The Tutor (28 page)

B
randon started toward the student parking lot because that was what he always did. When was dismissal? Half an hour or so. He headed for Dewey’s car. For the first ten or twenty yards, he was almost crying, maybe even did a little. Then he got control; good thing, because a car rolled up alongside and someone said: “Out already, Brandon?”

Mom’s Jeep, with Julian at the wheel. The college visit: he wasn’t in the mood.

“Your mom told me noon,” Julian said.

“Then you’re early,” said Brandon.

“To ensure a good start,” said Julian. He glanced up at the school doors. “No one else seems to be coming out yet.”

Brandon shrugged, got in the car, moving the Fiske, Princeton Review, and Insider’s college guides out of the way.

Julian was watching him. “You’re not in trouble, are you?” he said.

Brandon took a deep breath, almost a shuddering one. “For what?”

Julian licked his lips. “Leaving school too soon.”

“No.”

“Because you look a little distraught, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Let’s just go,” Brandon said.

Julian put the car in drive and stepped on the gas, maybe a little roughly, from the gear-grinding sound. “If there is some difficulty at school,” he said, “you know you can rely on my discretion.”

“Thanks, Julian. I got out a little early, that’s all.”

“Very well,” said Julian.

They drove in silence for a while, came to 91. “Where are we going?” Brandon said.

“I thought we’d look at Amherst first. A reach at this stage, but why not see what a reach looks like? We can check out Trinity on the way back.”

“I thought Trinity was a reach too.”

“Not with the way you’re improving.”

“Yeah?” For the first time, Brandon thought that maybe college might not be such a bad thing after all. At least he’d be out of West Mill High. Then he had an idea. “What if we went the other way.”

“South?”

“To New York. What’s in New York?”

“Columbia. NYU.”

“Reaches?”

“Columbia, certainly.”

“But no more than Amherst, right?”

“Probably not.”

“Then let’s go to New York.”

Julian pulled over to the side of the road, switched off the motor. He turned to Brandon. Brandon felt Julian’s intelligence, like his mind was being scanned. “Not impossible, Brandon,” Julian said, “but first I’d have to be sure there will be no ramifications from your early dismissal.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Brandon. “You’re just like all the others.”

Julian’s eyes changed a little, a brief glint, then darkness. “Is that really your opinion?”

“I guess not,” said Brandon. “They opened up my locker, Julian, the cops and everything, looking for drugs.”

“My God,” said Julian. “Did they have a warrant?”

“They don’t need one. It’s happened to other kids before.”

“Outrageous,” said Julian. He shook his head. “But I hope that at least the search itself wasn’t too invasive.”

“They didn’t strip me or anything like that. But if cutting the lining out of my jacket makes it invasive, then it was.”

“They did that?”

Brandon nodded. There was a silence. Brandon felt himself starting to shake again. He wanted to punch somebody—D’Amario, the cop who’d patted him down, Ms. Belsey, Mr. Kranepool, Mr. Brack, all of them. Even compared with him and all his fuckups, they were worse, dirty even. Compared to someone like Trish, they were scum. And the K-9 dog, a complete bluff. Ruby was right: D’Amario would do anything to keep crack out of West Mill.

“That must have come as a shock,” said Julian, “when they cut the lining.”

“It was like they expected to find something there.”

“It goes without saying that their search was unsuccessful?”

That question mark at the end made Brandon mad. “You think I’m a drug dealer?”

“Of course not, Brandon. I’m on your side, as I thought you knew.” He turned the key. “Let’s hit the big city.”

T
hey drove to New York, saw NYU first, then Columbia. Lots of the kids looked weird, but some were okay.

“There’s one more thing I’d like to see,” said Brandon.

“What’s that?”

“Beth Israel.”

“But it’s a hospital.”

“Unka Death’s inside.”

“Ah.”

Julian drove across town to Beth Israel, double-parked on a side street while Brandon got out. The vigil was taking place in a little park across the street from the hospital. Brandon joined the—
what would you call them, vigilantes?
he thought, suddenly understanding both words at once. There were hundreds of them, some in NYU or Columbia T-shirts. They gazed up at the hospital, passing around joints and beer cans, sometimes chanting: “Fuck you, good as new, all we do, then it’s through.”

The rap echoed off the stone walls of the hospital. “I think he’s in that corner room up there,” said a girl beside Brandon.

“Where that nurse waved a while ago?” he said.

The girl gave him a look. A college girl, no doubt about it. “Yes,” she said.

Brandon said the first thing that came into his head: “I hope she’s wearing the gold shorts.”

The girl laughed, one of those bursts, the surprised kind. There was life after West Mill High. He was going to have to work his butt off, but it wasn’t out of the question. Already he could handle
ramifications
in ordinary conversation.

Brandon got back in the car. They drove across the bridge, up into Connecticut, taillights glowing endlessly ahead. Julian looked tired: fun things tired adults out just as much as work. He was gripping the steering wheel too hard, just like Mom.

“Thanks, Julian,” Brandon said. “You’ve been a big help.”

“My pleasure,” said Julian. His grip got a little tighter.

28

S
tandardized tests were great. Maybe not the tests themselves, which went on and on, especially the math—halfway through Ruby had been down to answers only, leaving the questions unread—but who could be upset about all the arguing they caused, and the half-day conferences that resulted?

The bus rolled to a stop. The flashing lights went on and Mr. V. glanced in the mirror. Ruby saw momentary disappointment on his face, probably at the sight of the lone truck behind them. Mr. V. lived for long backups.

“Chin up,” he said.

Ruby tilted up her chin, got off the bus. Normally on a half day she’d take out a recipe book and bake fudge, just to establish the right mood. Then maybe she’d practice the saxophone for a while. When was the last time she’d touched it? And the next Hot Jazz performance, at an old-folks home, was less than two weeks away. Those old folks loved “It Don’t Mean a Thing”—they tapped their old feet and beat time on their walkers—and Ruby sometimes had trouble with the slur after the eighth rest in the seventh measure; she didn’t want to let the old folks down. After that she might put on a CD, real loud, and dance around the house like a banshee, or dervish, whichever it was. The dancing always got Zippy going like crazy—once he’d tried to take a bite out of the toaster.

But none of that today. Today was for finding him.

First, she checked the messages. Lots for Brandon—from Trish, Dewey, Frankie J, other kids whose names she didn’t recognize—but nothing about Zippy. Then she was hungry. She opened the fridge, took out peanut butter, Marshmallow Fluff—and how about a little jam, just to add that healthy fruit element? Three kinds—blueberry, apricot and, over by itself on the top shelf, strawberry, the French one Julian liked. Strawberry wasn’t her favorite and she couldn’t reach it anyway. She chose blueberry, whipped up a glass of chocolate milk for that all-important calcium element, sat down to lunch.

Mom called just as she was washing up. That was nice.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” Mom said. That was nice too.

“Looking for Zippy,” Ruby said. “Did you know Julian smokes?”

“What makes you think that?”

“I saw him out smoking last night.”

“Cigarettes?” Mom was quick.

“Yeah.”

Mom lost interest right away. How did that fit in with the quick part? “Lots of people smoke,” she said.

“I know,” said Ruby. “But Julian?”

Phones rang in the background at Mom’s end. “See you tonight,” said Mom. “And Ruby?”

“Yeah?”

“There may come a time when you’ll have to start coming to terms with . . .” Mom left the rest unsaid; maybe she could sense through the wires the reaction that was already building in Ruby.

Beep.

“I’ve got another call,” Ruby said.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Hi.”

“Hey.” Kyla. “Wanna hit sometime this afternoon? My dad could pick you up.”

Tennis on a free afternoon, completely voluntary? Madness. “Can’t,” said Ruby. “Some other time.”
Like a year starting with three.

“I’ll have to hit with my dad,” said Kyla.

Ruby knew how bad that could be, but didn’t relent. “He’s got a half day too?”

“He takes them whenever he wants now.”

“You’re rich, huh?”

“I think so.”

“How was Paris?”

“We went to the Eiffel Tower,” Kyla said. “There were some college boys. Big Green—is that Dartmouth? They peed off the top deck.”

Dartmouth—was it on Mom and Dad’s wish list for Bran? “What are you eating?” Ruby said.

“Gummy bears.”

Ruby hated gummy bears. Why didn’t they just include dental floss in the packages? She listened to Kyla chew.

“Hear about Problem?” Kyla said.

“The guy from
That Thang Thing
?”

“Yeah. He shot Unka Death.”

“Killed him, you mean?”

“He’s in a coma,” Kyla said. “And Problem’s in jail.”

“What happened?”

“They were in a strip club.” Ruby waited for more explanation, but none came. “It’s on TV right now,” Kyla said.

“Later.”

“Later.”

Ruby went down to the entertainment center, switched on the TV. She ripped through the channels—woman with the red-framed glasses, Molto Mario, shopping, nun, ab cruncher, skateboarding, Hitler—found Problem. He was rapping onstage in one of those orange prison jumpsuits, the gold AK-47 medallion bouncing on his thick chest. Were they letting him perform in jail, or was this from before, the jumpsuit part of his image, a part that came true?

The announcer was talking but Ruby couldn’t concentrate. Something was bothering her, something that had flashed by as she’d torn through the channels, somewhere around the nun. Ruby hit the channel down button, went back more slowly.

WWII, WWF, ab cruncher, nun and—there it was. A picture of someone she knew: Jeanette. They had her name up there, and under that
Old Mill, CT
. Ruby turned up the volume.

“. . . did not appear for work on Monday and is now considered missing. Police are asking anyone with information to please call—” Then came a number, and they moved onto the next story. Ruby raced through the channels, found nothing more about Jeanette.

She called Mom, got her voice mail. She called Dad; not yet back from lunch. She went upstairs, found Mom’s address book, called Jeanette’s number.

“In case I didn’t reach everybody,” said Jeanette, “there’ll be no archery the twenty-third and twenty-fourth.” The Atlantis weekend. “Classes as normal next Saturday. If you need to leave a message, wait for the tone.”

The tone came. Then silence. Ruby spoke into it. “Jeanette? This is Ruby. I hope you’re all right.” Then more silence. After a few seconds, Ruby said, “Bye,” and hung up.

She called the rec center, where you signed up for the archery classes.

“Rec center.”

“Hi. I’m in archery with Jeanette. Is it true she’s missing?”

“We have no information.”

“But is it true? Missing where?”

“I’m sorry.” Click.

Missing where? What kind of missing? And Zippy was missing too. Ruby sat down at the kitchen table, sat down hard, as though her legs had suddenly forgotten the timing, or lost their strength. She put her head in her hands, tried to think. Was this another case, tied to all the others? That was her first thought, an obvious one, at least in her mind. But didn’t Holmes warn against obvious things?
There is nothing more deceptive than the obvious
something or other, he told Watson; maybe in “The Boscombe Valley Mystery.” Also it was childish: Jeanette was a person, meaning this was on another level. On the other hand, the levels had been going up and up the whole time: Varsity Jacket, Anonymous Caller, Zippy, Jeanette. Was there something that tied it all together? She had a crazy feeling she knew all she needed to know already, that if she just smacked herself in the head everything would fall into place, neatly unscrambled. Ruby smacked herself in the head, open-handed but pretty hard. Nothing happened.

She called the pound. “Have you found Zippy yet?”

“You’re the little girl?”

“I’m the girl.”

“Still got your flyer. I said we’d call.”

“You could have lost it.”

“Is this the number?” He said their number.

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ruby.”

“We’ll give you a holler, Ruby, moment we know anything.”

“But where is he?”

“Lots of possibilities.”

He’d said that the last time. “Like what?”

“Specially if you’re a dog. Say you smell something kinda inviting in a backyard shed, you mosey in and then the wind comes up and blows the door shut. Boom, locked in, easy as that. There’s a possibility right there. Had one like that just the other—”

“Thanks,” said Ruby, hanging up. Moseying in: Zippy to a T. She would have to think like a dog, specifically one very special dog she knew better than anybody.

Ruby put on outdoor things—blue jacket with yellow trim, yellow hat with blue stars, mittens, boots—shoved her magnifying glass in a pocket, went outside. First stop, the driveway: he’d been out shoveling with Julian. Shoveling usually got Zippy pretty hyper; lots of bounding at shovelfuls of flying snow, lots of that crazy starting-and-stopping thing he did, lots of barking. So he’d have been practically out of his mind already when the car went by and the dog in it barked at him. Or maybe Zippy barked first, that would be it, began the whole thing. Then he took off. In what direction? She thought back, remembered Julian’s voice cracking:
I ran after him, of course, calling and calling
—Ruby could practically see it—
but he just kept going and I finally lost sight of him on Indian Ridge.
She could practically see it, but not quite: had Julian been smoking at the time, or not? A little detail that couldn’t possibly matter, but it blurred things just the same.

Ruby walked down Robin Road, turned onto Indian Ridge. She kept going, around the curve where Julian must have lost sight of Zippy, and over the hill where the woods came back in view. There were some nice houses on this part of Indian Ridge, like this one with new shingles and green shutters. Wouldn’t Zippy have been getting a little pooped by now? Besides, the car would have been long gone. So what would Zippy do? He’d stop.

Ruby stopped. And then what? He’d just stand there in the middle of the road, tongue hanging out and panting, waiting for some thought to come into his head. Ruby moved out to the middle of the road. She closed her eyes, made her mind a blank—did that by picturing a squeegee sliding across a window—and waited for a thought, the first random thought, whatever it was. She skipped the tongue-hanging-out and panting part—that would have been ridiculous.

The first thought came, and it was pizza. She opened her eyes—good thing, because the mail truck was just coming over the hill—and stepped to the side of the road. Pizza! Singularity, Holmes said, was almost invariably a clue, and Zippy was singularly interested in pizza. And what specific pizza had recently entered his life, would be the first thing he thought of, now that he was out and free? Thick-crust sausage and pepperoni. But there was more—after that slice, Sergeant D’Amario had brought him a whole box of the Hawaiian kind with pineapple and ham. A pizza bonanza, in Zippy’s mind: he’d be able to hold that thought for days and days, the knowledge of a pizza motherlode, out there in the woods. What would he do? Get to the woods by the shortest route possible, maybe not running, wiped as he was from the car chase, but possibly in that purposeful trot he had, even when there was no purpose whatever. Ruby walked toward the nice house with the new shingles and green shutters.

Two newspapers in plastic bags lay halfway up the driveway. Ruby stepped over them, kept going around the side. The house backed onto the woods just like hers, had a feeder just like hers, with a cardinal watching from the perch—she hadn’t seen her own cardinal in ages—but unlike hers also had a shed. A cute shed, with new shingles and a little green door, closed, that matched the shutters of the house.

“Zippy?” Ruby’s heart started pounding and she was on the run. There was one of those metal pieces for a lock on the door—rasp, clasp, hasp, something—but no lock. She could see how the whole thing happened, just like the animal control officer said. Ruby turned the knob, pushed the door open.

“Zippy?” But no Zippy, no sign of Zippy, no life of any kind. It was still inside the shed, and smelled like a library. Cardboard boxes were stacked neatly in rows along the back, floor to ceiling. They all said
Income Tax
on the side, and then a year, the earliest one, down at the bottom left, being 1949. That gave Ruby a creepy feeling. She got out and shut the door.

No Zippy. That didn’t mean the shed idea was wrong. It didn’t mean the pizza idea was wrong either. Pizza was right. She knew Zippy. Pizza was one of those links in the chain—so many links now, so many chains, she felt like Jacob Marley dragging them around—a link that thoroughly understood would reveal all the befores and afters. Pizza had drawn Zippy into the woods.

Ruby went in after him. No actual trail led from the shed into the woods—if the people in the house were paying taxes in 1949, they’d probably been in wheelchairs for years—so Ruby just wandered through the trees, bearing sort of left, which she thought was the direction of the pond. She saw tracks in the snow, small shallow ones like brush strokes, probably made by squirrels, bigger sloppy dog ones—but she had no idea what Zippy’s looked like specifically—and once those neat precise triangular kind that meant deer. She’d seen deer several times out here, but not for a long time; nice to know they were still around, now that the woods had been turned into a crack house.

Ruby came to a path, followed it to another path that seemed familiar, took that, went up and around a bend and presto: the pond. A born tracker. Cortès and Pizarro must have had trackers, but Ms. Freleng had left that out. Either they’d been local trackers, in which case the native people had helped cause their own downfall, or they’d been Spanish, in which case the Conquistadors had at least been good at something. She walked around the shore of the pond, completely unfrozen today, pale under a cloudy sky, toward the big rock where Zippy had found that first slice of sausage and pepperoni.

No pizza now, all cleaned up, but Zippy couldn’t have anticipated that. He’d be puzzled. There’d be some clawing around, although she didn’t see any signs of it, but snow came and went, changing everything, and he’d be making that whiny noise he made when he’d reached his wit’s end, which wasn’t a long distance, and then—

Ruby saw something a few yards ahead, a shiny little blue thing, wedged into the bark of a tree root that crossed the path, sticking out of the snow. She knelt, took off her mitten, picked it up: a dog tag in the shape of a heart. On one side, under the year, it said:
West Mill Vet, Rabies Vacc.
On the other side, it said:
Zippy.

Ruby looked around. The tag felt cold in her hand. Zippy had been here, no doubt about it, here at ground zero. But then what? She gazed at the pond. Zippy didn’t like the pond, would hardly ever fetch anything, except on the hottest days of summer, or that one time she’d tried tossing in Cheez-Its. He’d gone in dozens of times for the Cheez-Its—they floated on the surface, making it easy—finishing the whole pack. A tiny memory, just a trifle, but that was her method, the observation of trifles leading to a conclusion. The conclusion: Zippy would go in the pond for food any old time.