The Dog in the Freezer (9 page)

“Paperboy, collecting.”

“Who?” The door opened a crack. The chain was in
place. A squinty, suspicious eye peered out. “Who are you? You're not the regular boy.”

“I'm the new paperboy,” Jake said. “Jake Estabrook.”

“What?” Like “paperboy” was a new word in the English language. Like it wasn't even English.

“Collecting,” he said. He had to pay Raoul for the papers every week, and if he didn't collect, the money for next week's paper was coming out of his pocket. “Collecting,” he said again. He had his receipt pad ready.

The not-so-nice ones said come back next week because they didn't have the money or the right change, even though they knew Jake came that same time every week.

5G was the worst. Mr. Kleiner lived there. He was a very big man. For a while, Jake thought he was a retired wrestler. Oscar, the doorman, told Jake that Mr. Kleiner was a retired accountant. He had white hair down over his collar and black, bristly eyebrows with stray white hairs poking out.

His dog looked just like him. The same bristly eyebrows and the same mean expression. Only in miniature. The dog was the size of a burp, but he had the bark of a lion. Jake was glad the door was between them. Every morning when Jake dropped the paper, the dog snarled as if he were going to burst through the door.

Then Jake would hear Mr. Kleiner. “Shut up, barfbag! You piece of garbage, get over here.”

“Collecting.” Tuesday night, Jake stood in front of 5G. He'd missed Mr. Kleiner on Saturday. He could hear the
dog sniffing on the other side of the door even before he rang the bell.

Mr. Kleiner opened the door, and the dog shot out from behind his legs like a bullet. He was all teeth and growl. Jake jumped back. He didn't want to, but he couldn't help himself. “Collecting, sir!”

The dog bristled and bounced, like a hairbrush with feet.

“Nice doggy, nice doggy!”

He lunged at Jake's ankles. The hairs on his gray muzzle stood straight out.

Jake danced to save his life. Mr. Kleiner watched as if Jake were putting on a show.

The dog's teeth were shiny, white, and wet, and he was spitting foam. Mr. Kleiner finally picked him up by the scruff. “What's the matter with you, you dried-up little fart.” He threw the dog inside and shut the door.

They were both inside, and Jake was outside. He hadn't gotten paid again—it was two weeks now—but he didn't care. He was glad to get away alive.

If 5G was the worst, 7A was the best. That was where the Martinezes lived with their dog, Nelson. Connie Martinez was one of Jake's best friends, and his very best friend in the building. Her father was a painting contractor and kept his ladders and paint tarps in the basement. He let Jake keep his newspaper cart there, too.

When Jake collected, Nelson always came to the door with Connie. Nelson was a big, creased, friendly beagle. He loved company. While Connie went for the money, Jake squatted down and talked to him. “Nelson, are you going to bite me?” He put his hand in Nelson's mouth. “Friends don't eat each other.”

“I can't talk to you now,” Connie said, coming back with the money. She had bangs and wore glasses that magnified her dark eyes. “The book I'm reading is too exciting.”

Jake saw Connie again the next afternoon, on his way home through Madison Park. He'd bought a plant in the flower district and it was sticking out of his knapsack. Nelson was in the dog run chasing around with some other dogs. “Nice plant,” Connie said.

“It's for my mother's birthday.” Jake stood there, watching Nelson. “He's having a good time,” he said. They talked about Nelson, and he told her about Mr. Kleiner's dog.

Connie didn't think she knew him. “What's his name? I know all the dogs in our building.”

“I don't think he has a name.”

“What does 5G call him?”

“You don't want to hear.”

“Is he small and dark and totally crazy and nervous?” Close up, Connie's eyes could be hypnotic. “Small dogs always bark a lot,” she said. Her eyes left no room for disagreement. “That's the way they get respect.”

“Who's going to respect that cockroach?”

“There's something lovable about every dog.” She pushed back the sleeves of her sweatshirt. It was oversized and came down to her knees.

“You think all dogs are nice because of Nelson.”

When Nelson heard his name mentioned, he came over and sat at Jake's feet. Jake scratched his head.

“Don't let him near your mother's plant,” Connie said. “He chews up everything.”

“You're not going to chew up my plant, are you, Nelson?” Jake said. “Nelson's an old pussycat.” Jake pulled him around like a big stuffed pillow. “This is an easy dog to like.”

“Did you ever try giving that little dog in 5G a smile?” Connie said.

“Did you ever smile through a door?”

“Well, you could say something nice to him. If you want Mr. Kleiner's dog to like you—”

“Who said I did?” He rubbed Nelson's head hard. “That dog hates me.”

Connie gave him the big look. “Are you afraid of him, Jake?”

“No way,” he said, but he avoided her eyes. He wasn't going to admit that he was scared of a dog he could put in his pocket.

The next few mornings when Jake dropped Mr. Kleiner's paper, the dog had his usual fit, snarling and clawing at the door. But instead of rushing past, Jake lingered. “Hi,” he said through the door. “Remember me?”

The dog hit the door like a battering ram.

“This is Jake Estabrook. How're you doing today?”

The dog barked like a machine gun. It sounded like he was going to blow himself up.

Jake waited until he stopped. “Wow,” he said, “that was great. You're some barker.”

One day, returning from school, Jake saw Mr. Kleiner's dog in the elevator. He hesitated to get on, even though
Mr. Kleiner had the dog on a leash. “In or out?” Mr. Kleiner said.

Reluctantly, Jake got on.

“What floor?” Mr. Kleiner said.

“Fifteen, please. Thank you.” Mr. Kleiner pushed the button. He didn't want Mr. Kleiner to think he didn't like him and his dog.

On the way up, the dog was perfect. He didn't bark. He kept back behind Mr. Kleiner. No snarls or anything. In fact, he looked half cute tucked in behind Mr. Kleiner's big feet. Even a little shy, maybe.

“Hey, little dog,” Jake said softly.

The dog looked up at him and smiled. Not a big smile, just white teeth arranged in a pleasant half-moon. The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, and Mr. Kleiner got off with the dog. “See you,” Jake called after them.

•  •  •

On Thursday, when Jake delivered the paper, the dog scratched and sniffed under the crack of the door. He didn't bark. “Good little dog,” Jake said. He was going to have to tell Connie her method really worked. “Good little dog,” he said again. Maybe he shouldn't call him little. Nobody liked to be called little. He still remembered how, when he was little, he always wanted to be bigger and see what was on the table or do what the big people were doing.

“How're you doing, Big Boy?”

The dog stopped scratching at the door. He was listening.

“Big Boy,” Jake said, even though the dog was no bigger than a dried-out prune. “You like that name, don't you, Big Boy? Hey, big dog,” he said softly, “it's Jake Estabrook.”

The dog was clawing the door again.

“You're going to wear your nails off scratching like that, Big Boy.” He thought the dog was responding to his voice and he kept it calm and even.

After that, every time Jake said Big Boy, the dog stopped and listened. It was a good sign. It meant they were getting to be friends.

Jake was on his way out of the apartment when the phone rang. He turned back and picked it up.

“Is this the world-famous Jake Estabrook?”

“Pop!” Jake dropped his knapsack. His face flamed. “Where are you?” His father's voice sounded as if he were right here in the building, downstairs in the lobby, using the house phone and winking at the doorman. “Are you here?”

“I'm out here in God's country: Sand Creek, Arizona,” his father said in his slow, unhurried voice. “Right now, Jake, I'm in a telephone booth on the side of the road. Nobody here but me and the jackrabbits. I sure wish you
were here with me. I just finished running, and I thought, What time is it back there? What's my son doing right now? I want to hear his voice.”

Jake glanced at the clock. He'd be late for school, but he didn't care. This was more important than school, more important than anything.

“So how are you doing?” his father said. “I haven't talked to you in a while. How's school? How's it moving?”

“Okay.” He had all this stuff he'd been thinking about to say to his father, but now he couldn't think of a single thing. “What about the team, Pop?”

“The last game against Sanora, not so good. My concentration was way off. The game before, against Billings, I was terrific. Estabrook, the man of the hour! They got three hits off me in five innings. Fifty-five pitches, and that's all those suckers got.”

Jake couldn't shake the thought that in a minute his father would walk into the apartment, throw down his bag, and say,
Let's go, Jake, let's go to the ocean.

“You're pitching good, Pop. You're getting better all the time.”

“I've been cut,” his father said.

“Cut, Pop?” He knew what it meant.

“Cut from the roster,” his father said. “Cut from the team.”

“Are you teasing me, Pop?”

“The manager said I could go down to Fort Defiance. I said no, thanks, I'm not going down. No more. I'm too
old for that stuff. I told him, I go up or I'm out. So I'm out.”

“Pop, they can't cut you.”

“There's no such thing as can't. They can cut anybody they want to. They think I'm too old, but I'm not that old. Don't worry, I'm working on some things. Confidence, that's the key. I'm not done yet.”

How could they cut his father? His father was too good, too valuable. His father was a great pitcher. He had been on the Eagles and the Hawks and the Royals had had him up for six days.

“You're going to come back, Pop.”

“Yeah,” his father said. A heavy silence settled over the line. “Is your mother there? How's she doing?”

“She's at work.”

“You don't have to say anything about this to her yet.”

“Okay, Pop.”

“What I can't figure out,” his father said, after a moment, “I was pitching good. I had a couple of bad games. You can't be on top of your game all the time.”

“That's the truth, Pop. Every pitcher has good days and bad days.”

When his father spoke again, he seemed to have forgotten Jake. “I've given my life to the game. You give your life to the game, you think you belong to it, and then in a flash you're out. I don't get it.”

“You're going to get another team, Pop. The Royals. Don't forget the Royals. They need you.”

“Jake, you're the greatest kid in the world,” his father said.
“You're the best thing in my life. I love you, son.”

“I love you, too, Pop,” Jake said. He wanted to jump into the phone and swim or fly or do whatever you do when you're in a telephone line to come out where his father was.

It was only after he hung up that he realized he hadn't asked his father for his address. He didn't even know where to call him.

Saturday morning, when Jake went to collect, Mr. Kleiner opened the door and let the dog out. At first Big Boy just snuffled around Jake's feet. Jake acted natural, but it wasn't easy. He felt needles going up and down the back of his legs.

“What do I owe you?” Mr. Kleiner said.

“Three weeks. Remember, Mr. Kleiner, you didn't pay me last week and the week before?”

“Okay, yeah, I know.” He went inside, shut the door, and left the dog outside in the hall with Jake.

The dog was quiet. They were looking at each other, and then Jake made the mistake of being friendly. “How you doing, Big Boy?”

The dog flattened himself against the floor and growled deep in his throat.

Jake didn't move. He didn't want to excite the dog. He wished Mr. Kleiner would hurry up. “Mr. Kleiner!” he called.

That was like a signal. Big Boy leaped. Jake thought he was going straight for his throat, and he put his arm out. It was a reflex, but it came out like a karate chop. The dog went flying back. Then he came at Jake again and got his teeth into Jake's jeans, and hung on there, growling deep in his throat. He was like a snapping turtle, the kind that never lets go, even if you cut its head off.

Jake shook his leg, tried to knock the dog loose. He didn't remember screaming, but maybe he did, because all of a sudden people were popping out of their apartments up and down the hall.

Mr. Kleiner charged out and grabbed the dog. He shoved money into Jake's hand and glared at everyone else. “What are you morons looking at? You think this is a Broadway show?” He went inside and slammed the door.

“You all right, dear?” a woman in a white suit said. She looked like a nurse. “That's a terrible dog.”

Jake nodded bravely and limped toward the stairs. He was wounded. He was sure blood was running down his leg.

On the stairs, he examined his leg. His pants were torn, but there was no blood. He rubbed his leg.
Die, dog!
He tried a couple of practice kicks to see if he was okay. Then he did a full kickoff, like he was getting ready to send the
football through the end zone. Only the football was Big Boy. Jake imagined how he'd send the dog flying. He'd launch him, like a rocket, straight up, past the limits of the earth's gravitational pull, out the other end of the universe.