immortal Max (17 page)

Barely a minute passes before Justin turns his golf cart around. I watch as he roars away.

It's the miracle I hoped for. But what caused it?

I turn, expecting to see fluorescent halos. Instead, I see flashing
lights on a patrol car. Chief Beaumont steps out. Legs spread wide. Arms crossed.

Aww, man.

Siegfried follows behind as I carry Apollo, Buddy, and Baby to the car.

“Believe you're off your path, Sam. And you're supposed to be walking dogs, not carrying them.” His probing eyes do exploratory surgery. “Got an explanation for that?”

“Um, yeah, uh . . .” I stammer a lot, hoping to buy time. My mind floats somewhere between righteous truth and flat-out lie. “See, I discovered this place by accident, and it's a great place to walk dogs. You know, away from the traffic . . . and people's houses . . . and things that scare them.”

“Things that scare them . . .” He looks down the road where Justin disappeared. “You hear a loud engine a few minutes ago? Like maybe a gasoline-powered golf cart?”

I attempt to swallow, but my mouth has grown hair. “Maybe,” I wheeze.

He pauses. “Can't help you if you don't help me, Sam. Was it Justin?”

Time passes. He stares at me.

“I, uh, I really need this job.” I stare at the ground.

“Uh-huh,” he says again, nodding thoughtfully. “I think you just confirmed what I already knew.” He turns his attention to the rocky place behind me. “Problem with this lot is it's in the corner of the development where no decent road could be built. Or houses, for that matter. There's been talk about making a walking path to it, turning it into a park.” He pauses, rubbing his mouth. “Would make a good place to walk dogs, wouldn't it?”

“Yes, sir, a real good place.”

“The dogs done with their business?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get in, then.” He motions me toward the backseat of his cruiser. “I'll take you and the dogs home, they've gotten enough exercise. On the way, we'll talk about changing your route to
come here instead. I'll explain everything to the dogs' owners. That way, neither you nor their owners have to worry about their dogs getting injured again.”

Again
. He knows about Siegfried getting hurt.

He looks at me. “That okay with you?”

I wheeze, “Yes, sir. That is
very
okay with me.”

Chief Beaumont's dark face turns darker. “And then I'm going to have a talk with a certain someone's father about taking away his son's driving privileges.”

Justin. He's talking about Justin.

Woohoo!
Home free now. No more bad dreams. No more hurt dogs.

And Justin the Jerk will be the big loser.

It's just Rosie and me for breakfast on Sunday morning. Beth left early to run errands, and Mom had to deliver plants to a local church. “The parishioners volunteered to help plant them before services begin,” she told me as she left. “And I never turn down free help. Which is why I appreciate you so much, Sammy. Oh, and I left a list of things I could use your help with in the garden shed. Those raccoons paid us another visit.”

“I'm going over to Bailey's.” Rosie wipes her mouth with her sleeve.

“Not until you've fed the cats—and use your napkin.”

“You sound just like Beth.”

“It's 'cause I'm the alpha person.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Finish your cereal before you go.”

Rosie drains her cereal bowl and leaves to feed the cats.

I'm alone. The perfect time to be a squeaky wheel again. Mrs. Kendall answers the phone right away, tells me she still has puppies for sale, and gives me the same I-can't-make-you-any-promises talk.

I hang up, feeling good. Plenty of puppies left, and Mrs. Kendall
definitely
knows I want one of them.

After cleaning up the kitchen, I head for the garden shed. Mom's list includes dumping plants the raccoons ruined into the compost pile. Scrubbing the empty pots with disinfectant to kill bacteria. Weeding the perennial garden. After that, I'm to mist the annuals. As she put it in her instruction note,
Annuals can't
survive in a desert. But the good news is, rain is in the forecast—lots of it
.

It takes me all morning to finish the list. Stomach rumbling like a volcano about to erupt, I head to the house for lunch. Then I spot Wednesday and Saturday, sneaking toward the barn. Bodies skimming the ground. Ears flat. Tails snapping like whips. Wondering what they're up to, I decide to investigate.

Sneaking up on two sneaky cats isn't easy, unless those two cats are sneaking up on something else. Peeking around the corner of the barn, I see them. Tails twitching. Eyes fixed, staring at the nest. The
empty
nest. Birdie is gone.

I look for Max and hear him snoring. He's in front of the nest, nestled under the evergreen bush. Dead to the world.

As the cats move closer, I hear it. Tiny cheeps. Birdie's eggs are hatching.

“Max—wake up.”

Max jumps to his feet. Wednesday and Saturday fade into the shadows. I hurry to the nest and stare at one of the tiniest little birds I've ever seen. And the ugliest. Naked, wet, and blind. The baby robin's wrinkled yellow eyelids cover its eyes completely. Its red mouth is a gaping hole.

Sitting down next to Max, we watch Birdie bring back a long earthworm. She deposits half in the chick's mouth, waits for it to gulp it down, and gives it the other half. Then she's off again for another worm.

I creep close enough to see another egg with a hole in it. The chick inside has broken through the shell with its egg tooth. Beth told me it takes a chick a day to hatch out. Because it gets tired, it has to stop to rest.

“Sammy, I'm hungry!” The yell comes from the back of the house. Rosie is home from Bailey's, yelling at me from the kitchen.

“You take care of your chick,” I whisper in Max's ear. “I have one of my own to keep me busy.”

Great. Now I'm a sister herder talking to a bird herder.

Max puts a paw on my leg and emits a foul-smelling burp. Rotten eggs and sour milk.

“Okay, okay.” I toss him a couple of the dog biscuits that I've started carrying in my pocket.

TV is mostly reruns, so I slip away to my room after supper. Sometimes it's nice to hang out by yourself. No chore list from Mom. No bossy older sister blackmailing you. No whiny baby sister to feed.

Mom's bedroom is on the main floor. Beth's, Rosie's, and mine are upstairs. Our rooms are small, just big enough for a twin bed, a chest, and small desk. My room is at the back of the house where there's not much noise from traffic. Quiet.

In the summer, I push my bed under the window to get the cool night air. Tonight there's a good breeze blowing. The inky darkness outside the window makes the room seem even quieter.

I pull out my dog book. Turn pages. Stop at the section for German shepherds. Stare at pictures of dark regal-looking dogs.

“Rin Tin Tin,” I whisper, thinking of names for the puppy. “No, Rin Tin Tin's been used.” I try out Shadow and Eclipse and shake my head. Too tame for a regal dog.

I lay my scrapbook aside and pick up the book Professor Muller gave me. The book is old. The stiff cover is black fading to gray. The pages are yellowed on the edges. I learn Siegfried was a mythical hero who destroyed a dragon to save a great warrior. The weekday names Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday started out as special days to honor Germanic gods and goddesses. Tuesday came from Tiu, a god of combat. Wednesday from Woden, the Anglo-Saxons' most important god. Thursday was named for Punor, god of thunder. And Friday for Frige, the goddess of beauty.

Images of gigantic muscular figures standing on dark storm clouds, long hair and beards whipping in the wind, fill my mind. I debate telling Rosie the origins of the names she gave her cats
but nix the idea. She would really be impossible to live with if I did.

Still, I like the idea of naming the puppy after a mythical god who's bigger than life. I go through my own list of heroes. Superman. Spider-Man. Batman. Iron Man. The Hulk. None of them feel right. Yawning, I close the book. Sid will help me figure it out.

I turn off my reading light and kick back the covers, letting the cool night air envelop me. The chirping noise of crickets rubbing their wings together and frogs belching air through vocal sacs fades to silence.

The noise is low. Rumbling. Like the deep croaking of a giant frog. Flashes of light puncture the darkness, casting shadows across my bed.

I bolt upright. Listening. Remembering Mom's note about rain in the forecast.
Lots of it
. Images flash through my mind like tiny internal bolts of lightning.

Max—

Birdie—

Baby robins—

I race downstairs, bare feet slapping the floor like seal flippers. Picking up the flashlight on the back porch, I run for the barn. In the tossing beam of the light, I see Max peeking around the corner. Fur blowing wildly. Pacing. Forward, toward me. Back toward the nest.

“Max—
come
.” He refuses. I give him the command again. He won't leave Birdie.

Dumb old dog.

I race to the shelf in the garage where we store camping equipment. Grab Beth's one-man tent, the quick-setup kind with a fiberglass frame that folds into a disk. Snatch my old sleeping bag and a hammer on the way out the door.

Thunder, louder. Lightning, cracking. A metallic smell on the wind. Ozone. Nature's electricity. Not just rain, a thunderstorm is coming.

I run faster. As I get closer, I hear Max. Whining.

Setting the flashlight on the ground, I aim the beam at Birdie's nest. BB eyes stare at me. Wings and tail stretch like an umbrella over the nest.

I pop open the tent in front of the evergreen bush, position it so the door is downwind to keep water from blowing inside, stake it down. Unzipping the front flap, I unroll the sleeping bag so it's flat. A wall-to-wall carpet inside the tent, flannel side up. The perfect doggie bed.

“Inside, Max.” I point to the tent opening. He doesn't move. I can see him in the lightning flashes. Muzzle studded with raindrops. Hair blowing. Panic in his chestnut-colored eyes. I give the command again. Nothing.

What's wrong? I'm the alpha person.

Raindrops pepper my neck and head. I give the command again.

Max becomes the Hulk. Unmovable.

There's a bolt of lightning, a crash of thunder. Simultaneous. The storm is on top of us.

Grabbing Max's collar, I pull him into the tent and zip the door. The air crackles. Rain pelts down. Thunder shakes the ground. Max tries to push through the door, but I pull him down next to me and start talking. Low and calm.

“She's all right, Max. Birds have been weathering storms for hundreds of years.
Thousands
of years. That's how they survived this long.”

He settles down but still trembles. We listen to deafening peals of thunder. Blink at blinding flashes of lightning. Watch the tent sag under the weight of water. In my mind's eye, I see mythological gods battling fire-breathing dragons. Thunder, the dragon's roar. Lightning bolts, clashing swords. The storm gods retreat in time, and the downpour wimps to a steady rain.

Mom's going to be so happy. . . .

Unzipping the tent opening a slit, I shine the light toward Birdie. She's a little black lump, wings and tail drooping over the sides of her nest. Intact.

“See, Max, I told you she'd be okay. I know these things 'cause I'm the alpha person.” Max pants, exuding a putrid smell. Old banana peels and rotten turnips. I regret not bringing charcoal dog biscuits.

Decision time. Get drenched going back to the house? Or weather the rest of the night in the tent?

I stretch out. Sleeping bag a mattress.

A loud explosion comes from Max's direction and a noxious odor fills the tent.

“Aww, man.” I pull a corner of blue-plaid flannel over my nose.

Sleeping bag a gas mask.