“Whose dog is that, anyway?” she asked. When I explained about joint custody, she said, “I see,” as if she didn’t.
I added, “Barry is visiting his real mother this month because she has joint custody. Of him, I mean.”
Mrs. Smerling looked confused.
“He’s a good dog,” I said. “He’s not really a barker. That’s because he’s part Australian dingo, a breed that doesn’t often bark. Sometimes his shepherd blood barks, but not much.” I felt silly. Blood doesn’t bark, as a teacher would say. Dogs bark.
Strider sat down, paw on my foot, ears up, and acted the part of a good dog while I stood there trying to look responsible and wondering if a barking watchdog approach might have been better. “I keep him outdoors as much as possible,” was all I could think to say.
“So I notice.” Mrs. Smerling went on sweeping her back steps.
So she’s been watching us all the time, but where do we stand? It might help if Strider chased off a burglar or did something brave.
July 13
Today the mailman brought a postcard from Barry with a picture of Disneyland and a note that said, “There’s nothing much to do down here but watch TV and keep my sisters from falling into the swimming pool. How’s Strider? Does he miss me?”
I wondered. Maybe Strider has forgotten Barry.
July 18
Something happened today! Dad turned up, live and in person. Strider and I had come home from an early afternoon run, and there he was, sitting in his tractor, waiting. When he saw me, he climbed down from his cab and hugged me. His stomach isn’t as hard as it used to be. Bandit was watching. I noticed that although Dad had a dusty look, and so did his tractor, which he used to keep shining, Bandit was wearing a clean red bandana around his neck. Dad has always been good about that.
Dad looked me over. “You’re shooting—” he began, and changed to, “You’re growing like a weed.” He didn’t say “shooting up” because that sounds like drugs. Maybe he worries about drugs like Mom does.
Then he said, “But you’re going to have to put on muscle if you expect to play football.”
I don’t expect to play football. I don’t even want to play football, even if he was a big high school football star.
I must have frowned because he looked at Strider and said, “Who’s this?”
When I explained, he let Bandit out of the cab. My ex-dog looked older and fatter. Strider’s hair stood up. The two dogs weren’t exactly friendly, but they didn’t growl, either. After sniffing around, ears up, tail wagging, Bandit marked a bush or two, Dad snapped his fingers, Bandit jumped into the cab, and that was that. I doubt if he remembered me. Maybe Strider has forgotten Barry.
Dad and I, with Strider nipping along, went into our shack. We had trouble talking, so we sat staring at a stupid game show until Mom came in. I was embarrassed because Mom caught us watching a man and a woman jumping up and down, screaming, and hugging the master of ceremonies because they had won a dishwasher and a set of luggage. I snapped off the TV.
Dad got up and kissed Mom, a just-friends kiss, not a madly-in-love kiss. At least they get along without fighting. Barry’s dad and real mom quarrel over the telephone, which makes Barry unhappy.
Dad said, “I was in this area, so I thought I would drop off the support check in person.”
“Thanks, Bill.” Mom took the check, but she didn’t tell him she deposits as much as she can in the bank for my college education. Support stops when I am eighteen.
“How about me taking you two out to eat?” Dad asked. We went out for a late lunch before Mom had to leave for the hospital. Dad and I had burritos and Mom had a taco salad.
We looked like a real family, so I pretended we were. Then I began to worry. There are no crops in P.G., unless you count tourists. How come Dad didn’t have a load? A trucker without a load is losing money. I didn’t ask questions because I didn’t want to spoil being a family.
Afterward, as Dad drove off, I couldn’t help thinking that a tractor that isn’t pulling a load is like a lizard that has lost its tail. It can go fast, but there should be more to it.
July 20
Today Mom said I had to take our washing to the laundromat, which usually makes me mad, but this time I was still feeling good from Dad’s visit, so I didn’t complain. When I got there, I hitched Strider to a light post and held up the STAY sign. Then I loaded the washer by the window so he wouldn’t feel abandoned and worked as fast as I could before any kids from school came along and saw me.
After that I went next door to the thrift shop to look for a thin paperback to stuff in my back pocket so I would have something to read whenever Strider and I stopped to rest. I was paying for The Human Comedy, by William Saroyan, when I saw a shirt hanging on a rack of clothes. It was a brand-new shirt my size, a shirt with imagination, a shirt that shouted, “Buy me! Take me out of here!” I really liked that shirt, but I felt I wasn’t the type. If I wore such a wild shirt, everyone would laugh.
Back in the laundromat, I moved the clothes from the washer to the dryer as fast as I could. Outside, I sat on the curb with my feet in the gutter, opened The Human Comedy, and began to read about a boy in Fresno.
Wouldn’t you know? A girl with long wavy red hair came along on her bike. I had seen her—Jessica or Jennifer or something that begins with a J—around school because nobody can miss a girl with hair like that. She stopped in front of me and said, “Leigh Botts, what are you doing there with your feet in the gutter?”
“Reading.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“That’s what I thought,” she said and pedaled away with her long hair flying.
I sat there feeling silly for a minute. Then suddenly I felt great. Dad had come to see us, I had grown, and a girl knew my name. I felt so great I went into the thrift shop and bought that shirt.
“Wear it in good health!” the thrift shop lady called after me.
At home I put on the shirt and looked in the bathroom mirror, the only mirror we have. The shirt looked as good as I thought it would. The left side is blue with pink dots, and the left sleeve is pink with blue dots. The right side is purple with blue crosswise stripes, and the right sleeve is blue with pink dots. I twisted around so I could see the back. One half is purple and blue crosswise stripes, and the other is green and blue up-and-down stripes. The collar and cuffs are plain purple. The best part is I chose it myself and paid for it with money I had earned. I felt as good as my shirt looked.
I heard Mom come in, so I burst out of the bathroom. “Ta-da! Like it?” I asked. “I bought it for school.”
“Well—it will take a little getting used to, but I’m glad you have the courage to wear it.” Mom looked so pleased I was surprised.
Then I got to thinking. Mom looked that way because I never would have worn such a shirt when I was a new kid in school moping around, being miserable about the divorce, and trying to look inconspicuous.
I hung my shirt in my closet to keep it new for school, put on an old T-shirt, and took Strider for a run. My feet felt so light they skimmed the path by the bay. A great shirt and a girl who knew my name. On a scale of one to ten, I would rate this a ten day.
July 30
Yesterday Mr. Brinkerhoff invited Strider and me to go to the airport to meet Barry’s plane. We had to wait outside because dogs are not allowed in airports. When the plane landed and Barry saw his father, he let go of his sisters’ hands and threw his arms around Mr. Brinkerhoff as if he never wanted to let go. His father hugged him just as hard. When they parted and looked at each other, Barry had tears in his eyes but managed to say, “Dad, it sure is good to be back.”
I had tears in my eyes, too, because my dad and I hug, but not like that.
Barry grinned and said, “Hi, Leigh.” Then, to hide his feelings he said, “Hello there, Strider, old boy. How’s our dog?”
Strider wagged his piece of tail and sat down with his chin up and ears back, which meant he wanted to be petted.
Whew!
August 10
Now that Barry has returned, summer is going fast. Barry puffs when we run with Strider. After being exercised by my, I mean our, dog for the past month, I don’t puff at all.
When I showed Barry my shirt, he fell over on the couch laughing and said, “You mean you’re going to wear that to school?”
“Sure,” I said. “You’re just jealous.”
“Me, jealous? Of that?” Barry laughed some more. I started to pound him, and we scuffled. This made Strider so anxious we stopped. We weren’t sure which of us he would defend, but I was pretty sure it was me. I mean I.
I wish I could forget Barry’s saying, “Me, jealous?”
August 19
Last night Dad telephoned from Bakersfield to say that today he was coming through Salinas with a load of garlic and wanted to know if I would meet him at the bus station and ride with him to the dehydrator in Gilroy. Would I!
I got up early this morning, whizzed around with the mop at Catering by Katy, exercised Strider, showered, left Strider in Barry’s yard, and caught the bus to Salinas. A couple of minutes after I got there, Dad came barreling up in his tractor. He was hauling two flatbed trailers loaded with wooden bins of garlic stacked two high and tied on with cables.
I climbed into the cab beside Dad, who asked, “How’re you doing, Leigh?” Bandit looked up from his bunk behind the seat and went back to sleep.
I told Dad I was doing okay, and we drove off smelling of garlic. An empty Styrofoam cup rolled around the floor of the cab.
Traffic was heavy on 101. There were tractors hauling double gondolas of tomatoes or grapes, and because summer vacation is almost over, tourists with carloads of kids were hurrying toward home.
High in the cab, I had a good view of the Santa Clara Valley. We passed acres of tomatoes, cauliflower, and spinach, a few dying orchards, and beautiful fields of flowers. Zinnias, I think they are called, and marigolds. I asked Dad if the people who raised them got the idea from the Steinbeck story of the man who raised acres of sweet peas. Or maybe it was the other way around. John Steinbeck got the idea for his story from fields like these. Dad said he wouldn’t know, but he did know the flowers were raised for seed, which brought a good price.
Because of the dehydrator, Gilroy is a town you can smell before you see it. Once before when I rode with Dad, the whole town smelled like frying onions, which made me hungry for a hamburger. Today, when the dehydrator was working garlic, Gilroy smelled like Mrs. Brinkerhoff’s kitchen when she makes spaghetti sauce.
As we turned off near the dehydrator, the air was so heavy with the smell of garlic that it made my mouth water. “Do you suppose the garlic smell makes everybody in Gilroy salivate all the time?” I asked. Salivate. That’s a word I had never used before. I usually say drool, but salivate is a good word to save for school. Teachers like large vocabularies.
“Nah,” said Dad. “They’re so used to it they probably can’t even smell it.”
After the garlic was unloaded at the dehydrator, we were so hungry from the smell of garlic that we stopped for pizza for us and water for Bandit. As Dad and I sat facing each other under a wall-mounted TV set showing reruns of boxing matches, Dad asked, “Leigh, you made any plans for the future?” He spoke through a mouthful of pizza. Dad always eats fast. In places like this, he also eats with his cap on. He wouldn’t if Mom were around.
“Oh, not really,” I admitted. The future is something I try not to worry about.
“Just don’t drive a truck like your old man,” Dad told me. “It’s a rough life. Sleeping in the cab and eating in cafés gets old after a few years.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” I said. Now that I took a good look at Dad, he did look tired. Maybe all those country-western songs about truckers are true.
Suddenly Dad asked, “How’s your mother getting along?”
“Okay,” I said. “She works pretty hard.”
“She making any friends?” he asked.
What Dad really wanted to know was, Does she have any men friends? Dad had let me ride with him so he could snoop. This made me so mad I said, “Sure she has friends. They get together to make stuffed animals to sell at craft fairs.” I wasn’t going to squeal on Mom and tell him about Bob from the hospital lab, who sometimes jogs with her and stops by for breakfast, or the paramedic who drives an ambulance, wears a beeper, and takes both of us out to dinner once in a while. Mom always refers to him as the Beeper. Nice guys, both of them, but I don’t think Mom is serious.
Dad was silent, trying to think how he could find out what he wanted to know without letting me know what it was he wanted to know. I was so annoyed I asked, “What about you, Dad? Are you making any friends?”
Dad shot me a look that wasn’t exactly friendly. “Sure,” he said. “I got lots of friends.”
We let it go at that. I didn’t really want to know about the friends Dad makes at truck stops. As we sat facing one another in that booth, it seemed to me that Dad and I didn’t have much to say to each other. Maybe we never did.
Dad made good time back to the Salinas bus stop, but we were quiet most of the way. Without a load, Dad was losing money and was in a hurry to get to Bakersfield to load up more bins of garlic. As I watched him drive off, I felt sad. If he asks questions about Mom, he must be lonely, deep down. I wish I had been nicer.
August 20
My pants are too short! All of them!
When Mom and I were looking over my clothes for school, I got out my pants and discovered they don’t even reach my ankles. They are only good for cutoffs, which are what I have been wearing all summer. I wondered if Mom had noticed the hair I was growing on my legs.
Mom hugged me and said, “I’m going to miss my little boy.” Then we were off to Penney’s for pants. We left Strider shut in the shack.
After pants, we went to the shirt department, where I reminded Mom of my thrift shop shirt which I was saving for school.
She said, “Oh, that shirt,” as if she was both amused and annoyed by it.
As we drove home, I couldn’t forget her remark about missing her little boy. It made me feel guilty. How am I supposed to become a man and be her little boy at the same time?
There was nothing I could do about it, I decided. Besides, I have new pants, hair on my legs, and a great shirt.
By the time we came home, Strider had eaten a corner out of the rug. It’s a good thing it’s our rug, not Mrs. Smerling’s.
September 12
Today I discovered two kinds of people go to high school: those who wear new clothes to show off on the first day, and those who wear their oldest clothes to show they think school is unimportant.
This morning I ran with Strider, mopped Katy’s floor, ran home to shower, and put on my shirt. Then I hurried up to the Brinkerhoffs’ to leave Strider in their yard.
Barry was waiting. “You’re brave,” he said when he saw my shirt.
At the intersection near school we met a boy a little taller than I named Kevin Knight, who was new in junior high last semester. He’s a rich kid. Anyone can tell by his expensive watch, ironed sport shirts, and chinos with creases instead of jeans. Even his haircuts look expensive.
Kevin scowled at me. “That’s my shirt you’re wearing,” he informed me.
“It can’t be,” I said. “I bought it at the thrift shop.” Then I wished I hadn’t mentioned the thrift shop to this rich kid.
“It was my favorite shirt,” said Kevin, “but my mother hated it so much she gave it to the thrift shop before I even had a chance to wear it.”
Some mom. “Why did she have to do that?” I asked, understanding how a new shirt happened to be in the thrift shop.
“She said it was in appalling taste.” Kevin looked angry, and I didn’t blame him.
“Too bad, Kevin,” I said. “It’s my shirt now. I pa
id for it.”
“Gimme my shirt,” said Kevin and made a grab for it.
I dodged. Kevin grabbed again. I wasn’t going to lose that shirt, so I ducked and began to run with Kevin chasing me. Our book bags thumped our backs. I reached the school grounds one step ahead of him, ducked, dodged, twisted out of his grasp, and ran some more.
Kids began to yell, “You in the fancy shirt—go!” “Come on, Leigh!” “Get him, Kevin!” “Leigh, go!” I was surprised that so many people knew my name.
I had to stay ahead or lose my shirt in front of the whole school. Pounding down the breeze way past the classroom doors, I looked back to see how close Kevin was and bumped into a teacher who held me by the arm. Maybe he was the principal. “You know the saying, my lad,” he said. “Never look back. Someone might be gaining on you.”
Kevin, panting, caught up. “You better (pant) watch out,” he gasped. “I’ll (pant) get my shirt (pant) back yet.”
I couldn’t resist taunting, “What for? (Pant.) Your mother won’t let you wear it.” That was mean, and I knew it.
“Some shirt,” said the teacher.
The chase was over for today. But tomorrow?
My teachers seem okay, but I’m not sure about my English teacher, Ms. Habis-Jones, who looks unhappy and wears her hair twisted into a knob on top of her head. She ties a white scarf around the knob, which makes her hair look as if it had been wounded and bandaged. When she said that in her classroom we would write, write, write, the guy behind me whispered, “Rah, rah, rah!” She says she will not tolerate non-words such as gonna, kinda, and sorta.
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