by Harry Mazer
“He’s dead.”
“A dead dog. Mmmmm. You got a dead dog in the bag.” He looked down the street. “That young lady know you got this dead dog in the bag?”
Connie nodded. She took off her glasses and cleaned them on her shirt.
“Dog dies, that’s always sad news. Your dog’s number got called. Every dog gets issued a number when it’s born. People, too. You never know when your number’s going to be called. It could be tomorrow, it could be next week, it could be a hundred years from now. But when your number is called, then you win the giant lotto in the sky. What’s your name, boy?”
“Jake.”
“Jake, that’s great. My name is Bo. Bo,” he repeated. He hummed it. “Bo—see what a good sound it makes. Bo… here comes Bo flying low.” He swung his arms around like a bird. “Did you see that, boy? That was Big Bo the flying crow. What you going to do with your dead dog, Jake?”
“Bury him.”
“Dead dog dies, bury him, that’s the way. Don’t leave no dog lying in the gutter, looks so ugly it makes you shudder.”
The man closed his eyes. They bulged like marbles, under his lids. “Dead dog covered with flies. It’s ugly. I’m glad you’re burying your dog. You are doing good. You’re helping the people. People feel bad to see a dead dog. You like to see a dog lively.”
“I need a shovel and a place to dig,” Jake said. He was hoping the man would help him.
“You have a good spot picked out and everything?”
Jake pointed to a nearby lot, empty except for some abandoned cars and trucks.
“Not there,” the man said. “Bad place. See that sign?” He pointed to the side of an old truck with four flat tires. A hand-painted sign said ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING. “You like that word? Tres…passing. French word. Do you know you have French words in English? Spanish words. African words. You don’t want to bury your dog here. The landlord is too ugly. I recommend you go to the park, the one by the river. Dogs like it there.”
Connie was gesturing to Jake to hurry up.
“You find yourself some bushes,” the man said, “keep your head down low, then you dig a hole, and you put your dog in it. Then you say the holy words. Holy, holy, holy. ‘Rest in Peace.’ Then you cover it over. That’s all there is to it.” He took a swallow from the can beside him.
The man began to sing. “Dead dog diddly. . . ,” he sang. “Ooooohhhhh!”
It was a howl, a dog’s howl. It echoed in Jake’s head like the chords he sometimes struck on the violin. Harsh, scratchy sounds that made his head hurt.
The man had his head back. “Dead dog day, ooooohhhhhh. What’s the dead dog say? Oooohhhhh! Dead dogs tell no tales. They don’t wag no tails. They don’t run, they don’t play. Don’t do nothing but be dead all day. Ooooohhhhhhhh!”
“Well, thanks,” Jake said, moving away. Connie was farther down the street. “It’s been nice meeting you.”
The man slapped his knee. “Jake, you’re a triple-play threat. Good-looking boy, a burying party, and super-polite. You get my vote for the all-American, all-star team, for sure.”
• TWENTY •
River Park
Jake and Connie walked toward the river with the bag suspended between them on a broomstick they found in the street. The dog had begun to smell. The bag slid one way and then the other. When it got near Connie, she sent it shooting back toward Jake. He didn’t think the smell was that bad.
“Ooooohhhhh!” The song lingered in his head. He imagined that Big Boy’s spirit, the dog spirit, hovered nearby, waiting to see where they were going to put its body.
A group of tourists with cameras and maps crowded them off the sidewalk. The river came into view, bridges and tugboats, everything flat and glittery all the way to the other shore.
“Let’s go down to the water,” Connie said.
“If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, the answer is no. I’m not going to do it.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking. Can you read my mind?”
“I’m not going to throw him in the water, Connie.”
“I didn’t say ‘throw.’ You could leave him in the bag. It will be like a boat. We’ll put it in the water very gently, Jake, and he’ll just sail away.”
He imagined the bag riding the long swells out into the current, bobbing in the wake of passing barges. The gulls would find it and tear the bag open with their yellow dagger beaks. “No,” he said.
“He’ll be in the ocean. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Jake?”
“No.”
There were more people in the park than Jake expected: walkers, bikers, kids on skateboards, babies in carriages. Three guys next to the pedestrian bridge drummed on plastic pails. And a girl played a tune on a silver whistle. Gulls squawked overhead. The river made smacking-sucking sounds as it rose and fell among the rocks.
“Do you believe in reincarnation?” he said.
“I do,” Connie said. “That’s what I mean. Maybe Big Boy will come back as a fish, or a dolphin. Maybe a seagull. Maybe all seagulls were once dogs. Did you ever think of that? Every time you look up and see a seagull, you’ll say, ‘There’s Big Boy.’ You could wave to him. And if he saw Mr. Kleiner—”
“—he could drop a present on his head,” Jake finished.
That put him in a better mood. He bought a couple of ice creams from a vendor, and they watched a baseball game for a while. The pitcher had good height and a good enough motion: foot up, arm back, and then a long stride forward.
He wondered if his father had found a team yet. What if nobody wanted him? No way. Jake didn’t even want to think that. Dave Estabrook was a baseball player. He’d always been a baseball player. Baseball was his whole life. It was something he had to do. It was like an obsession for him. Maybe the same way Jake had to bury a dead dog that wasn’t even his. A dog obsession.
“My father is way better than that pitcher,” he said to Connie.
“Someday, I hope I get to see him play.” She sounded respectful.
“Sure,” Jake said, “when the team comes east.”
“When’s that going to be?”
“I have to check with my father.” He said it like it was a sure thing. “When he calls me.”
They found a place to dig near the fence, where the park edged the road and it wasn’t so crowded. The grass was uncut and papers stuck to the fence. Jake put the bag down. He kicked at the grass, then stabbed at the ground with the broomstick. It broke. Connie picked up the broken piece. “Two sticks are better than one,” she said.
They worked together. The ground was hard. They chopped at it and scooped the dirt out with their hands. “How deep do we have to go?” Connie licked her lips. Her face was sweaty.
“Two feet,” Jake said. He didn’t know.
Connie stepped into the hole. “Two feet in the hole. Okay, we’re done.”
He stepped in next to her. “Four feet.”
“You’re standing on my feet.” She shoved him. He shoved her back. “This is getting weird,” she said.
They chopped some more, then Connie went off to find water. Jake worked on. How am I doing, Big Boy? Do you like this hole I’m digging for you?
“And what do you think you’re doing?”
Jake looked up. The sweat in his eyes blinded him. All he could see was the glitter of a car wheel.
“I’m talking to you.” A park cop was sitting in a small one-man vehicle. “What are you digging that hole for?”
Jake wiped his hands on his pants. “I was going to cover it up again.”
“You’ve got that straight, buster. You’re going to do it right now. This is a park, junior. You want to dig, go to the sandbox with the little kids.”
The cop waited till Jake kicked all the dirt back into the hole. Then he made him stomp it down hard. “Now move.” He sat there and watched Jake walk off.
• TWENTY-ONE •
The Bridge
“What did he say exactly?�
�� Connie asked. They were standing at a water fountain. Jake drank and drank. Then he let the water run all over his face and into his eyes and mouth. “I was watching the whole thing,” she said. “Was it scary?”
They walked over to the river. “It was okay. I did what he said, and he let me go.” He didn’t want to tell her he’d been scared.
“You were so cool,” she said. “You were perfect.”
“Perfect? He told me to stop digging. I did. He told me to throw the dirt back in the hole. I did. He told me to jump on it and stomp it down. I did. I did what he said. I didn’t do anything ‘perfect.’ ”
“That was the genius part,” Connie said. “You know how to follow orders.”
He leaned on the railing and looked out over the water.
“Don’t act so gloomy,” Connie said. “We can dig another hole.”
He didn’t want to dig another hole. He was tired of digging, he was tired of thinking about the dog. Everything seemed hard. His father not playing. His father not coming home. And where was he going to bury Big Boy? Why was he even trying? He was probably crazy or something. He wished he’d never heard of the dog, or Mr. Kleiner, or Howie Silva’s newspaper route.
He held the bag over the railing. All he had to do was drop it. Good-bye, dog.… Go in peace.… Holy, holy, holy. Oooaaahhh! Come on, hand, let go. But his hand wouldn’t do his bidding.
“Jake.” Connie pointed to her watch. “I’ve got to go home, Jake. My mother’s going to have a fit. You coming?”
“I can’t. I’ve got this dog.”
“Will you be okay?” He followed her over the pedestrian bridge to the other side of the highway. “Where’re you going to go now?” she asked. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”
“Maybe I’ll go to Coney Island.”
“Coney Island? You’re nuts, Jake.”
“My father says there are only three things worth anything in New York City—Yankee Stadium, Shea Stadium, and Coney Island.”
He remembered that it had been a long train ride. He remembered how he used to kneel by the window and look out, and how he knew they were almost to the last stop by the smell of the ocean. There were rides along the boardwalk, and swirly cotton candy, and sandy beaches that stretched for miles.
Connie walked him to the subway. “You know I’d go with you if I could, Jake, but I can’t. My mother worries.”
“It’s okay.” He heard the train and ran down the stairs.
• TWENTY-TWO •
The Train
As soon as the train started moving, Jake fell asleep. He dreamed he had Big Boy hidden under his jacket. The dog was poking his head out, and Jake was pushing him back. “Hold it, Big Boy, wait,” he said in the dream, “we’re almost there.”
He woke and found the car full of people. He licked his lips. He’d been sleeping with his mouth open. A mother and her kid pushed in next to him on the seat. The boy sat on his mother’s lap and kicked Jake. “Stinky,” he said, and held his nose.
Jake moved. He opened the sliding door and crossed to the next car. People moved away from him there, too. He went back and stood between the cars where there was nobody, just the train roaring down dark, windy tunnels. He gripped the guard chains. Lights flew by, the tracks clicked and flashed beneath his feet.
He hummed into the wind, letting his voice rise louder and louder. “Big Boy,” he sang, “don’t be afraid, I won’t let you go.”
• TWENTY-THREE •
The Boardwalk
Jake smelled the ocean before the train reached the last stop. He stood by the door the way he had when he was little.
He was the first one out when the doors opened. The elevated platform stood high over the street. He felt like he was up in the sky. He went down a long flight of stairs and out onto the crowded, busy street.
The aroma of sauerkraut and hot dogs mingled with the seaweed reek of the ocean. He saw faces he didn’t recognize, boys in identical puffy black and red jackets and hard, grinning faces. His heart was going a little fast. There could be muggers here. They could be anywhere. When he was in third grade, he’d been mugged by some older kids almost every day for his milk money. He never told his mother. You had to give them something, then they left you alone.
He was hungry. The ocean air always made him hungry. He bought himself a long Coneydog with everything and gobbled it down. He was going to hold on to enough for his train fare home, but then he bought another Coneydog, fries, and a drink, and used up all his money.
He walked toward the ocean, taking the same street his father always had. He burped a lot. He’d eaten too fast.
He remembered how his father would rush to the beach, walking fast and pulling off his shirt. “Breathe, Jake, suck it in. Now, that’s air.” Then his father would run and Jake would do his best to keep up with him. Once—he must have been really little—he’d lost his father, and when he looked up he was holding another man’s hand. The man smiled at him, and a moment later his father showed up.
A Ferris wheel cast a dark shadow overhead. At the end of the block was the beach and the boardwalk that ran alongside it. Sand spilled out into the street. A ramp led up to the boardwalk, but underneath it was all sand. He could bury the dog here. A street sign on the side of a building said SURF AVENUE. It would help him remember the spot.
He went under the boardwalk. Above, people passed, unaware of him. It only took him a moment to scoop a hole out in the sand—it was that easy. The setting sun appeared from under clouds, bars of light fell across the sand. And then the muggers came. He caught a glimpse of cropped heads and puffy jackets. He sprang toward the ramp, but not fast enough. They jostled him and tore the bag from his hand.
By the time he was on his feet, they were fanned out across the boardwalk, running. Without thinking, he ran after them. They jumped a rail and ran across a huge empty parking lot. He saw them stop at the far end of the lot, look back, and then open the bag. They never even looked inside. They just gagged and screamed and threw it away.
• TWENTY-FOUR •
The Rocks
Jake buried the dog by the ocean at the end of a long rocky jetty. There were several of them, long stony fingers sticking out into the ocean like a hand trying to calm the water.
He found a place to dig above the waterline and buried Big Boy in the SU bag, then covered it with sand and rocks. Squatting there, he listened to the waves hiss toward him across the rocks. The waves came and came, but they never reached him. This was a good place.
Afterward, Jake walked along the water’s edge near where he’d buried Big Boy. He was alone. The waves moved restlessly one way and then the other. It had been a long day. All day he’d carried the bag, and now he felt its absence. But he was done.
He remembered the way the muggers had torn the bag from his hand. They thought they had a treasure, but when they opened the bag, all they got was dead dog. He wished he could see it again, see them gag and scream. He hoped they’d thrown up their guts when they ran away and puked all over themselves.
Big Boy would appreciate that. He had liked scaring people. That had been his job when he was alive. Probably he got up every morning and thought about who he was going to scare that day. Just the way Jake got up and thought about the papers he had to deliver, and his father felt his arm and thought about the game he was going to pitch.
A gull landed on the sand nearby, then rose with something in its bill. It was getting dark all along the beach. A girl came toward him, slipping a little in the sand. He thought for a moment it was Connie. Then he thought he heard Big Boy’s sharp insistent bark. He slapped his feet down hard on the sand, so Big Boy would hear and remember the sound of his feet.
He watched the waves. They came and came. They never ended. Why couldn’t everything be like that? Why couldn’t good things go on and on? He followed a wave out, then ran back as the water flooded in over the sand. “Stop!” He turned and ordered the waves to stop, but he had to keep retreating. He coul
dn’t stop the waves. He couldn’t stop anything. He wasn’t God. He was just a kid.
But he still wanted things to be the way he wanted them. He wanted his father to have a great career. He wanted his parents to like each other and live together. He picked up a stick and threw it out over the water. They weren’t going to, but he still wanted it.
Water slid and hissed over the sand, and there was a constant soft murmur of wind and water. He drew a long curvy line in the wet sand with the point of a stick. Then he knelt and drew little circles around shells and stones and bits of glass, and bigger circles around his footprints. The biggest circle was the sun, and he made it bristle with rays shooting out of it. Smaller ones were planets, a half circle was the moon, and spirals were the stars. He drew rockets and spaceships, and there was Big Boy in his own spaceship. He drew a long line, ran Big Boy’s spaceship out, out, out. “Good-bye.” He held his hand up—a farewell, but also a greeting, a salute. “Big Boy, you were a good bad dog.”
The ocean heaved up in long smooth hills, rose and rolled toward Jake in glassy silence. He kept his hand up, let the wind play with his fingers. The waves spilled over the rocks and slid into the shore. The ocean came up to where he was standing, wet his sneakers, then raced away.
• TWENTY-FIVE •
The Police
At the train station, Jake went through his pockets again. He had some change, but not nearly enough. The woman in the change booth was watching him. She had a broad, unfriendly face. He looked for money around the booth. Sometimes people dropped things. Once he’d found twenty dollars in the street.
A man walked by. “Excuse me,” Jake said. “Could you lend me a token?” The man went on. Above, on the platform, the trains kept coming and going. He thought of asking the woman in the booth to let him through the gate. He’d pay her back. Instead, when he thought she wasn’t looking, he jumped the turnstile.
He ran up the stairs, praying the train was waiting, but the platform was empty. After a while, a policeman came up and took him by the arm and led him downstairs. The woman in the change booth stared at him.
