Buddy Page 18

  “He just laid down in the sand when we came to the beach,” Brian says. “And look at him now. He loves it.”

  “It’s the sound,” I say. “That ocean’s so loud.”

  “Loud?” Brian says.

  I nod.

  Brian turns and looks toward the water. “I never thought of that,” he says. “It just sounds like ocean to me.”

  “It sounds like roaring,” I say. “It sounds like a hurricane.”

  Buddy’s back with the ball. Brian takes it out of his mouth. It’s all slobbery. “You throw it,” Brian says.

  I swing back and throw that ball way off down the beach. Buddy’s running after it before my arm even starts going down.

  Brian’s standing there looking after him. The wind’s blowing his girly curls all around his head. He’s smiling.

  “We ain’t got a beach like this in New Orleans,” I say, “but when I get Buddy home, we can go to the park to throw the ball. Or maybe Mama will let me go all the way to the levee now.”

  Brian turns around and looks at me. He ain’t smiling no more. Buddy comes up carrying the ball. I reach out my hand. Brian reaches out his hand, too. Buddy stops. He’s standing there looking at us, his eyes going back and forth between us. He’s panting. Slobber’s drooling off the ball. Those two hands stay stuck out toward him. Buddy dips his head like he’s about to drop the ball, but he don’t.

  Then all a sudden Brian turns around and walks off. Buddy watches him, then he gives me the ball.

  I throw it long and hard.

  And I can’t help it. I’m the one who’s smiling now.

  After a while, I start to get cold on that beach. Buddy’s doing all that running and he’s got fur, so he’s okay. But here I am in the middle of the day in August standing on a beach, and I’m cold. I look up and the others are all huddled up, too, watching Buddy and me playing with the ball. I throw it one last time. When he comes trotting back with it, I take it and kneel down in front of him to rub him up all around his ears and down his neck.

  “So you like that?” I’m saying. “You like chasing that ball? You like running on this beach?”

  Buddy’s panting and panting with his tongue hanging out, his ears pricked up, and his tail standing high like he’s ready to go for the ball again anytime I’m ready to throw it.

  I feel his collar and dig it out from under his fur. It’s a new one but it’s still red. The tag says “Buddy” on it, and it’s got Brian’s name and phone number, too.

  “So Brian’s afraid you’ll run off,” I say. “Have you been thinking about running off?”

  Buddy don’t say nothing. He just sits down on the sand, looking me in the eye and listening so hard his ears twitch.

  I hold his face between my hands and rub under his ears with my fingertips. “You were thinking about coming to find me, weren’t you?” I say. “Like those dogs do in the movies. All the way across the mountains.”

  Buddy still don’t say nothing but he keeps looking straight at me with his big old brown eyes, just as soft as always.

  I’m thinking he wishes he could tell me all about it. All about how he was going to jump out the window of that California house. How he was going to cross the mountains and trot along the side of the road for weeks and weeks. How one day he was going to come down our street and then there I’d be, waiting for him just like he’d always waited for me.

  “That would be a fool thing to do, Buddy,” I said. “I’m glad you didn’t try.”

  I’m rubbing the top of his head. I’m stretching his eyes way open like Granpa T used to do and that caterpillar eyebrow is climbing up his forehead. I let go and it eases back down where it belongs.

  “Or maybe,” I say real soft, “maybe you weren’t thinking about coming back to me at all. Maybe you’re mad at me because I left you behind.”

  I can see in Buddy’s eyes he remembers that bathroom.

  “Were you scared,” I say, “when that storm came and there wasn’t nobody there but you?”

  Buddy dips his head and whines a little bit.

  “They made me do it,” I say. “Daddy and Mama and Granpa T.”

  Buddy lifts up his white paw and pats me on the knee.

  “I was going to stay,” I say. “I was going to make soup for Mrs. Washington. I was going to—Buddy, she—”

  Then I’m wrapping my arms around his neck and rubbing my face in his soft, soft fur. I’m smelling his old, leaf smell, and I’m feeling his cold nose snuffling in my ear. His warm breath is puffing on my eyelids and his wet tongue is licking me all over my face.

  “I’m sorry, Buddy,” I’m saying, over and over again. “I am so, so sorry.”

  When Buddy and I get back to the boardwalk, the others are already walking ahead to the car. We follow them, and Buddy trots along beside me just like we’re headed off to mow somebody’s yard. I’m wondering what he’s going to think when he sees the yards in New Orleans now. I’m wondering if he’s going to think I’ve turned lazy since I ain’t mowing regular anymore.

  At the car, Brian’s mama makes us stand in groups for pictures. She arranges us different ways for a while and then Daddy takes some so she can be in them, and finally some stranger takes a couple so we can all be in one together. I can’t believe Buddy puts up with all that picture taking, but Granpa T said Buddy had the patience of Job, and I guess he was right.

  Then Brian is poking around in the trunk. He comes up with a brush and some cloths and starts cleaning up Buddy. Buddy stands there as still as he can while Brian brushes all the sand out of his fur.

  Daddy and the lady are watching.

  “You take good care of that dog,” Daddy says.

  “Yes, sir,” Brian says.

  “I’ll do that,” I say, and Brian hands over the brush.

  Buddy’s fur is looking shiny. It’s looking black as night. His ribs are all hid. It feels good running that brush over him.

  Then Brian wipes Buddy’s paws with the cloth. He rubs ointment on the bottom of his feet. Buddy stands still as a statue, lifting up one foot at a time. You can tell he’s used to it now.

  When he’s done wiping, Brian unbuckles Buddy’s spare leg.

  “Why do you take off his leg?” I say.

  “Sand gets under it,” Brian says. “We’ve got to be careful.” He cleans real good where it rubs against his skin. He helps Buddy into the car. “He won’t need it for the ride. We’ll wash it off at home then put it back on.”

  “You do this every time?”

  Brian nods.

  “Will you teach me what to do?”

  Brian looks at me for a minute. He looks at his mama. She’s watching us hard. He looks back at me.

  “Of course,” he says. “He’s your dog.”

  When we get home, Brian goes straight on back to his room. The lady offers us a cold drink and I’m thirsty so I say, “Yes, please.”

  I’m standing there in the kitchen while she’s fishing in the refrigerator. I see Mama’s box of pralines is sitting on the counter and somebody’s taken a nibble out of one. I don’t see how anybody could take one nibble and then stop.

  All a sudden, I look over in the corner and there’s a big old tray with two bowls. One’s got water. One’s empty. Both say BUDDY on them. Somebody painted them special.

  The lady stands up and hands me a cold drink. She hands Daddy a beer.

  “Look at those bowls, Daddy,” I say.

  Daddy looks at the bowls, too. He looks at me. He looks at the lady. “You’ve done a lot for Buddy,” he says.

  “He’s a special dog,” she says.

  “Did you get him that new leg yourself?” Daddy says.

  She nods. “Brian insisted.”

  “All those homeless dogs,” Daddy says. “Why did you
choose Buddy?”

  “Brian loved him.”

  All a sudden, I don’t want my cold drink. I set it down on the counter and push it away. I walk down the hall toward our room. Buddy’s laying on the floor by a shut door. His tail thumps as I pass but he don’t get up. I go in my room and close the door.

  It’s a long time before Daddy knocks. It’s already getting dark.

  “Did that trip wear you out?” he says.

  “I guess.”

  He sits down on the edge of the bed.

  “She’s firing up the grill,” he says. “She’s cooking us a steak.”

  I don’t say nothing.

  “What’s the matter, son?”

  I turn over and look at him. “Brian loves Buddy,” I say.

  Daddy looks out the skinny, little window to one side of the room. “What did you expect, Li’l T?” he says.

  “But Buddy’s my dog,” I say. “Brian can’t love him.” I turn back over and put the pillow over my head.

  “He can love him, and he does,” Daddy says. “I don’t see what you’re so surprised about. It said so right in that letter. Did you think they were lying when they wrote that part?”

  I just lay there breathing into my pillow. I can smell the grill in the backyard. I can hear the lady chopping something in the kitchen.

  After a while, the mattress jiggles when Daddy stands up.

  Then I turn over and look at him. “But Daddy,” I say, “do you think Buddy loves him back?”

  Daddy don’t say nothing. He just turns around and walks out the door.

  36

  The room gets darker and darker. I hear Buddy clicking around on the tile floor. I hear that sliding door off the back go whush when it opens and closes. I wonder why there ain’t no ceiling fans, hot as it is.

  Then Daddy knocks on the door and comes in again. “Get up,” he says. “We’re eating.”

  “I ain’t hungry.”

  “You’re eating anyway,” he says. “Wash your hands. Then come out here and act like you know how to behave.”

  Daddy shuts the door and I lay there a minute.

  What if I don’t? I think. What if I open the door a tiny crack and call Buddy real soft and he comes running and sliding down the hall to me? What if I pull him into the room and tell him, “Sh, sh,” and his tail is thumping away while I’m rubbing the sides of his head and scratching up under his chin? What if I open that skinny, little window and climb out and take Buddy with me and we sneak around the house while they’re all standing in the back around the grill? And then we sneak down that curvy street to the road where that side of the mountain is all caved in? And we keep climbing until we get to some woods? And then we—

  I tell my head to shut up. That’s crazy thinking. What am I going to do all by myself in the woods of California with a three-legged dog? What is my daddy going to do when he finds me gone? What is my mama going to say when he calls her on the telephone?

  I’m standing in front of the mirror. I stare at myself. I wash my hands and I go outside.

  That lady knows how to cook a steak. We eat that steak and a salad all full of tomatoes and some other stuff I ain’t never heard of. The whole time we’re eating, Daddy’s telling her about Katrina and New Orleans. She wants to know everything. She wants to know where we went and what the storm sounded like and what color the water was when we tried to get home. She listens so quiet while Daddy tells about the first time we got back to the house. He tells about the X painted on the front and how we went up the stairs and what the bathroom looked like and how there was a note but it was so faded we couldn’t read it. She don’t move when Daddy tells about how we got home and Granpa T passed that very night.

  After Daddy tells it all, we sit quiet for a while and look up at the sky. That sky is big in California. There ain’t no trees or tall houses where she lives. You lay on your back on the grass in their yard and you look up and all you see is sky. Sky and stars.

  Before long, they all go inside and I’m still laying there looking up. I’m getting cold even though it’s summer but I don’t want to get up. Then Buddy comes wandering over just like before. He lays down beside me and puts his head on my stomach just like he used to do in the shed.

  I put my hand on the top of his head and smooth back his fur. His tail goes thump.

  “The shed is gone,” I tell him. “When we get back, you’ll see it’s just a heap of wood laying in the corner of the yard.”

  His tail goes thump, thump, and I keep talking. “And that bathroom. Buddy, you sure tore up that bathroom. It don’t matter, though, because we had to rip it all out anyway. The water got up under the tile. All the floorboards were starting to rot.

  “So I don’t have to repaint that door after all. I’m going to have to paint the brand-new door instead. When we get it. We’re about to finish Mama and Daddy’s room. Then we’re going to do the bathroom. When we’ve got the bathroom finished, the rest of them are going to move in with me and Daddy. We’ll all be together again.

  “And you’ll be there, too, Buddy. It’ll be just like before. Just exactly like before.

  “Almost.”

  I’m looking up at the sky. It’s as black as Buddy’s fur and full of stars.

  “Granpa T passed, Buddy. Did you hear Daddy saying about that? We were all sitting there in the living room of that little apartment talking about his house, and he passed, just like that. We didn’t even notice. How long do you suppose he was gone before any of us even looked his way?”

  I rub Buddy’s ears and he shifts his head on my stomach.

  “I’m thinking he went to his place and when it came time for him to come on back, he just said, ‘No.’ He just said, ‘I ain’t doing it. I’m too tired.’ He ain’t never going to say you’re ugly again, Buddy. He ain’t never going to say you stink.”

  I stare up at those stars for a while. Then I go on. “So I’m getting his room. My own room. When that room’s done, you can sleep with me. I’ll tell Mama she has to let you. I’ll tell her there ain’t no shed anymore and you got used to sleeping inside at this house here in California. I’ll tell her that’s what you’ve got to have now.

  “And we’ve got to keep you away from Baby Terrell. He’s walking all over the place now, and he’s learned how to hit things. He whacked me with his toy train just the other day. I’ve still got a sore place on my head.

  “And Tanya,” I say. “I bet you miss her singing. She’s learning lots of words now so she’s getting better. People say she sings like a bird. She liked singing to you, Buddy. You listened. You ain’t like Rover.”

  And then I stop.

  I don’t know what to tell Buddy about Rover. I think about it while I look at the stars.

  “I’ve got to explain about Rover,” I say. “He ain’t a grown-up dog like you. He ain’t got no sense. He runs all over the place. He jumps on people. He’s got short hair and it’s white and brown. He likes to catch rats. I’m teaching him not to put them on the porch. And we’re working on the jumping-on-people part. When he learns—”

  I stop again. I need to think some more.

  “I didn’t ask for Rover,” I finally explain to Buddy. “Santa Claus brought him. It wasn’t part of any plan. Not like with you. You were meant to be my dog, Buddy.”

  I bend my eyes down toward his face.

  All I can see in the dark is his eyes, shining back at me.

  “It was meant to be, wasn’t it, Buddy?” I say to him, and his tail goes thump.

  When it’s late, the lady says it’s time for bed. She says our plane don’t leave until the afternoon but there are all kinds of things we’ve got to do to get Buddy ready for his trip.

  We go inside the dark house and Buddy goes click-clicking down the hall. I’m thinking he’s going to the bed in ou
r room now, but he goes in Brian’s room instead.

  I follow him. Brian’s already sitting on his bed. He helps Buddy up. Buddy curls up on one side. Brian looks up and sees me.

  “Does he sleep with you every night?” I say.

  Brian nods.

  “What about that big old dog bed?”

  Brian shrugs. “He likes my bed better.”

  I watch Buddy shift his head a little on his paws. Brian reaches out a hand and smooths Buddy’s head. Then he turns and looks at me, “I would never leave Buddy,” he says. “Never. No matter what. I would die first.”

  I spin around and go in our room and slam the door.

  That’s the longest night I ever lived in my life. I can’t go to sleep for thinking. I want to go in Brian’s room and smack his face. I want to sneak out the door and disappear. When I finally go to sleep, all I can dream about is Buddy in that room snuggled up against that white boy who stole my dog.

  Daddy shakes me awake before light. He says to wake up. There’s a problem. He don’t move off my bed. He sits there listening. I’m listening, too. The sounds in the house ain’t right. Somebody’s choking. There’s a bang on the floor and then Buddy’s paws going click, click, click down the hall.

  Daddy stands up and opens the door real quiet. He’s peering this way and that. Then the lady’s bedroom door slams back and she comes tearing down the hall and whips into Brian’s room with Buddy limping behind her.

  “Brian!” she’s saying. “Brian!”

  Then me and Daddy are both running down the hall.

  Brian’s laying on his bed with his arms and legs jerking and his eyes rolled up in his head.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Daddy says.

  “It’s a seizure,” the lady says real fast. “He gets them. Buddy tells me.”

  She sits down beside him. She’s singing at him like he’s a baby. “It’s okay now,” she’s singing. “Mommy’s here, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

  Brian keeps on jerking. He whams his hand on the headboard. She grabs it and wipes the blood off. She’s pushing the covers out of his way so he don’t get tangled in them.