Say Goodbye for Now

by Hyde, Catherine Ryan

  Pete figured the vet and his mean assistant would like him even less when he told them he had no money and couldn’t pay for the dog’s care.

  “I didn’t say he was my dog,” Pete said. “Just that he was a dog.”

  “Well, it’s not,” the vet said. Words like walls. Like big wind gusts, blowing him over.

  “Not what, sir?”

  “That’s not a dog.”

  Pete’s head swam slightly, and he began to wonder if this was all a strange dream.

  “I don’t get it, sir. What is he if he’s not a dog?”

  “It’s either a wolf or a wolf hybrid. Probably a hybrid. I don’t treat wild animals and I want you to get him out of my waiting room right now. People are here with their pets. It’s not safe.”

  Pete looked around. There was a skinny woman with a cat carrier, waiting, and a man with a wiener dog on a bench along the far wall. They both drew their pets closer to themselves.

  “Oh, he can’t get down off this wagon, sir. He’s too broken up to go after anybody or anything. Honest.”

  “I want that animal out of my waiting room.”

  “Yes, sir. Any idea where I could take him?”

  “Call the state wildlife department. They’ll come out and shoot it.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” Pete said, talking through his shock as best he could. “I couldn’t do that. I made him a promise.”

  The vet shook his head as if Pete were simply too much of a burden for a man of his stature to tolerate.

  “I don’t have time for this,” he said. “I’m with a client.”

  He turned crisply on his heel and walked back into the examining room, slamming the door harder than necessary.

  Pete looked up into the eyes of the young woman assistant.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I get it. I’m going.”

  Pete sat outside for a long time, baking in the sun. Not really sure where to go. He sat on a high curb that separated the walkway to the vet’s office from its parking lot. He stared down at his own sunburned legs, streaked vertically where rivulets of sweat had tracked down through the dust and dirt.

  Now and then he glanced over his shoulder at the dog—or whatever he was—still dangling half off the wagon under a nearby tree. The dog stared back with a look that seemed to say, “Well?”

  Pete had left the wagon in the shade on purpose, because he had no water for the dog either. Still the animal panted.

  Pete heard the door of the vet’s office squeak open, and he whipped his head around, fully expecting to be told he was still too close, still a burden in his need.

  It was the older woman assistant. She had pretty red hair in a bob, and she met his eyes and smiled at him. And didn’t tell him to scram.

  Instead she leaned her back against the shingled siding of the office and lit a cigarette.

  “Ma’am?” he asked her.

  “Yes?”

  “I can see it’s your break and all. But maybe I could trouble you for a glass of water for me and this dog? Or whatever he is. What did the vet say he was?”

  “He thinks probably a hybrid.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “It’s just a fancy way to say ‘cross.’ A cross between a wolf and a dog.”

  “Well, then, why don’t people just say what they mean in a simple way and skip all the fancy?”

  She laughed lightly, and smoke came out with the sound.

  “No idea,” she said.

  Then she disappeared back inside. Pete couldn’t tell if she intended to bring him water or not.

  He looked down at his sneakers again, trying to force his brain to work. He had to have a plan. He had to move on from this place. And he had to bring the dog—or hybrid, or cross—along, because he’d promised. But where? He could not make his mind wrap around the challenge.

  A minute or two later the woman plunked down onto the curb beside him with a sigh. Pete looked over at her, and she smiled. She handed him a bottle of orange soda with the cap already popped off. It was wonderfully cold against Pete’s hand as he took it from her.

  “Thank you!” he said, clearly relishing the surprise gift.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, and puffed on her cigarette.

  He took a long drink. He could feel the icy soda trace its path down into his belly, changing everything. It felt like being lifted out of hell and plunged into luxury.

  “This is the best thing I ever had in my life,” he said. “I swear.”

  “Never had an orange soda before?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Couple times. But never when I was this thirsty.”

  She smiled. Almost sadly, Pete thought.

  “I brought some water for him, too,” she said. She pointed to a jumbo paper cup sitting on the curb near her hip. “But I figured I’d let you give it to him.”

  “That was nice of you, ma’am.”

  “Is he tame?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Was it hard to get him on the wagon?”

  “Yes and no, ma’am. It was hard to get up the courage to go at it. But then once I did, he didn’t try anything. He didn’t do me no harm. Sorry. Any harm. Just because I’m out of school for the summer doesn’t mean I get to be all sloppy. Anyway. He did growl and bare his teeth a couple times. But that was before we talked and got to know each other. I think if he wasn’t tame, though, I’d probably be in a dozen pieces right about now.”

  “Yeah. He might have known some people sometime.”

  “The vet said he was wild.”

  “I think he meant he wouldn’t treat a wolf cross under any circumstances because he thinks they’re too wild. He doesn’t believe in them.”

  “How can he not believe in them?” he asked, pointing to the animal. “There’s one sitting right over there.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” the woman said. “He believes they exist. He just doesn’t believe people should own them. People get them who don’t know how to handle them. You can’t always train them by hitting them on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper, if you know what I mean. It’s more complicated with something that’s half-wild. Sometimes people get them and then end up being afraid of them or having problems. He could have belonged to somebody, and that’s why he trusted you. Or it’s possible he could be completely wild. Maybe he let you put him on the wagon because he knew he didn’t have any better choices.”

  “Are they smart like that when they’re wild?”

  “Sometimes. Yeah. Everything and everybody wants to live. So it’s not unheard of for an animal to go against its nature if it really comes right down to surviving or not surviving. These people came into the office once. They had this watchdog. He was really vicious. They meant for him to be. His job was to guard an auto parts yard. One night he was choking to death on a bone and a total stranger walking down the street stuck his arm through the fence and put his hand down the dog’s throat and pulled out the bone. And the dog let him. Which makes sense when you think about it. What did he have to lose?”

  Pete gulped the soda as she spoke. It was only half gone, but he already missed it. Already mourned its loss in advance.

  “I wish I knew where he came from and stuff,” he said. “But I guess the big question is, what am I gonna do with him now? I can’t call the wildlife people to come shoot him. I can’t. I made him a promise that if he came with me nothing bad would happen to him. I swore on my honor, you know?”

  “I do know one thing you might try.”

  “Where they won’t shoot him?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. There’s a lady doctor who lives way out in the boonies. Close to six miles from here as the crow flies. She’s a doctor, not a vet. But she takes in animals when no one else will. I went to her once with a sick cat when the owner wouldn’t pay to save her and the vet wouldn’t save her without pay. She wasn’t very nice to me but she did take the cat. I have no idea what she’d say if you showed up at her door with a wolf.”

  “Or maybe ju
st a cross,” he said, hoping that helped his case.

  “She doesn’t seem to like people. She’s not very nice. She just wants everybody to leave her alone, I guess. She’s not such a young woman. Not old, either. Maybe late thirties or even forty. You’d think she’d be raising teenagers, but instead she’s looking after animals. Not that it’s any of my business. I guess she likes them better than people. On a bad day I probably see her point. Anyway, I can’t see what you’ve got to lose by trying.”

  And with that she slid something that looked like a prescription pad or a message pad out of her skirt pocket. She made a stubby pencil appear from behind her ear.

  While Pete watched, draining the rest of his orange soda, she drew him a map.

  As she worked, he brought the cup of water to the . . . animal. If anything, Pete felt more afraid now, having been told he had a maybe-wild thing in his wagon. But the beast didn’t growl, or roll back his lip. He just reached out his muzzle and drained the cup of water, gratefully from the look of it.

  “Now don’t you tell anybody I told you about her,” the woman said, pressing the paper into Pete’s hand.

  “Why not, ma’am? I mean, right. No. I won’t. Anyway, who would I tell? And even if I had somebody I wanted to tell, I wouldn’t if you said not to. ’Cause you been real nice to me. I just wondered. Is it a secret?”

  “I’m just not sure if it’s something I’m supposed to be telling people. I’m one of the few people I know who’ve met her. People talk about her, but most people haven’t talked to her. But you have to try something.”

  “That’s the plain truth, ma’am.”

  “Good luck.”

  Pete watched her walk back inside the office.

  He looked at the dog again, and wished he’d never made that promise, because now he felt it was beyond his control to say whether things would be okay or not. But regardless, it was too late now. He’d promised, and there was no getting out of it. He just had to head for okay and hope for the best.

  He steeled himself for another very long walk.

  Pete was in the third or so mile of his walk, just reaching the far edge of the built-up part of town. He was walking in the street, near the curb, to avoid sidewalk cracks that might cause his passenger pain.

  He heard a small voice from behind him.

  “What’s wrong with your dog?”

  Pete stopped and turned around.

  Behind him on the sidewalk stood a dark-skinned boy. An older boy than his voice had made him sound. He was small in stature, much smaller than Pete, but he wore thick glasses that made him look smart and mature. His wiry hair was cropped short, so much so that Pete could see his scalp. Pete wondered if your scalp got sunburned when the sun could find it like that. But maybe people like this boy—colored was the word Pete used in his head, because he didn’t like a lot of the words he’d heard—didn’t get sunburned as easily as Pete did.

  “He’s really not my dog,” Pete said. “In fact, I just had him to the vet and the vet’s not even sure he’s a dog.”

  Pete watched the boy relax. He could see it in the boy’s shoulders, and the way he carried his head. The very fact that Pete had spoken to him—not even especially kindly but certainly not unkindly, just matter-of-fact—had put him at ease. He moved several steps closer, his eyes wide with what looked like a cross between confusion and awe.

  “That seems strange,” he said. “What is he if he’s not a dog?”

  “That’s exactly what I said!”

  Pete hadn’t meant to shout, but it was exciting to hear someone think thoughts that were such a good match for his own. It made him feel less alone and confused. But his enthusiasm made the boy jump. Just a little, though. You’d have to be watching to see. Pete had been watching, trying to think why he’d never seen this boy around before.

  “The vet thinks he’s a wolf or maybe a wolf cross,” Pete said.

  The boy regarded the animal with a renewed look of respect. But he didn’t back away at all. Which earned him Pete’s respect.

  “What happened to him?”

  “Got hit on the highway.”

  “How’d you get a wolf onto your wagon?”

  “Not really sure. I sat with him a long time. And then he pretty much let me. We think either he lived with people once upon a time or maybe he just knew he didn’t have any other good choices.”

  “Where’re you taking him?”

  “Oh,” Pete said, realizing how easy it would be to break a promise without even thinking. “I can’t say. No offense to you or anything. But somebody told me where I might be able to take him. But they made me promise I wouldn’t tell anybody.”

  “Oh. Well, you wouldn’t want to break a promise. I can see that.”

  “Good. Thanks. I’m glad you get it. I don’t like people who break promises. I take a promise real serious. And I made two already today, so that’s a hard day, because I have to make sure I don’t break either one.”

  “That is a hard day,” the boy said. He pushed his glasses higher onto the bridge of his nose with the tip of one thumb.

  “Well. Goodbye, I guess,” Pete said.

  “’Bye. I hope that wolf feels better.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pete walked a few steps, the silence broken only by the rhythmic squeaking of the one unoiled wagon wheel. He thought about Jack, out at the lake having a good time without him. Not even supporting him enough to help him with the dog. Wolf. Cross. It made him feel alone, like he had no friends in the world at all.

  He stopped and turned to see if the boy had walked away. He hadn’t. He was just standing there on the sidewalk, hands limp at his sides, watching Pete go.

  “It’s a long walk,” Pete called to him. “You want to walk with me a mile?”

  “Sure,” the boy called back.

  He ran to catch up.

  “Why are we walking in the street?” he asked Pete.

  “The sidewalk’s too bumpy. I’m afraid the bumps’ll hurt him.”

  “Oh. Right.” A brief silence. “Thanks for inviting. I don’t know anybody around here. It’s hard. You know. Not knowing anybody.”

  “How long you been here?”

  “Two days.”

  “That would explain it, then.”

  “It would have been better if school was still in session. Then I would’ve met some of the other guys. But it was the second-to-last day of school when we got here, and my dad said it was silly to sign me up for two days. He said I should help unpack all our stuff and he’ll sign me up in the fall.”

  “What did your mom say?” Pete asked.

  “I don’t have one.”

  Pete stopped dead and tried to look into the boy’s face, but the boy only looked down at the sidewalk.

  “That’s something we got in common,” Pete said.

  Then the boy’s eyes came up to meet his, with a renewed look of confidence. “Oh. Your mom died, too?”

  “No. She didn’t die. But I still don’t have one.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They stood for a moment, Pete feeling confused and unsure how to proceed. Then he set off walking and towing the wagon again.

  “I’m sorry your mom died,” Pete said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You miss her?”

  “I didn’t really know her. She died while I was being born. But I kind of miss her anyway. I don’t know if that makes sense or not. You miss your mom?”

  “I do,” Pete said, hoping not to have to go into the matter at any greater depth.

  “What am I supposed to do all summer if I don’t know a solitary soul? That’s what I’ve been wondering all day.”

  “You know me,” Pete said.

  “Except I don’t even know your name.”

  “Pete Solomon.”

  “Justin Bell,” the boy said, pointing to his own chest with a hooked thumb.

  “There. See? We know each other some.”

&
nbsp; They walked in silence for a few steps, listening to the wagon wheel squeak. Or at least Pete was listening to that.

  “I can show you how to oil that squeaky wheel,” Justin said.

  “Well, thanks all the same, but I know how. Just that the wagon’s been sitting in the garage since I was about ten. And the dog was waiting for me and all, and my dad was asleep and I didn’t want to take the time and take a chance on waking him up.”

  “He doesn’t work, your dad?”

  “He worked at the plant. But then he had an accident.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. My dad works at the plant. Today’s his first day. That’s why we moved here, because he heard they were hiring. Well, that and because his dad—my grandpa—grew up around here. Used to work at that exact same plant. So he always wanted to come here, I think. My dad, not my grandpa. I hope he didn’t take your dad’s job or anything.”

  “Nah. He’s only on a leave. Workman’s . . . something. I forget the second word. Besides, the plant’s always hiring. Men come and go like crazy.”

  “You know, you can just say if you don’t want to be friends.”

  Pete stopped. Justin stopped. The silence of no squeaking wheel resonated.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Pete asked. But he thought he might know.

  “Well, you know.”

  “I don’t care about that. I’m kind of picky about friends. I think maybe more than I used to be. But not about stuff like that.”

  “What’re you picky about?”

  “Well, say for example . . . if you were with me and you saw this dog—or whatever he is—by the side of the road, all hit and in trouble . . . would you go on to the lake fishing and leave me alone, or would you stay and help with the dog?”

  Justin was silent a moment, and Pete could tell he was thinking. He felt as though he could see wheels turning in the smaller boy’s brain. Pete was glad Justin was taking the question seriously, not just rushing an answer off the top of his head. Not just telling Pete what he figured Pete would want to hear. Justin looked deeply into the eyes of the wolf-dog, and the wolf-dog looked back.

  “I think it was brave what you did, getting him on that wagon. I think I’d probably wish I didn’t have to do anything so brave. You know. If I could help it. But I think if he was hit and by the side of the road and he had nobody . . . I don’t figure I could just go on down to the lake and fish and not give his situation another thought. I think I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I did that.”