Meanwhile Bernie didn’t ask me anything. Instead he’d started climbing the slope at the end of the canyon. The big heat of summer was coming very soon, and the back of Bernie’s shirt—one of his nicest, with the flamingos drinking at a bar pattern—was getting sweaty, and he was huffing and puffing a bit. I followed him up the slope, first from behind and then from in front, where I do my best following.
In pretty much no time I reached the top. Had I run the whole way? Probably, and I’m sure you’re just like me when you get to the wide-open spaces. Don’t you want to just run and run forever?
But I stopped and waited for Bernie, goes without mentioning. After not too long he came up beside me, paused with his hands on his hips. “Sometimes…” huff puff … “I wish I had four legs like you.”
No surprise there—one of those wishes that made perfect sense. But where would his arms go? That was a problem, way too big for me to solve. I prefer small problems, or even better, none at all.
We stood on top of the hill, gazed at what was on the other side, namely a small and narrow valley with some sort of yellowish dwelling in the distance. But I left out the most important part: this little valley was green. Not totally green, like the kind of lawn we didn’t like, me and Bernie—although there really isn’t any place better for doing one’s business, a thought I’ll keep to myself—more like rows of green with rows of desert in between.
“A vineyard, Chet,” Bernie said. “Couldn’t be more than a dozen acres. Heard there were one or two starting up along this way, but I didn’t expect…”
Whatever Bernie didn’t expect remained unspoken. Also I didn’t know what a vineyard was. And then from out of nowhere it came to me: a farm of some sort! A farm, and I’d thought of it all by myself. Wow! I was on fire.
“Careful,” Bernie said. “Your tail’s about to fly off on its own.”
Oh no. Please not that. I sat down at once. My tail swished back and forth in the dirt a few times and then went still. I, not my tail, was the boss. My tail was going to have to learn who was the boss, once and for all. I, Chet, am the boss. You, tail, are the … what would you call it? Sidekick? Yes! You, tail, are the sidekick, even though you’re mostly straight up, not sideways. And straight up was where you should be! The sidekick’s job was to make the boss look good. Take me and Bernie, for example. Or … or maybe not. I seemed to have stumbled on a tough question. Who was the boss and who was the sidekick? And then came the answer, so right: we were both of us sidekick and boss! At the same time, if you see what I mean. Wow! I’d never felt more tip-top in my life.
Meanwhile Bernie had worked his way down the slope, not so steep on this side, and was walking along one of the green rows. I caught up at once and walked beside him. The air changed around us, became slightly cooler and a little less dry. What we had here looked to me like gnarly little green-leafed trees, the size of bushes, with clusters of what smelled and looked like purple grapes hanging from the branches. Grapes grew on trees? Life was full of surprises.
“Not really unusual, I suppose,” Bernie said. “There’s Algerian wine, Moroccan wine, Mexican wine, so some grapes thrive in this kind of…” He went silent, but I could almost hear the thought continuing in his mind “… and of course the padres planted vines going all the way back to…” He plucked a grape from a branch. “Still, you have to wonder if it’s a smart or even sustainable use of…” Bernie popped the grape in his mouth. “Hmm,” he said, and plucked another one. “What do you think?” He held out the grape and I snapped it up. Not the best grape I’d ever tasted, but I hadn’t tasted many, grapes not being part of what you might call my regular diet. I also have a very wide-ranging irregular diet that includes things like pizza, apple cores, and scraps from around or sometimes in trash bins behind restaurants and bars, but grapes weren’t really part of that—call it my regular irregular diet—either. Then they had to be part of a diet I hadn’t even known I had—my irregular irregular diet. So many diets! Some of us have all the luck! Or at least lots of it.
“Here’s an interesting fact, Chet.” Bernie plucked another grape. “There’s red wine and white wine, but the juice of all grapes is white.”
Was that interesting? I couldn’t think why, but if Bernie said it was then that was that. He squeezed the grape between his finger and thumb and sure enough—
“Freeze, you son of a bitch!”
We froze. That’s what we do, me and Bernie, when someone behind us says freeze. Also Bernie raises his hands, which he did now. Also he let go of the squashed grape. It fell to the ground, making a tiny, dampish sound. Then, without any signal at all—we’d practiced this so many times I’d almost gotten tired of Slim Jims—we turned very slowly, so as not to scare somebody into making a wrong move. And if I can just fit this in, I didn’t mean it about getting tired of Slim Jims. That could never happen.
We faced this particular somebody. He was a fierce-looking old man, dressed in faded denim, dusty cowboy boots, and a sweat-stained cowboy hat. His skin was leathery from the sun and his legs were bowed. Probably none of that was important. I should have started with his shotgun, pointed at Bernie’s chest, and left it at that.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” the old man shouted. “Didn’t I say freeze?”
“We mean no harm,” Bernie said, his voice calm, quiet, unafraid. I felt the exact same way. But I was all set to do what had to be done to this old dude in no time flat, just as soon as Bernie said when. Actually when is not the signal. It’s now! I could hardly wait. Waiting for now is one of the most difficult parts of life. But I waited anyway. You can learn a lot from Slim Jims.
“No harm?” The old man’s voice rose even more, up into a sort of harshness that hurts my ears. “You’re trespassing on my goddamn land! It’s not for sale, period. And where do you get off stealing my goddamn grapes?”
“My apologies,” Bernie said. “I don’t want to buy your land. And I’ll pay for whatever the grapes are worth. In their final form, I mean.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“As wine. They’re worth more as wine than as grapes, right? Isn’t that the whole point?”
“What whole point?”
“Of what you do,” Bernie said.
This last part of the conversation was way beyond me, but it seemed to be having some sort of effect on the old man, like a fire raging inside him was dying down. And maybe he would have lowered the shotgun on his own, but at that moment a younger man came running up.
“Dad! What are you doing? Put down that gun!”
The old man turned to the younger man, the fire inside him raging back up so much his face went red. The younger man, wearing khakis and a button-down shirt, was bigger than the old man but looked something like him, except that all the hard facial features had been smoothed out.
“When I need your advice I’ll ask for it,” the old man shouted.
“I’m not giving you advice, Dad.” The younger man—son of the old man, unless I was completely out to lunch … uh-oh, Chet, said a voice in my head, don’t go there—put his hand on the shotgun barrel and gently pushed it down. “But I know you wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
The old man’s gaze went to Bernie, and then to me. His son, again gently, took the shotgun away from him, broke it open, pocketed the shells.
“Have you had your meds today, Dad?” the son said.
The old man raised his voice again, but now it was all thinned out, kind of loud and weak at the same time. “None of your business. I’m sick of my meds—why can’t you get that through your thick skull?”
“At least go on up to the house, have Juana fix you some lunch,” the son said.
“I’m not hungry,” the old man said. But he started moving away. Then he stopped and pointed in our direction, meaning mine and Bernie’s. “I want these trespassers arrested.”
“I’ll take care of it, Dad.”
The old man moved off again. After a few more steps he
said, “But not the dog.” He walked down the row of vines, turned into a cross row, disappeared.
The son took a deep breath, let it out slow.
“Sorry to cause you problems,” Bernie said. “We were nearby, saw the vineyard and got curious. My name’s Bernie Little and this is Chet.”
The son gave his head a little shake, like he was clearing up the insides. “We had a dog like him once. Maybe not as big.” He gave me a close look. “Or so smart.” He leaned the shotgun up against one of the vine stocks. “I’m Diego Torrez, Junior.” He held out his hand. They shook. “Everyone calls me Jim. My dad is Diego. We, meaning the family, own Gila Wines.” He gestured at the green rows.
“I didn’t realize there were any on this side of the reservation,” Bernie said.
“Wine has been made here since 1632,” Jim said. “Although not very good wine and not by us. We bought the land in 1806. But the big jump in quality came twenty-five years ago, when my dad ripped out all the old vines and planted Mourvèdre.”
“What’s that?” Bernie said.
“A Mediterranean varietal that does well in hot, dry climates. I gather you’ve sampled it already.”
Bernie smiled. “Won’t do that again. How much rainfall do you get?”
“We had an inch last year, nothing the year before, two inches the year before that.”
Bernie ran his gaze over the vineyard. “So you must be sitting on top of the aquifer.”
Jim’s eyes shifted. “You know something about aquifers?”
“Not really,” Bernie said. “Does the name Wendell Nero mean anything to you?”
Jim took a step back. “Only from the news,” he said. “A scientist, apparently, killed in a robbery just over the hill in Dollhouse Canyon. Why do you ask?”
“We knew him slightly,” Bernie said. “What do you think he was doing in the canyon?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” Jim said. “I had no idea he was even there.” He glanced at his watch. “Afraid I’ve got to run. We have tastings the first Saturday of every month.” He picked up the shotgun. “Feel free to stop by.”
Fifteen
“Your hands already know how to catch,” Bernie said. “You just have to let them.”
“Yeah?” said Charlie.
In summer, Charlie went to day camp on the grounds of Chaparral Country Club, where Leda and Malcolm were members. And I suppose Charlie, too, was a member, since he was Leda’s kid and lived with them most of the time. But he was also Bernie’s kid and lived with us a little bit of the time, and we weren’t members and never would be, on account of Bernie has a sort of attitude about places like Chaparral Country Club. You can see it on his face, a heavy look you might call sulking, if it was on the face of someone else. And it had been on his face as we sat parked in the Chaparral Country Club lot—where we sometimes came to pick Charlie up and drive him home, not to our place but to Leda and Malcolm’s, just for the fun of being with him—until the moment he came running up, and Bernie’s face changed completely into a face of happiness and beauty.
“How was camp?” Bernie said, reaching out with one hand and hoisting Charlie up and into … the shotgun seat, squeezed in beside me. The shotgun seat—can it possibly be necessary to point this out?—is my seat, the seat belonging to Chet the Jet and only to Chet the Jet, end of story. But this was Charlie, so I was cool with it.
“I’m a butterfingers, Dad,” Charlie said.
“Who told you that?”
“Timmy.”
“Who’s Timmy?”
“The counselor.”
“The counselor called you a butterfingers?”
“It means I can’t catch.”
“I know what it means,” Bernie said, “but it’s a load of…”
“Bullshit, Dad?”
“Don’t say bullshit.”
“Cause it’s a bad word?”
“Well, that depends on … yes, it’s a bad word. At least for now.”
“When does it get good?”
“When you go away to college,” Bernie said. “First we’re going to clear up this catching thing. Reach under the seat—there should be a tennis ball.”
“Isn’t it Chet’s?”
“He won’t mind.”
Charlie turned to me. Our faces were very close. His eyes were so clear. His skin was so soft. His breath smelled like egg salad. Nothing bad was ever going to happen to this kid. That was my promise to myself.
“Chet?” he said. “Okay if I take your ball?”
No! Absolutely not! It was my ball and belonged to me. All the balls in this car—and there were way more than one, by the way—were mine and mine alone. Also any balls I happen to pick up on my daily rounds are mine. Balls bouncing somewhere on their own, across a field or a tennis court? Those are called in play, amigo, for a reason.
Charlie reached under the seat, came up with a tennis ball, a fairly fresh one, still bright yellow and nappy, the way I like them. He held it up.
“Okay, Chet?”
Perfectly fine. No problem at all. We got out of the car, which was when Bernie told Charlie about his hands already knowing how to catch.
“Make your hands into a cup,” Bernie said.
“Like this?”
“A softer cup,” Bernie said. “There we go. Now all you do is watch the ball. Your hands will do the rest.”
“Really?”
“Eyes on the ball.”
Bernie held up the tennis ball. Charlie watched it. The ball arced through the air and landed plop in Charlie’s little hands. They closed around it.
“Hey!” Charlie said.
“One more time. And again. One last time.”
Arc and plop. Arc and plop. Arc and plop. By now Bernie’s tosses had become a bit off line, kind of a puzzler, since he was the most accurate thrower I’ve ever seen. Once he hit a sidewinder in the head with a Wiffle ball, a sidewinder right in mid-sidewind! Fun for all of us, although maybe the sidewinder missed that aspect, judging from what happened next. But the point I’m making is that Bernie’s throws started getting wild. Charlie even had to run a few steps to get his cupped hands under the last one. Plop.
“Okay,” Bernie said. “Let’s hit the road.”
Whoa! Wait! Bernie had been tossing a ball around and I hadn’t made a play for it, not even once? What had gotten into me?
“How come Chet’s panting, Dad?”
“Probably thirsty.”
Out came a bottle of water and my portable bowl. I turned up my nose.
* * *
High Chaparral Estates was the fanciest part of the whole Valley and Leda and Malcolm’s place—a McMansion without the Mc part as Malcolm once said, possibly some sort of joke—was in the fanciest part of High Chaparral Estates. They had a big green lawn of the kind we didn’t like, me and Bernie, and lots of flowering bushes. Domingo the gardener was watering one of the bushes as we came up the path, and Malcolm was supervising.
“Hi, there,” he said. “Hey, Domingo, make a rainbow for Charlie.”
Domingo moved the hose around until a rainbow appeared in the spray.
“See that?” Malcolm said.
“Yeah,” said Charlie.
“Okay,” Malcolm said, “now make the pot of gold.”
Domingo looked a little confused, but Malcolm laughed—not the best laugh I’d ever heard, maybe needing some oil, if that makes any sense—and Domingo started laughing, too.
“Pot of gold,” Domingo said. “That’s funny.”
Malcolm turned to Bernie. He was taller than Bernie and very skinny, like an enormous weed, with long narrow toes sticking out over the fronts of his flip-flops. “I got back ahead of schedule, but thanks for picking him up.”
“Anytime,” Bernie said.
“How was camp?” Malcolm asked Charlie.
“Great!”
Malcolm looked surprised. He opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment we had a visitor. Well, not a visitor I suppose, since he lived he
re. I’m referring to Shooter, a troublesome character in my life. Shooter, still a puppy but now on the largish side, had something to do with the events that followed the sound of she-barking from across the canyon on a long-ago night. Let’s call that fact one, as Bernie likes to say. Fact two is “spit and image,” something I’ve heard way too much, as in “He’s the spit and image of Chet!”
No time for any more facts, even if they exist, because Shooter had come zooming around the house and was bearing down on me, ears straight back from a wind of his own making and eyes wild, as though he actually intended to—
Oomph!
And a much bigger oomph than the last time we’d gone through this, fairly recently, as I recalled. Not a big enough oomph to knock me off my feet, or even to budge me at all—goes without mentioning. But now it was my duty to show him what could really be done in the world of oomphing, which I proceeded to do. It never occurred to me—and I still don’t understand how this happened, although it was Shooter’s fault for sure—that Domingo would lose his grip on the hose and that Malcolm would end up getting soaked from head to toe, which he didn’t appreciate one little bit.
“Shooter!” he yelled. “Stop this right now! Lie down! Play dead!”
Then came the biggest surprise of this visit. Shooter dropped out of the oomphing game at once, sank to the ground, rolled over, played dead.
Shooter knew how to play dead? I wasn’t happy about that. Playing dead was my trick, in fact, my only trick. I lay down and played dead, lying down, just by chance, right beside Shooter. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. Did he think he could play dead longer than me? Shooter had a lot to learn.
“God in heaven,” Malcolm said. “I need a drink.” He glanced at Bernie. “Um, care to join me?”
Bernie’s eyebrows rose. Have I mentioned that his eyebrows have a language of their own? Right now they were all about surprise.
“Well,” he said. “Sure. Thanks.”
* * *
“I’ve got a little bar downstairs,” Malcolm said. We were in the kitchen, Malcolm in new clothes, Shooter upstairs with Charlie in Charlie’s media room—Charlie had his own media room here in High Chaparral Estates—and me and Bernie with Malcolm.
Of Mutts and Men Page 12
