When Dad Came Back (12 page)

“He's nice,” she answered. “He's not Matt Damon, but he's kind and he's got a job.” She drank her ice tea, one eye on Gabe, and then said, “Pass the tortillas.” The subject was finished, and Gabe decided for the moment not to pursue it.

He helped with the dishes and then went outside, leaving Lucky behind. He couldn't risk parading him through the neighborhood—someone would say, “Yeah, I saw the dog. Gabe has it.”

He decided he would risk Holmes Playground. It was already getting dark, but he sought advice from Coach Rodriguez. They were close enough that Gabe felt he could ask him what to do about Frankie and the dog. He loved Lucky, the only living thing he could hug without embarrassment. There was no way that he could hide his pooch forever—or even for a week. He smiled when the idea of a disguise came into his mind. Maybe I can dye his white fur brown, he thought, or, even better, brown and black.

But Coach Rodriguez was gone for the day, and Gabe learned that he would be gone the entire week—something about a vacation in Santa Cruz. He asked about the last softball game and was told that they had won, 7–3.

With time on his hands, Gabe climbed the bleachers to watch the middle innings of an adult game of softball. The men were old. If they had any hair at all, it was gray. Their stomachs were as round as globes, and their sprints for balls spanked into the outfield appeared to be in slow motion. But they gave each other high-fives whenever one managed to throw a runner out at first, or lofted a ball that was lost in the lights.

Gabe slipped out of the playground. He walked two blocks in the direction of a strip mall to buy himself a bag of sunflower seeds. But he halted, a fox sensing danger. Sweat seemed to spring to his face when he saw Frankie and his crew in front of the 7-Eleven. One of them was sneaking a glance into a parked van, looking for something to steal.

“Sly fools,” Gabe whispered, as he waited for a traffic light to turn green. “You think people can't see you.”

Gabe hesitated. He then crossed the street, believing that he might as well have it out with Frankie. In time, Frankie would track him down. Why not throw punches now? He moved quickly through the strip mall, his head down. He was instantly on Frankie's radar.

“Hey, fool!” Frankie yelled.

Gabe didn't respond. He entered the 7-Eleven, where the bright fluorescent lights forced him to squint. He stood still as his eyes adjusted and then gazed at the cashier, a Middle Eastern man, whose beard was more smoky-gray than black. Gabe made his way over to the racks of candies and picked up a Butterfinger, weighed it in his palm, and set it back down. He next sauntered down an aisle where the sunflower seeds hung among the potato chips. From that aisle, he could spy Frankie and his crew standing shoulder to shoulder. They were only wannabe gangsters, but they were dangerous in their own way.

“Just do it,” Gabe ordered himself.

He exited the 7-Eleven without making a purchase, marched over to Frankie, and smacked him in the face with a heat-seeking fist.

Frankie was rocked, his hands immediately covering his face.

“How come you spit at my mom?” Gabe wasn't sure if Frankie had spit
at
his mother, but he was certain Frankie had spit in her presence. Still, his roar was real. No one would hold it against a son, defending his mother.

One of Frankie's crew, a short homey with pants low on his hips, flew at Gabe.

Gabe reached for his hair and pulled him to the ground. But the short homey, scrambling to his knees, hugged Gabe's leg and bit his ankle. Gabe pulled and lifted his leg, feeling teeth rake his skin. The short homey let go, his chin scraping the asphalt. The homey barked, “Ouch!”

Gabe growled when the third crew member climbed his back. Gabe spun and tried to shake him off. But the homey wouldn't let go. He was chopping Gabe on the back of his head and neck. Finally, Gabe staggered backwards to collide with a parked car.

“Uhhh,” the homey groaned. He slowly slipped off and bent over, hugging his stomach, the air knocked out of him. Gabe rammed him like a linebacker, and the homey dropped, still holding his stomach, his legs bicycling like a smashed spider.

Gabe's eyes flashed rage at Frankie. “What did you call me? A fool? Look at your homey on the ground. I'm going to put you there too!” When he raised a fist, Frankie backed up. His eyes were leaking. Gabe couldn't tell whether they were crybaby tears or tears of pain.

“I'm gonna get you,” Frankie cried. His mouth was twisted and snarling.

Gabe slapped him. “You're going to do what?”

Frankie put his hand up to the side of his face. He grimaced.

The homey that had been rolling on the ground and holding his stomach was now standing. He didn't seem to want any of Gabe.

The crew backed up, done for now, and ran to the street corner. They looked back. The short homey gave Gabe the finger. The other spit and yelled, “I know where you live.”

Gabe sneered. “Come by anytime. I'll mow my front lawn with your ugly face.” Gabe couldn't help but imagine the kid as a lawn mower. His teeth would be eating blades of grass.

Gabe started home, antennas up for Frankie and his crew. When he got there, his mom was gone—a note on the coffee table said that she would be home by ten. He showered a second time, soaping his body carefully. He probed the back of his neck, where blows had landed. He examined his ankle. “Dang,” he muttered. The short homey actually had bitten him, leaving two puncture holes. Punk vampire, he thought.

Afterwards, his hair still damp, he called Uncle Mathew.

“You woke me up,” he complained groggily.

Gabe raised his eyes to the clock on the wall: 9:37. He remembered his uncle's habit of hitting the sack early—with the chickens, he joked.

“I need Heather's telephone number,” Gabe said. “I'm sorry if I woke you.”

“What, you got a crush on her?” His uncle chuckled. Gabe could hear the bedsprings groan as his uncle sat up.

“Uncle, I got a problem.” Gabe explained the situation, rolling his right hand into a fist when he described the parking-lot scuffle with Frankie.

“You're in Fresno just one day, and you're already causing trouble?” Uncle Mathew asked how that was possible. He sighed heavily and growled, “Wait a minute. Let me get her number.” Gabe could hear his shuffling footsteps and then the sound of a drawer being opened and closed. The footsteps returned. “Here it is.”

After he gave the number, he told Gabe to be careful and come live with him if he wanted. He said he had only today sold that lumber from the old barn.

“That's great.” Gabe imagined dollar bills under his uncle's mattress. “I may have to come live with you. We'll see.”

“That would be all right with me,” Uncle Mathew replied. He followed up with a yawn and an angry outburst about the alternator he had had to replace in the truck.

“That's not good,” Gabe said.

“You got that right. It cost me seventy-eight dollars for a used one. And I had to drive all the way to Visalia to get it.”

Gabe listened to his uncle complain about the long drive, then thanked him and apologized for calling so late. After Gabe hung up, he dialed Heather. He got her voice mail.

“Heather, it's me, Gabe,” he began. “You know, Uncle Mathew's nephew. Please call me.” He left his number.

Gabe went into the kitchen for a glass of Kool-Aid, but he rushed back to the telephone when it began to ring. He was careful not to spill his drink.

“Heather,” Gabe gambled.

“Gabe,” Heather replied.

“I got a problem.” He told her about the showdown with Frankie and his crew. He even told her about the bites on his ankle.

“Violence won't get you anywhere,” Heather responded.

“I'm not violent,” Gabe argued. He pointed in the direction of Frankie's house, six blocks away. “It's him, it's his whole stupid family.” He took a sip of Kool-Aid, the chill cascading down his throat. He told her why he had really called. “I know your dog Corky just died. I'm calling to see if you would take Lucky.”

“I don't know, Gabe,” she responded after a moment of silence.

“They're going to come and get him. They're going to make him fight.”

They went back and forth, Heather slowly melting until she finally agreed. “I'm actually going to be in Fresno the day after tomorrow. I'll pick up Lucky then.”

Gabe squeezed his eyes closed in gratitude.

“What if I call you when I get into town? It'll probably be around four.”

Gabe gave Heather the home address and his cell number. He told her she was really nice and added, “You know, my uncle likes you.”

She chuckled and said, “Of course he does. All little doggies like me.” She hung up before he could say that his uncle
really
liked her.

Gabe glowed at the possibility that Heather might also like his uncle, who was dirty from work most of the time but trustworthy. His uncle wouldn't mess up a third time if he got married—this, Gabe was sure about.

The glow didn't remain long, though. He could feel his hands shaking. He was scared. He bet himself that Frankie would return, and maybe with more help, possibly Tony. Then it would be
him
on the ground.

“I don't care,” he mumbled to himself. He returned to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and brought out a handful of sliced bologna. He went outside.

“Lucky,” Gabe called. “I got a treat for you.” He walked to where he had chained the dog to the clothesline, but he was gone—chain and all. Gabe froze. He looked around frantically. Most of the yard was hidden in darkness. Frankie, he thought. He's got Lucky! And I'm going to get him back!

Gabe peered over the fence into the alley—Lucky wasn't there. His dog was gone. Dejected, he sat on a rickety wooden chair and lifted the first slice of bologna to his mouth. He would need all the strength he could muster if he was to corner that little rat, Frankie.

When his mother came home at 10:17, Gabe was on the couch, feeling more like a parent than a teenager.

“You said ten, Mom.” He lifted his eyebrows at the clock, indicating that she was seventeen minutes late. The first rush of anger about losing Lucky had run through his veins. He was emotionally depleted. Now he was more relaxed, as he had plans for rescuing his dog a second time.

“You're worse than me.” She was in a dress—not the usual jeans and T-shirt—and was weighed down with jewelry—a bead necklace and a copper-colored bracelet. She wore lipstick which made her mouth resemble a red carnation when it was closed.

“What's his name again?” Gabe asked. He had every right to pry. He didn't want his mom dating just anybody.

She ignored the question. In front of the mirror in the hallway, she took off her jewelry and checked her lipstick. “His name is Bobby,” she finally answered when she pulled away from the mirror.

“He looks OK,” Gabe agreed.

“A little fat, but who isn't?” His mother rubbed her own stomach.

“You said he has a job. What does he do?”

“Risk management.”

Gabe didn't bother to ask what that meant. As long as he had a job, he was an all-right guy.

“I'm going to bed,” his mother announced, dismounting from her platform shoes, again becoming just an inch taller than Gabe. “Dating makes me tired.”

His mother vanished into the bathroom, and Gabe made his way to his bedroom. He plopped down on the bed. He waited for his mother to call, “Good night, Son.” When he was certain that she was in bed, he put on his shoes, changed into a dark T-shirt, and quietly climbed out his bedroom window.

He made his way towards Frankie's house, a six-block journey. Dogs barked at him as he came near. But as soon as he passed, they lay back down.

Gabe stopped at the end of Frankie's block. He could see cop cars, their lights spinning and shining up into the trees. The neighbors had come out to watch. Some of them were in pajamas, others half-dressed in jeans or sweats. The commotion had excited them.

At first, Gabe thought there must have been a fire. But he didn't smell smoke or see any fire engines.

“They got busted,” Gabe figured. The items in the garage loomed large in his mind. He pictured stolen computers inside the house. A friend must have snitched—or the family had just gotten so bold stealing from stores that they had been caught in the act. They weren't known for the brain matter between their dirty ears.

Gabe ventured toward the crowd, but he kept himself in the dark, half-hidden by a tree. He didn't want to risk being recognized. He spotted Frankie and Tony—and their mother, he believed—on the front lawn. The father, shirtless and displaying tattoos on arms and belly, was handcuffed and seated near them.

Gabe sped away. He had a plan to rescue Lucky. As everyone was in the front of the house, he wouldn't be noticed if he moved quickly.

He sprinted around the block and into the alley. His lungs burned from the burst of exertion. He rested until his breathing slowed to something close to normal. He peeked through the slats of the tall redwood fence: no cops, no family, no Lucky. When he tried the gate latch and found that it was locked, he boosted himself over the fence. As he plopped silently into the yard, the safety light came on. He froze, with his jaw open.

He jumped into the shadows of the garage that ran along the house. He could hear the squawk of a radio from a patrol car and the voice of one of the cops up front, but he couldn't make out what he was saying. He glanced around the backyard—junky car parts, old tires, a turned-over barbecue with its legs in the air, a shriveled summer garden—but he couldn't locate Lucky. He whispered the dog's name twice. He made a light smooching sound.

Then Gabe heard a single bark from inside. He waited for a second bark, but it didn't come. He pushed away from the garage and sneaked to the darkened side of the house. He peered in a window: there was Lucky, playing with a sock.

Gabe's mind whirled. He decided that he would just walk in and claim the dog. After all, the family was in the front. What would they know about his entering the house by the back door and snatching Lucky away?