Jake (8 page)

It was warm. The dog had stayed there, sleeping maybe, but stayed there the whole time we were gone. Granddad looked like this meant he was quite a dog, and I made up my mind to reflect this right back at him. Sooner or later, Mrs. Buttermark would ask what I was reflecting to that dog.

“I’m going to walk him,” Granddad said as I was taking off my jacket.

“I’ll go with you.” I zipped my jacket up again.

“Not necessary.” He didn’t act mad. More like he was saving words. Maybe he sounded that way on a mission in wartime. He wore a black zippered jacket that made me think of movies like that.

“He has to get used to me,” I said.

I had to get used to him too.

And I had to try to notice something Granddad
liked about his dog. Something more than he could keep the carpet warm. I thought it might not count as such a compliment. The dog didn’t want to be in the apartment when we left, and maybe behind the door was as far away as he could get. If he had a choice, he might have been happier waiting in the car.

The other thing I was thinking, I had to get used to the way Granddad talked in that gruff voice. Maybe I had to try to find something I liked about him. Not the stuff he was doing that we needed him to do. Something I just liked, period.

And maybe I had to give Granddad something he could like about me. I didn’t want him to feel like I wasn’t even trying to like his dog. Maybe that was the place to start.

I thought about what I liked best about Joey Ziglar’s dog: it hardly noticed me. People were holding the leash or the food, or they weren’t, that’s all.

The dog sat down in the elevator, the way well-trained dogs do, and then stood up again. Then he sort of checked in with Granddad with a glance. This was a dog that paid attention to people.

“Your dog looks smart. This kid I know, Joey Ziglar? His dog doesn’t look that smart.”

I felt bad right away. I decided I’d tell Joey I said this and why, then I wouldn’t feel like such a crummy friend. Besides, Granddad did perk up a little.

He said, “Max is smart.”

“I guess you have to walk your dog a lot.”

“Max.”

“Right. Max.”

The dog sat down like he thought he had to obey the rules. But he didn’t look happy for the two seconds until the elevator stopped and the door opened. I figured the floor was too cold for sitting, even with a furry butt.

Joey Ziglar’s dog could be described as four legs that needed to be walked. And then it slept until the next walk or until somebody put food in its dish. I got along fine with that dog.

I said, “Joey Ziglar has a dog that has to be walked about five times a day or it pees on the rug.”

“Max won’t do that.”

“I wasn’t worried about that,” I said as we went through the lobby. “Joey’s dog is really old.”

“Max is old,” Granddad said. “Just not that old.”

I had to hand it to Mrs. Buttermark. Always saying the right thing was not the easiest thing in the world to do.

“How many times do you walk him?”

“Four, five times. Six. It’s good for me, the exercise.”

I decided to drop the subject.

It was even colder outside, of course. It seemed colder than when we’d been out here ten minutes before. There was no question of sitting. The dog took quick short steps, as if he also hoped we wouldn’t have to be out here too long.

Snow covered everything like sugar on a cookie, so I stayed away from the places that were shadiest during the day. Lucky for us, the dog wasn’t in the mood to walk around much. He peed on a telephone pole, a garbage can, and a tree that was stuck in a small square of frozen dirt. When the dog started pulling Granddad back to our building, we went.

“There’s a park with a dog run near here,” I said as we took the elevator. “I can show you tomorrow.”

“Do you want one of those sandwiches Donna left in the refrigerator?”

“Not really.” It was strange. I wasn’t getting hungry the way I usually did. It was like my stomach had too many other things to worry about. Surgeries and stuff.

Granddad had his own key now, but he still
waited for me to unlock the apartment door. He was polite that way. I helped Granddad open the sofa bed and found the comforter for it.

The dog watched us from the corner of the room.

I wanted to go to bed. I’d begun to worry about walking around never knowing when the dog might go into nightmare mode. Besides, I wanted to prop my leg on a few pillows and see how Mom was doing. I got the extra pillows from her bed.

When I was in my pajamas, I went to tell Granddad good night. He had given the dog some leftover spaghetti and he was lighting up a cigarette.

I had forgotten about him smoking earlier in the day.

“You can’t smoke in here,” I said.

I might have liked it if he did. He smoked Camels. It was out of my mouth before I thought about it. Before I let myself like the smell of the smoke.

“Mom doesn’t even let Aunt Ginny smoke in here. You could go through the kitchen window and sit on the fire escape. That’s what Aunt Ginny does.”

Except I’d never seen Aunt Ginny do it in the middle of winter.

While it was snowing.

That’s what Granddad did. No complaint. He
climbed outside and brushed off a snow-covered metal step so he could sit down. Then he stood up.

For a minute there, I wasn’t even worried about him liking me. I wondered if I was wrong to make him follow Mom’s rules. Not just wrong—rude. I felt like I ought to stick my head out there and tell him, never mind, Mom would never know if he did it this once. Only I couldn’t. It seemed more important to follow Mom’s rules than ever.

The dog had finished the spaghetti. He kept licking the plate so it went sliding around on the floor near the window. Mom never let our cat eat out of our dishes, so this was probably a broken rule too.

I didn’t know what Mom would have done if she was here, if she would have let Granddad smoke in the kitchen. I didn’t know why he couldn’t have thought of it while we were downstairs with the dog. Outside I could have liked that smoke smell for as long as it lasted.

The whole thing sort of irritated me.

Besides, how soon would the dog figure out there wasn’t any more flavor on that plate? What if he turned into nightmare dog? I went to bed before Granddad came inside. I figured if he wasn’t missing his poker game before, he was missing it now.

When he passed my doorway, he stopped and said, “Anything you want to talk about, Jake?”

I shook my head. I noticed the dog sat down behind him, sort of waiting for him.

“Your mom’s going to get over this. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know. It’s weird she isn’t here.”

“It won’t be long,” Granddad said. “A few days.”

I could see how hard he wanted to say the right thing. He
had
said the right thing, even if it didn’t make me feel better. All of a sudden, I knew the right thing to say too. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He sort of crinkled up around the eyes when he smiled. He didn’t look like somebody who ever sounded gruff. I guess Mrs. Buttermark had him figured out faster than I did.

Granddad got into bed after brushing his teeth, because I heard the bedsprings. I heard the dog jump up on the bed. Granddad told him “Shhh,” even though he hadn’t made a sound other than the jump up.

I wondered if Granddad thought it was against the rules to have his dog sleep next to him. I didn’t think it was. Our cat slept in our beds. I got allergic to cat hair after a while.

Granddad fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. At least that’s when the snoring began. I sat up.

Mom has a whole ritual that goes with falling asleep. She brushes her teeth, she makes tea, she puts on bed socks. She collects stuff she wants to read but doesn’t have to translate no matter what language it’s in. She gets into bed and maybe an hour later, or two, her light goes out.

Or not. Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night and turn it out.

So. It was really possible for people to fall asleep the minute their head hit the pillow. Mom wasn’t one of those people, and neither was I. The snoring got louder, like Granddad was falling even deeper into sleep.

He hadn’t turned out the light. I tiptoed to the end of the hall and peeked in. The dog was curled up next to Granddad. He knew I was coming because his head was already lifted off his paws. As soon as he saw me, he showed his teeth.

I ducked away from the door. I went to my room and wrote Granddad a note. I left it on my bed where he’d be sure to see it.

I knocked on Mrs. Buttermark’s door. She opened
it right away, dressed regular. I didn’t have to feel bad about waking her up, because I hadn’t.

“I’m sleeping over here tonight,” I said, and she opened the door wider.

When we were sitting at her little round table having apple pie and hot chocolate, I said, “I can’t sleep if I’m going to have to worry about getting up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and being attacked because I forgot for a minute that dog was there.”

“You wouldn’t forget,” Mrs. Buttermark said.

“True.” I looked at her. “I wouldn’t get to the bathroom alive either.”

“You’re sure your granddad will see the note?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m glad to have your company, Jake. I’m a little unraveled after seeing your mother that way.”

Sometimes Mrs. Buttermark talks like she’s a sweater. When she does, I try to do that too. I said, “I’m full of knots myself.”

She smiled. “What shall we do to untangle?”

I looked out the window and saw snow falling around the streetlight. “An old movie, I think.”

I slept on her couch that night, and Mrs. Buttermark slept in her recliner. The TV was still on when
we woke up the next morning. A different movie was on.

It was dark outside. I could tell it was morning from the sound of cars warming up. “It’s a school day,” I said, remembering. “Today’s the Christmas party.”

I didn’t care that much about the Christmas party, I wanted to say. I cared last week. This weekend had changed things.

“Go tell your grandfather I’ll make breakfast,” Mrs. Buttermark said, sitting up in her chair. “I’ll shower and make pancakes.”

Our apartment door opened as I stepped into the hallway. Granddad had the dog on the leash. I had a sudden worry come over me. What if he was mad that I’d moved across the hall?

I forgot all about school and said, “Mrs. Buttermark says she’ll make pancakes as soon as she gets out of the shower.”

“We can buy pancakes by the time she’s out of the shower.”

Obviously he’d noticed this thing about females and bathrooms too. “She’d probably like that.”

“Get dressed,” he said. “You can show me that park where I can walk the dog.”

“Okay.”

“Meet me downstairs.”

Granddad had already showered. Steam had escaped from the bathroom and was rolling in the air of the hallway. I pulled my jeans on and my jacket. Wrapped a scarf around my neck. That’s when I remembered I hadn’t mentioned school. But there was plenty of time to get there; breakfast came first.

I caught up with Granddad and the dog at the tree where he had peed the night before. He didn’t even bark at me. Actually, I think he ignored me.

As we started out, Granddad walked so fast, I had to trot to keep up. The dog had such short legs he would’ve had to trot to keep up with
me
. He ran alongside Granddad. So I could see how Granddad had kept him from freezing the day before. I thought maybe I’d warm up in a minute too.

The sky had begun to go gray. It didn’t have the look of a day that would be sunny later. “Maybe more snow,” Granddad said, also looking at the sky.

I didn’t answer. My teeth were chattering unless I bit down. I wished I’d put a sweater over my pajama top before I put my jacket on. Too late now.

We got to the park pretty quickly. A lot of people were already walking their dogs. “I’ll take Max through
the park,” Granddad said, digging into his hip pocket. “You go into the McDonald’s there and order seven pancake breakfasts. No coffee. Donna will make coffee.”

“She’ll make tea.”

“Get one black coffee. Large.” He gave me the money to pay. “You wait inside. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“The dog run is over that way,” I said, pointing.

“Go on,” Granddad said. “Get inside and warm up.”

I didn’t have
to go to school.

I didn’t even have to ask if I could stay home.

“I think it’s more important for you to see your mother today,” Granddad said. We ate in our kitchen, where he passed bits of sausage to the dog. Max. There was some talk about how to manage Christmas, since Mom wouldn’t get home in time for it.

Then Granddad said, “Anything special you’re hoping to find under the tree, Jake?”

I shrugged, a small hope lighting up once more. “A bike.”

“You’ve outgrown your old one?”

“I never had one. It’s what I ask for every year.”

Mrs. Buttermark kept her eyes on her plate, like eating pancakes was serious business. Granddad had some strong notions about risk. I hoped he wouldn’t
be mad that Mom never got me a bike. But if he got me one, Mom would probably have to let me ride it.

And when she saw I
could
ride it—I’d been riding Joey’s for a year—and that I’d never ride in the street, she’d probably feel like it wasn’t that scary after all.

She might even feel bad she’d never gotten one for me before. I had this little picture in my mind, me shrugging and saying,
That’s okay. Mom
.

While I helped Mrs. Buttermark rinse off the pancake boxes for recycling, Granddad asked me what school I go to and looked up the phone number. While I finished getting dressed, he talked to the principal. Just like that.

I didn’t know someone could call and get him on the phone. I thought the office ladies kept people from talking to him. Sort of the way the Secret Service protects the president from just any old person who wants to strike up a conversation with him. I’m not sure Mom ever talked to the principal.

Granddad made a couple more calls. Nothing to do with a bike, that I could tell. Mrs. Buttermark went over to her apartment, saying she’d make some fresh sandwiches for us to take over to the hospital.